Black Wolf s-4

by Dave Gross

  Chapter 7

  The Arch Wood

  Tarsakh, 1371 DR

  Darrow turned the key and paused to listen. He heard nothing from the other side of the door, so he carefully pushed it open.

  Inside, shafts of daylight slanted from the ceiling thirty feet above. The intervening floors had been torn away except for a wide ledge on each side, forming a crude double balcony in the vast room. Perhaps once these had been receiving halls and parlors, bedchambers and libraries. Long ago, the Malveens lived here. Since then, it had been cut open to serve as a catacomb for unwanted cargo.

  The upper ledges were filled with shipping crates and pallets of barrels, as was most of the ground floor, where they formed a twisting maze. Built upon the huge central beam was a peculiar double crane for raising and lowering the stores.

  Its intricate design spoke of gnome craftsmanship, and Darrow guessed it still worked, even after years of neglect. In the dim light, it looked like a lightning-struck tree, one half leaning to rest on the southern ledge.

  Darrow raised the cup of continual flames and stepped inside. He stepped on something that crunched under his foot. He kicked it into the light and saw the desiccated body of a rat.

  "Huntmaster," called Darrow, mindful to call the Malveens's guest by his title. "My lord Malveen wishes to see you."

  He waited a moment for a reply before venturing farther into the warehouse, among the ruined treasures of the waterfront. Some of the wares were stamped with the Harbormaster's seal of confiscation. Others were damaged or otherwise imperfect, like a pallet full of dusty bolts of Shou Lung silk, stinking of smoke and mold.

  "Huntmaster!" called Darrow. "Rusk!"

  No answer came, but Darrow caught the scent of roasting meat. Following it, he heard the crackle of Rusk's cooking fire and worried briefly about the danger of an open flame amid so much dust and wood. At last, he spied Rusk's lair in the far corner of the warehouse.

  The big man had lost weight in the four months since his injury, but the stump of his left arm was completely healed. He sat cross-legged before his fire and watched Darrow approach, making no move to rise.

  "Lord Malveen summons you to the baiting pit," said Darrow.

  "Summons me?" snarled Rusk. He tore a rib from what appeared to be a roast dog and sucked the meat from the bone. He offered some to Darrow, who blanched and politely waved it away. "I'm ready to return to the lodge. I should be summoning Radu here. Still," said the Hunt-master, "it would be something to see the place again."

  "You've been there before?" said Darrow. "The arena?"

  "Who do you think stocked the place?" Rusk said gruffly. He wiped his greasy hand on one leg and stood up.

  "I assumed Lord Malveen," Darrow said, "or perhaps his mother, the Lady Velanna, had ensorcelled the beasts."

  "Twenty years ago, 'Lord' Malveen could barely light a candle with a brand."

  "My lord is the most powerful sorcerer in Sembia," said Darrow.

  "You pathetic sycophant!" Rusk laughed heartily. "He's charmed you, hasn't he? That's what the second ward did when we broke in."

  "No," said Darrow, but he wondered whether it was true. He had been so grateful that Stannis spared his life since his indiscretion about the wine that he never considered the possibility that his master was anything but a kind and merciful lord.

  "Stand still," commanded Rusk. With a touch of the talisman on his brow, he chanted a spell.

  "No!" Darrow ran to hide behind a stack of crates. Before he made it, he felt a faint tingling sensation, and he heard Rusk's mocking laughter.

  "Come out, you foolish lamb!"

  "My master won't let you-" A sensation of gentle, cold fingers touching his skin came over Darrow. It felt like standing naked in a light snowfall. Whatever magic Rusk had cast, it was done.

  "Be silent," said Rusk. "Your bleating annoys me. Let's go see what you think of your master now."

  *****

  As Rusk had promised, Darrow saw his master in a new light as they entered the arena. It was all he could do to hide the revulsion he felt when he saw the blubbery folds of the monster's body lapping over the couch. His piscine stench was overpowering, but worse was the stink of death just beneath it, insinuating itself into Darrow's nostrils, into his very pores.

  Stammering fear replaced the awe he once felt in his master's presence. Try as he did to hide it, it must have shown on his face. Stannis observed him with growing interest.

  "Have you been interfering with my servant, Huntmas-ter?"

  Rusk shrugged, barely suppressing his own mischievous smile.

  "Look at me, Darrow," snapped Stannis. "Look at me now!"

  Fearfully, Darrow obeyed. An instant's glance into the roiling depths of his master's eyes restored his faith. His moment of doubt and horror became a confusing memory. He knew only that Rusk had tempted him to some beastly offense against his glorious master.

  "That's better, is it not?"

  "Thank you, Master," said Darrow. "I crave pardon for my… confusion."

  "Think no more about it, dear boy. Now, to the duel."

  As before, Radu stood patiently on one side of the fanged pit. He held his sheathed sword lightly in both hands, and his eyes were closed.

  Voorla stood near the bars of his prison without touching them. With a slow twist of his head, the troll cracked the bones in his neck. He stretched his huge green arms and flexed the muscles in his shoulders. Voorla was ready to fight.

  Two cells away, Maelin sat on her bunk and watched dispassionately. Darrow had already told her of the match, so she knew it was Voorla who would be released into the ring. In the months of her imprisonment, she had become resolved to the fact that she would receive no chance to win her freedom.

  When Stannis raised the gate, Voorla surged forward. He snatched a cutlass from the row of weapons and hurled it across the pit.

  Radu opened his eyes at the sound and turned just far enough to avoid the sword. He drew his own blade and cast away the scabbard as the cutlass struck the wall hard and snapped in half. Before the broken halves could hit the ground, Voorla hurled a spear after it.

  Again, Radu moved just far enough to let the spear pass harmlessly by. He strolled around the pit, seemingly unconcerned at the continuing stream of missiles.

  The third was a short sword, tumbling end over end like a showman's knife. Radu deflected it with his long sword, using both hands to brace his sword against Voorla's powerful throw.

  "I had expected a more courageous display," said Rusk. "A true hunter does not kill from afar."

  "He calls himself a warrior," said Stannis, "not a hunter."

  "Is that what your brother calls himself?" said Rusk. "A warrior?"

  "Not at all," said Stannis. "He does not speak of his talents at all, but I suspect he would be succinct if put to the question. Radu is a killer."

  In the pit below, Radu began to demonstrate the veracity of his brother's definition. He closed with the troll. With a quick lunge, he pierced the monster through the calf. Dark blood appeared on Radu's blade, but the wound closed as quickly as it was made.

  Voorla hefted a glaive and swung it one-handed. Radu tumbled past the troll's tree-trunk legs, springing up back-to-back with the monster. Without turning, he reversed his grip on the long sword and shoved it back into the troll's thigh.

  Voorla wailed. Blood poured from the wound, then trickled and oozed until it stopped.

  "He won't get anywhere that way," observed Rusk.

  "Indeed," said Stannis, "but watch."

  Voorla chased his opponent around the ring. Radu did not flee so much as lead the raging troll, narrowly avoiding each savage chop of the glaive. At last, the troll's blade sliced a hank of silk from Radu's jacket.

  "Oh, my," said Stannis, reaching out for another glass of wine. Darrow was so transfixed by the battle that he missed his cue. He fumbled with the crystal decanter and placed the goblet in his master's flabby hand. "Are you worried at last?" asked Rusk.


  "Dear me, no," said Stannis. "I think our entertainment is almost finished. That was his favorite jacket, a gift from Pietro, our youngest brother. How Radu dotes on the boy."

  Rusk grunted dubiously, but the master's words proved prophetic. Radu reversed his retreat and whirled effortlessly inside Voorla's guard. With a wide, two-handed cut, he swept the troll's left hand from its arm.

  Voorla howled and scrambled after the severed limb. If he could touch it, hand and limb would rejoin in a matter of seconds.

  Radu reached the hand first, spearing it on the tip of his long sword and flicking it into the fanged pit.

  Voorla screamed, chopping wildly with the glaive. Radu skipped aside but gave no ground. He was done taunting his foe.

  When the glaive struck the sand where he had stood, Radu leaped over it and drew a bloody line across Voorla's brow. The brief flow poured into the troll's eyes.

  As Voorla blinked, Radu struck another two-handed blow into the troll's forearm, but not far enough to sever the troll's heavy thews. Voorla jerked back before Radu could withdraw his blade, pulling the swordsman close and pushing him to the ground.

  Voorla shouted triumphantly as he pinned Radu with one heavy foot, then raised his arm for the killing blow. Radu's face remained impassive as he held onto his sword, twisting it to the side to cut through the remaining sinews of the troll's arm. Before the muscles could repair themselves, the glaive fell from Voorla's twitching fingers.

  Voorla kicked Radu away then tried to grasp his maimed arm with his missing hand. Unable to grip his wound, the troll fell to its knees and cradled his ruined limbs, desperately whispering to them. Darrow imagined he was praying for them to rebind themselves faster. For the first time since meeting the troll, Darrow felt something other than fear of it: Voorla looked piteous.

  Radu stood and stabbed his sword into the sand. He paused to slap the sand from his breeches before walking toward the fumbling troll.

  On his knees, the troll was the same height as his opponent.

  "Voorla gnagt veek nogu, Malveen."

  "Voorla acknowledges your superior skill, my brother," translated Stannis.

  "Eent moku ngla foma," said the troll.

  "He humbly requests your mercy."

  Radu nodded, walking behind the troll. Voorla sank to his haunches. He stared at the pit, perhaps longing for his hand. As the bone blade entered the back of his skull, white light burst from Voorla's eyes and mouth. His green flesh turned ashy gray then dull white as his life and body alike were consumed by an insatiable, unholy power. Within seconds, his body withered to the barest, crumbling skeleton, which then collapsed into powder that mingled with the stained sand of the pit.

  In Radu's hand, the bone blade had turned black as sin.

  Darrow wrenched his gaze from the awful scene to look at the others. There was no way to discern Stannis's reaction under his golden veil, though his glowing eyes were fixed on Rusk. The Huntmaster tried maintaining an aloof indifference, but he could not disguise his revulsion at the effects of the bone blade.

  Stannis began the applause, which Darrow obediently joined. In the pit, Radu watched as the bone blade slowly returned to its original white as its smooth surface absorbed the dark stain. With a gesture, Stannis opened the baiting pit gate for his brother, who joined them in the gallery.

  "Well done, my brother," said Stannis. "Not only do you thrill us with your skill, but you set my heart at ease upon your journey far from home." He turned to Rusk. "Not that he should have need of self defense while in your company, Huntmaster"

  "No," agreed Rusk, his eyes fixed upon the white dagger.

  "Good," said Stannis. "Then I will not worry about his traveling alone."

  "I am not traveling alone," said Radu. He indicated Darrow with a slight nod of his head. "He will come with me."

  "What? But how shall I get along without him?" protested Stannis. "I have become quite dependent on his company. Despite a few… human flaws… I need him for those tasks- that prove too subtle for my minions."

  "All the more reason he should come with me."

  "You gave him to me," said Stannis petulantly. "You called him unreliable."

  "All the more reason he should not remain here, where he might draw suspicion to the house."

  Stannis paused, then tried another tack. "What possible use do you have for him in the woods?"

  "He will set camp, prepare my meals…"

  Stannis sighed. "You are determined, I see. I suppose there is nothing more to be said."

  "No," said Radu.

  No one said another word as they left the arena.

  *****

  Spring rains had left the ground soft, and Darrow wished again that they had stayed to the roads. Their horses left a trail of black divots, and the effort was sure to tire the beasts soon. Before it did, they came to the edge of the Arch Wood. There a carpet of fir needles and the deep clutch of roots made the ground firm. Rusk led Radu and Darrow slowly into the forest.

  "How far?" asked Radu.

  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.