Black Wolf s-4

by Dave Gross

  Darrow ran under the legs of one of the men, knocking him to the ground. Before he turned back to bite the man, Sorcia was already at the archer's throat. Her muzzle was dark with blood.

  The other wolves had already dispatched the moving archers. Darrow and Sorcia leaped on the paralyzed archers, knocking their rigid bodies to the ground.

  "Get away from them!" snapped a woman's voice.

  Without daring to look toward the woman, Darrow sprinted out of the way just in time to avoid the searing ray of silver light that washed over the other wolves. Two of them vanished in a red mist, while the other three yelped and ran for the woods.

  Like Darrow, Sorcia had not hesitated to flee at the sound of Maleva's voice. After avoiding the initial attack, she turned toward the cleric. Darrow wanted nothing to do with the terrible magic she cast, but he couldn't leave Sorcia to face her alone. He ran close behind, cursing her silently.

  They would have hit her before she could invoke her goddess again, but a powerful compulsion made Darrow veer away at the last moment. He saw that the magic had the same effect on Sorcia.

  Seeing that her spell worked, Maleva ignored the werewolves and knelt to tend one of the fallen archers. Darrow saw that she was bleeding, but he had seen no one strike her. In the instant before he turned to run away, he saw a gash appear on her cheek. At the same time, he heard the moonlion roar in pain.

  Darrow ran back to Rusk. Sorcia followed his lead this time.

  The bodies of two dire wolves lay torn apart on the ground beneath the moonlion, as did the broken human figure of a werewolf called Mandor. Darrow knew that a dead nightwalker always reverted to the form of his birth, but the sight still shocked him.

  The surviving wolves continued to harry the moonlion, as Rusk sang more prayers to Malar. Magical power surged into the Huntmaster, and his body rippled with unholy strength. His remaining hand had grown huge and clawed. Razor sharp talons curved from his thick fingers.

  Darrow needed his human shape to warn Rusk of what he'd seen. With a searing effort, he willed himself to transform. It was much harder when he was frightened, but his message couldn't wait. The pain left him on hands and knees, even after he had a human mouth.

  "Maleva is here," he said, pointing back to the archers. "She's taking the lion's wounds on herself."

  Rusk spied his nemesis, who was healing herself after reviving the archers who had survived. The foresters fled now, leaving the cleric alone to support the moonlion.

  "Then give her some of her own," growled Rusk. "Don't be a coward!"

  "We tried," said Darrow. "She is warded."

  Rusk nodded almost absently. "Let's see what we can do about that."

  He cast his own spell, jabbing his hand toward Maleva. Darrow saw no effects of the spell. Maleva continued with her own chanting, and her wounds vanished under the white glow of her palms.

  With a curse, Rusk tried again. This time his spell caused Maleva to start and raise her hands to defend her face. She took a cautious step back and turned her head from side to side. The spell had taken her sight.

  Rusk laughed with cruel satisfaction. "That should make things more interesting."

  He cast another spell upon himself before running toward the blinded cleric.

  "Follow me," he said.

  Darrow obeyed, and Sorcia followed also.

  By the time Rusk reached Maleva, the cleric had dispelled the blindness, but now her clothes were steeped in blood. She reeled from the effects of her sympathetic wounds, and a glance back at the melee confirmed for Darrow that the battle was finally turning against the gigantic moonlion.

  When Maleva saw Rusk charging her, she raised one hand and held her holy symbol in the other. It was the same gesture she had made before destroying the other werewolves.

  "Selune, send-" Rusk's clawed hand gripped her throat. He lifted her as easily as he might a ceremonial cup before a valediction.

  "Oh, Maleva, the years have not been kind."

  The cleric struggled in the werewolf's grasp.

  "No, do not speak. I will remember you as you were, with your fiery hair and unquenchable passions." He sighed. "You believed in me, once."

  Maleva's struggles grew weaker as Rusk maintained his grip. Her lips formed the words, but she had no breath to sound them.

  "What is that?" asked Rusk, cocking his head. "How shall I treat with the Black Wolf? Alas, Maleva, you were right about my failings. It took me years to accept the truth. Now I realize your young favorite is Malar's chosen vessel-but he will not take my place. No, he is the very implement of my redemption!"

  Maleva's head lolled, her eyes seeking the moon. Selune rode high behind her, swelling near to fullness. Rusk turned her head to face him, lowering her body to the ground and relaxing his stranglehold just enough to listen for her dying breath.

  "How can it be?" he said. "I knew you would ask. The answer came only recently, in a vision from the Beastlord. Yet our time is fleeting. It would be better if I showed you."

  As Maleva's eyelids fluttered and closed, Rusk bent to kiss her, whispering obscene invocations to his god. Where their lips met, silver light welled from Maleva's mouth. Rusk sucked it forth, drawing it into his own mouth, where it congealed and dulled into a sooty cloud.

  Sorcia and Darrow watched as their master drank the cleric's life. As they had witnessed at the death of Fraelan, Rusk's body surged with stolen power. His already exaggerated muscles swelled and ripped with unholy strength as the last wisps of energy trickled down his throat.

  For a moment, Rusk gazed tenderly at the lifeless body beneath him. Then he rose and turned toward the battle.

  Six ruined bodies lay beneath the moonlion, and more limped away or slumped on the ground beyond the melee. The remaining wolves circled from a more respectful distance. They were growing tired.

  "Now we finish this," he said.

  He rushed the moonlion, only this time it was no feint. As the lion's jaws gaped wide, Rusk thrust his monstrously clawed hand up under its chin. His arm sank deep into the lion's throat, and hot blood gushed down over his body.

  The lion shook its head violently and smashed him with a monstrous paw, tearing long strips down Rusks's back, but Rusk dug deeper still into the lion's throat.

  Heartened by Rusk's lead, the pack swarmed over the moonlion's body to support their leader. Darrow leaped into the fray, but he was too late. The giant beast vanished in a flash of silver light. The period of its summoning had ended, depriving them of their kill.

  Darrow resumed his human form and sat on the ground. He watched Rusk walk among the wounded and the dead, granting healing where he could, a quick death where he must. When Rusk was finished, Darrow counted fifteen survivors and seven dead.

  Those who were still fit to hunt ran off to track the archers to their homes. Without their cleric, they were sheep for the slaughter.

  "He's culling the weak," whispered Sorcia in Darrow's ear. As usual, she had crept up silently. "How was it that you were not among them?"

  "I could ask the same of you," said Darrow. "You do a good job of running just behind the leader."

  Even as the words left his mouth, he realized the danger of angering Sorcia. She might be smaller than he, but he was certain she was far more dangerous in every way.

  To his surprise, she smiled as if at a child who had just learned a simple lesson. "You are becoming good at that yourself," she said. "It's a good place to be when the leader makes a mistake."

  "We won, did we not?" Darrow indicated the fallen cleric.

  In the distance, he could hear the howls of the pack as they brought down their prey. Their revenge would go on for hours.

  "What did we win?" asked Sorcia.

  "Territory," said Darrow. "The cleric can no longer turn the woods folk against us."

  "But weren't we going to the city?"

  "Of course," said Darrow. "Anywhere we roam will be our territory, once the night of the Black Wolf has come."

  "I
think a parrot bit you. Your mouth is moving, but all I hear are Rusk's words."

  "Don't you believe the prophecy?"

  "I know you don't," she said. Darrow gave her a dark look, but she was not cowed. "Except for Morrel and perhaps Karnek, none of the strong has any illusions about this so-called prophecy. It's just an excuse for whatever mad scheme Rusk really has in mind."

  "That's not a very loyal thing to say," observed Darrow.

  "I wouldn't say it if I thought you didn't already know," she said. "He talks to you more than anyone these days. What does he expect us to accomplish in the city?"

  Darrow hesitated before answering, unsure how much he should say to Sorcia. "I'm not sure," he said. "I know he wants to find Talbot Uskevren."

  "To kill him?"

  "I don't think so," said Barrow. It felt good to voice his misgivings. He never dared question Rusk about his plans. "Maybe he wants to win him over."

  "Last time he tried that, he came back short-handed."

  "Keep your voice down. You've got to stop saying that."

  "What about the Malveens? I thought they were done with Rusk."

  "Only Radu," said Darrow. "He doesn't like anything that might threaten the family business. It's Stannis who wants to hurt the Uskevren."

  "They sound unreliable," said Sorcia. "What do we need from them?"

  "I think Rusk plans for us to take shelter there," said Darrow. "And Stannis knows more about the Uskevren. He has a spy among them. At least, he had one. Radu probably killed her last year. He doesn't like loose ends. He prefers to cut them off."

  "Aren't you one of those?" said Sorcia. "A loose end?"

  Darrow didn't answer, but fear made a knot in his throat until he swallowed.

  Sorcia looked at him and smiled.

  Chapter 14

  Opening Night

  Alturiak, 1372 DR

  Despite the enchantments that kept snow and cold outside the Wide Realms in winter, the players usually spent the season rehearsing the spring productions and performing for private audiences. Since the strange attack on the playhouse the previous autumn, audiences were practically beating on the gates for more. Ever the businesswoman, Quickly wasted no time obliging them.

  The house was packed on the opening night of The Cormyrian Cousins. The play was another of Quickly's broad comedies, full of mistaken identity, physical humor, and cross-dressing. While he was glad to help research Cormyrian history and customs from two centuries ago, Tal was disappointed to see that most of his hard work was demonstrated in the costumes, not the dialogue. It was hard to complain, however, since Quickly gave him the role he wanted-as well as all the fencing.

  Tal was proud of the fight scenes, which he had been developing since Ches with Mallion and Sivana-who played both twin sisters except during the revelation, when hulking Ennis would wear the swordswoman's gown for the wedding dance.

  Only one of the fights took place on the stage, while the others ranged from the balconies to the gallery railings. Most took place right on the ground, among the audience. Quickly had concerns about safety and ordered Presbart to monitor the gate carefully, admitting only a hundred groundlings to leave room for the fencers. It was all very well to capitalize on Marance Tallendar's attack last winter, but she didn't want to make a habit of maiming the audience.

  The galleries were packed, heightening the nervousness all the players felt when unveiling a new production. Quickly puffed on her pipe and stalked the backstage area. Tal wished she would find some detail to correct-someone in the wrong costume or missing a wig. After fixing a problem, she might stop worrying that she'd forgotten something.

  When she called time, Tal donned a heavy cloak and circled around the outside of the building to take his mark near the front entrance. There he winked at Presbart and handed over the cloak as he stepped inside. Together, they peered over the edge of the gallery rail to see who had come.

  Among the usual crowd of artisans and laborers were many young merchant nobles, conspicuous in their fine doublets and gowns. There was a brief scuffle in the lower gallery as a man refused to doff his tall, feathered hat while a round-shouldered bricklayer kept swatting it off his head from behind. At last the peacock chose another seat, and all was well.

  "Psst!"

  Tal turned at the sound, smiling as he spotted Chaney leaning on the rails of the lower gallery. He had an arm around a buxom brunette who craned her neck to see someone on the other side of the yard. Tal thought he recognized the woman as a barmaid from the Green Gauntlet, but it had been so long since he'd been there that he couldn't be sure.

  Lommy leaned out of the tiny window in the peaked roof directly above the stage. With an explosive puff of his green cheeks, he blew a brassy fanfare on a curled gloon. Once the crowd's chatter had subsided, the tasloi crossed his arms and leaned upon the window's edge. Whenever he spied someone pointing or staring at him, he made a grotesque face or thumbed his nose.

  Ennis strode onto the stage in the stately gown of a royal herald. He set the scene in a windy series of obvious anachronisms and malapropisms, which the audience corrected by shouting back at him. Before the pompous character could bore the audience, Lommy descended from the heavens dressed as the world's ugliest messenger of Sune, goddess of love and beauty. Rather than bless the herald's exposition as the blustery man prayed, the messenger chased him off the stage with a heart-tipped wand.

  That was Tal's cue. The audience parted before him as he strode through the yard. Simultaneously, Mallion emerged from backstage. Dressed in a lord's nightgown, he also wore a scabbard at his hip.

  "What bird is this that wakes me from my sleep?" he blinked up at the heavens, too late to see Lommy vanish into the trapdoor.

  "The herald of my retribution calls," cried Tal from the center of the yard. "Stand forth and face your rightful punishment!"

  Mallion fumbled for his sword, feigning sleepy confusion so well that the audience already began to chuckle. "Come no closer, knave, or I shall call the dogs."

  "The dog stands before me, or else-" Tal choked as someone jerked his cape.

  For an instant, he imagined he was back in the Arch Wood, fleeing from Rusk and his pack when he had felt a similar tug at his throat. He whirled around to face the offender, but he saw no likely suspect.

  "Mind the hedges," said Mallion, descending the stairs to the sound of laughter.

  Such a smooth cover for Tal's mishap was one of the many reasons Mallion continued to garner the best parts. Tal was too grateful to hold it against him.

  "I'll trim them when I've finished shaving you," said Tal with a cut at Mallion's head.

  Mallion parried neatly. "Not once I've cut you down to human size."

  "That won't hide his bastard's blood!" cried a voice from the crowd. The audience tittered nervously. Feeble as it was, Tal sensed that the insult was directed at him, not his character.

  "Don't blame the boy," called another voice in the yard. "It's the mother's fault!"

  Lightning flashed in his brain, and Tal turned his head toward the speaker. Expecting Tal's parry, Mallion checked his cut too late, and the point of his sword cut Tal's cheek. Tal barely felt the cut as his eyes sought his rude accuser. Before he could spot a likely source, another voice called from the second gallery.

  "She must have fancied Perivel's ogre."

  Tal looked up to see a big bearded man pointing at him as he laughed. More shocking still was the sight of an elf sitting on the rail beside the mocking man. Her cloak was two sizes too big for her slender form, and her pale skin stood out even among the powdered faces of the gallery. If more of the audience spotted her, she would regret it. Most Sembians loathed elves, and the rest were sure to avoid their company for fear of sharing the stigma of the hated outsiders.

  The laughter was even more uncomfortable this time, except for a dozen loud voices throughout the yard. Tal had not heard such dirty gossip since his early teens, when his unusual size made him the object of childish jibes a
bout his real parentage.

  Someone in the yard shouted, "That's enough! We came to hear a play, not-" The voice cut off suddenly as someone pulled the man down. Tal could barely see the scuffle, but it looked as though two men had pushed the speaker to the floor.

  'That's not why he was kicked out of the house, though," called a big red-bearded man with a broken nose. He stood where Tal had seen the scuffle a moment earlier, one meaty hand on his hip. His tone was insolent, inviting a quarrel. "His father won't share his concubine!"

  "Right," growled Tal, dropping his sword. "That's it."

  "Don't do it!" warned Mallion, lowering his sword and reaching for Tal. He was much too slow.

  Tal was already halfway to the redbearded man, the audience scattering in his wake. Red was ready for the attack. Their fists struck home simultaneously, each cracking the other's jaw. The crowd went momentarily silent at the sickening collisions. Tal tasted blood and felt loose teeth in his jaw.

  "Help him!" yelled Quickly from the stage door.

  Instead, most of the groundlings scattered. Those few who fried to interpose themselves between the fighters soon regretted it and stepped back holding a bloody nose or bruised ribs.

  Tal grabbed his opponent's beard and smashed his nose flat with a head-butt. Hot blood sprayed his face as the man shot a knee into Tal's stomach. Breathless, Tal let go and staggered back.

  All around him, people were shouting, grabbing, or fleeing. The actors poured out onto the stage and into the yard. Quickly kept bellowing for order, but more brawlers joined the fray every second.

  "Look out!" Chaney shouted from nearby.

  Tal ducked just in time to let another big man fly over him, into the crowd. Despite the chaos, Tal smelled something on his new assailant that reminded him of the bearded man. They both had the same musky odor almost hidden by a faint smell of smoke. It seemed familiar, but Tal had no time to ponder it. Redbeard and his friend easily shrugged off the hands that tried to restrain them.

  "Not bad," spat Red, grinning madly at Tal. Blood poured over his mouth and soaked his beard. "Maybe he is a hunter after all."