"Indeed," said Sorcia. "There are many kinds of strength. In the city or the wild, strength is the only law. All must bow before strength."
Within an hour, the first hunters returned with their prey. Karnek carried a lean buck over his shoulders, while Brigid strutted beside him. When Karnek lay the deer upon the ground for all to see, the sight of the clean kill earned them praise.
"You are truly a child of Malar, sister wolf," said the old man who had been gathering firewood earlier. Brigid nipped at his ear, evoking a chorus of hoots from pilgrims and nightwalkers alike.
Wanting to appear useful, Darrow helped gut and skin the carcass and set it on a fresh spit. Soon the smell of roast venison filled the air, summoning the remaining hunters from their lodge. Radu appeared last, with orders for Darrow to break camp and pack the horses.
"Are we leaving before the feast?" asked Darrow.
"No," said Radu. His tone invited no further inquiry.
As Darrow finished with the horses, Rusk emerged from the lodge to walk among his people and their followers. He wore the skull of an enormous owlbear upon his head, the creature's glossy pelt spilling across the big man's shoulders to drag upon the ground. The beast's clawed hands were tied across Rusk's chest, concealing his missing left arm.
The Huntmaster's arrival was the signal for all to gather within the fanged temple. Darrow followed but stopped just outside the ring of stones, unsure whether he was welcome inside. He saw Radu standing on the other side, leaning casually against one of the giant gray fangs.
Rusk took his place between the altar and the blazing bonfire. Some of the pilgrims produced hand drums. Without prompting, they began to beat a simple rhythm. The sound chased the sparrows from the nearby trees and echoed off the great stone fangs.
Sorcia danced around the fire, her pale limbs licking the air like flames. As she circled the bonfire, the rhythm increased to a fluttering heartbeat. Sorcia danced faster, her lithe body whipping the others into a frenzy of cheers and howls.
Ronan joined in on the other side of the fire, his own movements quick and aggressive. He stamped the ground with both feet, then darted forward as lightly as the wind. When he caught up with Sorcia, he raked at her with clawed fingers. She flung herself to the ground, the wounded doe. As Ronan raised his hands in triumph, she leaped back to life and stalked around the circle, the hunted becoming the hunter.
The rest of the pack joined the dance one-by-one, until all of the nightwalkers stalked and leaped around the rising bonfire. Some had flung off their clothes, and their naked bodies glistened with sweat in the heat of the fire. All around them, the pilgrims chanted and wailed as the drummers beat an increasingly frantic rhythm.
Darrow's heart pounded with the drums. He felt an urge to run away before the dance was done, but one look at the dire wolves pacing outside the fanged temple put that thought from his mind. He looked for Radu, but his master was gone from his earlier place.
The pilgrims began joining the wild dance, even the old twig-gatherer. Soon there were none left to beat the drums, but the rhythm lived on in the dancers' shrieks and howls. At last, someone pulled Darrow into the dance.
It was easier than he expected. His thumping heart had already taught his feet the rhythm, and an exultant scream flew unbidden from his chest. He pantomimed throwing a spear at a barrel-chested pilgrim, who threw himself to the ground and thrashed like a wounded boar before rolling back up to his feat to stalk his own prey.
How long they danced, Darrow could not say. It stopped abruptly, as a deafening howl rose among the dancers. Rusk stood atop the altar by the fire, his head thrown back as he pointed. All heads turned to see the first horn of the crescent moon rising above the black horizon. The dancers added their voices to the Huntmaster's, heralding the moon's arrival. They howled for long minutes, until at last Rusk lowered his pointing arm.
"We welcome the moon, which lights the path," he chanted.
Pilgrim and hunter alike repeated the invocation, as did Darrow. His voice was hoarse from howling, but he had never felt so free and natural. When Rusk raised his hand again, everyone sat on the ground to receive his benediction.
"Give thanks to the Great Black Wolf, who chases the moon across the sky," chanted Rusk. "Let him fill our limbs with strength."
"We hunt for our strength," replied the congregation.
"Give thanks to the creatures of the wild, for the meat they yield to the skillful hunter. Let them nourish our bodies."
"We hunt for our nourishment."
The prayer was long and repetitive, so Darrow could join in and say the words with the rest of the worshipers. At last, Rusk welcomed the newcomers to the Lodge. He promised that the People of the Black Blood would continue to feed them in times of famine, so long as they kept faith with Malar, the Black Wolf, Master of the Hunt.
After the prayers, the congregation fell silent to listen to their Huntmaster. Darrow heard only the crackling of the bonfire and the susurrus of the wind until Rusk filled the temple with his powerful voice.
"Tonight, as spring gives way to summer, we celebrate the High Hunt," said Rusk. He put his hand on something concealed beneath his cloak. "This year's Greengrass feast is most auspicious, for with it comes the result of my own long hunt. The Black Wolf Scrolls are returned to their rightful place!"
Rusk lifted a bone scroll case above his head for all to see. It was carved from the femur of some enormous beast and capped at each end with golden images, one a leopard, the other a wolf. In the firelight, its surface wriggled with glyphs and carvings.
After a moment of stunned silence, the congregation whooped and howled.
"Now the unsullied words of the hunter-prophets shall be revealed to me, and I shall master the forgotten wisdom of our forebears and teach it all to you, my hunters, my followers, my pack!"
The cheering grew deafening, and Darrow wished he understood what it meant. He thought the Malveens refused to give Rusk the scrolls and wondered why they had changed their minds. If the scrolls were false, he prayed silently that he would be far away by the time Rusk discovered the forgery.
"What better way to celebrate this momentous event than with a High Hunt?" thundered Rusk. Still excited by his proclamation, the crowd quieted just enough to hear his words. He spoke again, half-chanting the words, "Who shall hunt our prey?"
"We will!"
All of the People of the Black Blood rose to their feet, as did a few young men and women among the pilgrims. Those who still wore clothing flung it away. Half of them stretched and bent, their limbs twisting and reshaping themselves. Thick fur sprung from their flesh, until a dozen wolves hunkered among the seated pilgrims.
"You are the foremost, the natural hunters," called Rusk. "Lead the way for those who have yet to master their skills."
Rusk barked out a string of ancient words, an infernal invocation to Malar. His eyes blazed red, and flames leaped from the bonfire to enshroud him in ruddy light. With a violent gesture, he flung the magical energy toward the People who remained in human form.
They screamed as the red power entered their ears and mouths. Their bodies jerked and transformed until they, too, stood as wolves among the pilgrims.
Only four pilgrims remained standing. At a nod from Rusk, other pack members handed them long spears.
"I see a mighty host of hunters before me," called Rusk. "What prey is fit and worthy of their prowess?"
"A great boar," called a woman among the pilgrims, "with his long tusks and strong shoulders." The rhythm of her words told Darrow that the response was canon.
"No," said Rusk. "These hunters are stronger, and their teeth sharper."