Black Wolf

by David Gross

  Darrow reflected on the backstabbing politics of the Old Chauncel, which he couldn’t even pretend to fathom. Just hearing one of Stannis’s tales of subversions, bluffs, and betrayals with such intangible weapons as import taxes and trade concessions was enough to make him dizzy. The disease of cutthroat rivalry was not limited to the merchant class in Selgaunt. Even the other guardsmen he knew were always competing with each other and their superiors for advancement and recognition. He could not disagree with Sorcia’s assertion that the city and the wild were both dangerous and uncertain places.

  “At least in the city there are laws,” said Darrow. “The powerful can’t do anything they want.”

  “Can’t they?” laughed Sorcia. “The laws are just another kind of power. We know something of them here, too. Rusk’s power comes from Malar as well as himself. The People might follow him just for his strength, but the pilgrims come because Rusk speaks the law of the wild.”

  “Isn’t that just another kind of strength?” said Darrow. “The kind all clerics have over their followers?”

  “Indeed,” said Sorcia. “There are many kinds of strength. In the city or the wild, strength is the only law. All must bow before strength.”

  Within an hour, the first hunters returned with their prey. Karnek carried a lean buck over his shoulders, while Brigid strutted beside him. When Karnek lay the deer upon the ground for all to see, the sight of the clean kill earned them praise.

  “You are truly a child of Malar, sister wolf,” said the old man who had been gathering firewood earlier. Brigid nipped at his ear, evoking a chorus of hoots from pilgrims and nightwalkers alike.

  Wanting to appear useful, Darrow helped gut and skin the carcass and set it on a fresh spit. Soon the smell of roast venison filled the air, summoning the remaining hunters from their lodge. Radu appeared last, with orders for Darrow to break camp and pack the horses.

  “Are we leaving before the feast?” asked Darrow.

  “No,” said Radu. His tone invited no further inquiry.

  As Darrow finished with the horses, Rusk emerged from the lodge to walk among his people and their followers. He wore the skull of an enormous owlbear upon his head, the creature’s glossy pelt spilling across the big man’s shoulders to drag upon the ground. The beast’s clawed hands were tied across Rusk’s chest, concealing his missing left arm.

  The Huntmaster’s arrival was the signal for all to gather within the fanged temple. Darrow followed but stopped just outside the ring of stones, unsure whether he was welcome inside. He saw Radu standing on the other side, leaning casually against one of the giant gray fangs.

  Rusk took his place between the altar and the blazing bonfire. Some of the pilgrims produced hand drums. Without prompting, they began to beat a simple rhythm. The sound chased the sparrows from the nearby trees and echoed off the great stone fangs.

  Sorcia danced around the fire, her pale limbs licking the air like flames. As she circled the bonfire, the rhythm increased to a fluttering heartbeat. Sorcia danced faster, her lithe body whipping the others into a frenzy of cheers and howls.

  Ronan joined in on the other side of the fire, his own movements quick and aggressive. He stamped the ground with both feet, then darted forward as lightly as the wind. When he caught up with Sorcia, he raked at her with clawed fingers. She flung herself to the ground, the wounded doe. As Ronan raised his hands in triumph, she leaped back to life and stalked around the circle, the hunted becoming the hunter.

  The rest of the pack joined the dance one-by-one, until all of the nightwalkers stalked and leaped around the rising bonfire. Some had flung off their clothes, and their naked bodies glistened with sweat in the heat of the fire. All around them, the pilgrims chanted and wailed as the drummers beat an increasingly frantic rhythm.

  Darrow’s heart pounded with the drums. He felt an urge to run away before the dance was done, but one look at the dire wolves pacing outside the fanged temple put that thought from his mind. He looked for Radu, but his master was gone from his earlier place.

  The pilgrims began joining the wild dance, even the old twig-gatherer. Soon there were none left to beat the drums, but the rhythm lived on in the dancers’ shrieks and howls. At last, someone pulled Darrow into the dance.

  It was easier than he expected. His thumping heart had already taught his feet the rhythm, and an exultant scream flew unbidden from his chest. He pantomimed throwing a spear at a barrel-chested pilgrim, who threw himself to the ground and thrashed like a wounded boar before rolling back up to his feat to stalk his own prey.

  How long they danced, Darrow could not say. It stopped abruptly, as a deafening howl rose among the dancers. Rusk stood atop the altar by the fire, his head thrown back as he pointed. All heads turned to see the first horn of the crescent moon rising above the black horizon. The dancers added their voices to the Huntmaster’s, heralding the moon’s arrival. They howled for long minutes, until at last Rusk lowered his pointing arm.

  “We welcome the moon, which lights the path,” he chanted.

  Pilgrim and hunter alike repeated the invocation, as did Darrow. His voice was hoarse from howling, but he had never felt so free and natural. When Rusk raised his hand again, everyone sat on the ground to receive his benediction.

  “Give thanks to the Great Black Wolf, who chases the moon across the sky,” chanted Rusk. “Let him fill our limbs with strength.”

  “We hunt for our strength,” replied the congregation.

  “Give thanks to the creatures of the wild, for the meat they yield to the skillful hunter. Let them nourish our bodies.”

  “We hunt for our nourishment.”

  The prayer was long and repetitive, so Darrow could join in and say the words with the rest of the worshipers. At last, Rusk welcomed the newcomers to the Lodge. He promised that the People of the Black Blood would continue to feed them in times of famine, so long as they kept faith with Malar, the Black Wolf, Master of the Hunt.

  After the prayers, the congregation fell silent to listen to their Huntmaster. Darrow heard only the crackling of the bonfire and the susurrus of the wind until Rusk filled the temple with his powerful voice.

  “Tonight, as spring gives way to summer, we celebrate the High Hunt,” said Rusk. He put his hand on something concealed beneath his cloak. “This year’s Greengrass feast is most auspicious, for with it comes the result of my own long hunt. The Black Wolf Scrolls are returned to their rightful place!”

  Rusk lifted a bone scroll case above his head for all to see. It was carved from the femur of some enormous beast and capped at each end with golden images, one a leopard, the other a wolf. In the firelight, its surface wriggled with glyphs and carvings.

  After a moment of stunned silence, the congregation whooped and howled.

  “Now the unsullied words of the hunter-prophets shall be revealed to me, and I shall master the forgotten wisdom of our forebears and teach it all to you, my hunters, my followers, my pack!”

  The cheering grew deafening, and Darrow wished he understood what it meant. He thought the Malveens refused to give Rusk the scrolls and wondered why they had changed their minds. If the scrolls were false, he prayed silently that he would be far away by the time Rusk discovered the forgery.

  “What better way to celebrate this momentous event than with a High Hunt?” thundered Rusk. Still excited by his proclamation, the crowd quieted just enough to hear his words. He spoke again, half-chanting the words, “Who shall hunt our prey?”

  “We will!”

  All of the People of the Black Blood rose to their feet, as did a few young men and women among the pilgrims. Those who still wore clothing flung it away. Half of them stretched and bent, their limbs twisting and reshaping themselves. Thick fur sprung from their flesh, until a dozen wolves hunkered among the seated pilgrims.

  “You are the foremost, the natural hunters,” called Rusk. “Lead the way for those who have yet to master their skills.”

  Rusk barked out a string of anc
ient words, an infernal invocation to Malar. His eyes blazed red, and flames leaped from the bonfire to enshroud him in ruddy light. With a violent gesture, he flung the magical energy toward the People who remained in human form.

  They screamed as the red power entered their ears and mouths. Their bodies jerked and transformed until they, too, stood as wolves among the pilgrims.

  Only four pilgrims remained standing. At a nod from Rusk, other pack members handed them long spears.

  “I see a mighty host of hunters before me,” called Rusk. “What prey is fit and worthy of their prowess?”

  “A great boar,” called a woman among the pilgrims, “with his long tusks and strong shoulders.” The rhythm of her words told Darrow that the response was canon.

  “No,” said Rusk. “These hunters are stronger, and their teeth sharper.”

  “A stag,” called a man, “with his great horns and swift legs.”

  “My hunters are swifter still. You must choose better.”

  “The owlbears, with their sharp beaks and talons.”

  “The claws of my hunters are more keen. Is there no prey worthy of my hunters?”

  “A man,” called Radu from outside the circle, “with his weapons and his wits.”

  Darrow turned to see his master already mounted, the lead to his own horse secured to his saddle. Then he realized what Radu had been discussing with Rusk when he saw his own horse tethered to Radu’s saddle. Without Stannis present to object, Radu had finally disposed of him.

  “That prey is fit and worthy of my hunters,” responded Rusk. He turned his eyes to Darrow, and the entire congregation rose to form their own circle among the stone teeth, blocking his escape.

  “The prey may take whatever weapons he desires,” declared Rusk. He pointed directly up. “The hunt begins when the moon touches the highest vault of heaven. It ends when the land has swallowed her up again.”

  “Wait!” cried Darrow. He realized his words were useless, but he could not stop himself. “I’m not worthy of your Hunt, but he’s the greatest swordsman in Selgaunt.” He pointed at Radu, then immediately dropped his hand as their eyes met. He was desperate indeed to draw the ire of Radu Malveen.

  “The prey has been chosen,” declared Rusk.

  “No,” called a deep voice from the congregation.

  A man with a big, solid belly stood forth, his muscles round and hard as stones. The silver in his black hair and beard marked him as a veteran, if not one of Rusk’s generation. Darrow saw that his objection carried weight among the other pack members.

  “The lamb is right, Rusk. The other city man is far worthier prey than this cringing whelp. Show us that your city dealings are truly over.”

  Among the pack rumbled murmurs of assent.

  Ronan stepped forth from the pack. “Bloodmaster, your return brings us great joy. It is an occasion deserving of great honor and sport. Listen to Gorland. Let the hunt be of worthier prey.”

  Rusk looked down at Ronan, then back toward Gorland who had first spoken. “Is this how you honor my return?”

  Neither of the men replied, but the crowd stirred restlessly, watching for any sign of weakness. Darrow realized that they could easily turn on Rusk.

  “If you prefer to hunt that man,” he said to Gorland, “then bring him before me.”

  The big man smiled and nodded to the Huntmaster. He had the look of a man who knew he’d just won much respect among his fellows. The smile remained as he walked over toward Radu.

  The swordsman removed his gloves as he watched Gorland approach. He wore the expression of a man tired of waiting for his driver to open the carriage door.

  Gorland raised his arm to take Radu by the shoulder. To Darrow’s eyes, Radu merely stepped backward while flicking one hand toward the big fellow. Everyone heard the rasp of steel, once as it left the scabbard, then again as it returned. The sounds were so close together as to seem like one prolonged sigh.

  “Ah!” said Gorland.

  He stopped and stood still, his arm still raised to grasp a shoulder that had suddenly moved six feet away. He shook his head as though perplexed or stunned, then clutched at his face. His hands came away slick with blood. Twin torrents descended from his ruined eye sockets, filling his gaping mouth.

  The horses stood calmly by, unaware of the violence so close to them.

  “Does anyone else question my selection?” From the advantage of the stone altar, Rusk looked over his followers. His gaze lingered on Ronan, who lowered his face and stepped back. When he was satisfied of no further challenges, Rusk called out to Radu. “Go, now.”

  He watched Radu Malveen ride slowly out of the firelight and into the dark forest. Then he leaped from the altar and strode over to Darrow.

  “Give us a good hunt,” Rusk said. “Elude us until dawn, and all honor is yours. You may ask any boon, and it shall be granted.”

  “But if you catch me?” asked Darrow. He tried to compose a brave face before the assemblage of hunters, but fear cracked his voice.

  “Then we will honor you another way,” said Rusk with a toothy smile.

  CHAPTER 10

  RIDING THE MOON

  Kythorn, 1371 DR

  Tal sat cross-legged in his cage. The cool basement air raised goosebumps on his flesh, for he wore only a kilt borrowed from the playhouse wardrobe. It was loose enough to fall away when his hips grew long and narrow, but for now it provided a slight modesty. His hands lay open upon his thighs, and his head drooped slightly as he held his eyes closed and listened.

  “Now lean back and float. Let the water hold you up. You can still hear the surf as the waves gently carry you deeper.”

  Feena sat on a stool near the cage. He had asked her to stay farther back, but she had ignored his request. Whatever else she might be, the cleric was not afraid of him in any form.

  Tal tried to let his mind drift with the imaginary currents. Feena had decided that water was the best focus for him after listening to his descriptions of his previous transformations.

  “The sea is a reflection of the moon,” she explained, “moving with Selûne’s own passage, just as you do, just as everyone does.”

  “Every nightwalker, you mean.”

  “No, every living creature responds to the moon in some way. Men are simply less sensitive to her passing. That makes it harder for you to learn to ride the moon.”

  Tal began to object, but then he realized the truth of what she was saying.

  “Is that why most clerics of Selûne are women?” he asked.

  “Part of the reason,” Feena answered, nodding. “It’s easier for a woman to learn how to ride the moon. For you, who haven’t felt the passage of the moon all your life, it helps to think of something like the tide. Imagine yourself as part of the sea, ebbing and flowing with the moon.”

  And so he tried exactly that as he and Feena sat in the basement of his tallhouse, but he found it far harder than he had expected. Troubling thoughts continued to intrude on his meditation. Some of them were the lingering suspicions he harbored about Feena’s motives for helping him, and Dhauna Myritar’s for sending her to Selgaunt when she and Maleva lived so far away. It made sense to send someone who had fought against nightwalkers for so long, but he suspected the greater appeal was the opportunity to study one closely.

  The thought made him feel paranoid and ungrateful at the same time, but it was hard to set aside his doubts.

  Even worse were his concerns about Chaney, who had had become increasingly scarce since the journey to Moonshadow Hall and Feena’s subsequent return to Selgaunt. Feena joked that he was jealous that Tal had given her the guest room that Chaney had occupied so frequently before. Tal suspected the truth involved Chaney’s criminal associates. He no longer deluded himself into thinking that his friend’s problems were confined to a gentleman’s wager or a social dispute. Somehow he had gotten himself into real trouble with Selgaunt’s underworld, and Tal’s interference had only made things worse. Finally, Tal’s persiste
nt questions had driven off his only close friend.

  “You aren’t focusing,” said Feena. “You’ll drown if you let yourself become distracted.”

  “Drowning” was the word Tal used to explain the helpless sensation he felt the first several times he underwent the change. It was an apt description, agreed Feena, but the trick was not to resist the sensation of an intruding force. It was the draw of the moon, and it was as much a lure as an invasion. Those who let it pull them only so far from their own minds could establish equilibrium. They could remain conscious during the transformation and afterward, and with training retain control of their animal selves.

  “When the waves wash over you, don’t struggle. The goal is not to swim but to float. Try not to listen to my words, just hear them and imagine floating on the sea. Think of the vast, dark water gently rocking you.”

  With an effort not to make an effort, Tal finally relaxed enough to hear her words without thinking about them. It was a state of mind he reached only while fencing, when for brief moments he could obey Master Ferrick’s instructions without knowing he’d heard them. Soon Feena’s words dissolved into the images he had practiced forming.

  He felt himself floating in warm water, the tide gently tugging him first away from and toward a shore he could sense but not see. Each wave that pulled him farther from land was stronger than the one that pushed him back, and each time he felt slightly farther from his surroundings, even his own body.

  Gradually he floated out to sea, the distant shush of the surf growing fainter as he went. The waves grew stronger, raising him high before dropping him back below the surface. He tried to remain calm as he rose back to the surface, but he felt smothered and restrained. A sharp pain twisted his back. He gasped for air but felt no relief.

  Opening his eyes, he saw only a dim yellow light on the other side of the bars. A human voice spoke to him from beyond the lamp, but he could not understand its words. Standing, he felt the clothing fall away from his transformed body, rough straw and hard iron bars beneath his paws. A hundred strange smells competed for his attention. They were all familiar, but he could not think of their names. One in particular called to him, a musky odor similar to the smell of his own body but far more alluring.