'So they aren't…' Darrow struggled to find the polite word.
'They are not People of the Black Blood. They are not nightwalkers,' said Sorcia, 'but they are as loyal to Rusk as any of us.'
Darrow raised an eyebrow but didn't ask the next obvious question. Sorcia saw it in his face and answered anyway.
'Strength breeds loyalty,' she said, 'and strength must be tested.' She looked into Darrow's face. 'That's one of the first lessons Rusk teaches his followers, whether they are mere followers or People.'
'Is that why Balin took over?'
'He was the strongest in Rusk's absence. Even before then, Balin was restless. It was only a matter of time before he tried again.'
'You make it sound as though this happens all the time.'
'Rusk has been Bloodmaster for longer than most nightwalkers live. It is only natural that the younger wolves would try their strength against his.'
'It's a wonder there is anyone left to follow,' said Darrow.
'He doesn't kill every challenger,' said Sorcia, 'only those who won't submit when he proves his strength. You know how to submit, I see.'
Darrow frowned at her but did not comment. Instead, he stole a glance at the nightwalker who had bullied him. The man was drinking a cup of ale while listening to a few of the visitors.
'Ronan likes to test newcomers,' said Sorcia. 'He almost beat Rusk last summer.'
'But Rusk spared him?'
'Even the strong must submit to greater strength,' said Sorcia. 'Rusk smiles on those who want to test their strength. Ronan is likely to become his favorite now that Balin is dead.'
'I had the impression you were his favorite,' said Darrow. He expected a blush or at least a scolding glance, but Sorcia was nonplussed by his suggestion.
Sorcia walked around him once, slowly. Darrow felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as she came back to face him, smiling up into his face. She said nothing.
'Rusk must spend all of his time watching his back,' Darrow concluded.
'The pack is only as strong as its chief. Is it not the same in the city?'
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
