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. Dar-row'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 Selune'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
