They had walked around the lodge without noticing it, leading their horses along an old, worn path. It had been built in the side of a low hill in the Arch Wood, reinforced with stones and timbers, and covered with a sod roof, now overgrown with thistles and a few young trees. The only sign of its location was its entrance, a heavy leather flap painted with images of men and wolves hunting stags through a great forest.
The hunters left Balin's carcass near one of the great stone fangs and retired to their lodge to sleep away the daylight. Darrow noticed that some of them had never transformed into humans and wondered whether they were true wolves. They were much larger than the animals he'd seen testing the borders of his father's farm. Dire wolves, they called such beasts. One alone could take down a steer, while a pack could destroy a herd.
Radu chose a place for his tent and left Darrow to set camp while he searched for a nearby stream. Before he finished his work, Darrow spied an intruder. An old man emerged from the forest bearing a bundle of twigs under his arm and a crude rake over his shoulder. When he spotted Darrow, he nodded affably but did not approach. Instead, he set the twigs near the fire pit and began clearing the winter's detritus from the circle.
Radu returned from his ablutions and retired to his tent without a glance at the old man. Curious about the newcomer but too tired to pester him, Darrow followed his master's example and slept at the foot of the tent.
He awoke hours later to the sound of more new arrivals. Foresters and hunters, farmers from the edge of the Arch Wood or the outskirts of Highmoon, and far travelers who arrived wearing backpacks and an inch of road dust-they trickled in throughout the day to make camp around the lodge. Some set up fires and cooked dumplings or cakes to trade with other visitors. Others brought hares to roast or hedgehogs to bake in the banked coals. A minstrel strummed the yartar while her companion chanted the chronicle of Yarmilla the Huntress. Someone produced a small keg of ale and three wooden tankards, which the people passed from hand to hand.
As the sun descended behind the trees, the hunters emerged from the lodge to greet the visitors as the dire wolves padded around the edges, sniffing at them. The hunters clasped arms with the visitors, but Darrow saw that the newcomers held the hunters in high regard. After the friendly greetings, most of the hunters slipped into the woods singly or in pairs or trios. The rest remained to listen to news of births and deaths and the hardships of the past winter.
Darrow guessed that Radu was inside the lodge, so he went for a look. Before he could peer inside, a big bearded man came out and shoved him away from the door. Darrow stepped aside to let him pass, but the man pushed him again, forcing him onto the ground.
The man stepped close to loom over Darrow. He smelled of animal musk and wood smoke. He wore only leather breeches, and his bare feet were dirty and heavily callused. Dark red hair covered his body so thickly that it formed tufts on his forearms.
Darrow kept his eyes on the ground. The aggressor sniffed, spat on the ground near Darrow's hand, then kicked some dirt on him before walking away. Darrow heard laughter but did not look up.
Instead, he got up and slapped the dust from his trousers. Suddenly he realized the white elf was standing just behind him. She had clothed herself in fringed leather breeches and a beaded vest that did little to conceal her supple body.
"Welcome to the lodge," she said. Her tone held just enough irony that Darrow couldn't tell whether she was mocking him or sympathizing. "Looking for your master?"
"Yes." Darrow glanced once more inside the open lodge door, then strolled away. He felt the eyes of the nightwalk-ers and their pilgrims upon him as he walked with Sorcia.
"They've been talking all afternoon," Sorcia said. "What little I overheard was… intriguing."
Darrow shrugged, unwilling to discuss his master's business with a stranger. Sorcia's blue eyes sought his own, and he looked back with what he hoped was confidence rather than defiance. She had tied back her white hair with a leather thong, and Darrow saw that her flesh was not completely white after all. Her long, tapering ears were faintly pink, as was the translucent flesh of her wide eyelids. Faint blue veins showed through her skin at her throat and between her white breasts.
"Is it frightening to be outside your pen?" she asked, arching a pale eyebrow.
Darrow ignored the bait. "Who are all these people?" he asked, indicating the newcomers.
"They are the Huntmaster's followers," said Sorcia, "pilgrims for the High Hunt. We hunt for them in winter, so they pay homage to the Lord of the Hunt each season."
"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?"