by David Gross
“But you can learn a language,” said Darrow.
“Just so,” she agreed. “And you can learn to change shape when you will.”
“Teach me,” he said.
And so she did. The lessons began with words but soon left them behind.
The beast was always inside a nightwalker, no matter whether proud Selûne rode the sky or veiled her face. Lured out with rage or desire, it would come to the right call. When Sorcia slapped him, Darrow felt the beast snarl. When they ran naked through the forest, he heard it panting in the back of his mind. And when they lay together, even when he closed his eyes to see Maelin’s face, Darrow heard the distant howling of his other self deep inside.
By the end of the month of Flamerule, Darrow no longer forgot the nights of four-legged hunting. When autumn came, he could change whenever Selûne showed more than half her face. By the Feast of the Moon, he hoped, he would stand as a wolf before Rusk used his infernal spells to impel the change in the weak.
Even fewer people made the pilgrimage to the lodge at Harvestide. All the worshipers from the northern woods arrived, but there were only two from the south. A scowling Rusk emerged from the lodge after receiving them in private.
To lift the mood, Rusk spoke to the People and their worshipers after his opening prayers.
“My journey to the city was not in vain,” he said from the altar, “nor was my sacrifice for naught. The Black Wolf Scrolls contain the words of Malar, the Great Hunter. In them I have found the truths the moon worshipers tried to conceal from us. In them, I have found the path to our destiny.
“Our birthright is not limited to the wild. We are the children of the natural world, including the cities shaped by the misguided followers of the weakling gods. The day of our retribution draws near, when the Black Wolf will lead us on the hunt that reclaims our rightful territory from the herd.
“Hear me well, my faithful children, for I speak the words of Malar, and mine is the honor of leading the last wild hunt to break down the pens and fences of the city dwellers. Those who prove strong enough may join us, while the weak we will hunt for our sustenance and our pleasure.”
That night, the chosen prey ran fast and far, but in the end he did not join the pack. He cried for Mielikki, Daughter of the Forest. If she heard his plea, it was far too late. Ronan tore out his throat, and the whole pack feasted on his flesh.
Three tendays later, in late Eleasias, Rusk took Darrow and Sorcia ranging to the southwestern reaches of the Arch Wood. They walked in human form, though Darrow had wished for a chance to prove he could transform at will. He had become much better at it recently. It took him less than a minute to enrage the beast and let it come over him.
When they reached the southwestern woods, they found the first signs of human habitation. First they smelled the wood smoke and the unmistakable odor of human kitchens. Soon they spied lone cottages and small clusters of sod houses appeared just within or beyond the tree line.
“Why do they live so far from a town?” asked Darrow. At least in the northern woods, the foresters were within a day’s walk of Moonwater.
“No lords to tax them,” explained Rusk. “No laws to bind them. Most of them are strong. That is why they make good prey and sometimes good People.”
Contrary to Rusk’s endorsement, the forest dwellers seemed weak and frightened. They barred their doors at the sight of the strangers and peered at them through the shutters.
“Something turns them against us,” grumbled Rusk. “They cannot have forgotten the winters when we fed them.”
“You know who it is, Huntmaster,” said Sorcia.
Rusk frowned and increased his pace, leaving Darrow and Sorcia behind.
“Who is it?” asked Darrow quietly.
“Maleva,” said Sorcia. “A cleric of Selûne.”
“One cleric?” said Darrow. “Why don’t we drive her away or kill her?”
“Her home is protected by a forbiddance,” said Sorcia. “And Rusk has long decreed that none but he shall take her life.”
“A matter of honor?” asked Darrow.
“No,” said Sorcia, “a matter of weakness.”
They found Maleva’s cottage the next night. It stood atop a low hill near the forest’s edge. One square window glowed with yellow light, and a thin ribbon of smoke rose into the dark blue sky. Even from fifty yards away, Darrow smelled rabbit stew and wood smoke, as well as the dog lying beside the front door.
“See how close you can get,” said Rusk. Sorcia and Darrow looked at him in surprise. “Both of you, from different directions.”
“You said she had a forbiddance on the place,” said Sorcia.
“That’s why he’s sending us first,” said Darrow, who remembered all too well the way Rusk used him as a trapspringer back at House Malveen. He didn’t like it, but he knew Rusk would not tolerate an argument.
Sorcia felt otherwise. “You called Balin a coward for leading from behind,” she said.
Darrow blinked and stepped back, expecting Rusk to strike her down. Instead, he merely fixed his eyes on hers and asked, “Which of you will free me from paralysis or heal me if I am struck down?”
Sorcia had no retort for that argument.
“When you wield the power of Malar, perhaps we will discuss my decisions. Until then, you will do well to obey them.”
Darrow had already turned away to skirt the hill and approach from the north, where the tree line would prevent him from making a silhouette against the sky. The stars shone in the cloudless sky, and the crescent moon was bright and high.
From this side, Darrow could see neither the dog nor the window. Darrow crept close, expecting trouble only when he reached the building. Thus, he was unprepared when he triggered the ward when still thirty yards away.
Brilliant silver light suffused his body, and an invisible force thrust him away from the cottage. He fell sprawling on the ground, twitching and breathless. The force that pushed him back felt like fire and lightning combined. He couldn’t smell or taste, and all his flesh felt numb and useless.
He rolled to his feet and felt briefly dizzy. His vision blurred, then cleared. He looked for Darrow and Sorcia but saw neither of them.
From around the cottage came the dog, barking furiously. It was a big wolfhound with a mottled gray coat. Darrow heard the sound of the door opening, and a woman’s voice called out, “Who’s there?”
Darrow turned and ran, the wolfhound close behind.
“Call back your dog, Maleva,” boomed Rusk’s voice. Darrow veered toward the sound, seeking the protection of numbers, as well as Rusk’s magic. His body stung and ached from his expulsion.
After a moment’s hesitation, Maleva called out, “Here, Shard! Come here, boy!”
The dog broke off its pursuit just as Darrow reached Rusk. Sorcia was already with him, looking no worse for testing the Selûnite’s ward. Maybe she had simply waited to see what happened to Darrow, first.
Maleva let Shard inside the cottage then closed the door before approaching the three werewolves. She wore a dark blue cloak with the hood thrown back to reveal white hair bound in a long braid. She stopped inside the ward around her cottage, about twenty yards away.
“I see you brought a pair of your own dogs,” she said.
“Bitch,” muttered Sorcia. Darrow noted she said it quietly.
“Won’t you come embrace your old friend, Maleva?” Rusk walked halfway toward her but stopped well beyond the magical boundary.
“Go back to your lodge, Rusk. Hunt the animals, and leave the people alone.”
“You could come with us,” he said. “You could run with me as we did so long ago. There is still great strength in each of us.”
“You are wasting your breath, Rusk. If you want to turn away from Malar, I’ll go with you to Moonshadow Hall. Otherwise, I’ll stay here until one of your pups tears you down.”
“But you won’t kill me, will you, Maleva?”
“I will if you don’t keep awa
y,” she said. “Stay in the woods, Rusk.”
“Where is Feena? Why does she not come out to greet me?”
“In Yhaunn,” said Maleva. “With Dhauna Myritar, well beyond your reach.”
“The Mistress of Moonshadow Hall taking your acolyte under her wing? I think not. She never forgave you for your heresy.”
“Think what you will,” she replied.
“Perhaps you left her in Selgaunt to look after the boy.”
“Think whatever you will. Just stay in your woods.”
“You think he is the Black Wolf, don’t you?”
“The Black Wolf is a myth,” she said. “We are too old to believe in such stories.”
“You once believed it enough to run with me,” said Rusk.
“We were young then. I was a foolish young girl, and you were a much better man than you are today. Stay in your woods, Rusk.”
“Perhaps I’ll pay them a visit,” he said. “There are so many things I would like to tell them both, Feena and this young wolf. But not too soon, I think. Perhaps next summer would be a good time.”
Maleva’s eyes flashed bright blue, and she raised her hands in prayer to the moon. White light formed on the medallion around her neck.
Rusk pressed the back of his hand against the talisman on his forehead, chanting his own invocation. When he thrust his open hand toward Maleva, a burst of red light surrounded her. For an instant, Darrow could see the smooth, curving border of the invisible field surrounding her home.
Rusk cursed. Whatever the spell was meant to achieve, it had failed.
Simultaneously, a cone of silver light shot from Maleva’s palm and covered all three werewolves. Every muscle in Darrow’s body cramped at once, and he was forced low to the ground. Before he realized he was transforming, he was in wolf form.
Nearby, Rusk snarled but seemed otherwise unaffected. Beside him stood the white wolf, her vicious teeth bared.
“Go back to the woods, before you lose one of your pups.”
She raised her arms toward the moon and called again on Selûne’s power. Rusk hesitated, then turned to leave. He walked at first then moved more quickly as he willed his own transformation into wolf form. Soon they entered the dark forest, where neither Maleva nor her spells followed them.
CHAPTER 12
MASKS
Marpenoth, 1371 DR
In the months since his expulsion from Master Ferrick’s, Tal began his own sword practice. There was no room in the tallhouse, so he used the backstage area at the Wide Realms.
At first he came in the mornings, when the building was deserted except for Lommy and the reclusive Otter. Within a tenday, Mistress Quickly complained that Lommy was missing his cues for opening the trapdoors or lowering the sun and moon from the heavens. One look at the bleary-eyed tasloi made Tal realize his mistake. The arboreal creatures were nocturnal by nature, and Tal had been disturbing their sleep.
He changed his schedule, returning to the playhouse a few hours after a performance. He practiced by himself while Lommy and Otter scampered about the mechanical works in the rafters. He didn’t know what the tasloi were doing up there—maybe just chasing each other in play, or perhaps building new gods and comets to drop and swing from the ropes—but he liked the sound of them nearby. He liked to think they were glad of his presence, too.
Often he would stay until dawn, having exhausted himself with drilling, then hours of working out new fight scenes for plays that had yet to be written. Soon he found himself most alert at night, sleeping away the mornings before rising to a quick breakfast and a return to the Realms for rehearsals.
On full moons, Tal’s routine was always the same. He ate a big dinner then had Chaney lock him in the cellar. During the transformation, Tal did his best to remain calm, meditating as Master Ferrick had taught him until the tidal dreams swept him out to oblivion. An hour after dawn, Chaney and Eckert would let him out. He stayed in the tallhouse for all three days, bidding Eckert to tell callers he was out carousing with Chaney in an alehouse somewhere.
In truth, Tal no longer frequented alehouses. He’d drink a cup of wine or a tankard of ale with Chaney in the tallhouse, but he wouldn’t drink more, and he wouldn’t go anywhere where he might get into a quarrel. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else.
Word of the accident at Master Ferrick’s eventually reached the players. Mallion and Sivana were uncharacteristically sympathetic. Instead of the expected jokes, Tal received a surprising request one day in the cold month of Uktar.
The three actors stood among the vendors outside the playhouse. Most of them sold food and drink to the audience as they arrived. The smells of roast meat and baked dumplings mingled with the sweet autumn air. Brown leaves scratched along the cobblestones.
The three actors clutched cups of hot cider to warm their hands. The autumn air was still comfortable, but the playhouse doors were already open.
“Let’s go back inside,” suggested Tal.
“Actually,” said Sivana, “we wanted a word with you alone.”
That sounded ominous. Tal braced himself for some admonishment about recent rehearsals. Quickly had cast him as the mad king, a role most of the players—including Tal—thought should go to one of the more experienced actors. Quickly said the role demanded a voice by turns thunderous and frail, and that Tal had proven he had the range. That was true enough, thought Tal, who had been expanding his repertoire of mimicry mostly through his mocking representations of the Hulorn and members of the Old Chauncel. On the other hand, Tal was far too young to express the emotional depth of a man driven mad by his children’s betrayal.
At least, that was Tal’s fear.
“We heard you weren’t going to Master Ferrick’s these days,” said Mallion.
The sly, handsome actor was the one who usually got the roles Tal wanted. He rarely passed up an opportunity to point out Tal’s shortcomings, usually in front of the other players. He did it in a tone of genial humor, but there was no doubt in Tal’s mind that he also did it to make sure everyone realized that Mallion was the better actor.
Tal nodded, then sipped his cider. It was spicy and almost too hot to drink.
“You probably want to stay in practice, though,” added Sivana. This month, her hair was blue and short. In The Wizard’s Exile she played both sprite and ship captain, the latter with a false beard and a silk scarf on her head.
“So we were thinking,” said Mallion, “maybe you could teach us what you know.”
“Me?” said Tal, coughing on his cider. “I’m no teacher.”
“You’re the one who stages all the fight scenes these days,” said Sivana.
“That’s not the same as real fighting,” Tal said. “I mean, I hope it looks convincing, but it’s not the same at all.”
“Wouldn’t it look better if we all knew how to fight for real?” said Mallion.
“Maybe,” Tal allowed. Then his suspicions arose again. “And maybe it would give you an advantage when Quickly casts Waterdeep next season.”
“Please,” said Mallion. “Sivana and I are getting those parts anyway.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” said Tal. “The four duels are the most important scenes.”
“And who would believe either of us could beat an ogre like you?” said Sivana. She and Mallion together barely weighed more than Tal. “They’ve got to be the same size.”
“Maybe she’ll pick Ennis and me,” said Tal.
It was a feeble argument, since big Ennis was both portly and homely, hardly a good choice for one of the romantic rivals. He usually played the foolish counselor or the cuckolded husband.
“Fat chance,” said Mallion.
“We really want to learn,” said Sivana.
“Why not go to Ferrick’s yourself? You’re both good enough to get in.”
While neither of them had had proper training, they’d learned enough in the playhouse that their greatest challenge would be to break the bad habits they’d formed.
Tal looked from Sivana’s face to Mallion’s, expecting to see one of them crack a smile and reveal the joke before they’d had their fun with him.
“Really?”
“Really,” said Mallion. Sivana nodded.
“I’ll have to think about it,” said Tal. He liked the idea of having fencing partners, but the fear that he’d hurt someone again still turned restlessly in his belly. “When would you want to do it? ”
“Right before rehearsals,” said Sivana, “to warm up.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Tal.
He didn’t have to think for long. Within a few days, Mallion and Sivana had already learned the basic footwork and followed Tal’s lead for an hour of vigorous exercise. When Chaney learned about it, he insisted on coming along. His lazy efforts provided the perfect bad example for the actors, yet he could get it right when Tal corrected him. Best of all, he didn’t mind the criticism.
As Tal expected, the hardest part was breaking them of habitual posing and fancy but ineffective flourishes. Deep down, Tal knew that those were some of his own failings as a swordsman, but it was easier to see it in others. He corrected, gently at first, then with an increasing scolding he knew came from long familiarity with Master Ferrick’s sharp, imperious commands. When Mallion complained that he worked them too hard, Tal knew he was starting to do a good job.
“Why don’t you practice with us?” Sivana asked one afternoon. Chaney had just given Mallion the thrashing of his life, even through the padded armor and masks Tal insisted they wear. Now both men complained they were too tired to go on.
“Because you’re not good enough yet,” said Tal. It might have been true, but Sivana’s eyes narrowed. She suspected the real reason.
“You’re not going to hurt us, Tal.”
“I’m not worried about hurting you,” he lied.
“Then show me that parry you say I botched,” said Mallion.
That sounded reasonable. There was no danger in demonstrating a parry. Tal agreed, inviting Sivana’s attack and catching her blade, binding it, and parrying just barely outside her line of attack.