Werewolf Castle

by Tracy Falbe

  Lenki said, “I got one.”

  “I hit the other,” Johan announced, quite astonished with himself.

  “Stay down till they start moving again,” Thal ordered.

  He reloaded his spent pistol and gave it to Altea so that she had both loaded pistols.

  “You keep one,” she said. “I have to use both hands to shoot one anyway.”

  Thal slid the pistol into the belt that held her purse. He gripped the leather strap briefly and savored the contact with her torso. “Then use them one at a time,” he said softly before breaking away to check on Valentino’s progress with the canons.

  The artillery was cresting the hill when Thal met Valentino. The Condottiere and Mileko had used ropes to add their horses to the teams harnessed to the limbers, and the effort had sped up their progress. Raul, Mency, Alonso, and Gregor had pushed as well.

  Thal did not need to inform anyone of the urgency of the situation. They had heard the gunfire.

  “How many oppose us?” Valentino called. He walked alongside his horse, holding the bridle and urging it forward.

  “I don’t know,” Thal said, and his friend grimaced at the reply.

  Thal continued, “Get those canons ready to clear the road.”

  “We will!” Valentino declared with manic enthusiasm for the deeds ahead because despair did not win battles.

  The discharge of weapons called Thal back to the eastern face of the hill. He pulled his falchion and a long knife. He tapped his earring and raced boldly down the middle of the road. The villagers roared with their collective desire to protect their land and charged artlessly into the guns. After one volley, the pack had no chance to reload, and they fell into hand-to-hand combat as the first of the locals reached them. The bayonets on the muskets gave them a good advantage on the high ground, but the villagers had figured out that only a handful of people opposed them, and they persisted bravely.

  Thal returned to Altea’s position. She had a pistol ready but stayed back from the fight. In front of Altea, Pistol barked menacingly at the encroaching crowd of enemies. Sarputeen stood in front of her as well. He swept aside two stout men with mighty blows of his staff. A third fellow came at him with a pitchfork. Sarputeen caught it between the tines with his staff. With their weapons entangled, they drew closer together and struggled to break their impasse. A fourth fellow charged Sarputeen, but Thal intercepted the man with a hard stroke of his sword that put him down for good. Sarputeen twisted and sent his opponent off balance and kicked him in the chin as he tumbled to the ground.

  When Thal stopped, he became visible to Altea.

  “Stay with me,” he called and waded farther into battle with her guarding his back. He did not use his fairy magic because he wanted his father and wife to see him.

  Sarputeen fought at his side. They made a formidable force that soon broke the villagers’ violent wave of amateur bravery. They then penetrated the flank of the main force that had the other werewolves pinned down.

  An ugly melee with shouting and whacking and people ducking behind branches to avoid deadly blows drew everyone into a timeless void of violence, where everyone became thunderbolts in a storm of their own making.

  A man scrambled toward Thal who was hotly engaged with another opponent. Altea’s need to protect her mate swept aside all hesitation. She fired a pistol. The blast shook her arms up to her shoulders, but her shot blew apart the attacker’s forehead with gruesome finality. She gaped briefly at the bloody horror but could not linger to contemplate the deed. She took out the other loaded pistol and stayed with Thal. Almost immediately she intervened to protect Sarputeen. Her shot that time caught a man in the torso. He spun away in a bloody spray while Sarputeen strode onward knocking aside other opponents.

  Once they reached the pack, they tipped the scales against the villagers. They kept together mostly in a line and beat them back.

  Valentino and the others rushed to set up the canons. Sweat beaded on the brows of the four young men despite the cold. Gregor and Alonso had practiced loading the canons and firing them before embarking on their adventure. The combat put their scant lessons to the test as they scrambled with nearly comical urgency to pack powder and load shot. Valentino had a leather bag of hot coals in his possession and he used it to heat the ignition stick while barking orders at his youthful recruits. He lapsed into Italian at a stressful moment and sputtered as he switched to his patchy Hungarian.

  Mileko checked the aiming of the canons. They pointed down the slope of the road on a relatively straight portion. Not far away he could see his companions struggling with the regrouping villagers.

  “Are they good?” Valentino asked.

  “I think so,” Mileko said and jumped back from the canons.

  “Get out of the way!” the Condottiere thundered.

  Thal heard him and looked over his shoulder. Seeing that the canons were ready, he called to the others and they retreated swiftly up the hill. They dove into the brush to avoid the blast of the iron barrels.

  Valentino ignited both canons quickly. They recoiled alongside him, and the deafening noise and smoke overwhelmed his senses. The shots mangled several men. Terrible screams erupted. Some men ran away. Others helped their wounded comrades. Some lay still in bloody heaps that steamed in the chill.

  “Again lads!” Valentino ordered, and his crew scrambled through the loading with greater efficiency.

  He sent two more blasts down the hill although the road was clear now. The retreating men shouted anew as shot fell chaotically at their backs.

  “Is everyone all right?” Thal asked.

  His pack reported no injuries, and he was proud of their stalwart actions. Altea kneeled close to him and set to work reloading the pistols again. Sarputeen stepped into the road to observe the retreating villagers. He saw the riders intercept them and apparently order them back into the fray, but the villagers persisted in their retreat. He guessed that they viewed their obligations as fulfilled, and they meant to fortify their homes.

  As the cacophony of battle subsided, a rising wind moaned over the hilltop. The natural lamentation darkened the long shadow cast by the hill over the village.

  The report of a musket assaulted the mournful respite from violence, and Sarputeen stumbled sideways.

  “Father!” Thal cried and rushed to his side. He grabbed him and pulled him toward cover. His father felt as solid as ever beneath his hands, but Thal could smell blood.

  “Get off me,” Sarputeen grumbled and grabbed his right arm. Blood was seeping into his brown rode.

  Altea dashed to his side and pulled his hand away from the wound. Her panic subsided a little once she determined that his arm only appeared to be grazed by the sniper shot.

  “I can bandage it,” she said and dug for rags in her bag.

  Thal propped his father up while she worked although the support was unnecessary. “That was too close,” he fretted.

  “But still too far from its mark,” Sarputeen murmured thankfully.

  When Altea finished dressing the wound, he said, “You’re a good daughter.”

  He then saw his blood on her fingers as she withdrew her hands. He had to suppress a shudder as his visions bled into reality.

  Thal shared in his discomfort vividly. The spilling of his father’s blood startled him, and he willed himself to remain focused on commanding the situation.

  “I suspect Janfelter made this shot,” Thal said ominously.

  “He probably hoped to get a clear shot during this sloppy battle with the locals,” Sarputeen said.

  “The dusk should hide us soon,” Altea said.

  “Yes,” Thal said, grateful to see the dark hills gobbling the sun that fled as if intruding upon the winter landscape had been a mistake. The cold deepened quickly with the promise of a bitter night. The moon would rise soon. Thal welcomed the thought of its swelling face that would observe his hunt. “We must get past this village in the dark,” he said. Getting up, he began to issue ord
ers. He told Valentino to get the canons moving again. He bade his pack to be ready to engage with Tekax’s men-at-arms as they passed the village. By the way he took off his cloak, Altea could see that he meant to shift. She came to collect his clothing and accouterments.

  “I’ll attack our enemies from the darkness as they focus on the group,” Thal said.

  “What of Janfelter?” she worried.

  “I’ll hurt him if I can lay my hands on him,” Thal said with a growl.

  “We shall work together,” Sarputeen said, coming forward with his brown robe already draped over his arm. His tattoos were bright on his chest. His dark eyes reassured Altea, who watched him slip off the bloody bandage that she had just applied.

  Ansel came forward to help collect their garments as the men stripped. He and the other new werewolves watched with breathless jealousy as the werelords transformed into their magnificent wolf forms. The sight rendered the four young men in Valentino’s company unable to lift their jaws until the Condottiere swatted Raul’s head. “Either run off in fear or accept your adventure as it’s laid before your feet!” he told them.

  Despite their ingrained superstitions, their amazement inspired them to continue. Never had any of them known such excitement, and its addicting spell held them firmly, much as Valentino had expected that it would for he was no different.

  Chapter 41. The Game of Sorcerers

  Thal followed his father across the hill. Sarputeen found a position that granted them a good view of the road as it wound toward the village. Once the dusk gave way entirely to the darkness, he raised his shaggy white head. The sound built slowly in his great throat, summoned from the frontiers of his soul. His howling plucked Thal’s emotions with deft ease like Regis at his hand harp.

  At what felt like the right moment, he added his voice. Their deep-chested notes rose into the night sky like vines winding around a great tree. Their song began to swing back and forth as each werewolf yielded to the other in an ongoing duet between lords of the wild places.

  Thal imagined how their singing must concern the villagers. He regretted those who had been hurt or killed, but death would always be his partner on the trail of life. He had chosen his place on the wheel of life when he had consumed his father’s potion those long years ago.

  They intended their audacious howling to fill the villagers with further terror after their bloody confrontation. Their bestial song should inflame their natural superstitions and keep them locked in their homes so that the others could pass the village unmolested.

  Janfelter and his fighters remained a concern, especially because of their guns, but the darkness might foil them.

  When Sarputeen ended the song, he and Thal listened. Only the faint sounds of the canons on their limbers creaked across the quiet frozen land. A few watch fires were lit on the catwalks located by the village gates, but no one else appeared to be on the road.

  In the distance, a single howl answered the werelords’ song. Thal imagined a lone animal far from the paths of men. He envied it the simplicity of its existence despite the hardship. The natural life of the beast in the forest would always attract Thal, but his time solely in that place had passed.

  Sarputeen savored the answering howl as well. The single response comforted him with the knowledge that his kind would persist. Their lupine magic could never quite be extinguished.

  When his eyes met his son’s eyes, their communication was not impeded by their inability to use the speech of men. They slipped away and flanked the progress of their group on the road.

  Their sensitive nostrils probed the land, seeking the foul traces of the fext. The acrid residue of gunpowder alerted them first to the place where Janfelter had been. After sniffing the area to confirm the fext’s presence, Sarputeen looked up the hill and judged that Janfelter could have shot at him from this location.

  Following his trail away from the place was an easy matter. They found where Janfelter had reunited with the riders on the road and retreated to the village, except Janfelter had broken away from the group again. He had gotten off his horse and his tracks led into a pasture.

  Before following the trail, Sarputeen and Thal slunk into the shadows of a pine and observed their group on the road. They sniffed and watched but detected no signs of an ambush.

  Mindful that he must be ready to defend the group once they were in range of musketeers on the village wall, Thal returned to Janfelter’s trail.

  The distasteful scent of his enemy riled him for the fight and deepened his mood for mortal combat.

  Sarputeen stayed with his son, sensing Thal’s desire for battle. Although perturbed that the fiery stake in Pressburg had failed to undo the fext, Sarputeen called upon his disciplined mind to forgo the distractions of regret. Survival depended on staying attuned to one’s surroundings.

  The scent of Janfelter was getting strong. Thal paused ahead of him to sniff a wet area. It was Janfelter’s piss.

  Thal crouched with anticipation as he chose his next steps. Sarputeen inspected the urine as well. Tense with suspicion, he advanced next to his son and sniffed carefully because Janfelter had made the trail too easy to follow.

  When Thal started to move again, Sarputeen touched Thal’s shoulder and then grabbed the edge of his armor. His son turned to look at him questioningly. Sarputeen shook his head and then moved forward very tentatively. He froze when he smelled the oiled metal. An earlier whiff of it had warned him of the peril. He reached along the ground with a paw-like hand, brushing away snow very gently until he came to the curved edge of a metal trap. He softly excavated a bit of loose snow that Janfelter had piled on the trap to expose some jagged iron teeth.

  Thal realized that he had almost trotted into the dreadful jaws. He should have noticed it. Sick with knowledge of his mistake, he leaned his head gratefully against his father’s shoulder.

  They withdrew to the road by the way that they had come. The others were almost within range of musketeers occupying the village wall. Thal and Sarputeen ran past them on the road. Their muscular forms flowed with powerful urgency. Their paws crunched against the snow, but they used the shadows and moonlight with such artful grace that they were difficult to see.

  They split up before the watch fires exposed them and circled the wooden stockade that separated the place of man from the rest of the living world.

  Thal and Sarputeen attacked the walls on opposite sides of the village. They jumped boldly and their claws scraped the tops of the timbers. Their hind legs clawed at the barrier until they were forced to give up and return to the ground. They bounded along the wall and attempted to scale it at random places.

  Their actions set off shouts and screams inside the community as the dogs cowered in peculiar silence that left their masters on their own. Every claw that scraped the walls sounded like ten beasts to the villagers. Janfelter’s men scrambled to take aim but only succeeded in leaving their posts that overlooked the road. Valentino urged the exhausted horses to their best effort on the level ground, and the group hustled out of musket range.

  Sarputeen abandoned his attack and loped toward the nearest woodland cover. Thal leaped again upon the wall, and his claws gripped the jagged wooden points tenaciously. He called upon the vicious bedrock of his soul and summoned a terrible snarl. He wanted the sound to stick in Janfelter’s ears like hot pokers. The villagers cowered and clasped their ears. Their flesh remembered the primal knowledge of their distant ancestors, and they felt teeth and claws tear into their flesh and were amazed to see their bodies whole when the sound passed.

  Cancerous resolve braced Janfelter against the supernatural wrath of the werelord’s voice. He raced toward the wall with his sword. He saw the claws scrabbling crudely atop the stockade. He thrust his sword through a gap in the timbers, but Thal let go in time to save himself. Janfelter cursed and pressed his eye into the gap. He saw Thal fully. The wolfen body retained a man-like posture. An aura of otherworldly energy that Janfelter could only envy gilded th
e beast beautifully. Thal reached up as if to scratch his ear and then disappeared.

  Janfelter gasped and blinked several times before accepting that the werewolf was gone. The disappearance forced him to wonder if he had attacked a vision instead of flesh and blood.

  He leaned his head against the wall, and the solid wood recalled him to the reality of his senses. He was tired. His enemies were great tricksters, and his ability to heal was not enough against them.

  He thought of his mother and sister in the tower. His duty was clear. Tekax owned him and them. He could not give up even if his desire for glory had ebbed. Too many failures had diminished that ambition, but he accepted his role in the game of sorcerers. He would fight for his side.

  ******

  Altea welcomed Thal and Sarputeen with relief when they trudged up the next hill. They had returned to the shape of men and held their skins around their torsos. She embraced Thal and then led the men to their clothing.

  “This is a good spot,” Thal remarked after looking around the hill where his pack had made camp. The rise swelled slightly above the plateau beyond the village, and a ring of beech trees crowned it. Valentino had positioned the canons to defend the high ground. The drooping heads of the tired horses in the shadows attested to the final effort of the animals.

  “Mileko showed us the spot,” Altea explained, assuming that he had remembered it from his first foray into the territory of Tekax.

  “We’ll plot our attack on the tower from here,” Thal decided, pleased to have a reasonably secure position.

  “Did anyone follow you?” Altea asked.

  “I think not,” Thal said.

  Sarputeen said, “We spooked the villagers sufficiently to keep them from interfering again or at least with much less enthusiasm than we saw earlier.”

  “I suppose that’s for the best,” Altea murmured, regretting the loss of life.