by Tracy Falbe
“You’re a cautious man,” Tekax remarked.
“It is my habit,” Mileko agreed.
After measuring his guest with another significant stare, Tekax nodded. “Stay as my guest and consider what I’ve said,” he said. He had not seen a man of Mileko’s quality since putting down a rival decades ago. But now that his position was firm, he might find a way to control this talented man and enlist him to his purposes.
Tekax grabbed his cane and stood up. Mileko rose respectfully. He was about to issue some polite response when the steward appeared in the doorway. He went urgently to his master’s side and whispered in his ear.
Mileko overheard the words, and they punished him for his bold foray into his enemy’s stronghold.
“My Lord, Janfelter approaches.”
Tekax’s eyes lit up, belying his excitement for an instant before he composed himself.
“Attend me, Michael, one of my men returns from a mission, and I’d like you to meet him,” Tekax said.
The fear that froze Mileko saved him from revealing his alarm. The news of Janfelter’s return distracted Tekax enough so that he did not notice the panic beneath Mileko’s unflappable exterior.
His mind raced through his options as he woodenly followed his host. He must not let Janfelter see him. The fext would surely recognize him. Mileko had interrogated him closely when he had thought the servant of Tekax was dying. Then the thing’s chest had ejected the slug of lead fired into his chest. Mileko shivered when he remembered that moment when he learned Janfelter was undying.
Ahead of him, Tekax moved quickly despite his age. His cane aided his scuttling steps.
Mileko decided that he must slip away. Exceptionally light-footed, he turned down another hall when he was sure that Tekax and his steward were not looking. Mileko hoped to sneak out of the castle and into the stable before he was missed.
He turned a corner and ran into the boy. The lad bounced off his chest, but Mileko caught him before he fell back on his butt.
“Which way to the stable?” Mileko said tersely, expecting the servant to respond to a commanding tone out of habit.
The boy pointed toward the hall Mileko had just left.
“Never mind,” Mileko said and hastened past the bemused boy.
He ran now, fearing that Tekax had already noticed his abrupt disappearance. If the sorcerer had not been suspicious before, he would be now.
Mileko had grasped the general layout of the castle earlier, and he had little difficulty navigating his way back to the courtyard. He found the area much busier than when he had left it. A dozen men-at-arms and a handful of male servants clamored around a man on a horse. The smiling rider with wavy dark hair and a young and arrogant face renewed Mileko’s horror.
Janfelter was an adept warrior. His senses always attuned to his surroundings. Even surrounded by underlings excited by his return, he scanned the courtyard and locked eyes with the black-clad stranger lurking close to a wall.
But he was no stranger, and Janfelter jumped from his horse and shoved aside the simpletons blocking his way. Mileko dashed for the stable, hoping to find his horse still saddled where he had left it.
Tekax exited the castle and saw his most-favored warrior storming across the courtyard. Tekax whirled and realized that his interesting visitor had vanished. His keen mind quickly concluded that the arrival of Janfelter had put the other into flight.
Janfelter chased Mileko into the stable. Although his horse remained saddled, Mileko had no true hope of escape. Janfelter came with the speed of an excited hound, and Mileko drew his sword. He planned to land a few good blows that might slow down the fext, but Janfelter had mastered hand-to-hand combat. Although he had no weapon, he deftly dodged Mileko’s sword strokes until charging in fearlessly. He suffered a great cut along his forearm but landed a hard blow on Mileko’s jaw that sent him reeling into a post. His horse neighed and pulled at its tether. Other animals in the stable squealed and kicked.
Mileko ducked behind the post and used it to shield himself from Janfelter’s next attack. The blood dripping from his cut arm was already slowing. The clot was receding and becoming whole skin before Mileko’s eyes.
Desperate, he spun around the post and hacked into one of Janfelter’s hamstrings. He cried out, and Mileko dashed toward his horse. Even with a pronounced limp, Janfelter tackled him against a wall.
They tussled fiercely. Janfelter grabbed Mileko’s sword hand and bashed it repeatedly against the wall. Despite the pain and skinned knuckles, Mileko held on. He pushed back against Janfelter with his other hand, but he could feel himself losing.
Tekax entered the stable. His gesture restrained the men-at-arms at his heels. He advanced into the fray with his cane held up.
“Stand back!” he shouted, and Janfelter suddenly let go.
Mileko lunged at Janfelter and cut him across the chest. The sword tore through his shirt and vest and bloodied the corrupted flesh.
Then, white light overtook Mileko’s vision. Searing pain cut into his spine. Jagged sparks from the cane arced into his torso. For a moment, Mileko marveled at the energy the sorcerer could channel, but then pain overwhelmed him, and he fell to the floor.
Janfelter stepped in quickly and disarmed Mileko after Tekax ceased his attack. He lowered his cane, and this time he did lean on it.
“You recognize this man?” Tekax said.
Janfelter bowed and caught his breath. “Yes, Master, he’s a servant of Sarputeen.”
Tekax bristled, furious at himself for his error, but of course he could not admit to it.
“I’m fortunate you arrived when you did, Janfelter,” Tekax praised. He signaled to the other men to grab Mileko.
Two men-at-arms lifted Mileko to his feet. He struggled until Tekax jabbed his cane into his chest.
“We have much more to discuss,” the sorcerer said ominously.
Mileko avoided the bloodshot gaze of Tekax, and looked warily at Janfelter. The man was wiping blood from his chest where the skin was sealing itself.
“Strip him and prepare him for interrogation,” Tekax ordered, and the men dragged Mileko away.
Once they were gone, Tekax scowled at his champion and said, “Where have you been?”
Janfelter groped for words. He had not failed before, and he knew that his master was angry despite the good service that he had just performed.
“Master, I was torn open and broken. I took a long time to heal. I lost all my gear. It took me this long to get back. I shall hunt Thal again, but I need armor.”
Sick jealousy assailed Tekax to learn that Sarputeen still had his son.
“Clean yourself up and then report to me what you know before we question this magician,” Tekax said.
Chapter 5. Strange Temptation
Sarputeen invited Altea to join him on the ramparts overlooking the gate. The wind riffled the shaggy edges of the white fur draped around his shoulders. He set his strong hands on the stone wall and surveyed the village.
Altea heard dogs barking in the distance and surmised that the Jesuits’ party was coming up the narrow mountain road.
After sniffing the wind, Sarputeen said, “At least Thal obeyed me and did not kill them.”
“He believes only one in their midst is a threat to us,” she said.
“That complicates things,” Sarputeen grumbled. When he faced her, the golden pendant over her bosom caught his eye. Slowly he brushed his fingers along the gold chain and then caressed the pendant between his thumb and finger.
“I remember when Gretchen wore this. She was young like you then,” he said fondly. When he saw that she shared his sadness, he said, “You knew her well.”
“I thought I did,” Altea said. Although the midwife had cared for her mother and siblings for many years, Altea had not known of her magical abilities until Thal showed up to avenge her execution for witchcraft.
Sarputeen let the pendant slip from his fingers. “I thought I knew her well too, but people ch
ange. Helping others was more important to her than staying with me,” he confided.
“She was a talented healer and tireless when others needed help,” Altea recalled. “Her death was very upsetting for me.”
Sarputeen nodded. He was aware of how his former mate had met her end, but he was conflicted in his sorrow. In her final desperate hours, she had finally chosen to complete the werewolf spell upon Thal, and for that Sarputeen was deeply grateful.
“Here come our guests,” he said.
A mounted guard of men-at-arms bearing the banner of Duke Thurzo emerged from the village with four monks behind them. Altea leaned forward and scrutinized them. She could not identify anyone because their brown hoods were up, but her intuition, however, trembled with suspicion.
“Hang back for now, my daughter,” Sarputeen said.
She nodded, presuming that Miguel would recognize her.
“Do you desire to confront him?” he asked.
A swirl of emotions flushed her cheeks. The terror and agony that she had experienced remained welded to her nerves. Her visceral hatred goaded her toward vengeance, but she wanted to think that she could choose a path more sublime.
“I may,” she whispered.
******
Emil awaited his lord at the open gate as the party advanced up the lane.
“My Lord, do you think they will attack us?” Emil asked.
Sarputeen said, “I think you and I can handle four monks.”
“But what of the Duke’s men?” Emil pressed.
“We shall see,” Sarputeen said and stroked his chin.
The horses’ breath steamed in the cold air as they labored up the final incline to the worn timber gates.
Sarputeen stepped into the middle of the entrance. Emil fought the urge to put a hand on his sword. He grasped that this was his master’s opportunity to impress his visitors, and displays of bravado from an eager young man were not needed. Faithfully, he braced himself for action while trying to appear unconcerned.
Sarputeen sized up the men. The foremost among them met his eyes warily.
“Greetings!” Sarputeen boomed. His voice rolled out from the old stone fortress and raced away on the droning back of the mountain wind. The frost-killed leaves clinging to the vines that gripped the gateway rattled as if hit by a gust.
The riders stopped. The man in charge moved his jaw as if struggling with a dry mouth.
“Pray tell me what occasion sends Duke Thurzo’s men to my door,” Sarputeen said.
The man began, “Ah, Lord…” His voice broke a little, and he tried to start over.
“Hush, fool!” cried a man from the rear. He pushed his way to the front. His horse snorted upon coming face-to-face with Sarputeen and shifted nervously. The hooded monk in the saddle tightened the reins. He had the skill of a man competent on a horse but who wasted no love on the beast that bore him.
“I am Brother Miguel of the Society of Jesus on a mission from the Archbishop of Prague,” the monk announced.
Sarputeen managed to look sobered by the statement.
Miguel continued, “I’ve tracked the Satan-worshipping scoundrel, Thal Lesky, to this place and we demand that you release him to our custody!”
Sarputeen’s sensitive ears caught the sound of more than one man in the company swallowing. “Who?” he said.
“You know who, sorcerer!” Miguel yelled.
Sarputeen spread his hands in a friendly manner. “Brother, you must have taken a wrong turn. No Thal Lesky is here. You’re welcome to enter my castle as my guest, but you’ll find no man by that name,” he said.
Miguel frowned. The confrontation was not playing out as he had expected. He put his hand on a leather pouch at his belt. He believed the small object within offered some protection from the werewolf. At least Professor Zussek from the University of Prague had told him so. Miguel believed that its dark magic at least might lure Thal into the open. He scanned the castle, but saw no sign of friend or foe. “Brothers, join me in prayer,” he said.
His three companions dismounted and kneeled with Miguel before the gate. Miguel led them in the recitation of a Latin prayer and then he launched into a solo tirade, commanding the evil within the castle to show itself under the light of God.
Sarputeen and Emil observed patiently. When Miguel finished, a heavy silence resulted. Eventually, Sarputeen looked over his shoulder, seemingly to make sure no loathsome demon was being drawn out. Then he announced pleasantly, “We appear to be free of evil.”
The men-at-arms genuinely shared in his relief, and Sarputeen switched his attention to their leader. His horse flattened its ears and stepped back. The fellow’s dark beard made his face look all the more pale as he beheld one whose name had been uttered in the scariest stories for as long as he could remember.
“My hospitality is always available to the servants of my liege lord, Duke Thurzo. There’s no need for you to stay out in the cold while the men of the Archbishop exorcise my castle. Please come in and enjoy a hot meal.”
Too quickly, the man shook his head. He appreciated the thoughtfulness of his superiors who had ordered him not to enter the castle. “No, no, thank you, my Lord. My instructions were to escort these monks safely to your door. No need to trouble your lordship with our dinner,” he said.
“Then I commend you on a task well performed,” Sarputeen praised.
Miguel, having overheard his escort’s words, came awkwardly to his feet with his shoulder bag swinging. “What is this you say? Your task is not done!” he cried.
The man-at-arms turned his horse and spoke over his shoulder. “You asked for safe passage to this place, and we’ve given it. We’ll await you in the village,” he said. His comrades rapidly spun their horses and started away.
Miguel gaped at their departure. The trio of monks still on their knees exchanged nervous glances. One clutched the wooden cross hanging by a leather cord around his neck. The cold made his knuckles red.
Sarputeen studied the lead monk and noted the thick leather shoulder bag bulging with rectangular objects. “Brother, I see that you’re sincere in your belief that this is some wicked lair, but I assure you that the stories about me are much overblown. I’ll admit my deeds against invading Turks were brutal, but old war stories among the folk grow more colorful with each winter that passes. Please join me inside. Tell me about this Thal for it has been a long time since this old man heard a new story.”
Miguel clung to his righteous courage, but the warm dark eyes of the old man invited him to trust. Miguel shook his head, fighting off the strange temptation to believe this man. The glistening white wolf fur draped around his shoulders could not be a coincidence. The white fur sparkled like stars on a cold night, and this divine light softened Miguel’s suspicions. Should he condemn so easily this man known to have fought against their infidel enemies? Miguel possessed the scholarship to know the difference between true stories of pagan devilry and fanciful gossip.
The gentle old voice of the Lord of Vlkbohveza gave credence to his sudden doubts. “It’s a rare thing to see a literate man in this place. I’ve several old manuscripts that would surely interest you,” Sarputeen said, and the invitation tugged hard at the monk’s desires.
“If I may, I’d enjoy the chance to see your books,” Sarputeen added and gestured longingly toward the bag.
“What languages can you read?” Miguel asked, beginning to entertain the notion that his fervor for avenging Brother Vito might have caused him to make an error in coming to this place. Duke Thurzo, after all, had warned him not to spend his time hunting the monster here.
“I know the runes of ancient Northmen. And of course Latin and Greek,” Sarputeen answered proudly. “And I can manage a few phrases in other tongues.”
“Where did you study?” Miguel asked.
“Many places,” Sarputeen said, “Come inside, Brother. It’s cold out here for an old man.” He shivered a little to emphasize his point.
Emil decided th
is was a cue to act. He urged the other monks to rise. “Your prayers shall be doubly good next to a warm fire,” he said.
“Truly, my servant speaks well,” Sarputeen agreed and presumed to advance on Miguel. He set a firm hand upon the monk’s shoulder. His aura engulfed Miguel and provoked his curiosity. Miguel sensed great knowledge within the man. He seemed to possess some wisdom beyond all the scholars who had tutored him combined. This Sarputeen knew answers to questions that Miguel had never thought to ask, and to deny his invitation felt like missing the greatest opportunity of his life. God may have sent him on this quest to expose him to more knowledge.
As Miguel allowed Sarputeen to usher him inside, he imagined the prestige he might gain as the possessor of rare facts. His desire to find Thal could be set aside briefly as he embraced the good fortune of encountering this wise old man.
Once inside the courtyard, Sarputeen bid Emil to take the monks to the kitchen where they could eat and warm up.
Then, to Miguel, he said, “I’ll bring out those manuscripts and receive you in my study later.” He walked away briskly before giving the monk a chance to reply.
As Sarputeen headed toward his study, he saw Altea at the end of a hall. She had changed into a simple servant’s blouse and skirt, and white linen wrapped her hair. They exchanged a look of understanding as she headed to the kitchen.
With her heart hammering, she stopped outside the kitchen. She leaned against a wall and put a hand to her chest, trying to calm herself. The warm glow of the main roasting fire cast soft orange light through the archway. She heard the strange voices of the monks as they thanked the servants for food.
Nervously, she adjusted her headwrap and entered. Emil noticed her first but said nothing. She went to the water barrel and filled a pitcher. The monks occupied the main table with benches.
Miguel and the other brothers pushed back their hoods. They were rosy cheeked from the cold and grateful for the food and drink. Miguel offered a short prayer, and they started eating.
Three servants watched shyly from the vicinity of the baking hearths.