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.
Rusk stood amid the wolves, looking from face to face as if seeking any signs of further defiance. Where his gaze went, wolf heads dipped or turned away. Only when he turned to the white wolf did his inquisition meet with a steady return gaze. Rusk's eyes moved on, seeking something they had not yet found.
Where is Radu? wondered Darrow. He hoped his master had not fled. Somehow, he knew the man was nearby, as invisible as on the night Rusk had first invaded House Malveen. He prayed to Mask, the Lord of Shadows, to keep him hidden from the beasts until he chose to strike. He prayed to Tymora, Lady Luck, to give him the chance to save himself as well.
"Bloodmaster…" called a weak voice. The wolf Rusk had thrown away was now a naked young man. Blood bubbled from one nostril, and his ruptured lungs wheezed as he spoke. Like the wolf he had been, his back was twisted halfway around, his legs lying useless below him. "Grant mercy, please… heal me."
Rusk went to him and knelt, placing his hand on the young man's head. "Fraelan," he said, "why did you attack your master?"
"We didn't know… it was you."
"You beg mercy and lie to me? I'll leave you for the scavengers!"
"You do smell like the city, Rusk," said a sweet voice. Darrow looked where the white wolf guarded his sword. Now the wolf was an elf who sat careless of her nakedness. Except for her dirty hands and feet, her skin was ghostly. Her faintly blue eyes were almost white except for the startling black pupils.
Rusk ignored the elf and took Fraelan's face in one hand.
"Who was it?"
Tears made trails on the young man's dirty face. He hesitated only a few seconds. "Balin," he whispered.
Rusk nodded, as if it were the answer he wanted to hear. "Now you have earned mercy," he said, pressing his forehead against Fraelan's. "I grant you mercy. Malar grants you mercy."
"No," gasped Fraelan. "Please… heal-"
Rusk's whiskery mouth covered the younger man's. Fraelan clutched weakly at Rusk, but the big man held him firm and drew out the crippled man's last breath. Darrow felt a chill watching the deadly kiss. As Fraelan's strength waned and vanished, Rusk lowered him gently to the ground. He rose to face the pack then. Darrow saw new power in the cleric's face. The scratches his pack had caused him were gone, and his muscles rippled with new strength. The symbol of Malar gleamed red in the twilight shadows.
"Now," said Rusk, "where is Balin?"
The wolves all turned in the same direction. The forest trembled, and the saplings parted as the monster approached.
Growing up a farmer's son, Darrow was not surprised by large pigs. They were dangerous animals, even when raised as livestock. One had killed his cousin and had begun eating the boy before Darrow's uncle could fend him off with a spear. He'd summoned help from his neighbors before slaughtering the beast that night. The wild boars hunted for festivals often dwarfed their domestic cousins, and Darrow had seen some large enough for a big 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.