by Tracy Falbe
“Quiet, my daughter,” he said through gritted teeth. Tears streamed down his cheeks to attest to the pain that he refused to announce with awful screams.
With his human hands, he seized the jaws of the trap and pulled them open. He jerked his leg free and fell back, gasping from the exertion. With the trap removed from his flesh, blood spilled more freely. Altea turned in mindless circles, but he called to her gently.
Whining softly, she placed her head in his hands. “Tear down a banner and bring it to me,” he commanded. Love defined his gentle tone, but it was filled with a visceral authority that she had to obey.
Swiftly, she tore down a banner with her heavy jaws. She took the fabric to Sarputeen, and he used the sharp teeth of the trap to rip a long strip from the banner. He tied a tight tourniquet just below his knee to reduce the bleeding. Sweat dribbled into his tears, and he wiped his face.
“Help me walk,” he said and put his arms around her fluffy neck. She easily hoisted him up so that he could lean on her and hop on one foot.
******
Thal burst by Mileko on the stairs, and the magician had to stand aside as the manic pack rushed by at their master’s heels. Thal and his werewolves burst into a hall and split up as they barged through doors to inspect empty rooms. One room was barred, but Thal only smelled women within so he continued his hunt. He turned a corner and halted with surprise to be face-to-face with a boy. The thin lad’s brown eyes bulged with terror, and he flailed his arms to regain his balance after stopping abruptly. He spun and fled. The action nearly triggered Thal’s instinct to chase, but this serving lad was not the object of his deadly wrath.
His werewolves and Mileko caught up and crowded the hall behind him.
“I think that is his chamber,” Mileko recalled and pointed to a heavy door.
Thal noticed that his father and Altea were absent, but Mileko called for help with the locked door. Thal threw himself against the thick wood. His armor dug into his armpits with each blow. He stepped aside and signaled for Mitri to have a turn. The burly creature slammed against the door with all the force of his loyalty to his master. The bar on the other side groaned. Mitri struck the door again and a crack rewarded his effort. Ansel wedged his way against the door and added his weight. Together they hit the door and it burst open. Thal jumped into the room over Mitri and Ansel’s tumbling bodies.
He met Tekax’s eyes and beheld great defiance. The fearless gaze from the sunken eyes made Thal pause because Tekax surely had some foul defense at hand.
But his flesh looked weak. He was just an old thin man in loose clothes. His hair hung in unkempt strings. His yellowed skin told of failing health. He was ripe for removal from the world but clung tenaciously to his existence as if entitled to the fulfillment of all of his wants forever.
Thal approached slowly, taking in the details of the room. A desk and a chair comprised the simple furnishings along with mirrored lamps that cast bright light.
Thal heard faint chanting and realized that Tekax was working his magic. Unwilling to spend more time on caution, Thal charged. Tekax attempted to block him with his metal cane. When it came in contact with Thal’s armor, arcing bolts of energy burst in all directions, and Thal convulsed with a new form of pain that contracted his muscles and stopped his mind. He thudded against the floor like a rag doll bludgeoned with a stone club. Snarling filled his ears as his pack rushed to support him. Hissing explosions of energy and the burning stink of fur assaulted his senses as he tried to regain his feet.
Tekax had thwarted the onslaught of werewolves, but he had been forced against the wall. He was breathing hard and holding up his cane appeared to be requiring great exertion.
Thal faltered when he stood up and grabbed a candle stand. Droplets of hot wax dribbled on his arm, but his fur protected him from the burn.
Mileko waded through the clot of werewolves reeling from the lightning-like force that had hit them. He knew what to expect from Tekax’s sinister weapon and braced himself for the encounter. He dodged Tekax’s sloppy attempt to hit him with the cane and thrust with his sword. The sorcerer twisted aside, and the blade barely cut the ancient skin. Mileko struck with a dagger in his other hand, and Tekax caught the hilt of the weapon with his cane. Jagged bolts of energy sparked from the point of contact. Mileko dropped his dagger and seized the cane with his bare hand. He possessed some educated suspicions about Tekax’s ability to manipulate and amplify bodily energy. Mileko struggled to counteract the effect by channeling his own inner flow of energy. For a moment, he felt the sorcerer’s power waver, but then it surged back and overwhelmed Mileko, who fell backwards with a scream and a burned hand.
Tekax staggered away.
“I’ll reduce you all to ash,” he warned.
Thal had recovered somewhat and was gingerly coming closer. He understood that he needed only to catch hold of the frail old body and endure the sting of his magic. He watched for an opportunity to make his final attack.
“Tekax!”
Thal recognized his father’s voice as well as the abnormal strain behind it. He glanced back quickly and then recoiled with alarm. Sarputeen held on to Altea’s neck so that he could stay upright. His bare foot was crimson with a coating of blood that still flowed down his ravaged calf.
“Stay back. You’ve brought me this far. Let me finish it,” Sarputeen commanded. He swept his arm outward to signal that the others should make way for him.
Tekax enjoyed the sight of his badly wounded rival. “You’re a beast, Sarputeen. You cannot prevail!” he warned. Blue fire snapped along his cane as if jealousy renewed his power.
Sarputeen narrowed his eyes at Tekax’s persistent snobbery. “You are wrong to think yourself better than me. The animal kills to live, but you kill to spread destruction and fear.”
“Architects such as I yoke this Earth to the service of man. Nature will bow to us forever,” Tekax said. The subject produced a mania in him that no amount of fact or logic could reach. The domination that he envisioned was the only thing that inspired him.
Despite his pain, Sarputeen chuckled bitterly. “All your cages, chains, and machines of war will mean nothing in the end. You sever yourself from the true power of Nature. You resent me because I would not teach you the old ways, but I could never have taught you, not even if I wanted to. Your mind is not right,” he said.
Tekax ignored the criticism of his intellect, which he had proven many times to be among the greatest in the world, and said, “Gretchen should have been my consort, not yours. You lured her with some trickster’s spell.”
“She made her choice freely,” Sarputeen insisted. “Perhaps she hoped to nurture goodness in you. That was the way of her heart. When she tried and failed, she left you. I’ve no blame in your loss. And loss is all that you can really know. You and those like you only take, and use up, and take more. Your brilliance could have built a better world, but you only lashed out with warmongering and machines. I would pity you if you had not knowingly caused so much suffering.”
Thal pressed closer to Tekax. The sorcerer moved his cane to fend off the great beast that could snap his bones. He could see in the baleful eyes that the next time that Thal struck no amount of pain was going to dissuade him from the kill.
The other werewolves started to lunge and nip at the sorcerer. He zapped them liberally, but the circle of muscular fur stayed close.
Valentino entered the room. He had one of Thal’s pistols. “Enough of this,” he declared and took aim.
“May I?” Sarputeen said.
“By all means,” the Condottiere said and handed him the pistol.
Sarputeen watched disbelief creep up his rival’s face as he lifted the killing tool.
“You call me a beast, but you forget I’m a man,” Sarputeen said and shot Tekax. The slug landed in his shoulder. He dropped his cane and clutched his bleeding wound as he pressed against the wall.
“He’s mine,” Sarputeen insisted.
He dropped
the pistol and held his bloody white fur to his chest. He savored every word of the spell of transformation. The shifting tightened the tourniquet on his leg, and he limped toward his enemy on three good legs.
Thal and the werewolves gave him room as he descended on his victim.
“No! No!” Tekax screamed. He crumpled in submission when Sarputeen bit his arm with bone-crushing force. He tossed Tekax against the wall three times like a man beating out a fire with a blanket.
But fury could only lend Sarputeen so much strength in his condition. He gave up his vengeful torments and turned his bloody jaws toward the throat. The heavy fangs soon ended the awful screams.
Sarputeen fell next to his vanquished foe. He took a deep breath. His torso lifted and rose, and he savored his beloved wolf body. He released his magic and became a pale man covered by a fur.
He looked at Tekax’s mangled body with satisfaction but sadness as well. They could have been colleagues and explored the mysteries of creation together, but an abyss had separated their philosophies.
“Take me outside,” he said weakly.
Thal shifted back to his human form and embraced his father. “What has happened?” he cried. The ragged tourniquet above the shredded leg dismayed him. He grasped his forehead as his emotions lurched like sailors on a deck in a tempest. He clasped the slick wound and wished that he knew the healing spells of his father, but could even Sarputeen set right such destruction?
Altea pressed close on the other side of Sarputeen and tried to lift him and take him outside as he had commanded.
“Good daughter,” Sarputeen murmured and stroked her fur. He seemed disoriented.
Thal tossed his fur over his shoulder and lifted his father all by himself. He carried the man out to the gate yard. Blood dribbled in the snow. The overhead moon cast light that erased all wrinkles and cares from Sarputeen’s elderly face. He looked at the distant and mysterious moon who beckoned his spirit.
Thal set him down and covered him with his fur. “What can I do?” he said.
“Altea...” Sarputeen said and reached out blindly. She slunk her head beneath his palm and he rubbed behind an ear. With his other hand he gathered his white fur. He flipped it over and looked at the runes written upon the hide. Somehow age had not faded the blood writing.
“Bring me a knife,” he said.
Mileko gave him one. He stood over his bleeding master. He wanted to be closer to him but felt that he must leave this moment to his son.
Sarputeen nicked Altea’s paw with the point of the knife. She squeaked with alarm, but he held on to her with a surprisingly firm grip. He dabbed a finger into her dripping blood and began to write her name on the inside of his fur.
“What are you doing?” Thal asked although his heart told him what was happening.
Finished with the writing of her name, Sarputeen let his head fall back in Thal’s lap. “Son...you will be safe for a time. Take care of your pack and Vlkbohveza as well as you can,” he said.
“Father!” Thal cried, sounding like a stern parent hushing a child. “I’ll heal you,” he insisted, determined to find a way.
“Too late,” Sarputeen said.
Altea started whining. Thal tried to form an argument or think of what to do. He looked up to Mileko but saw his face already awash with hopeless grief.
Thal cried out and lowered his forehead to his father’s face. “I need you, Father. We had so little time,” he choked.
“No one ever has enough,” his father gently said. His eyelids drooped, but Thal’s moan brought him back from the brink.
“Altea must bite me as I die. I will give her my werepower,” he said. He beckoned her closer but she retreated and shook her head.
“You must accept my gift,” Sarputeen said.
Altea trembled. She felt the life of her maker slipping away. She had become accustomed to his fatherly presence so quickly and now he would be gone. On top of her own despair, she also felt terrible for Thal’s inevitable grief.
“Accept my gift,” Sarputeen said.
She whined in protest.
He understood that she was not thinking clearly. “Obey me!” he commanded, and the old majesty of his authority boomed one last time from his chest.
It drew Altea forward before she could even think to resist. As gently as she could, she bit his arm. She remembered the moment of their joining when he had made her a werewolf until her mind fell away into a black wheeling darkness.
“Thal,” he said. “Survive, my son. Always survive.”
The pack of werewolves howled. Their wild dirge covered the incoherent laments of their master.
Chapter 44. His True Equal
Many dead needed tending when daylight crept across the scene of costly victory. The weary werewolves dressed and gathered the deceased with the help of Valentino’s crew.
Mileko stirred from the spot where he had watched silently over Sarputeen’s body. He had given Thal space for his grief, but seeing his dead teacher’s face in the wan winter light was too much for him. He needed space.
He entered the castle, intent on locating his daggers. He located what appeared to be the defeated sorcerer’s study. Standing behind the desk, he spread his hands out and felt a tingle.
Excitement kicked aside his fatigue. He pried open the drawers with his sword and was rewarded with the sight of the dark blades. He lifted them reverently. His hands welcomed the cool metal back into his grasp. He had missed them dearly in recent battles but supposed that he had become a better fighter during their absence.
He twirled them once and secured them gratefully at his belt.
Quiet steps in the hall attracted his attention. He left the study and observed that servants were tentatively emerged from hiding places. Mileko told them the news of their master’s demise and said that they would come to no harm if they remained peaceful. Some of them departed the tower immediately, undeterred by the frozen landscape or uncertain fortunes. The serving boy was among them, and he did not look back.
Two women, one young and one old, approached Janfelter’s dismembered body. They covered their mouths in horror when they discovered his charred skull in the nearby brazier. Blackened sockets stared from a pile of ashes but still bore witness to a sinister energy.
The dead fext’s mother and sister wept at the sight of his gruesome destruction, but the matron accepted her son’s fate more readily than Mina. The sister shouted at the conquerors tidying up the dead.
“Who killed him?” she demanded and went from person to person repeating the question. Everyone shifted their eyes down and hurried away until she reached Thal. He remained on the ground next to his dead father. Altea was next to him. She had retrieved her clothes after regaining her woman’s body with the dawn. Deep grief glistened in her tired eyes.
“Did you kill my brother?” Mina raged at Thal.
Her anger roused him from his stupor. “Who?” he said quietly.
“My brother. Janfelter.” Mina’s voice cracked a little when she said his name. Their relationship had not been close, but his death yanked at her heart with more force than she would have expected.
“I did,” Thal admitted dispassionately.
She clutched her head and moaned, unable to decide if she hated her brother’s killer or hated herself for caring.
Thal pitied her but refused to apologize. “A dark spell ruled over him. He did terrible deeds in the service of Tekax. I had to stop him,” he said.
Mina wiped tears from her face. She knew that the stranger spoke the truth. She stomped away to rejoin her mother and tend the body of her reviled brother.
Altea rubbed her aching head and put a kind hand on Thal’s shoulder. She thought that a display of grief on Janfelter’s behalf was the last thing that he needed to endure.
He leaned against her. Despite his red-eyed grief, her love comforted him more than ever before.
“Will you help me tend the body?” he asked.
“Of course,” Altea s
aid and choked back a sob.
“Stay with him,” he said. He got up slowly. His shock made putting one foot in front of the other a difficult chore, but he managed to enter the guard house and locate some blankets and rope to construct a shroud. He spread one blanket in the snow and prepared to move his father’s body on to it. Altea held Sarputeen’s feet while Thal moved him by the shoulders. His body had stiffened, and the rigid finality of death assaulted their senses as they handled him.
Thal covered him with the second blanket and gathered the white fur. The bloody stains had dried to dark brown.
“This belongs to you now,” he said and extended it toward Altea.
She recoiled. “He should be buried with it,” she insisted.
“No. He put your name on it. He has given you the gift of controlling the magic. You are no longer a slave to the moon,” Thal explained heavily.
“It cannot be,” Altea murmured.
“Accept his gift,” Thal said and gently took her arm and folded the fur over it.
She moved her palm across the heavy skin. Each strand of fur that tickled her skin reminded her of Sarputeen’s permanent absence. Thal tied the shroud around the body. The cold weather ensured that decay would be kept at bay.
To place him inside the fortress of his enemy seemed inappropriate, so he asked Mileko to help him move the body outside. Everyone walked in a solemn procession along the draw bridge. They found a slab of stone to lay his body on. Thal, Altea, and Mileko kept a vigil over the body while the others drifted back inside to rest.
By evening, a reeking smoke rose from the gate yard where pyres had been built to dispose of the other bodies. Tekax was laid unceremoniously among his discarded minions.
A brilliant moon returned that night, and the werewolves shifted except for Altea. She held her hands out and looked at the moonlight on her skin. She felt the power inside her, but her flesh remained unchanged.