Black Wolf s-4

by Dave Gross

  Stannis spoke the words Darrow feared, though he could not understand them. Then he felt the agony he saw on the faces of the spawn moments before. Every sinew felt like a copper wire stretched thin and fragile over a raging fire. He thrashed and convulsed, but no effort could save him from the sorcerous pain.

  As the spell subsided, Darrow tried to smother his sobs with his fist. He felt his master's dark presence draw close, and he knew Stannis was looking down at him. Humiliated beyond all endurance, he pulled the holy symbol of Tymora from beneath his tunic and held it up toward Stannis.

  Darrow heard the sudden intake of breath, a gasp quite unlike the vampire's usual sighs and hisses. He looked up to see that Stannis had recoiled, his bulky form bobbing in the air five or six feet away.

  "Stop…" said Darrow. Even the brief look at Stannis Malveen's inhuman form melted his resolve. The vampire's eyes surged^and tumbled with infernal energy. "Please," sobbed Darrow, dropping the coin to his chest.

  "Throw it in the pool," commanded Stannis.

  Darrow obeyed at once, snapping the leather cord that held the talisman and dropping the holy symbol into the water. There it sank to the curved bottom and slipped out of sight through one of the long oval drains.

  "Master," he said, turning back to Stannis without standing. "I beg you, it was a mistake."

  "It was indeed," concurred Stannis, floating down to peer into Darrow's eyes. "It was a very grave mistake."

  That night, Darrow learned just how many screams he had in him.

  Chapter 6

  Moonshadow Hall

  Tarsakh, 1371 DR

  Tal endured the self-imposed captivity of another moon before winter began loosening its icy grip on Selgaunt. Frost still bit those who overslept their hearthfires, and some mornings revealed a light sheet of snow on the streets, but by noon the sun and traffic had cleared the cobblestone streets, and the smell of freshly turned earth rose from every garden in the city.

  Before trying to slip unnoticed into the library at Stormweather, Tal and Chaney visited the booksellers at the market and in the city's shops. They searched for anything to do with werewolves, Selune, and the phrase that continued to trouble his thoughts: the Black Wolf. Eventually Tal found a few volumes that dealt with lycan-thropes, or nightwalkers as Feena had called them.

  When he bought more than one book at a shop, the package came back across the counter with some curious looks from the seller.

  "It's research for a play," Tal explained. He made a claw and menaced Chaney. "Grr!"

  "Help!" cried Chaney in a credible falsetto.

  The shopkeepers laughed politely, but the querulous looks vanished into smiling nods.

  Once he was sure that Thamalon was away from home, Tal visited his father's library. It was one of the most eclectic in Selgaunt. If the Old Owl kept an entire shelf of tomes on elven lore, Tal figured he was bound to have a few volumes on religion. He discovered volumes ranging from The Speculum of Selune to The Visage of the Beast, yet none explained the overheard reference that Feena refused to discuss. Worse yet, they were all written in the elliptical manner of sages who fancied themselves poets. Tal briefly considered taking some of it back to the Wide Realms for a dramatic reading the next time the company needed a few laughs.

  "It's pretty boring stuff," he told Chaney later. They had found a quiet corner at the Black Stag, a tavern close to the playhouse.

  "But useful, right?" Chaney sat with his back to the wall, scanning the room each time newcomers arrived. Whenever Tal teased him for his paranoid habits, Chaney reminded that twice he'd spied a pickpocket creeping up on Tal. "The Black Wolf is another name for Malar."

  "Maybe," said Tal. He'd known only a little about Malar before his recent studies, and what he'd learned since was little help.

  The god of hunters was worshiped more widely in the country, especially the farthest wilderness. Like sailors who prayed to cruel Umberlee to spare them from her mighty wrath, farmers and herdsman made offerings to the Beastlord so that he might spare them from wild animals and monsters. City dwellers had little use for the ancient god. Among urban churches, the Beastlord was considered a primitive god. Powerful, to be sure, and older than most of the other dark gods, Malar's name was rarely spoken in civilized places. When it was uttered, it was by the lips of huntsmen who wished only for a fine trophy to bring home from their jaunt in the country.

  Tal thought back to the night of his own hunting trip, when beasts raged out of the darkness to scatter the young men and women from Selgaunt. He had thought they were owlbears at first, but later he learned it was Rusk and his pack who had slain his fellows and inflicted him with their curse. What monsters they must be, to hunt humans like mere animals, to eat their kill.

  They were cannibals.

  More than any other aspect of his curse, it was that thought that most horrified Tal. It was a dire thing to kill a man, but the thought of preying on other humans was repellant to Tal. He loved fencing, and yet during the brief period in which he thought he'd killed a man, he considered putting an end to his own life lest he murder again.

  The thought gave Tal pause. He could kill, if need be. He was sure of that. Should someone threaten his friends or family-even, gods help him, his annoying brother or overbearing father-he'd feel no qualms about cutting the offender into parts.

  At least, that was his theory. Except for maiming Rusk in self-defense, Tal had yet to prove he could kill. He knew it was too much to hope that the silverback werewolf had crawled away to die. He must have made it back to his lair in the Arch Wood by now. Cheney's warning about going after him when Rusk was surrounded by his pack carried weight with Tal, but he hated the idea of just waiting to learn whether Rusk would return to trouble him.

  Tal had learned this much through his readings, and they had discussed it before.

  "Anyway, they call him a lot of things," said Tal. "Especially different kinds of dangerous animals: big cats, wolves, bears-you name it. Most often it's the Beastlord or the Black-Blooded Pard. The way Feena said it, though, I don't think all this necessarily has to do with Malar."

  "But Rusk is a priest of Malar. What else could it mean?" Chaney looked sadly into his empty mug. Tal took the hint and raised a finger to the barkeeper, who nodded back.

  "I don't know," admitted Tal. "It has to be something that wasn't in the books I found, probably something to do with Selune."

  "Just because Maleva worships Selune doesn't mean this Black Wolf heresy comes from her sect," said Chaney. "Selune and Malar both figure in those werewolf stories, right?"

  The conversation paused long enough for the skinny young barmaid to replace Chaney's ale and receive four pennies, a penny tip, and a half-hearted wink in return. As she sauntered away, Chaney peered into his purse before cinching the strings and tucking it back into his green jacket.

  "Spend all your allowance already?" Tal took a sip of his own ale, still nursing his first mug.

  Chaney looked up at him, an odd quirk on his narrow lips, as if Tal had made a joke but blundered the punch line. "Yeah," he said, plucking at his well-worn jacket. It was a once-fine garment of worsted silk, but it had seen far better days. The piping at cuff and collar was slightly frayed, and the patch on one elbow was slightly too dark. "Shouldn't have bought that new wardrobe."

  "You really ought to retire that thing," suggested Tal.

  "What, my lucky jacket?" said Chaney. He took a long drink of his ale and clapped the half-empty mug on the table. "So, you were saying something about Selune. If this Black Wolf business is to do with the moon goddess, then why didn't Maleva tell y6u more about it?"

  "Aha!" said Tal, "That I can answer. If it is a heresy, you wouldn't expect it to be published anywhere, would you? The temple would suppress it."

  Chaney nodded thoughtfully. "All right, that makes sense. So where do you find out what it means? Go back to Maleva?"

  "No good," said Tal. "If she was willing to tell me, she would have done it already, b
ut she said something about the high priestess of Selune in Yhaunn."

  "Dhauna Myritar," said Chancy, "the one who gave her the moonfire potion."

  "Right. Maybe she'll be willing to tell me things that Maleva held back."

  "Maleva and Feena living so close to the Arch Woods," said Chaney, sitting up straight, "it makes me think they've got some special grudge against Rusk and his pack."

  Tal nodded. The same thought had occurred to him.

  "If that's true, then wouldn't they be experts on werewolves?"

  "Say 'nightwalkers,' " said Tal, looking around. "And keep your voice down."

  " 'Nightwalker' and 'lycanthrope' sound pretentious," said Chaney. "I don't know why you're so defensive about the word."

  "I'm not defensive."

  Chaney arched a dubious eyebrow.

  Tal held up his palms and shrugged. "All right, maybe a little defensive."

  "If Maleva's some werewolf expert, maybe she knows something this Dhauna Myritar doesn't. Or maybe Maleva lied about getting the moonfire from Myritar. Or maybe Maleva's the one who put all the conditions on giving it to you."

  "Maybe Myritar would sell it to me," said Tal. He did not feel hopeful, but he was curious about this high priestess. "There's only one way to find out," said Tal. "You talked me out of werewolf hunting, but how about a short trip to Yhaunn?"

  "You haven't been there before, have you?" asked Chaney.

  "Once, when I was really young," said Tal, "but I don't remember it well. There are bridges and ladders and things all between the buildings by the docks, right."

  "That would be the stiltways," said Chaney. "The whole place is a little seedier than Selgaunt."

  "Sounds great to me," said Tal. "Want to come with me? I bet the nightlife is something else."

  "I don't know," said Chaney. "It's kind of a bad time for me to run off. You've got plenty of time on your hands until the spring productions start up, but I've got some things-"

  "That's all right," said Tal, waving away his friend's excuses. Chaney went on the ill-fated hunting trip under protest, feeling far more at home in the city than out in the wild. It was asking a lot to invite him back out on the road so soon afterward. Tal would have felt better with Chaney to watch his back, but he didn't want to twist his arm. "It's probably best that I go alone anyway."

  Thamalon will have a fit if you go without a guard."

  "Only if you tell him that I went," said Tal.

  "You don't think he'll send someone to look for you if you're gone that long?"

  "You can imitate my handwriting, can't you?"

  "I haven't done that in years," said Chaney. "I'd need to practice."

  "Fine, I'll leave you some samples. Check in with Eckert every couple of days. If there's an invitation from Storm-weather, just write an excuse. If it's Mother, write that I have a previous social engagement. If it's Thamalon, say I'm meeting a merchant from Turmish about importing musical instruments."

  "They believe that crap?"

  "Works every time," said Tal. "Well, maybe they don't believe it, but they leave me alone if I make the effort to concoct an excuse."

  "How are you going to keep Eckert quiet? He can tell the Old Owl that you left town without mentioning the werewolf business."

  "I'll deal with Eckert," said Tal, "but there is something else you can do for me."

  *****

  Two days later, Tal was ready for his journey. Traveling to Yhaunn and back would take no more than a tenday. That left Tal a comfortable margin before the next full moon, when he would need to confine himself to the cage once more. If he needed more time, he could ride hard and make the return trip in only three days.

  He wore a heavy woolen jacket over a simple blue tunic and his leather riding breeches and long boots. Over it all he threw a heavy gray cloak with ties rather than an expensive clasp. With Perivel's big long sword in a simple leather scabbard and a plain bundle of clothes and rations slung over his shoulder, he looked more like one of the Hulorn's outriders than a young noble of one of Selgaunt's richest families.

  He said his farewells to Eckert and left the tallhouse at dawn. Chaney awaited him outside.

  "Ugh," said Chaney by way of greeting.

  "I thought I'd have to go looking for you," said Tal. "Sorry to get you up so early."

  "You didn't," said Chaney. "Long night. Don't ask."

  Tal suppressed a laugh but honored his friend's request. Chaney had probably drunk too much, gambled too much, or dallied too long with one of the tavern wenches he favored-probably all three. A few months before, Tal would have been at his side, indulging in the same wild behavior and providing the muscle to back up Chaney's barbed witticisms.

  They walked up Alaspar Lane, turned west on Densar's Alley, and snaked around side streets before heading north on Galorgar's Ride. Passing beneath the fabulous water horses carved on the Klaroun Gate, they stepped onto the High Bridge. The wide span joined Selgaunt with Over-water, on the far bank of the Elzimmer River. To each side of the road were crammed tiny shops and ramshackle alehouses, the first and last effort by the petty merchants to separate travelers from their coins. Even at this early hour, the bridge was noisy with haggling voices and the rumble of cartwheels.

  Beyond the High Bridge lay Overwater, a bustling staging ground for caravans and passenger carriages to the capital city of Ordulin. Tal had briefly considered booking such passage, but the convenience was outweighed by two other concerns. It was simple enough to give a false name when hiring a carriage, but there was always a chance that one of the other passengers would recognize an Uskevren. Moreover, the carriages traveled at a leisurely pace, taking five days for a journey that would take a lone rider only two.

  Halfway across the High Bridge, Tal smelled grilled sausages and fresh bread as he and Chaney passed a tiny bakery beside the eastern rail. Far below, boatmen poled their barges across the Elzimmer, ferrying goods and passengers to the caravan staging area in Overwater or out into Selgaunt Bay.

  "You want something to eat before setting off?" asked Chaney. He eyed the sausages greedily.

  "Eckert made breakfast," said Tal, "but you go ahead."

  "Ah…" Chaney made a show of searching for his purse. "Don't you have any change left?" The day before, Tal had given his friend a big leather purse containing more than a hundred gold fivestars.

  "You said you wanted a really good horse."

  "For that much, it had better have wings," warned Tal. Still, he chuckled and put a pair of silver ravens in Chaney's hand. "Get me one of those little loaves with the cheese inside."

  "Um, why don't you get the food?" said Chaney, returning the triangular coins and looking over Tal's shoulder.

  Tal followed his glance and spied a short, pot-bellied man standing beside a shallow alley between a fishmonger's shop and a cartwright's shack. The man was shorter than Chaney but with fish-white skin and thinning hair that formed a laurel around his head. He ignored Tal and impatiently crooked his finger at Chaney.

  Tal.turned back to Chaney. Trouble?"

  "No," said Chaney, but he glanced at Perivel's sword over Tal's shoulder. "I just need a word or two with this fellow."

  "I hope she was worth it," joked Tal.

  "Believe me," said Chaney, "she wasn't."

  Tal sighed. He knew it was more likely a gambling debt than an offended brother or husband. "Need some money?" he offered.

  "It's not that," said Chaney. "Don't worry. Won't be a minute."

  He hurried across the cobbled street and disappeared into the alley with the short man, who put his arm around Chaney's slim shoulders in a patronizing gesture that Tal instantly disliked. He strained to hear what was happening, but the din of the traffic was too great.

  He looked at the triangular silver coins in his hand, then slipped them into his jacket pocket and strode over to the cartwright's. He stood as close as he could without revealing himself to the alley's occupants. While he wanted to respect Chaney's privacy, he kn
ew that some of the boaters lingered near the bridge to collect the reward for murdered bodies dropped from the High Bridge. It was already daylight, but Tal did not like the look of the man who had summoned his friend.

  He cocked his head to listen and could barely make out some murmured words. Then he heard a painful gasp followed by hoarse coughing and retching.

  Tal ran around the corner.

  The space between the two little buildings was cluttered with junk. Stinking pots offish heads and offal lined the wall of the fishmonger's. At the far end was the stone bridge railing, rising three feet above street level.

  Chaney was pressed up against the cartwright's shack. Two big men held his arms fast. One of them was bald, with an elaborate web of gold hoops and chains linking his left ear with his left nostril. It was the latest fetish among Selgaunt's elite, but Tal doubted this bruiser had bought it originally. More likely, some foolish young nobleman was walking around with a torn earlobe and nostril. The other big man was a hairy brute whose patchy beard barely concealed the network of scars that had ruined his face.

  In the hammy grip of his captors, Chaney looked more thin and fragile than ever. The pot-bellied man dealt the beating. His eyes never left Chaney's as he spoke in a harsh whisper.

  "… too late," he was saying. He grunted as he delivered another punch to Chaney's gut. Around his hands he wore hard leather strips studded with iron. "What made you think-?"

  The man's rough voice cracked as he felt himself suddenly lifted from the slick cobblestones and hurled six feet away, where he smashed into the fishmonger's waste pots.

  The men holding Chaney released him and took a step toward Tal, hesitating when they saw the big sword in his pack. Tal grinned back at them and tossed the sword and pack aside. The bald man raised his fists and stepped forward.

  Tal was faster, stepping into the attack and batting away the man's guard with his left arm. His right fist flattened the man's nose and snapped his head back against the shack wall. Stunned, the big man sank to one knee. He shook his head, sending streamers of blood across both cheeks. The nose-ring fell away to dangle from his ear alone.