Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (62 page)

A man clothed in a long black cloak and dusty
boots glided into the room. His hood hid his eyes but a pointy nose
and thin lips on a pale face projected from the shadowy cowl.

Valentino yelled and thrust with his rapier,
but the blade shook harder. The intruder stepped back on light
feet. Only the tinkle of his silver spurs made real his steps. He
held up two small black daggers. A toss of his head shook off his
hood, and his startling blue topaz eyes confronted Valentino.

“Do not attack!” he commanded and kicked shut
the door.

Valentino stepped back but kept his sword
ready. His thudding heart powered him for action, but the dreamy
appearance of the intruder stymied his aggression. A strange blend
of fear and curiosity kept Valentino at bay.

The intruder, content that Valentino was
under control, circled the room. He touched the chair where Thal
had sat and then went to the open window. Excitement lit his bright
eyes.

“He was just here,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Valentino demanded.

The intruder lowered his knives and faced the
Condottiere. “Where is Thal going?” he said.

“Who?” Valentino said although he knew he was
making a poor effort at lying.

The intruder ignored the evasion. Unblinking,
he approached Valentino very slowly. With the point of one of his
black knives he eased aside the rapier and looked deeply into
Valentino’s eyes.

The Condottiere wanted to look away, but the
glittering energy of the soul beaming through those startling eyes
made action impossible.

“Where was Thal going?” he asked gently.

“To Old Town to kill people,” Valentino said,
shocked at the truth passing his lips.

“Thank you,” the man said, if he was a
man.

He moved to the door but stopped before
opening it. He looked back at Valentino. “Is this Thal as powerful
as the stories say?” he asked.

Valentino nodded.

The confirmation impressed the intruder.

“What do you want of him?” Valentino
said.

Surprised by the question, the man focused
again more firmly on the Condottiere. “I was not here,” he said and
went out. Slowly the bolt edged back into place.

Valentino shook off his confusion. He felt
like he had to sneeze. When he lifted his hand to itch his nose, he
was surprised to see that he was gripping his rapier.

Images slipped from his mind as if he were
trying to remember a vivid dream that vanished upon waking. Certain
that something supernatural had occurred, he yanked open his door
and looked up and down the hall. Then he went downstairs and asked
his manservant if he had seen anything. The servant looked up from
his mug of pilsner and shook his head. His drinking companions also
insisted that no one had come or gone.

Unable to act upon his uncanny feelings,
Valentino told his manservant to get his horse saddled. He was
overdue for his visit to Carmelita. Worry for Thal nagged at him,
but a man would be a fool to seek the wolf at night.

Thal rummaged quietly through the boats. He
could hear some men playing dice near a fish market shed, but they
had not noticed him and Pistol sneaking around the docks.

After causing so much alarm in the city, Thal
could not risk paying a boatman to take him to Old Town, and the
bridge was surely being watched.

When he found a suitable basket, he stole it
along with some rope. Slipping farther away from the men laughing
and grumbling over their dice, he took off his armor, clothes, and
gear and piled them in the basket. He took care to wrap his guns
carefully, hoping to keep them dry.

He tied the rope around his waist and
attached it to his basket. Quietly he lowered himself into the
river without a splash. The current enveloped him and he swam
across it.

Pistol whined and trotted back and forth. The
little dog stopped at the edge but failed to work up the courage to
jump. He barked.

Thal looked back and treaded water while he
flowed along. “Hush! Take the bridge,” he hissed. His dog fussed on
the dock for a moment longer and then raced away.

Pistol darted down the street curving along
the river bank toward the Kamenny Most. He made barely any more
noise than a rat. Armed guards on foot and on horse clogged the
entrance to the bridge. Torches blazed and highlighted the thick
stone blocks of the bridge. The bright moon watched over the summer
night expectantly. Across the flowing blackness of the Vltava,
roving clusters of torches were bright on the streets of Old
Town.

At the bridge one man called out when he saw
the dog running onto the bridge, but no one chased Pistol. Afraid
that the werewolf was about to appear, everyone turned toward the
streets radiating out of the Little Quarter.

On the Old Town side of the bridge, Pistol
dashed past the guards. A horse shied at the movement, but
otherwise the dog went unseen. Returning to the river bank Pistol
snuffled along seeking Thal.

Downriver by the Jewish Quarter, Pistol
reunited with his master. Thal was carrying his basket up a
slippery bank that was both muddy and stony. He slipped once and
banged a knee.

Thal set down the basket and stayed bent over
while he caught his breath. His swim had been demanding but his
body felt very warm and alive now. Pistol jumped and brushed his
cheek with a tongue.

Thal patted him. “You’re a smart little dog,”
he praised.

Picking up his basket, he found a hiding spot
between buildings where the moonlight beamed down. He unpacked his
fur and caressed the thick soft hide. The desire to transform was
building in him, like hunger after a hard day’s work.

Thinking of Altea, he decided to continue as
a man. He needed to speak to her. He set the fur aside and got
dressed. Thankfully his guns and powder were dry.

When he set off into Old Town, the moonlight
helped him avoid people. He saw them with their torches well before
they reached him in the shadows. Thal advanced very cautiously once
he was in the vicinity of the Fridrich household. Before turning
down Altea’s street, he had Pistol go first.

Peaking around the corner of a building, Thal
watched the dog approach the front steps. He found two men and
started harassing them. His quick little snaps to the ankles made
the men kick and stomp comically, but the nimble dog avoided their
feet and spears.

Thal smiled darkly, surmising that the
Magistrate was quiet afraid this night.

He should be, he thought.

Turning back, he entered the alley. He
crouched behind a cart parked behind Altea’s neighbor. He could
smell a man. Pistol conveniently padded up and Thal sent him to
engage the guard.

Pistol’s growls and dancing revealed a single
man. Thal studied the house. The windows were dark. A bad feeling
penetrated his nervousness. Quietly, he drew his sword and walked
toward the house. Pistol disengaged from the guard and disappeared
in the dark.

“Damn dog,” the guard muttered. When he
turned back to his post, the point of a sword caught him under the
chin. Panicking, the man swung his spear. It bashed Thal’s sword
aside and then they were fighting. The guard screamed when the
blade hit his leg. Another swing and Thal killed him.

The other guards were coming through the
house from the front. Lantern light leered out the back door when
it opened.

“Did you call us?” someone hollered.

Thal bounded up the steps and tackled the man
with the lantern. He fell back against his colleague. A shouting
cursing tussle ensued. Thal struck a mortal blow to the front man.
He flopped against the wall and blood spurted darkly across the
plaster. Thal narrowly avoided the thrusting spear of the second
man and then yanked the spear from his hand. He threw it out the
back door. The man retreated. Thal ran down the hall and caught
him. He bashed his head into a door frame. The helmet protected him
from the blow and he tried to stab Thal, but his new armor kept the
dagger out of his guts. Thal punched the man hard on the jaw. After
tearing off his helmet, Thal knocked him hard enough to leave him
senseless on the floor.

The dark house was eerily quiet. Thal’s heavy
breathing intruded on its emptiness. Bounding to his feet with his
sword back in his hands, he raced upstairs and found all the
bedrooms empty. In Altea’s room he paused. Her aroma was heavy here
and it made him ache to hold her, but the disturbed state of the
room pushed aside the dreaminess of his fond lusting.

A table was knocked over. A ceramic basin lay
in pieces. The bedding was torn off. When he looked into the
cracked mirror, the dim moonlight showed the jagged line
transecting his reflection.

Awful worries burned across his mind like
fuses flashing into canons. The assault on Regis, Raphael, and
Carlo came to mind and he feared some similar thing had happened to
Altea.

He stormed down the stairs and surprised an
old man stepping over the guards toppled in the hall. Thal
descended on the slow fellow in a nightshirt and seized him by the
shoulders.

“Where’s Altea?” he demanded.

“Ahhh!” the terrified man cried.

Thal slapped him. “Tell me what happened
here!” he said.

“Don’t hurt me!” the old man cried.

“Talk or your blood’ll be on the walls next,”
Thal threatened.

“The girl’s a witch and taken away,” the aged
servant said.

Thal gasped. The old man tried to wriggle
loose, but Thal pinned him against the wall.

“Where’s the Magistrate?” he said, sick with
the knowledge that Altea had asked mercy for a man who had let her
be arrested for witchcraft.

“Nooo!” the old man said, shaking his head
vigorously.

Thal flung him to the floor and pressed his
face against the dead man-at-arms in a bloody puddle.

“Adding another dead man to my list of crimes
is NOT going to make things worse for me,” Thal said.

The old valet reassessed the value of loyalty
to his master and chose to answer. “The Magistrate is at the
Court,” he whimpered and begged for mercy.

Thal let go of the man, forgetting him in his
fury. He roared in distress. His criminality brought harm onto
those he loved.

While he staggered beneath his burdensome
guilt, the old man dragged himself toward the back door. Pistol
pounced on him and tore at his nightshirt. Thal ignored the
meaningless tussle and the old servant finally threw the dog off
and escaped.

“Altea,” Thal moaned, thinking of the
torments she may already have suffered. Battling through his
despair he reasoned that she must have been taken to the jail as
his mother had been. Thal reeled from an overwhelming sense of
failure. His mother would have never meant for him to bring
disaster upon that poor young woman. He should have done a better
job of avenging her and not left innocent victims in his wake.

But berating himself over his errors would
accomplish nothing. The Magistrate was at the Court awaiting his
judgment.

“I’ll gut him,” Thal snarled. A wretched
desire for violence overtook his better nature. This ugly passion
went far beyond the normal brutality of the hunt. True malice
motivated him. Even amid his mounting rage he recognized that he
was descending to the level of those brutes that had dragged his
mother to a horrific end. The only difference would be that what he
was about to inflict was deserved.

In a frenzy he tore the clothes from his
body. With shaking hands he bundled everything except the armor and
fur. He ran into the alley and hid the bundle beneath the cart.

Looking up and down the alley, he perceived
that it was empty. The servant had fled far on his old legs, and no
neighbors had the courage to do more than peek through their
shutters.

He buckled the armor over his naked chest and
left the straps very loose. Then he wrapped the fur around his hips
and started chanting. The spell had never crossed his lips with
such wrath. When he reached the last word of it he shouted his name
with all the force of his soul.

The magic seized his body with glee. Muscles
and skin and bones shifted and rebuilt him as a werewolf. More
strength than ever before surged through his hairy body. The armor
pressed tightly against his enlarged chest.

Thal bent low and nudged his hidden bundle
with his wide nose and looked at Pistol. The dog slunk under the
cart and understood that his master wished him to stay with it.

On all fours, Thal hurried into the house. He
bounded over the bodies in the hall and sniffed everywhere. A
particularly familiar scent further incited his rage.

Vito! The monk had been here and Thal guessed
that the meddling Jesuit had targeted Altea. The trap Rainer had
warned him of was well baited, and Thal prepared himself to
confront his enemies on the turf of their Earthly Hell.

Near the front door and shoved against the
wall, Thal found Altea’s slipper. His tail sagged and his ears
dropped as he sniffed the sad little sign of her arrest. He
imagined her barefoot and helpless and needing him because no man
or woman would aid her now.

******

The pain in Altea’s swollen bloody hands
prevented her from folding them for prayer. Every breath stabbed
her vengefully.

The oppressive dark was only broken by the
blue moonlight in the small barred window. Faint whimpering from
the next cell told her that the other woman was still alive.

Altea closed her eyes. She had been taught
that a peaceful Heaven awaited her soul after its final cleansing
in Purgatory. This abstract reward was meant to ease the hardships
of life, but her faith wavered as she groped desperately for
comfort.

Those who had wrought so much pain upon her
body were supposed to be the agents of her God, but she could not
believe it. Her God could not smile upon this torture, and she
begged for intervention.