Werewolf Castle

by Tracy Falbe

  But then his horse balked and turned as if some threat lurked directly ahead. Six indistinct figures were rushing at him from three directions. His horse continued to protest and stamp, uncertain of which direction to take but ready to hold its ground. Mileko pushed with his right knee to turn the horse, and the animal continued reluctantly.

  Another crack of gunfire confronted him, and the slug shrieked past his head like an angry herald of his mortality. His horse reared, and he almost fell from the saddle. A rock hit him in the shoulder from behind, quickly followed by another as the men advanced and surrounded his position.

  Janfelter revealed himself. His dark soul shone brightly in the deepening dusk. He walked toward Mileko with a grin on his handsome face. He was ramming shot down his pistol barrel.

  “You should have stayed in the village. I was looking forward to burning you out of it tonight,” he announced.

  With a yell, Mileko charged the fext. His brave horse was trained to trample upon command, but Janfelter jumped behind a tree. He took aim as the horse rushed by. Expecting another shot, Mileko dodged to the left.

  The shrieking of ravens engulfed his senses as if a storm pushed dead leaves down from the tree branches. Janfelter shouted, and waved his pistol and free hand at the birds diving at his head.

  Then another man’s scream made even the trees quake with alarm. The last hint of daylight ducked behind the western hills, and wails of terror filled the darkened woodland.

  More screams rose like the unluckiest chorus that witnessed the worst tragedy. Amid the natural horror that the sounds inflicted on Mileko’s humanity, he also had the elated sense that he had heard men die in such a way before. In another rash act of recklessness, he whipped his leg over his horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. He had marked Janfelter’s last position in his mind and backtracked, slipping from tree to tree. He plotted to hack the thing as hard as he could with his sword. Perhaps he could hurt him badly enough to steal his pistol. Depriving the creature of that advantage, even if he could not stop its relentless pursuit, would be worth doing.

  Ravens cawed from the trees, cheering on those that still swooped over Janfelter when Mileko drew close. The moans of dying men heaved against Mileko’s senses, and then he saw the beast that had joined the battle. Its bulky shape approached Janfelter, coiled for the strike but slinking carefully.

  Thal, Mileko thought, refusing to let himself even whisper the name lest he give away his unseen approach.

  The rumbling in the werewolf’s throat came out with a deeper menace than thunderheads at the dawn of Judgment Day. Some force of reason restrained the powerful body, its very presence marking it in the night more boldly than the creeping blackness of its form. Thal knew that he confronted Janfelter, and he wanted to exert the extreme predatory force that was his great gift, but his last battle with the fext had nearly killed him. Even the scent of the man-thing drove needles into his stomach. The fext’s blood was poison to him, and one bite of that flesh would befoul his body.

  Concerned also about the gun in Janfelter’s grasp, Thal slipped behind a tree and peeked at his enemy, who squinted hard in the dark and held his gun ready.

  Janfelter saw the werewolf’s position, and the memory of their last encounter undermined his habitual confidence. His guts had taken some time to grow back after that violent fight, too long for Janfelter’s comfort. Despite this fear-like feeling, he planned to take the thing down with a bullet. The brute would lunge at him eventually, and in that moment he must be precise and achieve a clean shot to the head as Thal descended on him. He must not miss or the werewolf would thrash him.

  Upon surveying the standoff, Mileko quickly deduced what Janfelter hoped to do. Gambling on the luck of the wildcard, Mileko darted toward the fext on light feet. He placed his courage in the point of his blade.

  Truly startled, Janfelter gasped and jumped back. His back hit a tree, and he drew his sword, too disciplined to waste his gunshot on anything except Thal. His sword blocked Mileko’s attack, and he shoved Mileko away by striking his wounded shoulder with his heavy pistol.

  Mileko cried out, but as he fell back Thal charged. His broad skull cracked into Janfelter’s chest. The fext crunched against the tree and tasted blood. With a strong arm, Thal flung the fext into another tree. Janfelter flopped onto the ground and the pistol popped out of his hand. Thal pounced, but Janfelter endured the pain of breaking bones and reacted with great speed. He still held his sword and from his low position lashed out. Superbly nimble despite his size, Thal jumped aside and the blade only nicked his right leg instead of severing it.

  But Janfelter had cut the leg precisely where he had cut it during their last duel, and the worrisome pain forced Thal to back off. Janfelter lurched to his pistol and brought it up. His hand was shaking, but he did not take the shot. He could not bear the possibility of missing for the threat was all that kept the beast back.

  Thal hesitated. The madness of battle urged him to risk the gun, but sanity balked at the desires of his blood lust.

  “Come back!” Mileko called.

  Blood poured down Thal’s hind right leg, yet still he hesitated. Was this his chance to defeat Janfelter? Or would he just end up with a slug of lead in his skull?

  He backed off, and Mileko presumed to grab his shaggy shoulder.

  “Come!” he urged.

  An arrow slammed into Thal’s armor. A dent was left but the shaft spun off into the darkness. The shot proved that not all of Janfelter’s men were dead, and Thal retreated.

  Although all of the recovery in his right leg had been erased by the new wound, he could still move fast on three limbs. He nudged Mileko until the man understood to loop his arms around Thal’s neck. He dragged the man at a faster pace than he could run and tracked the horse that had run off.

  When he drew close to the animal, Thal slowed, and Mileko called to his horse. The animal snorted unhappily but had spent enough time in Thal’s company to tolerate the werewolf.

  Mileko fell against the side of the horse, breathing hard. The blow to his gunshot wound still made his head spin with pain, but Thal’s arrival had redeemed him from capture, even if they had yet to truly escape.

  He looked back at Thal. A crescent moon had risen and highlighted his body. Mileko saw now that he bore a large pack on his back.

  A fit of jerking seized Thal’s body as he let go of the magic and shifted back into a man. For a long moment, a disoriented haze gripped him, and he stayed on his hands and knees. He stared at his hands in the dirt, marveling at the knuckles and fingers. After days in wolf form, his human body confused him, but the smarting wound on his leg pushed him back into urgent action.

  He opened his pack and tossed out a roll of cloth.

  “My leg…bandage it,” he said, needing to concentrate on speaking words.

  Mileko stumbled toward him and complied although it was not easy to do with one arm in a sling. In an obvious hurry, Thal worked at arming both of his pistols.

  The clumsy bandage slowed the bleeding, and Thal lurched upright. Still naked except for his chest armor, he yanked on his breeches and boots.

  He extended one pistol toward Mileko. “We have to go back and shoot him,” he said.

  The thought of battling the fext again poisoned Mileko’s courage, but duty offered a weak antidote to his fear. Janfelter was the greatest servant of Tekax, and his disabling or death would be a great blow to the devious sorcerer.

  “Yes,” Mileko agreed. “How many of his men are left alive?”

  “Two, I think,” Thal said. “But we must focus on Janfelter. We must shoot him and then hack him to pieces with our swords.”

  Mileko had an awful vision of the fext reforming out of a pulpy mass of bone and blood, but he shook it from his mind. He tied his horse to a tree and gave the animal a reassuring pat, hoping to return.

  Thal retraced their steps easily. His memory always mapped his movements in all environments. The bloody scent of the men who he had
killed told him when he reached the place of battle. He scanned the dark woodland. The trees were like strokes of ink on black leather, but his eyes were sensitive in the night. He spotted bodies.

  Mileko and he went to the bodies and felt through their pouches and pockets.

  “They’ve already been stripped of supplies,” Mileko determined after finding no weapons or the slightest bit of string, tinder, or food. Janfelter and the survivors had been thorough and swift.

  “I’ll find Janfelter’s trail,” Thal whispered.

  A little farther on, he brushed his fingers into the mark of a boot heel. He found more tracks close by and confirmed that two men were still in the company of the fext. Mileko glided into place beside him, and they followed the fresh trail quickly.

  The trees gave way to fields around the village. Men with torches stood outside the gate, and Thal halted. He observed the village. The villagers were making an intimidating presence at the gate but clearly intended to flee inside if anything extreme came their way.

  “Do you see Janfelter?” Mileko asked.

  Thal scanned the dark recesses of the land and shook his head. Guided by his nose that remained keen even as a man, he stayed on the trail. The tracks veered toward a hedgerow, and its shadow concealed Thal and Mileko as it had surely hidden Janfelter earlier from the nervous villagers.

  Once they were across the cultivated area and on the verge of another woodland, Thal stopped. The hunt easily beckoned him, but he resisted the easy desires of the heart. One mistake now could condemn him and leave all who he loved in jeopardy.

  “How badly are you hurt?” he asked.

  Mileko explained that he had a gunshot wound to the shoulder.

  Thal considered what to do. The fext had to be within reach but appeared to be retreating.

  “Did he follow you here all the way from the Highlands?” Thal asked.

  “Yes, we came over the Karst. I reached this village yesterday,” Mileko explained.

  “Shall we hunt him?” Thal said.

  “Are you asking me?” Mileko said, surprised by Thal’s solicitation of an opinion.

  “I’m asking if you feel fit?” Thal said.

  Mileko bristled a little at the question. He prided himself on his endurance, agility, and stealth, but luck had just saved him after all of his other talents had been exhausted. He naturally thirsted to chase Janfelter now that Thal had arrived. He did not want to fail Sarputeen, but his boldness that had urged him to enter the tower of Tekax was not something to make a habit of.

  Instead of forcing Mileko to admit his fatigue, Thal said, “Father sent me to rescue you. He cautioned me to save battle for a later time.”

  “If Sarputeen advises caution, then it is necessary,” Mileko said and touched his wound tenderly. His own foray into daring action had taken a toll.

  “Perhaps the fext is learning caution too,” Thal said. He scrutinized the dark landscape again, expecting the enemy to emerge, but he seemed to have withdrawn. Although Thal longed to pursue Janfelter, he did not have the resources to engage the monster. He needed his allies, and he thought of the volunteers who he had left behind. They needed his attention and guidance. They needed to create a plan that would lead to victory.

  Despite this brief and fruitless encounter, he could now believe that Janfelter feared him. The fext had retreated, and Thal took pride in intimidating the evil thing.

  “Let’s get back to my horse,” Mileko said.

  As they hiked back, they skirted the village. The men with torches had withdrawn inside. Mileko thought of the kind people within and hoped that danger would not brush so close to their door again.

  Thal said, “Did Janfelter drive you off when you approached the lair of his master?”

  “No,” Mileko said. “He pursued me after I escaped capture.”

  “You were captured?” Thal said, somewhat shocked because Mileko was not the sort of man who got captured.

  “Briefly,” Mileko emphasized.

  “Did you see Tekax?”

  “I spoke to him,” Mileko revealed triumphantly.

  “No.”

  “I did,” Mileko insisted and then divulged a few details of his adventure.

  “I wish I had been with you,” Thal said.

  “As do I…for once,” Mileko admitted. He stopped so that he could address Thal fully. “Thank you for coming for me.”

  “I came as soon as the birds told Father of your need,” Thal said. “They led me to you. Ravens can be the greatest of friends, but first to laugh when you make a mistake.”

  When they reached Mileko’s horse, Thal was limping.

  “Do we need to camp here till morning?” Mileko said, worried about Thal’s wound.

  “No. We mustn’t be in the vicinity of those dead men in the morning,” Thal said.

  “You really shouldn’t walk on that leg,” Mileko said although he knew that Thal could persevere through many pains when he had to.

  “I will shift. To walk on three legs is better than one,” Thal said.

  “People might see,” Mileko said because the land would become increasingly settled as they approached Zilina.

  Thal supposed that he had already been glimpsed several times during his cross country run in werewolf form.

  “I’ll keep out of sight as best I can,” he said.

  “Very well. The sooner I get home the better chance I have of surviving,” Mileko said.

  “I smell no foulness from your wound,” Thal offered, and Mileko was cheered to hear it.

  ******

  Mist clung to the low places in the frosty meadows when morning came. Tentatively, the village came to life. Stock needed feeding and milking and pasturing, but first a half dozen men ventured out the gate. Only one had a gun, and the others carried various implements of deadly potential such as a scythe, hammer, and slaughtering knife.

  Everyone had heard the gunshots the night before along with screams that put the feeling of terror into one’s bones. Their dogs ranged ahead of them. Their tails were high and wagging as they bounded into the woods. Guided by the dogs, the men soon came upon the bodies.

  The man who had given shelter to Mileko looked among them quickly, fearing to see his guest, but he recognized none of them.

  “They have a foreign look,” he said to his son, who stayed close. Blank shock drove a portion of innocence from his young face as he beheld the bloody bodies.

  The other men murmured over the bodies. No one recognized them, but they agreed that someone had stripped their bodies of useful items.

  “At least their boots are left,” one fellow announced pragmatically and starting pulling them off.

  “You can’t defile the dead,” his neighbor protested.

  “These are good boots,” the other insisted and held one to his foot.

  “They should have a Christian burial,” said the man who had tended Mileko.

  “They might be heathens,” insisted the man with the boots.

  Another man who commanded some authority among his fellows said, “We’ll bury them. Boots can be taken.”

  This settled the matter of their physical disposal, but the mystery of their arrival and demise remained.

  “Papa, do you think that the stranger did this?” whispered the lad to his father.

  The man stooped over one of the bodies. The flesh was penetrated and torn and did not have the look of being cut by a weapon.

  “I don’t think a man could do this,” he said and poked at a torn throat with the point of a knife. “I think this is the work of a pack of wolves.”

  “That stranger brought these beasts down on us,” complained a man who overheard the assessment.

  The father stood up, much disinclined to take criticism from a neighbor who he considered somewhat lacking in honor.

  “He was trying to lead something away from us and he did,” he said defensively.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No harm has come to us except the
nasty job of tending to these dead men,” he said.

  “Still, this is what you get for taking in a stranger,” grumbled the other man.

  “That may be, but he needed help and I gave it. I’ve not seen you shy about asking me to lend you a hand,” the man said, and the remark ended the conversation.

  The villagers chose to bury the strangers in the woods. No priest was in their vicinity at the moment, and the prospect of hauling the bodies back to the village unsettled everyone. What had happened in the woods seemed best left in the woods.

  Chapter 14. The Gulf That Separates

  Sarputeen opened the cabinet in his work room. He surveyed the shelves and selected four pouches and a ceramic jar.

  Taking them to a table, he opened the pouches and sniffed inside them. He peered into the jar and shook its contents in the bottom.

  “Just enough,” he muttered.

  Grabbing a mortar and pestle, he opened a pouch and drew out some desiccated strips of mushroom. He chanted in a low voice as he ground the dried mushroom. Every so often, he paused in his chanting to assess the color of the powder. Once satisfied, he went back to the cabinet and took out a large jar. He carefully shook the powder into the jar and reached for another pouch. The hunks of bark in this pouch he crumbled with his fingers directly into the jar while repeating the same esoteric word seven times.

  He shook together the contents and put the lid back on. He set it next to the unused pouches and left the supplies out so that he could resume the work later.

  A rack of weapons filled a wall, and he considered his arsenal. He fingered the edges of several knives. Each object reminded him of some past episode from his long life. He finally chose two knives and placed them with their sheathes on another table already cluttered with bags, belts, and small tools. His white fur draped the table alongside the battle blades that he strapped onto his body when shifted.

  He touched a sharp edge that had a couple notches in the metal. The prospect of giving battle as he had in days long gone excited him a little. Too long had he been holed up in his lair. Old age and a hostile society had made it easy to retreat from the world. The dangers for one such as him had never been greater, as the death of poor Gretchen proved. The travails of Thal and Altea reinforced the point. The world of obedient men knew nothing of freedom, and their masters feared the liberating mysteries of Mother Nature that he understood. Sarputeen conceded that he feared these modern men a little. Their weapons could hurt him, and the minions of those who hated his kind were numerous.