Werewolf Castle

by Tracy Falbe

  Her happiness at his return splattered like spilled milk when she sensed his mood. He met her eyes briefly. Urgent concern lit his movements.

  “Valentino, can you stand?” he asked.

  Valentino swung his legs out of bed. “I’ll march on Rome to stay free,” he declared.

  Thal removed one of his pistols from his belt and thrust it into Valentino’s lap. “Take this,” he said.

  Valentino gripped the weapon tenderly. His grateful fingers caressed it with the reverence of an addict ready for a bender.

  “Is it Janfelter?” Altea asked.

  “Yes, and with ten men,” he said. “They’re searching the town door to door.”

  Altea had not expected the brazen pursuit within the town, but further consideration told her that no one could really control the fext.

  Valentino looked up from the gun. “What is a fext?” he asked as his mind staggered back toward tactical thought. He did not like the dire look exchanged between his friends.

  “He’s a warrior that cannot be killed. Sorcery resurrects him from mortal wounds. He’s the servant of Tekax, a sorcerer with great animosity toward my father and me,” Thal explained.

  Valentino blinked several times as the information strained his wits. If he had not witnessed Thal’s magic, he might have never accepted what had just been told to him. But Valentino supposed that one such as Thal might attract such daunting enemies.

  “He’s searching for you?” Valentino asked.

  “He desires my death and likely my father’s as well. We’re all in great danger but not without the means of defending ourselves,” Thal said.

  “What do you intend to do?” Altea asked.

  “Hide here for now. Wait for the night to engage him and his crew,” Thal said.

  Nightfall seemed both frighteningly close and infinitely far away. Altea looked forward to the shifting of her flesh. The strength and vast sense of being alive granted her indescribable joy. But so many unknowns confronted her. Would she kill somebody tonight? How well could she hide from the townspeople? What would their terror of her be like?

  Thal set a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ve arranged for a river boat. Mileko is seeing after it right now. If all goes well, we’ll be downriver tomorrow.”

  “That’s good news,” Valentino declared. He got up and started looking through the lawyer’s wardrobe for clothing. On the bottom shelf he came across riding boots. He held his foot up to one and judged it to be a tolerable fit.

  “Outfit yourself as best you can,” Thal advised. “When it’s time to leave this place, we’ll have need of haste.”

  “I feel my strength returning with each breath of fresh air,” Valentino said.

  Gesturing for Altea to follow, Thal said, “Let us consult my father.”

  After they went downstairs, Thal discovered that his father was behind the house. He kneeled in the shallow snow, and the wetness soaked his brown robe at his knees. His quiet chanting separated him from the urban surroundings as he gathered powers from the spirit world.

  “What is he doing?” Altea whispered.

  “Working some spell,” Thal said. He observed his father closely, trying to understand what he was witnessing. The language was like the words of his transformation spell, but he could not quite understand his father’s monotonous muttering.

  Pistol wandered the little yard and peed on a fence post while the soft chanting continued.

  “Perhaps we should leave him be,” Altea whispered.

  Sarputeen halted his chanting and slapped his hands together in a thunderous clap that made Pistol tuck his ears back.

  “I am ready,” he announced. Stiff knees obviously slowed his otherwise smooth ascent to his feet.

  Thal told him quickly about Mileko, the boat, and the fext’s search of the town. Sarputeen nodded sagely. A vision of the fext had come to him as he chanted.

  “I will speak with the bishop of this town and see what we can do about this fext,” Sarputeen said.

  “I say we hide here and make a move for the river under cover of dark,” Thal said.

  “Yes, stay here, son. I’ll go alone,” Sarputeen said.

  “Janfelter could come across you in the street. You cannot go alone. And what is your plan with the bishop anyway?” Thal said.

  “Brother Miguel should not find it too difficult to convince our Church fathers to hunt this wretched fext for us,” he explained.

  “You need not take this risk,” Altea worried.

  Sarputeen understood that he was a bold impostor intent on tricking the sworn enemies of his kind, but he said, “I need to take this risk, sweet daughter. I’ll raise a mob that will distract this fext and perhaps overcome him.”

  She admired his cleverness but his plan troubled her. “Sarpu, will this not send innocents into danger?” she said.

  “I would question the innocence of those who jump at the chance to persecute,” he said, and Altea felt unable to assail his reason.

  Sarputeen continued, “I must hurry before Janfelter seeks the bishop.”

  The men in the service of the fext already showed the fext’s influence in the region, and Thal agreed that his father should make contact with ecclesiastical authorities first if it was not already too late.

  “I’ll escort you to this bishop,” Thal decided.

  “Very well,” Sarputeen said.

  “What should we do if they discover us here while you’re out?” Altea asked.

  Thal moved close to her. He brushed his cheek against hers. “I’ll keep him away from this place until the moon comes,” he assured her.

  She turned so that their lips could meet. Time allowed them only a quick kiss, but she had great faith that he would protect her location. Her new knowledge of her animal self informed her that his instincts demanded the defense of his pack in all ways, especially his mate. She looked forward to the moon rise so that she could share fully in his duties.

  Chapter 33. Let Stout Men Follow Me

  Sarputeen sensed the emotional disturbances rising in the town once he took to the streets. Talk of the stranger hunting the werewolf flew from mouth to ear like cinders driven by strong wind. People rushed about their morning errands, fetching evergreen wreaths and foods from the market stalls in preparation for the holiday, but children were noticeably absent as women hurried the streets with their baskets. On this day, when neighbors normally opened their doors and shared drinks and food, people were suddenly barring their doors and dreading the armed group overturning the town.

  Thal stayed close to his father with a hand on his remaining pistol under his cloak. Their sharp senses allowed them to avoid the fext and his mercenaries. They took a circuitous route toward the cathedral.

  As they went, Sarputeen called out to people to beware the warlock in their midst.

  “Pray for redemption from this foul magic worker. He must be destroyed,” Sarputeen declared, and a small group had gathered behind him by the time he reached the cathedral.

  “We’re of the Society of Jesus!” Thal added. “Come to defend you.”

  “The Papists bring these devils!” one man complained and several men echoed his concern.

  “Shall you be first among us to confront this warlock?” Thal challenged, and the agitator slunk to the rear ranks. He might dislike the Roman priests that presumed to minister to the city, but he just might leave the hunting of magic workers to them.

  Sarputeen mounted the steps of the cathedral with his adherents in tow. He expected to find the bishop inside preparing to deliver a high mass.

  Warm candle light filled the cathedral. Thick pillars of pure beeswax shone brilliantly alongside the gold covered wood of the altar. The stained glass windows adorned the cloudy sky with jewels. The richly oiled wood of the pews reflected a steady energy, and the white fur upon Sarputeen’s shoulders shimmered like hawthorn blossoms.

  Even Thal, who was accustomed to the presence of his father, noticed his wild brightness in
this orderly place. Despite the artful and lovely surroundings, Sarputeen looked like an angel descended into a tar pit.

  The men and women draping evergreen boughs along the pews stopped their work and gaped at him in silent awe as he advanced on the altar. Two priests clothed in white frocks, resplendent in their crisp newness for the holiday, conferred with their backs toward the strangers advancing on quiet feet.

  The immobile eyes of the saints carved into the wall seemed to shift their gaze in the brilliant candlelight when Sarputeen stopped and tapped his staff once.

  The priests turned. A puzzled pause dragged on before Sarputeen announced, “I am Brother Miguel of the Society of Jesus. This town is beset by a warlock and I require the assistance of armed men. I bear letters from the Archbishop of Prague and must speak with your bishop.”

  After his immense announcement, the priests looked from Sarputeen to Thal and back to Sarputeen.

  To prod them to action, Thal said, “The Brother said he needed to speak with the bishop.”

  “Oh, um,” one priest said.

  “That is...” the other priest said.

  “Brother, let us speak in private,” the first priest finally managed.

  They led Sarputeen and Thal away from the bright sanctum and into a small room. As if relaxed by the privacy, the priests introduced themselves as Fathers Lubecka and Smythe.

  “Welcome to Pressburg,” Lubecka said, striving to insert some normalcy into the strange encounter. “I apologize but Bishop Stefano Bianchi is away in Rome and not expected back until Easter. Did you say something about a warlock?”

  “I told you,” interrupted Smythe. “The castle sent word about a warlock last night.”

  “Of course they did,” Sarputeen said, pleased to hear it. “I warned them last night, yet nothing has been done. This devilish creature is harassing the townsfolk right now. He hath ensnared mercenaries to his purposes. I, as a Soldier of Christ, will take as many men as you can spare to hunt this warlock before he sheds blood or worse.”

  “But the holiday...” Smythe moaned.

  “An agent of the Devil walks your streets,” Sarputeen said.

  “Perhaps I should see your letter,” Lubecka said gently. “I did not catch your name.”

  Sarputeen thrust forth his stolen credentials with impatient confidence. “Brother Miguel,” he said.

  Lubecka accepted the letter delicately. He examined it, but saw nothing amiss although he was not fond of this new Jesuit order that thought they could stomp about where they pleased and give orders.

  Looking to Thal, Lubecka said, “And you are?”

  “Preparing to take my vows,” Thal said diplomatically, and his mysterious gaze unsettled Lubecka who returned his attention gratefully to Sarputeen. His facial muscles relaxed as he looked at the sorcerer. He supposed that he should take the talk of a warlock seriously and be grateful that the Jesuit was willing to deal with such unpleasantness. The holiday might be salvaged after all.

  “I could call for the City Guard to assist you,” Lubecka proposed.

  “Then please do so,” Sarputeen said. “We’ll await you here.”

  When the priests departed, Thal almost asked them to bring refreshment, but he decided not to press his luck when his father’s magic was working so well.

  Once they were alone, Thal said, “You impressed them.”

  Sarputeen relaxed into a chair and tossed his feet on a table. He rubbed his temple. “You have the same power as me,” he said.

  Thal understood that many people were receptive to his charms, but his father was doing something more. The people that he had so easily riled in the street revealed a greater reach.

  “You’re influencing everyone around you,” Thal noted quietly.

  “One must know how to make the herd panic,” Sarputeen said, recalling the world of the hunt.

  Sooner than they had expected, Lubecka returned. Two out-of-breath choir boys were at his elbows. Their adolescent cheeks were flushed and the gravest excitement lit their eyes. “Brother Miguel, the City Guard is summoned, and I need you to speak to the crowd.”

  “Certainly,” Sarputeen said. He strode out like he addressed mobs everyday.

  The small group in the church yard had grown during their short time in the cathedral. Curious and easily excited people had been joined by the genuinely frightened. Some people had already had armed men pounding on their doors, and everyone wanted answers.

  “You are afflicted by the boldest warlock in the Valley of the Danube,” Sarputeen declared. “Do not look him in the eye. Do not speak to him. Bolt you and yours indoors for he’s as deathless as the Devil. I, Brother Miguel, will call upon Heaven’s holy power and bring him to his knees. Let stout men follow me and let your Savior count you among the bravest.”

  A dozen men shouted enthusiastically as they only needed a leader to tell them what to do and were grateful to be relieved of thinking about the situation.

  Babbling excitement rippled through the crowd as people decided who would go where. Men ordered women and children home while women were split between begging their male kin to come home or exhorting them to attack the intruder.

  Thal watched them all warily. Their fearsome moods warned him of their potential to turn on him. His beloved Altea had known the rough grip of such viciousness that made wolves seem tame. He must make sure that the townsfolk did not witness the transformation of the pack.

  To fill the time until the City Guards arrived, Sarputeen regaled the townsfolk with reports of Janfelter’s deeds. He told them the dire details of the massacre at Strecno. People cringed at the horror that had interrupted their feast preparations, but their hunger for Sarputeen’s words bound them to him. Once he exhausted that story, he went on to tell of Janfelter’s eastern origins and service to the Ottomans. Although he knew almost no details of the warrior’s life, he devised a biography freely.

  When a dozen men with spears bearing the insignia of the Duke arrived in the church yard, Thal accepted his total commitment to his father’s plan of masquerading as agents who battled magic creatures. Their deception went so deep that perhaps those they duped could never accept the truth. He admired the power that his father found by turning the keys on the locks of people’s minds.

  Sarputeen spoke to the men-at-arms with such authority that they were soon under his thrall. The priests watched from the cathedral doorway, content to let the Jesuit interloper proceed with his mission.

  “Where was this warlock seen last?” Sarputeen thundered into the crowd, and people shouted directions. Sarputeen pointed his staff down the applicable street and started forward. Thal hailed the guards so that they would follow.

  His heart pounded with rare excitement as he followed his father. Thal braced for his next encounter with the fext. Although he disliked his father’s casual employment of the locals, he recognized that their sheer numbers created a much needed advantage.

  The mob grew in their wake as their procession penetrated the streets. People continued to wave them toward the place where Janfelter was currently harassing the populace.

  And then Thal saw his nemesis again. He sat atop his horse as his henchmen accosted people in the street and kicked in doors.

  Deep animosity vibrated in Thal’s throat as he felt a strong desire to shift. He wanted to cast aside his human encumbrances and have at the foul thing with all of his savage power.

  Thal shouted, “Janfelter!”

  Truly startled, the fext whirled in his saddle. Thal’s steady gaze met him and all other details receded from his perception. The street, the crowd, the guards, the buildings, and melting clumps of snow gave way to the otherworldly face of the werewolf. Janfelter could see past the manly mask. He drew a musket from its sling on the saddle.

  Thal shoved his father aside and dashed in the opposite direction. He advanced with such leaping speed that Janfelter could not aim a shot until Thal was nearly upon him. Janfelter’s horse reared, and Thal rolled beneath its s
winging hooves. He came to his feet on the other side of the horse and ran among the mercenaries, spooking their horses.

  “Get that one!” Sarputeen yelled into the chaos and leveled a righteous finger at the man holding a musket and struggling with the reins of his horse.

  Thal ducked from swords swinging at him and pulled his falchion. His wildly fast reflexes allowed him to block every blow with his speedy short blade.

  The City Guards charged obediently into the fray inspired by Thal’s fearless plunge among the riders. The mercenaries fell back, unwilling to slay the City Guards in sight of the Duke’s castle. This was no small town where the royal authority was snubbed. In Pressburg, Church and State demanded respect.

  With Janfelter separated from his men, Thal circled back to confront him and his unruly horse. Thal and Sarputeen approached from opposite sides. The steed could not obey the rider when wolves prowled so purposefully.

  “Throw rocks at him!” Sarputeen cried, and the townsfolk behind him swiftly armed themselves with projectiles. Pebbles, bricks, hunks of firewood, and a bucket were hurled at Janfelter.

  Braving the hail, Thal jumped toward the fext and grasped the end of the musket. In the tussle over the weapon, it discharged and blasted a hunk of cobble out of the street. People screamed, and a half dozen City Guards scrambled to assist Thal. They pulled Janfelter from his horse. The panicked animal galloped away up the street where the mercenaries had regrouped.

  With vicious strength, Janfelter yanked his gun out of Thal’s grasp and clubbed aside two guards. People kept throwing debris and advancing on the combat. Thal drew his pistol but could not dare to take a shot with so many bystanders present.

  Sarputeen struck Janfelter with his staff. The blow glanced off the helmet, but sent him reeling toward the crowd. Janfelter recovered gracefully and charged Sarputeen with his sword out. Thal jumped forward to defend his father, and the two men exchanged blows in a circling dance of striking metal.