by Tracy Falbe
Thal returned to the desk and stacked the books. He lingered near them, soaking in the presence of his father. Sarputeen’s essence clung to these objects that he had paged through many times. As expected, his grief stabbed at him, but he accepted the pain and headed to the great hall. His pack looked at him expectantly when he entered, but the large chair where his father had once held his modest court drew his attention. Its emptiness laid bare the reality of Sarputeen’s death. The loss carved a jagged void inside him as he approached the chair.
Sympathy caressed him silently as he passed through the group to take his place. He ran a hand gently along the ancient wood of the smooth armrest when he sat.
His pack waited patiently for him to speak. Mileko stood with Lenki. For the first time, he truly saw friendship in the man’s eyes and was glad to have earned it at last.
Thal announced that Lenki would be departing with Mileko. Her pack mates expressed their sorrow but wished her well. Thal gave them a few moments to talk before he said, “Are there any others who wish to leave?”
Mitri, Johan, and Ansel simultaneously looked aghast at the possibility. They rushed forward and stated their urgent desire to stay as if worried that he would drive them away.
His grateful grin reassured them. “I am glad to hear that you will stay with me,” he said.
“I’ve no other desire beyond serving you,” Johan said with his usual fervor. Mitri and Ansel nodded in unison.
“I am pleased to have you here with me,” Thal said. “In time, we shall undertake new quests. Whenever we can, we should stand as guardians to those who face persecution.” The older sorrow of his mother’s gruesome death emerged next to his fresh grief for this father. He felt a new duty arise from his heart to defend other vulnerable people, and he knew that his mother would agree with the sentiment. Perhaps she had completed the werewolf spell to make him for a purpose greater than revenge after all.
“We are with you, my Lord,” Ansel declared.
Thal valued the sincerity of the youngest man in his pack. He anticipated that Ansel would develop into a formidable force as he matured. Looking to Johan, he foresaw how the scholarly man would help him attain greater wisdom without losing sight of spiritual needs. As for Mitri, he knew that the man’s steadfast and uncomplicated strength would give them all someone to lean on in hard times.
“For now, we must keep our profiles low and develop our skills. Stories of our recent deeds will spread quickly and attract unwanted attention. We must secure our position and plot strategies that will protect us in the years to come,” Thal said.
Mileko stepped forward. “And you can count me as your ally whether I am near or far from Vlkbohveza,” he said.
Thal dipped his head to the magician respectfully. “And you must consider me your ally whenever you might have need of one,” he said.
“I am glad in knowing that I have you to call upon,” Mileko said.
Their proclamations inspired excitement for the future, and the cloud of Sarputeen’s death that had shaded all of their hearts moved on a bit. The chair beneath Thal suddenly felt reassuring, as if his father’s arm was around his shoulders in spirit, and he could allow himself to accept that he was now the Lord of Vlkbohveza.
******
Later that night, he looked in his bedchamber and saw Altea sleeping peacefully. Pistol jumped up and snuggled next to her, obviously expecting his master to do the same.
“Stay with her,” he whispered and continued up the tower.
A chill gripped his father’s workshop. The candlelight revealed wedges of Thal’s steaming breath. He opened cabinets and scanned and sniffed their contents. He examined the weapon collection and gathered all of the books and scrolls that he could find into one place. He was about to pull up a chair and start to identify which books he could read, when Valentino came to the door.
Thal welcomed him inside. “You’re up late,” he commented to the Condottiere.
Valentino set down his candlestick and said, “Carmelita is restless tonight, and I could not sleep either.”
“The future wears on your minds,” Thal surmised.
“Truly, and I would know how else I might serve you and provide for my family,” Valentino said.
Thal had given this matter some thought and he had an answer. “I would like most for you to be the public face of Vlkbohveza, especially with Mileko leaving. I expect to rely on Emil here. You should serve as my courtier to Duke Thurzo. I imagine that Carmelita would prefer to live in town,” Thal said, remembering well the thriving social life that she had enjoyed in Prague.
Valentino grinned and anticipated that his wife might welcome such news. “You are thoughtful, my Lord,” he said.
“No,” Thal said and placed a hand on Valentino’s shoulder. “My friend is how you shall address me.”
“We do work well together as I always knew we would,” he said.
“And I need your advice about how much gold to gift to Thurzo. I want something appropriate to impress a Duke without dipping too deeply into our plunder,” Thal said.
“I can manage that,” Valentino said.
“Very good. I will write a letter of introduction and dispatch you to Zilina after your child is born,” Thal said.
The decision comforted Valentino, who felt recovered from his ruin and able to fulfill the role assigned to him, but gently he wondered, “By what name do you intend to introduce me?”
“Oh,” Thal said, recalling the Condottiere’s recent imprisonment and supposed execution. “Can you suggest some lineage for yourself?”
“Esposito,” he answered, adopting the name of babies left outside for others to find.
“Valentino Esposito, very good,” Thal said.
******
Duke Thurzo asked his valet to put more wood on the fire. Although the day had been warm as winter loosened its grip, the returning freeze in the night bothered him all the more after the pleasant day. He relaxed into a chair with his feet on a stool before the rising flames. His servant refilled the glass of wine near his hand and departed.
Thurzo swirled his drink beneath his nose, recognizing the bouquet of the grapes from his own estate. The aroma connected him to his heritage and the land that he must defend. He always savored this precious solitude at the end of the day and was instantly annoyed when he heard his door open again.
Assuming that the valet had forgotten something, he scolded him without looking up. Instead of receiving the expected apology for the disturbance, he heard only steps continuing across the room. The footfalls became muted when they reached the thick rug. Concerned, Thurzo looked around. He appeared to be alone and then a man entered his vision seemingly from thin air. Thurzo dropped his wine and hastily drew a dagger.
“No need to defend yourself, my Duke,” Thal said pleasantly, glancing at the dark puddle on the rug near the discarded chalice.
Thurzo blinked and stood up, his dagger still at the ready.
Thal went down on one knee. The supplication calmed the Duke, who took pleasure in such things, but still he glanced around warily.
“I have come alone,” Thal said. He slid a bag off of his shoulder and it thudded with a jingle against the floor.
Standing again, he said, “Duke Thurzo, I have been successful against my enemies and bring you tribute for the great consideration you have given me.”
“Thal?” Thurzo said, finally accepting what his eyes told him.
“Yes, my Duke.” He remembered to take off his velvet hat that he was much fond of. The peculiar shimmer of his hair in the firelight brought attention to his wildish eyes.
“How did you get in here?” Thurzo demanded, fearful that a trail of dead men were now strewn across the palace grounds. He was undecided if he would be furious over their deaths or incompetence.
Thal brushed a hand across his earring without mentioning it. “To move with stealth is one of my talents,” he said. “Please, my Duke, be at ease.”
Thurzo s
coffed, “If you wished me to be at ease you would not sneak in upon a man sipping his nightcap. I can see when someone wishes to play the game of intimidation.”
Thal did not bother to deny the motives behind his dramatic appearance but said, “I believe that the unique aspects of our relationship required a private meeting. I bear you news that the Lord of Vlkbohveza, my father Sarputeen, has passed from this world. As his heir, I claim Vlkbohveza and come to speak my pledge formally as a proper vassal should.”
Struck silent by the news, Thurzo lowered his dagger. Since his father’s day, his people had lived with the knowledge of Sarputeen in his mountain tower. The presence of the sorcerer had been a part of life. The folk liked to tell tales of his power because it let them dream of something beyond their mundane existences. They wanted to believe that the pall of his magic clung to the deep woods with the promise of death even if it terrified them.
“My condolences about your father,” Thurzo finally managed.
“He died in battle against a great enemy but knew victory at the end,” Thal said.
“For that I am glad,” Thurzo said.
“I would ask the favor of my Duke to help me deflect knowledge of my...reputation...now that I am to settle here as the master of Vlkbohveza,” Thal said.
Thurzo took a natural dislike to the pushy words but proceeded with caution. “You assume that I would not give your castle to another man,” he said.
“I do,” Thal said.
As much as it was his habit to keep the upper hand in all things, Thurzo could imagine no reason to deny Thal his rightful inheritance as any son of any man.
Thal continued, “I shall of course remain at your service should you feel threatened by enemies.”
“Of course,” Thurzo said. He edged forward, watchful of the monster who could prowl his house at will. Eventually, he picked up the saddle bags. They were quite heavy. He took them to a table and inspected the contents. He could not resist the flush of excitement evoked by the cloth bags of gold coins.
Clearing his throat, he added, “All powerful men have enemies. Mine will use rumors about you to stir up trouble. There are forces backed by the Church that draw power from persecuting others.”
“I know these forces well,” Thal said.
“Indeed,” Thurzo mumbled. He let one bag of coins fall open so that his fingers could massage the cool discs. “Tell me, did you ever meet a Jesuit by the name of Brother Miguel?”
“Briefly, in Bohemia,” Thal said, refusing to show any discomfort in the subject.
“I’ve received more than one inquiry from his order about his whereabouts. Apparently he stayed at Vlkbohveza to study. How should I reply?” Thurzo asked.
“Does my Duke wish to hear the truth?” Thal said.
“I suppose,” Thurzo said without enthusiasm.
Helpfully, Thal proposed, “My Duke is a busy man. Letters about the wanderings of a single monk might easily be overlooked, and one could hope the issue will fade from the busy minds of those concerned.”
The Duke realized that he might place much trust in such administrative forgetfulness. New and pressing matters could very well consign the matter of Brother Miguel to a desk drawer.
“But if you’re pressed on the matter,” Thal added. “I can say with much certainty that Brother Miguel went to Pressburg. Those who seek his whereabouts should direct their letters there. I’m sure they will hear much news about him.”
This report brightened the Duke. The story sounded plausible, and he suspected that Thal had spoken truth in some unholy way. Patting the bags of gold, Thurzo said, “So what does the young lord of Vlkbohveza plan to do with himself?”
“I plan a quiet life reading my father’s old books,” Thal said pleasantly.
Skepticism narrowed Thurzo’s eyes, and the thought of Thal studying some sorcerer’s tomes unsettled him greatly. “See that your life stays quiet,” the Duke advised.
“Quiet as a church mouse,” Thal said and enjoyed the twinge of disquiet that he extracted from the normally stoic Duke.
“I assume you can see yourself out?” Thurzo said.
“I can, my Duke,” Thal said. He bowed and strode out the door. Thurzo scurried to the door after Thal shut it. He opened it again and looked up and down the hall. Nothing.
******
Thal chose to shift during his trek back to Vlkbohveza. He immersed his senses in the woodland. Heard the breeze hiss through the pines. Smelled the Earth’s scent rising with the spring. The sun stayed a bit longer than the day before, and the snows dripped and retreated farther.
Although the living world embraced him with gentle renewal, he sought not to hasten the healing of his wound of grief. The silence when his spirit called out to his father had to be accepted eventually, but for now he would continue to honor the pain. Time would alleviate his sorrow when the time was right. All he truly had left of his father was himself. Sarputeen lived on in Thal’s flesh, as did his great magic.
When his castle came into sight, he shifted and got dressed. The dispassionate trees next to him offered assurances that the forest would always be there for him. Thinking of Altea and his pack, he prepared for the next stage of his life. He could not know what it might bring, but he was not ready to disappear into the wilds. He had already done that, and new challenges lay ahead.
When he passed through the village, he noted the hushed respect of the residents. He chose not to do anything that might put them at ease in his presence. They wanted him to be something greater than themselves. He was their guardian.
Thal entered his castle and found Altea awaiting him in the main hall by his chair.
“How was your encounter with Thurzo?” she asked after their lips parted.
“I believe our arrangement is secure for now,” he said.
“I hope he never calls on you to serve him,” she said.
“If he does, so be it,” Thal said, resigned to the certainty but unwilling to worry about it.
Altea chose not to dwell on it. She gestured elaborately toward the chair and said, “Take your seat. I have news for the lord of the castle.”
“We shall have to get a chair in here for you,” he observed.
She nudged him into the chair and positioned herself on his lap. “Yes, we will,” she agreed.
“What is the news?” he said.
“Have you noticed anything different about me?” she asked.
The question stymied Thal. Although they had shared their grief for weeks, he realized that he had not been very attentive to her. He resolved to correct that.
She took his hand and placed it on her lower stomach and smiled. He suddenly realized how distracted he had been. The reality of her pregnancy filled his senses. Astonished, he hugged her gently.
“Altea,” he said because he could think of no other words. Although speechless, her news had jolted him deeply. His grief would mellow eventually and life would go on. Magical fecundity was always there to heal the wounded world.
###
Thank you for reading Werewolf Castle.
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More Novels by Tracy Falbe
While I’m busy writing more novels, please continue exploring my adventures alongside new heroes and heroines.
Rys Rising
Savage Storm
New Religion
Love Lost
Union of Renegades
The Goddess Queen
Judgment Rising
The Borderlands of Power
Werelord Thal
Journey of the Hunted
Find all novels in multiple formats at www.braveluck.com.
Excerpt from Rys Rising
With polite humility, he asked her only to remove the remainder of his tattoos. He said nothing as Onja worked on his
skin. Gendahl paid attention to the sensation of having her magic touch him. She was blocking the pain as she burned the pigments bit by bit from his flesh, and then healed the skin as she went. The stags with their blue antlers gradually disappeared, and Gendahl forced himself to accept the end of his old life. It was the only way he could even attempt to go on. Gendahl could not be forgiven.
A breeze stirred and it was cool against his sweaty skin. He stared at his hands. The absence of his tattoos made him feel different. When his skin was tattooed, he had been only a small boy, and the painful task was one of his earliest memories.
This is my earliest memory of my new life, he thought.
With Onja’s firm slender fingers massaging his hands, Gendahl wondered if it had been the will of Jayshem, the God and creator of Gyhwen, that he experience a life other than being Lord of the Lin Tohs.
“Does it comfort you to think that your God willed your suffering and loss?” she asked.
Taken aback by her knowledge of his thoughts, Gendahl pulled his hands away. “What else can I think?” he asked back.
She lifted her eyebrows thoughtfully. The slight stretching of her eyelids sharpened the beauty of her features. His answer intrigued her greatly.
To change the subject, Gendahl examined his hands and thanked her. “I could not go on with my lord-born markings. I am lord-born no more,” he announced.
“You are still what you were, Gendahl,” Onja contradicted. “Tattoos did not make you a lord.”
“But they showed others what I was. I am something new now, but I know not what,” he said.
“You are Gendahl, my friend,” Onja said, and she smiled.
Her smile seemed to reveal a vulnerability that he would not have expected from her. She was alone as well.
“Your friend,” he said although he had no smile to give. “But call me Gendahl no more. I am Amar.”
“Amar,” she said and liked the name.
“I must go,” he said. He scanned the trees, rocks, waters, and mountains around him. Onja’s presence enchanted the landscape and made it more beautiful. It was a good place to die and to be born. “Back to the world of men,” he added.