by Tracy Falbe
“Master,” Harvath rasped. “I lived more in one day with you than...ten men their...whole...lives.”
Wretched coughing and then gurgling wracked his body. Johan and Thal held his hands as his body gave up the battle against lungs filling with blood.
When his death came, his pack mates cried out and wept. Death ripped at their collective bond, and Harvath’s passing collected a tithe from the very flesh of their hearts.
Thal stalked away and leaned against a tree. If he had been his wolf self, he would have howled with his grief and fury, but as a man he kept himself silent and let his tears slide down his cheeks.
Chapter 25. Crossing the Vah River
Thal washed the dirt from his hands in the freezing water. Ice clung to the edges of the little creek, and a dreary dawn prodded a forgetful land into wakefulness. He rubbed each finger to free the grit from around his fingernails. After Harvath’s death, he had shifted and dug a grave with his powerful wolfen claws.
Once his hands were clean, he washed his face. Too numb to feel refreshed, he retrieved his clothes from Altea and dressed. Crying had left her eyes puffy, but now her bleak shock had lapsed into silence.
“Let us not tarry in this duty,” Thal said quietly.
She followed him out of the gully to the place where Harvath would be buried. The others were gathered around the hole. The pile of loose dirt waited ominously with the promise of eternity.
Harvath’s companions had folded his hands over his chest. He appeared peaceful, and Thal thought of the man’s last words and took some comfort from his gratitude.
Mitri, Ansel, Lenki, and Johan shifted his body into the hole. Mileko and the musicians looked on somberly. Sarputeen stared into the grave as if he were actually staring at the center of the Earth.
Thal looked at what remained of his pack. His young werewolves were shaken by their comrade’s death, but they looked to him with renewed devotion, needing his leadership more than ever.
Thal cleared his ragged throat. He had howled in grief through the night. He expected that Janfelter had heard his sorrow and vengeful outrage.
With the funeral at hand, he said, “We did not have long to know Harvath, but he was a good brother to us in the short time we had together. I have seen death before, and each time it is like the first time. I would have died for him as he did for me. I believe that hardships shall no longer trouble him. Let us remember him each time we sing in the sacred circle of our kind.”
He paused. Words seemed unable to convey the full extent of his feelings. “Would anyone else like to say something?” he asked.
“Yes,” Johan said, and Thal gladly yielded the stage.
Johan ran his fingers through his hair that now grew thick with new health. He contemplated Harvath’s face.
“I would not be alive if not for Harvath. He looked out for me in the mine. He kept me going when I was determined to fling myself in the dust and die. He convinced me to take Sir Krengar’s offer and go to Vlkbohveza. I think now that the aid he lent me so freely was his way of surviving too. Although we had nothing in common, he was the best friend I’ve ever had. He was a good man. A practical man. A tough man. I shall miss him.” His voice was only a whisper when he finished as tears threatened to spill.
Slowly, the mournful silence of the group gave way to motion. They worked together to fill in the grave and arrange rocks over it.
The conclusion of the funeral left them facing the stark reality that their number was reduced by one. Thal granted everyone another moment of reflection and then announced that it was time for them to leave. He told them that he had tracked Janfelter during the night after Harvath’s death. He appeared to have fled toward Zilina.
“We must follow him and make him pay for this deed,” Lenki proposed. Her natural passion fanned vengeful fires in the eyes of her remaining brothers.
“He might plan to attack Vlkbohveza,” Mileko said.
Lenki rewarded his support with an approving glance.
“He’ll know Vlkbohveza is vulnerable without us there,” Altea worried.
Sarputeen said, “My people are watchful for this threat. One man, despite his power, cannot prevail against a group defending the walls. Even if they cannot kill him, they could capture him. He’ll realize that.”
She nodded reluctantly. They had already calculated this decision and deemed leaving their stronghold an acceptable risk.
Mileko said, “What if he goes against Duke Thurzo? He could attack our ally directly.”
Regis presumed to give his opinion. “The Duke can take care of himself. I say we continue for Pressburg. The farther south we go the fairer the weather.”
Thal considered his obligation to support Thurzo but hoped to draw Janfelter toward him and away from Zilina and Vlkbohveza. “We must go on to Pressburg as intended. Valentino’s need is great. The fext will follow me. His master wants my death, and I will call to him every night,” Thal decided.
No one offered any more debate although Lenki frowned with frustration.
“This will not be our last encounter with that killer,” Mileko promised her gently, and she noticed his tone of dread.
“I want my chance to do better against him,” she confided.
“You were brave,” he said, but the compliment annoyed her because she knew that she would be dead in the dirt next to Harvath if not for Mileko’s aid.
“I must learn to be clever,” she said, half to herself.
“You will learn,” he assured her.
His encouragement enticed her to look fully into his eyes. Men had never offered her any support, and the new life that she found herself living continued to surprise her.
“I could teach you some of my tricks as we travel,” he offered.
Hesitantly, she nodded and moved off as if she had spoken with him too much.
Mileko mounted his horse and led most of the group toward the river road that would take them south. Only Thal and Sarputeen tarried by the grave.
Sarputeen set a hand on his son’s arm and said, “Do not blame yourself. We live dangerous lives.”
“So you suggest I not mind when my werewolves get killed,” he complained, irked by his father’s seeming indifference. How many had his father made and lost over the years?
“I suggest only that you not blame yourself,” his father said.
“In this I think we differ,” Thal said, believing that it was the man in his father who could place such emotional distance between himself and his servants for such was not the way of a wolf pack. He walked away wondering if his heart would grow so hard with the passage of years. He hoped that when Sarputeen had been young that such things had not been easy for him.
Watching his son stride away, Sarputeen felt keenly Thal’s anguish. His mother was the source of that compulsive compassion. Her devotion to others and his willingness to be austere had been their primary source of conflict.
******
As they traveled south, the snow disappeared, but the drenching chill rain provided a miserable alternative. Everyone gave up any attempt at cheerfulness as they slogged through two nights on a dark road and huddled in hiding through the day to limit the chance that Janfelter, if he was out there, could shoot at them.
At last the dreary weather gave way to a bright morning, and they reached a village overlooking a bend in the Vah River. Mileko judged that they were at the point where they should cross and travel southeast for Pressburg.
A road running from the village to a wide fording place appeared to agree with him, but the rains had swollen the waters. As Thal contemplated the cold current, he knew that he could strip down and swim it, but he disliked the consequences of wet gear and supplies, and he was uncertain about everyone’s swimming abilities.
“We’ll go into the village and find someone who owns one of these boats,” Sarputeen proposed, referring to the four boats of various sizes tied to a nearby quay.
“We all could use a hot meal,” Altea added.
Thal nodded and asked his father what he thought a boat crossing might cost.
“I’ll do the talking,” Sarputeen said and headed up the muddy lane.
Altea giggled and slipped an arm through Thal’s. “I don’t think he wants to repeat what happened in Zilina,” she said.
“I had everything under control in Zilina,” he said.
They found a house welcoming to travelers and enjoyed sausages and turnips washed down with a beer of above average quality in Mitri’s opinion.
Sarputeen visited the local church, a humble wooden building occupied by an elderly priest. After explaining that his group needed a boat crossing, the priest happily located the right fellow and bade him to aid Brother Miguel on his mission for the Society of Jesus as a favor to the Church.
The thick-armed fellow who looked like he could row across an ocean agreed, but Sarputeen could tell that unpaid labor did little to improve his spirituality.
By midday, everyone was piling into the modest vessel. The river man eyed the motley company that filled his boat to what very much appeared to be its capacity.
“What manner of pilgrimage draws you forth with winter nigh?” he inquired after noticing that his passengers were either heavily armed or carrying musical instruments.
“I see to it that the Brother is safe on his travels. These are dangerous times,” Thal offered dodgily.
“And the musicians?” he asked.
“Music tames the savage beast,” Sarputeen said matter of factly.
“So they say,” the man agreed. “I heard a wolf howling last night. Sounded like a big one, maybe the biggest one.”
He poled the boat out into the current. Mileko held on to his horse by a long line, and the animal swam out after the boat. The water came high up the sides of the loaded boat that headed downstream swiftly. The boat man paddled furiously on one side to turn the boat toward the other bank. Ansel and Mitri took up the paddles and aided him considerably, and they were soon across.
“How will you get back?” Altea asked as she alighted from the rocking boat.
The concern of a pretty lady had never been directed toward the man before, and he floundered verbally for a bit until he was able to explain. “I’ll get it across downriver somewhere and then tow it back to my mooring. It’s not that far.”
“Oh good. Thank you,” she said, and her gratitude compensated him well.
Thal held the boat steady until everyone was out. He shook the man’s hand and pressed a silver thaler into his palm. “I appreciate your assistance,” he said.
Thal watched the fellow consider refusing because of what the priest had said, but he decided that his soul could survive a tiny indiscretion before God.
“You’re welcome,” he said and began to turn his boat away from the bank.
“I must warn you,” Thal added. “Another stranger might soon come to your village. He’s very dangerous. Warn your friends.”
Alarmed that he had oared his way into the waters of some strange intrigue, the boat man said, “And I suppose you’ll tell me next not to mention seeing you.”
“That would be best because telling him you helped us might make him murder you out of spite,” Thal said, obviously uncomfortable with the admission.
“Enough of this! I want no more of your business,” the boat man said and pushed his craft into the current.
As he hopped into his boat and took up a paddle, Thal called after him, “Stay clear of the stranger with long guns and long hair. The Brother hastens to get help to attack this creature of sorcery.”
“Sorcery?” the man cried as he retreated from the bank.
“Warn your neighbors and drive him from your village as soon as you see him,” Thal yelled across the water.
The man kept staring at Thal, momentarily heedless of where the current pulled his boat. Only now did he let himself see that Thal was no normal man, but the river demanded his attention and forced him to ply his paddle.
Mileko had overheard Thal’s exchange with the boat man while tightening the belly strap of his horse’s saddle. “You could get him and his neighbors in trouble if they actually confront the fext. Lives could be lost,” he scolded.
“My conscience bade me to warn them,” Thal explained.
“How can you be so certain that Janfelter has followed us?” Mileko asked.
“After the rain passed, I smelled him on the wind,” Thal said.
“Then let us get away from this place,” Mileko said. He scanned the gentle hills overlooking the river, wondering if a gun was aimed at them already.
******
Janfelter rode with a loaded musket across his lap. He knew that he had been close to Thal’s group the whole journey. They were moving at night, but he dared not hunt them in the darkness. Their ability to vanish each day proved their fear of his guns, but he still hoped to come upon them and take a shot.
He recognized that he must be approaching a village. The woodlands gave way to pastures, orchards, and harvested fields. Shocks of grain and stacks of hay still inhabited some spaces.
He spotted a pair of boys. One carried a pair of dead hares collected from his snares, but they raced away upon seeing him.
He passed homesteads tucked behind hedges and fences as the sun rounded its bright but chilly zenith. When he reached the timber walls of the village, an abnormally vacant scene warned him that something was amiss. No one was visible. Only some chickens scratched at a cow pie in the lane, and the gate was barred. He scanned the timber stockade and spotted a few columns of smoke. Active hearths told him that the people must be inside. Dogs started barking within, and he heard the sniffing of at least one great nose between the upright timbers as the dog took in his strange scent.
Stopping in front of the gate, he wondered if Thal and his company had taken refuge within. He could not imagine how they might have convinced the villagers to harbor them, or what they hoped to accomplish by cowering inside.
“Hello!” he yelled and was answered by a suspicious quiet sprinkled with the faint sound of footsteps. Wooden steps creaked beneath the weight of men.
“Why have you barred your gate to travelers at midday?” Janfelter called.
Four men appeared on the platforms alongside the gate. Two drew bows. Janfelter’s eyes flicked between the pair of sharp points that could pierce the heart of a stag. Felt hats framed their bearded faces, and their eyes blazed with superstitious alarm gilded with courage.
“Begone! You’ve no business here!” shouted one man.
“I think I do,” Janfelter argued. “I’m hunting a terrible son of the Devil. Surely you’ve heard of the Butcher of Prague? He’s spreading devilry again. Many are dead by Zilina. You stand in the way of imperial justice.”
This bold statement unsettled the village men, but the stranger matched the description given to the boat man, and his deadly demeanor gave credence to their comrade’s urgent warning. Although the threat of interfering with imperial business produced a squeamish unease within the men who strived to live without rousing the attention of their rulers, they saw nothing about the lone figure that confirmed his official agency. He had a foreign look about his face and accouterments that defied their ability to identify his origin.
The boat man dared to converse with the exotic musketeer. The strange mercenary with the Jesuit had convinced him that affairs beyond his reckoning were trying to engulf his life and it was best to limit contact.
“Begone I say! We’ve heard the stories of Thal, and all know that no man would hunt such a beast alone. And no strangers are in here. Begone!”
Janfelter raised his musket and the bang of its discharge dropped all of the men behind their wooden wall. Large splinters shattered away from one timber, and the boat man cried out when a rough spike of wood lodged in his meaty arm.
Another fellow directed his fury at the hostile stranger and stood up with his bow. His shot was true and the arrow pierced Janfelter’s neck.
“I g
ot him!” the man shouted, and his mates stood up. They leaned over to observe what must be his last mortal moments.
His horse stomped and turned as the rider swayed in the saddle. He shifted the musket strap onto his shoulder and grabbed the arrow. Horror pulled back the lips of the observers as Janfelter threw the shaft into the dirt. His smile revealed the depth of his wickedness while the blood ceased to flow and torn skin became whole with the swiftness of an unholy miracle.
The alarm of the men forced them to call out to the Virgin and Her Holy Son for protection as they crossed themselves with sincere haste.
Janfelter drew his pistol and leaned his head to the left and right as if working a kink out of his neck. The men clung to the edge of the stockade and gaped at him, still too shocked to react.
“I know they came this way. Tell me where they are or come nightfall I’ll haunt this place until every man, woman, and child is dead!” Janfelter announced.
The boat man cried, “They crossed the river!”
Unconcerned about the possibility of more arrows, Janfelter turned his head casually to look down the slope toward the ford. He knew Pressburg lay in that direction, but he could not fathom why Thal would go there or why his father would accompany him. He had to find out because Tekax would want to know the answers.
“Pray I never have cause to come this way again,” Janfelter said and rode toward the ford. Along the muddy half frozen banks, he spotted tracks that matched those he had seen before.
The village men watched him lift his guns and powder horns over his head as his horse entered the river. The current carried the swimming animal a little downstream before its hooves found ground again and it ascended from the water on the opposite bank.
******
Thal constantly caught himself looking for Harvath as the group hiked toward Pressburg. Grief interrupted this habitual head count of his pack, and he recognized grudgingly the refuge of his father’s dispassion.
Over the next two nights of travel, Thal shifted and sang his haunting song to the hills. His mournful howl soothed his conscience somewhat as he stowed away the memory of his first werewolf brother who had died.