Black Wolf

by David Gross

  “Sadly,” said Malveen, “few would agree with you. Most would prefer my previous appearance. I was more handsome than any of my brothers, you know. They were jealous of me, even when we were boys.”

  “How were you …” Darrow struggled to find the words. “… how did you …”

  “Transcend my former self?”

  “I meant no disrespect, my lord.”

  “Of course you didn’t, dear boy. Your interest is flattering. You have heard of my mother’s talent for magic, which I inherited?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “And of her traffic with, shall we say, unsanctioned merchant vessels?”

  “Pirates, master?”

  “Just so. One of her allies in this venture was native to the sea. When the other Houses combined to ruin her, mother summoned him from the sunless depths. By dusk, when he could venture above the surface, our vessel had burned to the waterline, and the victors were finishing us off with crossbows. Our ally found me quite helpless in the water, but still alive. Knowing I had no means to survive in the open sea, he embraced me as I drowned, adding his powerful blood to my own.”

  “How strange!” said Darrow with enthusiasm—but not too much enthusiasm. He had learned that Stannis enjoyed such formal interjections and had practiced them. “But how did you return to Selgaunt?”

  “You understand the nature of my condition, yes? You wonder why I did not remain in my sire’s thrall?”

  “My lord, I do.”

  “He grew curious about the contents of my mother’s estate,” said Malveen. “In short, he wished to add her plunder to his own. I could only obey, you understand. One cannot act against the desires of one’s master. Fortunately, we arrived on the same evening Radu had chosen to visit the house alone. My brother was not pleased to see my new condition, so he severed me from my master’s domination.”

  “He killed the vampire?”

  “He did!” Malveen applauded his own story with a childlike clap of his flabby hands. “And in so doing freed me from my servitude. Now I am the master of Selgaunt Bay and House Malveen.”

  “But, my lord, this happened twenty years ago. How could your brother have slain a vampire? He must have been still a boy.”

  “Oh, my child,” said Malveen. His voice lost its mirth as he confided, “Radu was never a boy.”

  Within a tenday, caring for the prisoners became routine. There was little to the task, since the captives threw their own slops into the hall, where the sewage trough washed most away. Darrow swept the rest into the stream, whose source was a wide, overflowing basin at the end of the passage that filled itself as mysteriously as did the waterfall in the River Hall. The water was fresh and clean before spilling into the trough. He wondered whether the water was conjured from another place or merely redirected and filtered from the bay.

  The important chore was to feed the prisoners. They were used to raw fish or shellfish with seaweed. The elves disdained the meat, while Voorla devoured the fish and eels with relish. Maelin looked in her supper bucket with disgust.

  “You could at least cook it,” she said one day. “You know how to cook, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Darrow.

  “Then bring me a cooked meal.”

  “Why should I?”

  She looked him up and down. “I could make it worth the effort.”

  Darrow considered her implied offer. Her face was not pretty in the usual sense, but there was a fierce energy in her eyes, and he liked the fine lines at the corners of her lips. Her body was firm and her hips curvaceous. She was strong, though, and probably a better fighter than he was. He could make her put on manacles before he entered the cell, he thought …

  Before the fantasy could take root, Darrow thought of the master’s displeasure should he find him in her cell.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  “Please,” she said. “It’s little work to fry a fish.”

  There was a kitchen upstairs, which Darrow used for his own meals.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  Four days later, Darrow returned with skewers filled with grilled prawns, bass, onions, and thick carrot slices. He was careful to remove the skewers before leaving the shallow bucket by Maelin’s cell door.

  “Great Chauntea!” Maelin exclaimed at the first smell of the cooked meal. “I can’t believe it! Where’d you get the onions and carrots?”

  “Lord Malveen sent me to the market yesterday,” said Darrow.

  The master had wanted the gallery cleaned, and Darrow needed a mop and a feather duster to do it properly. Since he needed supplies, he also asked permission to fill the larder for himself. He was still surprised at Stannis’s generous allowance, and he was grateful for the display of trust.

  As Maelin savored her meal, Darrow fed the others. The elves gazed at him suspiciously, and Voorla sniffed at his bucket. After a careful taste, the troll scooped handfuls of fish into his fanged mouth.

  “Meer ngla todu fosha,” said the troll.

  “You’re welcome,” said Darrow. He hadn’t a clue what the troll had said.

  After he’d swept the walkway and collected the dinner buckets, Darrow saw Maelin sitting on her cot. She looked at him with a calm expression.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked.

  For the past three nights, he had thought of nothing else but the touch of her hands, her mouth, her legs. He had never lain with a woman, and he wanted her; there was no question about that. But if it were a trick, or if Stannis should find out … he dared not take the chance.

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  He said the same thing the next day, and the next. Each time, his fear overcame his desire.

  Nearly a month into Darrow’s new servitude, Stannis announced a special occasion to be held in the secret arena. Darrow’s stomach filled with cold dread, for he suspected the day spelled disaster for one of the prisoners. He busied himself with the day’s chores to keep his mind from the evening’s events.

  When the appointed hour arrived, Radu appeared beside Stannis’s pool. When the bloated, eel-like vampire rose from the water, Darrow was ready to drape his master’s favorite mantle about his smooth shoulders.

  “Be a darling and open the door for Rusk,” Stannis said.

  Darrow paused, momentarily surprised before he realized that Stannis must have sent the Huntmaster’s invitation magically. He wondered why Rusk did not simply enter the hall, then realized that the cleric was wary of the wards. Stannis might have altered them to permit his servant to come and go, but obviously he did not fully trust his childhood friend.

  He wondered why Rusk had not returned to his forest lair as he walked to the doorway. Sometimes he and Stannis would sit for an hour beside the grand stream. Stannis dismissed his servant after Darrow had served them their wine, so he did not know what passed between the two. They were both supernatural beings, he realized, yet somehow he still did not think of his master the same way he did of Rusk: as a beast.

  Darrow thrust such thoughts away as he opened the door to the cluttered courtyard. The silver-haired cleric stood waiting for him just outside the door.

  “Lord Malveen requests—” began Darrow

  “I know,” said the Huntmaster. “Lead on.”

  Darrow obeyed, and Rusk followed him exactly, careful to step only where he had seen Darrow safely pass.

  They walked through the River Hall and into the portrait gallery, where Darrow opened the secret way. Rusk pushed past him and descended the spiral stairway. Darrow followed, noting that crimson lights now flickered in small braziers under the mounted heads of the trophy beasts.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Rusk sat down in a chair beside Stannis’s vast fainting couch. Darrow took his place at the vampire’s side. Immediately he refilled his master’s goblet with the earthy red wine Stannis favored. He looked to the eyes above the golden veil, but Stannis and Rusk both looked down into the baiting pit.

  Radu Malveen stood
on one side of the fanged pit inside the sunken ring. He held his slender long sword in its plain leather sheath in both hands. On the other side of the pit, a dozen weapons were thrust point-first into the sand. They ranged from a pair of Mulhorandi short swords to a giant’s glaive, with all variety of blades and polearms between them.

  In the stands above, Rusk sat brooding in a high-backed chair. Beside him, Stannis reclined on a vast fainting couch. Darrow stood nearby, attending his master’s whim.

  When Stannis reached out, Darrow ensured that his fingers closed on a crystal goblet of the finest vintage. Sometimes Darrow dreaded the seemingly inevitable request for a less savory beverage, but thus far he had been spared the responsibility of providing his master’s baser requirements. Such tasks remained the duty of the master’s other servants.

  There were at least two of these minions, and Darrow suspected there was a third, perhaps even more. There was no way to tell them apart. Neither human nor wholly like the creature who had spawned them, the minions were naked, manlike figures with deep purple skin and grotesquely deformed limbs. They slipped out of the pools in the River Hall at night in answer to their master’s unspoken summons.

  Whatever he whispered to them, Darrow was never allowed to hear. Sometimes they returned with food for the captives. On occasion, as he passed through the hall on an errand, Darrow glimpsed baskets of wriggling eels or sea worms, only to note their absence on his return. Worst of all were the sounds of brief struggles that sometimes reached his quarters late in the morning, after his master had sent him away. He knew he was not welcome to attend such events, and he was grateful for the excuse.

  Stannis drained the last of his wine and dropped the glass. Darrow barely caught it in time to save it from the floor.

  “On to the entertainment!” he cried, slapping his rubbery hands together. “Would you like to inspect your gifts before we commence?”

  Radu shrugged and closed his eyes. He drew his sword and cast away the scabbard.

  With a twisting gesture, Stannis activated the switch to make the steel plates rise from the walls of the pit. Behind them stood the captives. Voorla paced impatiently, while the elves stood serenely in the middle of their cage. Maelin gripped the bars and stared straight across at Radu.

  “Our uncle enjoyed watching bloodsport,” Stannis volunteered. “He would release beasts from either side of the arena, and his friends would wager on the outcome. As you can see, my brother prefers an armed opponent. Which should we release? Hmm?”

  “The troll,” said Rusk.

  “A formidable opponent to face without the benefit of fire,” observed Darrow. “Is that your thinking?”

  Rusk shrugged.

  “Which would you select, dear boy?” asked Stannis.

  Darrow hesitated before answering, “The elves, my lord.”

  “Because there are two of them?”

  “No, my lord,” said Darrow. “Because they were insolent.”

  “Excellent,” said Stannis, practically purring his approval. “So shall it be.”

  Rusk snorted. Darrow glanced at him without turning his head. The Huntmaster sneered and shook his head.

  Stannis gestured toward the elves, and the gate rose.

  The elves turned to each other briefly. One touched the other’s face for the barest second, and they ran toward the weapons.

  Across the pit, Radu stood unmoving, his eyes still closed.

  One elf took a short sword in hand. The other grabbed a rapier. Without hesitation, they ran lightly around the pit to flank their opponent. The one with the rapier held his weapon at full extension and charged. The point of his blade seemed to strike Radu before the man moved. He fell backward, rolling smoothly beneath and away from the rapier’s thrust.

  The elf with the short sword slashed at Radu, but the man came around too fast. One foot caught the elf in the ribs and knocked the breath from his lungs. Radu stood, opened his eyes, and parried the rapier’s redoubled attack in one smooth motion, his blade cutting a perfect cone out of the air. With his opponent’s blade out of line, Radu thrust the point of his sword through the elf’s shoulder. He withdrew it just as quickly and stepped away.

  The wounded elf made no sound, but his wide eyes signaled his surprise. He edged between Radu and the wall as his companion got on his feet and stalked the swordsman’s other side, trying to flank him again.

  Radu feinted toward short sword, then made a blinding series of cuts toward the rapier, beating the lighter blade out of line. He cut twice past the elf’s failed defense, drawing blood at wrist and cheek. Then he turned his back mockingly and walked away, his sword held low by his side.

  The elf with the short sword took the bait, slashing at Radu’s calf. From the seats above, Darrow heard no warning of the attack, not even the shush of sand. But Radu heard something, for he leaped above the cut and stabbed down, pinning the elf’s hand to the sandy floor. The elf choked back a cry.

  The second elf struck at Radu’s back, but the swordsman had already twisted aside. The thin blade pierced his short jacket, and Radu pinned the sword to his side with his left arm. Standing still, he slashed at the elf’s face, cutting away one emerald eye and making a horror of the once-perfect face.

  Now the elf screamed.

  Radu released the elf with the rapier and darted away just in time to avoid a clumsy but powerful stab from the short sword. That elf screamed a string of sibilant words and charged recklessly toward Radu’s exposed back. Radu whirled aside again, flicking his blade like a switch as his furious opponent rushed past. A hank of black hair floated away from the elf’s head, and a bloody ear hit the sand.

  That elf added his voice to the screaming.

  Radu fell toward the elf with the rapier, his long sword catching the slenderer weapon in a crude parry. With his other hand, he grasped the elf’s wrist and guided the slender blade into his brother’s heart.

  Radu released the surviving elf’s wrist and walked away.

  With his one eye, the elf stared into the face of his slain companion. He sagged to his knees, and his companion fell with him. The dying elf’s last breath blew trails in the blood on the other’s ruined face. The survivor embraced his dead companion.

  Across the fanged pit, Radu produced a silk handkerchief and wiped the blood from his sword.

  “Splendid!” cried Stannis, clapping.

  Darrow added his applause, careful not to clap more loudly than did his master.

  In the ring, Radu fetched his scabbard and sheathed his sword. Again he turned his back on the surviving elf, walking toward the exit. The elf rose slowly, drawing the rapier out of his companion’s corpse. Radu showed no sign of noticing.

  Darrow stepped forward involuntarily, opening his mouth to shout a warning. Stannis stopped him with a gesture.

  Radu walked heedlessly past the armed elf, never glancing in his direction. Darrow stared in awe and horror as the elf braced the rapier’s point against his breast, set the hilt upon the floor, and impaled himself.

  “How delicious!” cried Stannis, opening the gate for his brother with a wave of his hand.

  Darrow felt his gorge rise, and his mind whirled to imagine what passions could impel the elf to kill himself rather than seek revenge.

  As Radu emerged from the stairway, Stannis turned to Darrow. “How did he know, you wonder?”

  Darrow nodded mutely.

  “Among my brothers many remarkable talents,” said Stannis, “is a keen awareness of when he has won.”

  Darrow never asked Stannis about cooking for the prisoners, but after another month had passed, he simply assumed there was no objection. His master was far more interested in the state of the house, often praising Darrow for the good work he had done to clean the place.

  Twice each tenday, Radu visited Stannis. The brothers made no effort to keep their conversations from Darrow, who brought his former master tea to drink while the Malveen brothers discussed the twin ledgers that detailed their public
and their clandestine businesses. Laskar Malveen was head of the family, Darrow knew. From what he heard from Stannis and Radu, it seemed Laskar was only dimly aware that the family fortunes swelled as a result of the second set of books. Radu insisted on maintaining the obfuscation, while Stannis often complained about his isolation.

  “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have the whole family together again,” said the master. “I do so miss my other brothers.”

  “You will abide by our agreement,” snapped Radu. “Stay away from them. And whatever you are doing to Pietro, stop it.”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear brother?”

  “The nightmares,” said Radu.

  “Merely inspiration for his paintings,” said Stannis. “If I cannot enjoy his company, at least let me act as an anonymous patron of his burgeoning talent.”

  “They are becoming a scandal. You must stop it immediately.”

  Stannis sighed. “Very well. But you do a great disservice to the art community.”

  “If we are to recover our rightful position in Selgaunt, Laskar and Pietro must remain unsullied by the work we must do. Should we be caught, only you and I will take the blame.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. It’s all so dreadfully tedious. There’s so little to do, confined as I am to the bay and the house.” He made another exaggerated sigh and glided around the table to look over Radu’s shoulder as his brother wrote. “I know, why don’t you take your exercise tomorrow? It has been tendays since you last visited Ferrick’s.”

  Radu ignored the suggestion. “I saw him on the docks yesterday,” he said.

  Darrow stood no more than six feet from him, yet Radu did not even nod in his direction.

  “The market is closed at night,” said Stannis. “And I can hardly rely on my creatures to fetch everything I require. Unless you would like to go to the market for me, of course.”

  “Someone will spot him coming in here.” Radu laid his pen beside the inkpot and stood away from the desk.

  “Darrow is careful not to be seen. Aren’t you, my boy?”

  “I am, master.”

  Radu turned to look directly at Darrow. His eyes were as black and as fathomless as a serpent’s. Darrow found strange solace in the belief that he would be dead before he ever realized Radu had chosen to strike at him. He returned Radu’s gaze without challenge.