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 Faerun. 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 ore parentage.
'A coward hides behind the pack,' said Rusk. 'A challenger stands alone against the Bloodmaster.'
'I am the Bloodmaster now,' said the half-ore. '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 Blood-master 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-ore 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-ore. 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 jaws were at the were-boar'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 elfs tone was humble, thought Darrow. A trifle too humble.
'Silence, Sorcia,' said Rusk.
'Yes, Bloodmaster,' said Sorcia contritely.
Her eyes turned to the ground until Rusk looked away, then they turned to Radu. Darrow took the opportunity to collect his sword, sheathing it as quietly as he could to avoid attracting the attention of the monsters that surrounded him.
'Our guests have brought us a gift,' said Rusk, 'a gift from the Beastlord himself. We have the scrolls of Malar.'
Darrow glanced at Radu, hoping his master would not correct Rusk before his followers. Stannis had permitted Rusk to bring only a fraction of the Black Wolf Scrolls. Rusk had howled when he saw the torn fragment, but he dared not challenge the Malveens in their home. Now, with his pack looking on, Rusk might not take another humiliation so mildly. Probably Radu could kill any one of them, maybe even most of them. But he'd never kill them all before one of them tore Darrow to pieces. Of that he was sure.
Perhaps Tymora smiled on Barrow then, for Radu merely gestured for Darrow to take the reins of his horse. Darrow obeyed, grateful to stand apart from the werewolves.
'To the lodge,' commanded Rusk. At last the Bloodmas-ter permitted himself a smile at his victory. After his dangerous quest in the city, he was home among his people. He gestured to Balin's corpse and added, 'Don't forget the meat.'
Chapter 8
Tarsakh, 1371 DR
Impious shadow of the king who was,' bellowed Presbart as the baron. His soldiers pointed their swords at Tal's heart. 'Release the scepter stolen from his tomb!'
'I wear the crown by acclamation true,' replied Tal, leaping back onto the crenellated wall. 'Deny my claim and hasten your own doom.' On the rhyming syllable, he struck a guard's blade from his hand.
The weapon skittered across the stage and shot through the surrounding rails, sending Sivana and Ennis diving out of the way. Ennis managed to flatten himself, causing even more laughter among the other players.
