Black Wolf

by David Gross

  Voorla kicked Radu away then tried to grasp his maimed arm with his missing hand. Unable to grip his wound, the troll fell to its knees and cradled his ruined limbs, desperately whispering to them. Darrow imagined he was praying for them to rebind themselves faster. For the first time since meeting the troll, Darrow felt something other than fear of it: Voorla looked piteous.

  Radu stood and stabbed his sword into the sand. He paused to slap the sand from his breeches before walking toward the fumbling troll.

  On his knees, the troll was the same height as his opponent.

  “Voorla gnagt veek nogu, Malveen.”

  “Voorla acknowledges your superior skill, my brother,” translated Stannis.

  “Eent moku ngla foma,” said the troll.

  “He humbly requests your mercy.”

  Radu nodded, walking behind the troll. Voorla sank to his haunches. He stared at the pit, perhaps longing for his hand. As the bone blade entered the back of his skull, white light burst from Voorla’s eyes and mouth. His green flesh turned ashy gray then dull white as his life and body alike were consumed by an insatiable, unholy power. Within seconds, his body withered to the barest, crumbling skeleton, which then collapsed into powder that mingled with the stained sand of the pit.

  In Radu’s hand, the bone blade had turned black as sin.

  Darrow wrenched his gaze from the awful scene to look at the others. There was no way to discern Stannis’s reaction under his golden veil, though his glowing eyes were fixed on Rusk. The Huntmaster tried maintaining an aloof indifference, but he could not disguise his revulsion at the effects of the bone blade.

  Stannis began the applause, which Darrow obediently joined. In the pit, Radu watched as the bone blade slowly returned to its original white as its smooth surface absorbed the dark stain. With a gesture, Stannis opened the baiting pit gate for his brother, who joined them in the gallery.

  “Well done, my brother,” said Stannis. “Not only do you thrill us with your skill, but you set my heart at ease upon your journey far from home.” He turned to Rusk. “Not that he should have need of self defense while in your company, Huntmaster.”

  “No,” agreed Rusk, his eyes fixed upon the white dagger.

  “Good,” said Stannis. “Then I will not worry about his traveling alone.”

  “I am not traveling alone,” said Radu. He indicated Darrow with a slight nod of his head. “He will come with me.”

  “What? But how shall I get along without him?” protested Stannis. “I have become quite dependent on his company. Despite a few … human flaws … I need him for those tasks that prove too subtle for my minions.”

  “All the more reason he should come with me.”

  “You gave him to me,” said Stannis petulantly. “You called him unreliable.”

  “All the more reason he should not remain here, where he might draw suspicion to the house.”

  Stannis paused, then tried another tack. “What possible use do you have for him in the woods?”

  “He will set camp, prepare my meals.…”

  Stannis sighed. “You are determined, I see. I suppose there is nothing more to be said.”

  “No,” said Radu.

  No one said another word as they left the arena.

  Spring rains had left the ground soft, and Darrow wished again that they had stayed to the roads. Their horses left a trail of black divots, and the effort was sure to tire the beasts soon. Before it did, they came to the edge of the Arch Wood. There a carpet of fir needles and the deep clutch of roots made the ground firm. Rusk led Radu and Darrow slowly into the forest.

  “How far?” asked Radu.

  During the past three days, Radu Malveen had not spoken a word. Darrow had considered making conversation with Rusk, but the cleric was brooding about his severed arm. His healing spells had sealed over the raw stump but left it ugly. Something other than his wound was troubling him. Several times he had halted their progress, dismounted, and sniffed the air. Each time, he turned to scowl back the way they came, as if someone were following them. None of them saw any sign of pursuit, so they continued on their journey.

  To Radu’s question, Rusk grunted and dismounted. Darrow’s roan shied away from the big savage. Even Radu’s Calishite stallion tossed its head until the swordsman mastered it with the barest tightening of his legs. None of the horses liked Rusk until he had cast a spell to befriend the muddy brown dray horse that would bear him.

  Rusk moved away from the horses, holding his head high to snuffle for a scent. His hairy jaws worked as if he were drinking the wind, tasting it.

  “You don’t know where they are,” said Radu.

  Darrow heard the impatience in his master’s voice. He remained still and kept his eyes from Radu.

  Rusk scowled at the accusation. “They’re roaming,” he said. “If we go to the lodge, we might have to wait tendays for their return. You don’t want to wait tendays out here. Give me the scrolls now, and I’ll hunt for them alone.”

  Radu did not answer at first. Darrow knew that Radu and his hideous brother were suspicious of Rusk’s claims. Even if he had a pack at his command, would they still obey a maimed leader?

  Finally, Radu said, “Take us to the lodge now.”

  Darrow saw the tension coil in Rusk’s shoulders. It made the thick gray hair on his arm ridge up. Without another word, Rusk mounted his horse and grudgingly led them northwest. Radu followed, and Darrow knew better than to break the silence.

  They traveled until dusk, when the fat horns of the waning moon appeared beyond the dappling canopy. Behind them trailed the shards, tiny motes said to be Selûne’s handmaidens.

  Darrow looked to Radu for a sign that it was time to erect the master’s tent. It was the master’s habit to leave all the menial tasks to Darrow, who was now driver, cook, drudge, and fetch. In the months since Darrow had stumbled upon the Malveen family secret, he was grateful enough for his life that he did not complain. The thought of revealing the truth about Stannis Malveen never crossed his mind, nor did hope of escape. Besides, when he was honest with himself, Darrow realized that he enjoyed being in the service of a man so powerful and dangerous. If he stayed loyal and kept his wits about him, Darrow could profit very well indeed.

  Despite the growing darkness, Radu did not seem ready to camp. He looked to Rusk, who cocked his head in an attitude of concentrated listening. Darrow followed his example but heard nothing except the hush of the gentle evening breeze.

  Then he realized the forest had become quiet.

  Rusk jumped from his horse, slapped its flank, and crouched low over the ground. All the while he intoned a low chant.

  Darrow looked to Radu, but the master was gone. His stallion pawed the forest floor. Without a lead to follow, Darrow slipped as quietly as he could to the ground and put his back against a big tree. His horse needed no encouragement to trot away.

  Rusk finished his spell with a brief touch of the holy symbol on his brow. His muscles bulged and rippled as infernal strength flowed through his limbs. Throughout the incantation, he never took his eyes from the northeastern shadows.

  Darrow drew his long sword and stared at those shadows. Something was approaching, he knew, even though he saw and heard nothing. Maybe Rusk smelled it, but all Darrow smelled was moist loam and tree bark.

  The attack came from above, slamming Darrow to the ground and knocking his sword away. A hard root cut into his cheek as nails raked his back. Hot breath spilled over the back of his neck as a living weight pressed him to the ground. He tensed for the pain of teeth tearing into his flesh, but then the weight was gone.

  Darrow scrambled for his sword, but bright motes danced in his vision, and his fingers clutched only cool soil and thistles. Then a sound like a dozen angry dogs dropped from a tower exploded around him.

  Blinking his eyes clear, Darrow saw Rusk standing amid a boiling mass of dark wolves. He held one by the throat, far above the others. The animal thrashed and struggled to get its mouth
around Rusk’s arm. With terrible ease, the cleric hurled it away. The wolf smashed into a tree with a sickening crack. It fell to the ground whining, its hind legs useless.

  “Back!” roared Rusk, kicking a wolf that darted at his legs. “I am the Bloodmaster. Obey me!”

  Most of them shied away at his words and the demonstration of his strength, but one bold wolf stalked forward, growling at Rusk.

  Rusk touched the talisman on his brow, then thrust a finger toward the wolf. “Submit,” he said.

  His voice was low, but its effect instantaneous. The rebellious wolf rolled onto its back, exposing its throat and belly.

  All the other wolves gazed at Rusk and the defeated challenger. Darrow took the opportunity to find his sword. When he turned to where it had fallen, however, he saw a slim white wolf sitting between him and the weapon. Its icy blue eyes were fixed not on Rusk but on Darrow. The wolf turned its head from side to side in an eerily human gesture. No, it seemed to tell him, before its gaze returned to the central conflict.

  Rusk stood amid the wolves, looking from face to face as if seeking any signs of further defiance. Where his gaze went, wolf heads dipped or turned away. Only when he turned to the white wolf did his inquisition meet with a steady return gaze. Rusk’s eyes moved on, seeking something they had not yet found.

  Where is Radu? wondered Darrow. He hoped his master had not fled. Somehow, he knew the man was nearby, as invisible as on the night Rusk had first invaded House Malveen. He prayed to Mask, the Lord of Shadows, to keep him hidden from the beasts until he chose to strike. He prayed to Tymora, Lady Luck, to give him the chance to save himself as well.

  “Bloodmaster …” called a weak voice. The wolf Rusk had thrown away was now a naked young man. Blood bubbled from one nostril, and his ruptured lungs wheezed as he spoke. Like the wolf he had been, his back was twisted halfway around, his legs lying useless below him. “Grant mercy, please … heal me.”

  Rusk went to him and knelt, placing his hand on the young man’s head. “Fraelan,” he said, “why did you attack your master?”

  “We didn’t know … it was you.”

  “You beg mercy and lie to me? I’ll leave you for the scavengers!”

  “You do smell like the city, Rusk,” said a sweet voice. Darrow looked where the white wolf guarded his sword. Now the wolf was an elf who sat careless of her nakedness. Except for her dirty hands and feet, her skin was ghostly. Her faintly blue eyes were almost white except for the startling black pupils.

  Rusk ignored the elf and took Fraelan’s face in one hand.

  “Who was it? ”

  Tears made trails on the young man’s dirty face. He hesitated only a few seconds. “Balin,” he whispered.

  Rusk nodded, as if it were the answer he wanted to hear. “Now you have earned mercy,” he said, pressing his forehead against Fraelan’s. “I grant you mercy. Malar grants you mercy.”

  “No,” gasped Fraelan. “Please … heal—”

  Rusk’s whiskery mouth covered the younger man’s. Fraelan clutched weakly at Rusk, but the big man held him firm and drew out the crippled man’s last breath. Darrow felt a chill watching the deadly kiss. As Fraelan’s strength waned and vanished, Rusk lowered him gently to the ground. He rose to face the pack then. Darrow saw new power in the cleric’s face. The scratches his pack had caused him were gone, and his muscles rippled with new strength. The symbol of Malar gleamed red in the twilight shadows.

  “Now,” said Rusk, “where is Balin?”

  The wolves all turned in the same direction. The forest trembled, and the saplings parted as the monster approached.

  Growing up a farmer’s son, Darrow was not surprised by large pigs. They were dangerous animals, even when raised as livestock. One had killed his cousin and had begun eating the boy before Darrow’s uncle could fend him off with a spear. He’d summoned help from his neighbors before slaughtering the beast that night. The wild boars hunted for festivals often dwarfed their domestic cousins, and Darrow had seen some large enough for a big man to ride, if he dared. When he came to Selgaunt and saw the colossal boar’s head mounted above the bar in the Black Stag inn, he thought it must be the biggest boar in all Faerûn. They called it Demon and said it had killed more than a hundred and thirty men who dared to hunt it, including all but two of the twenty who had finally brought it down with spears and magic. Its long tusks were as thick as a dock worker’s forearm. They curled awry, giving the vast red face a mad expression. Its eyes were tiny black stones, almost invisible in the expanse of bristling red fur. A man could put a fist in one of Demon’s flaring nostrils, and its mouth was big enough for a man’s head, as the city gallants sometimes proved after a few pints of ale. Darrow wouldn’t have done that for a hundred fivestars.

  The boar that came out of the Arch Wood that night could have been Demon’s big brother.

  It walked toward Rusk, stopping only a few feet away. As Darrow watched, the giant boar transformed. Its flesh rippled and contorted, reforming into the figure of a man even taller and much heavier than Rusk. His prominent tusks and low brow betrayed his orc parentage.

  “A coward hides behind the pack,” said Rusk. “A challenger stands alone against the Bloodmaster.”

  “I am the Bloodmaster now,” said the half-orc. “You stayed too long in the pen, Rusk. You’ve become one of the sheep.”

  “Malar speaks to me,” shouted Rusk, “not you. I was Huntmaster before you were born, and I’ll be the Bloodmaster long after you’re dead.”

  “Malar pisses on old cripples,” Balin said, pointing at Rusk’s stump. “I am the strongest hunter now, and I lead the People of the Black Blood where we belong, in the wild. Run now, and I’ll let you live with your sheep.”

  “Malar tests me, yes, but I need only one hand to slaughter a pig.”

  Darrow couldn’t tell who moved first. Balin lunged for Rusk, but the cleric leaped to the side, leaving the half-orc skidding in the dirt. Walking almost casually away from Balin, Rusk sang another prayer. It drew the power of his god into his hand, which grew to nearly twice its size and sprouted wicked talons.

  Across the clearing, Balin rose slowly to his feet. His form shifted again, this time halting halfway between boar and half-orc. His previously massive limbs were now as thick as battering rams, his fists like the heads of sledgehammers.

  The pack watched but did not interfere. Those in the clearing moved aside for the combatants.

  Balin charged. Rusk waited until the last instant, then dropped low and kicked hard at the wereboar’s left leg. There was no satisfying crack, but Balin crashed into the brush instead of his enemy. Rusk slashed Balin’s exposed buttocks with his monstrous hand. While the wereboar recovered, Rusk strode into the center of the clearing again and waited.

  “You are slow and stupid,” he said. “My only mistake has been to let you live among us.”

  Balin’s reply was rough snorting and another charge. This time, he kept his body low to avoid a trip. Rusk vaulted over Balin, but not before the wereboar lifted his tusks to tear a deep gash in the cleric’s leg. The wound made him stumble and fall in Balin’s wake. Before Rusk could recover, Balin turned to charge again.

  This time, Balin threw himself on Rusk, who couldn’t get away in time. Rusk’s howl was cut off as the bigger man’s weight crushed him, but Balin screamed too. They rolled together on the ground, leaving a trail of blood.

  Like a bear, Balin hugged his opponent, trying to squeeze his breath away. Rusk’s arm was pinned between them, but he jerked and pushed as if reaching into his enemy. Soon they were both smeared in blood, and Balin’s screams turned to squeals. Still his arms continued to crush the cleric, who had no breath to scream.

  Rusk transformed, his body shifting from man to half-man to silver-gray wolf. His half-tunic was pinned beneath Balin’s massive arms, but his boots and trousers fell away, tangling his legs.

  Balin’s hug pinned the slender foreleg of Rusk’s wolf form helplessly, but now Rusk’s long ja
ws were at the wereboar’s throat. They snapped once and caught, and there they held. Blood gushed down the gray wolf’s muzzle. Together, Balin’s two wounds drained away his life. In death, the wereboar’s body shifted one last time to leave a huge boar’s corpse on the ground. The wolf rolled away from it, more red than gray.

  The white elf ran to Rusk and began licking at the blood. Darrow turned away, disgusted, but a perverse fascination made him look again. Two wolves joined the elf, whining sympathetically as they tried to soothe their master’s wounds.

  As his breathing slowed, Rusk shifted back into his human shape. He cuffed the nearest sycophants. “Get away,” he barked.

  All obeyed except the elf, who pressed herself against Rusk, laying her head against his bruised ribs. Rusk grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back and forcing her to look up at him.

  “Balin was a simpleton and a coward,” Rusk said. “I wonder who encouraged his ambition.”

  The elf’s face remained impassive. She did not struggle in her master’s grip.

  Rusk stared into her face a little longer, then shoved her away. “Bah,” he said. “The challenge is done. I am the Bloodmaster. Does any deny it?”

  He did not deign to look around. Every member of the pack looked to the ground. Darrow noticed the elf glancing up at Rusk, a faint smile on her lips.

  “Impressive,” said Radu. He stood at the edge of the clearing, holding the reins of his stallion. The other two horses were nowhere to be seen. “Impressive, yet puzzling.”

  “What do you mean?” said Rusk.

  “You defeated this brute,” said Radu, gesturing at Balin’s bloody corpse, “yet you say Talbot Uskevren sliced off your arm.”

  Rusk’s eyes blazed at the reminder. He worked his jaw but said nothing.

  “Was that the name of your prey in the city, Bloodmaster?” The elf’s tone was humble, thought Darrow. A trifle too humble.

  “Silence, Sorcia,” said Rusk.