“I’ve studied it enough to use the simple phrases that the Schwarzer Mond frequent,” Geoffrey said, “but without any pressing or regular need to use the language, I’ve stayed out of practice.”
The rain followed the troupe up the shallow mountainside and lightened only when they reached the cliffs comprising the faces of the knob that Castle Hainburg sat upon. A winding trail followed the cliffs in a long spiral around the knob, stopping at a height half the distance between the tree tops below and the apex. The guide who had met Geoffrey back at the saw mill craned back his head and called out in a Gresh cantor—a series of howls of varying depth that translate to have some lingual meaning. His song was answered with another from atop the cliffs, and a large wooden lift was lowered on a pulley system, squeaking and creaking to a stop where the trail ended. As Tom, Geoffrey and the guides were cranked inch by inch to the cliff top, Tom planted both hands on the railing and watched the dark landscape stretch farther and farther, all the way to Vienna, somewhere in the tamed country to the west. Around the other bend of the cliffs, at the foot of the mountain was nestled a small village, mostly out of view. On top of this weird, green and grey country, fortified against the outside world, the Schwarzer Mond had made their home.
Clacking against its pulleys, the wooden lift jolted and wobbled until two waiting werewolves drew it to solid ground and opened the gate, ushering the guides and visitors out and quickly toward a stone archway and into the passageway between the outside and inside castle walls, where a sealed drawbridge kept them from crossing a dry canal meant to trap and frustrate any invading force. The watch quickly returned to their posts, and the guides showed Tom and Geoffrey into a courtyard surrounding the main house and turrets of Hainburg. It was here where Felix Freudenberger, a man of between thirty-five and forty years of age, threw wide his arms and issued a bellow of greeting to his visitors. Tom guessed by his Hessian attire that Felix was a former or current soldier in the national army. Geoffrey must have been sorely missed, noticed Tom, because Felix was not the only person happy to see him returning on that dreary night. Looking out their windows and through the rain, many of the Hainburg denizens roused their families and pointed to the drenched magescribe and his soggy companion, shaking hands and receiving embraces out in the elements.
“Good to see you, Geoffrey.” Felix’s accent fought with his pronunciation.
“And you, Felix. This is the famous Thomas Crowe.” His introduction did not evoke the reaction he expected.
“Ah, it is a pleasure.” Felix studied Thomas but with all his might he could not recall ever hearing of the young werewolf, whose mariner’s appearance stood out that far inland.
“Henriette sends her thanks, and assures us that the Paris Clan is safer than before. Montmartre was overrun by the Order of the Blood Moon, and the Black Coat Society was greatly weakened.” Geoffrey’s mention of Henriette enlivened Felix, but he frowned when the Blood Moons were mentioned.
“Jack Darcy and the Order pillaged Montmartre and left for Marseille,” Geoffrey continued, “and no one believes they will come back. Henriette tells us that relations between the clan commune and the French authorities will improve, and no outside threat, clan or cult, will be able to take the city if an alliance is created.”
“To think that we may live to see peace, Geoffrey!” Felix smiled thinly. “But let us be moderate in our celebrations. History only records the weather; war is what changes it. Mortals have their struggles too.” His moustache drooping as his smile left him, Felix laughed and waved to the people watching, encouraging their good morale as he led Tom and Geoffrey into the main house of the castle and out of the persistent rain.
Smelling sausage and cabbage, Tom, forgetting how long ago he’d had his last full meal, paid only a fraction of his attention to Felix before dinner, as he addressed his soldiers in the dining hall. The crowd, all professionally trained soldiers, no longer bound by national duty, had come to Hainburg not as mercenaries, not as Austrian soldiers, but as werewolves, and their duty and honor were reserved exclusively for their immortal kin, though this is not to say these fighters rejected the Habsburgs’ authority. Each and every one shared Felix’s fervor for peace, but complementing this fervor was a rigid opposition to vampire kind. Whether it was a violent one, Tom could not tell, but he would not gamble in favor of the Schwarzer Mond werewolves’ mercy.
“Which brings me to our visitor’s purpose here,” Geoffrey was saying. Dinner was being held in the kitchen until formal matters were dealt with. The soldiers were restrained, but Thomas was sweating out the wait. “Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you all to Captain Thomas Crowe.” Geoffrey’s introduction was met with the same confusion and neutrality as before with Felix. “I have no doubt that Captain Crowe’s reputation will precede him here in the East as it does in the West, given some time. I think it should interest the Schwarzer Mond to know that Captain Crowe led a mortal crew of less than fifty against the Black Coat Society in Barbados and removed the vampire presence from the island in one night’s time.”
Some of the men loosened up, and two even grinned. Keep warming them up, Geoffrey, thought Tom, aching for his dinner and, at the same time, trying to appear fierce and disinterested in his grand accomplishments. Felix, standing at the head of the table, nodded in approval as Geoffrey rattled off the finer points of Tom’s résumé.
“In Barcelona, he quashed a British naval attack and drove an elite lupomorph hunter, Roger Locke, back to England!” The extra emphasis on choice terms was enough to satiate the hard-to-please Hessians that remained, and several of the men drummed the table with one fist, nodding at Tom with new respect. “The captain is in need of the Helvetii’s help and of Schwarzer Mond’s as well. He has fallen under a curse, and no one here would disagree with me or Priestess Henriette Petit in believing Eastern clan wisdom is the best answer.”
“Certainly we would not disagree, which is why Castle Hainburg welcomes Captain Crowe and will act in his best interest,” Felix declared, “as we are always eager to assist our werewolf kin, especially one who has done much for our kind abroad.” His affirmation won the rest of the soldiers’ favor, and he called the formalities to a close. As soon as Felix took his seat, the kitchen hands marched in with dinner.
A bit embellished, thought Tom, but well done, Mr. Mylus. The young magescribe had a way with words, and even if he hadn’t gone the route of magic, he’d certainly have fared well in law or politics. Thomas knew nothing of Geoffrey’s diplomatic skills until that moment, and over dinner it sparked Tom’s further consideration to hire the talented young man to a future crew. His former crew was freed from contractual obligations to the Scotch Bonnet when they last landed in London, and the likelihood of assembling the same group again, after having left for Paris without notice, was not good. Shouldn’t have paid them so soon, thought Tom.
Castle Hainburg was more than just a haven for an Eastern European clan in Austria. It was the most successful stepping-stone settlement for lupomorphs before Henriette Petit established the Paris Clan and procured a legally ordained commune for a minority immortal population in France. Felix Freudenberger was infected with the lupomorph curse when he was an Austrian soldier fighting on Ottoman soil. Among the soldiers in the Ottoman armies were werewolves conscripted by the government, mimicking an old Roman tactic. Some of the Ottoman werewolves infected Felix and a number of his fellow Austrian soldiers. They came home carrying a curse that would change their lives and their status as Austrians. It is fortunate that the Habsburg Empire did not feel the same way about its lupomorphs as the Ottoman powers, lest lupomorphs would have had no choice but to face one another in war for the first time in history. Many, including Felix, believe strongly that violence between clans in the East would have, and still could, prevent settlement progress and the future of Helvetian culture in Europe.
Life in the East, for werewolves, is much like life in Spain. There are more pressing issues on the governing powers
’ minds than immortals. The Habsburg Empire, for instance, is busy expanding its borders and competing against the Ottoman presence to the southeast in Turkey and the rest of the Islamic world. The Habsburgs have a dynamic culture and developing domain on their hands, and not yet the leisure to pick and choose the ethnic groups that will or will not comprise the nation they may become. Further, when not occupied by the Ottomans, the kingdom of Prussia is always near and applying pressure to the Eastern European territories.
I have said life for werewolves in the East was feasible during the time Thomas and I passed through on our way to Wallachia, but let us not forget that there is a historical clause to consider. Before the Habsburg Empire grew to near maturity, Islam drew the attention of northern Crusaders into Eastern Europe and too close to nascent clan settlements for comfort. Lupomorphic descendants of Siberian Inuit were new to the region, and, lacking any forewarning, planted their culture in between two warring religions, with no other choice but to last the duration of two hundred years of military campaigns. The end of this centuries-long contest was not the end of unrest. On the contrary, the region has forever been subject to bloody rule and savage violence, including that of a certain prince of Romania …
A mysterious new presence penetrated Austria only a few months before Thomas and I met with Felix at Hainburg. What was described as a nameless, independently operated army of magic-wielding, highly trained soldiers were launching raids on small and vulnerable clans and cults. An army of undeniably similar description had also appeared in and around British colonies in India, targeting primary sources of magic and a specific following of sorcerers called zoomancers, who practice the creation and control of mythical animals. The “White Army,” as it is sometimes called, is named so for the tailored, high-collared and lightweight, yet strikingly strong white uniform that its soldiers wear on raids. The garment is said to be nearly impenetrable to a wide spectrum of blades and resistant to gunshot, despite having the flexibility of fabric. When the army was mentioned in Austria, my suspicions turned on the British Empire, whose military was the only one during that time whose efforts could have produced such a well-organized, specialized and widespread unit, but Parliament’s agenda was recovering from its loss of the American colonies, not hunting immortals on the other side of the world.
Geoffrey Mylus,
July 10, 1833
****
Three days after Tom and Geoffrey arrived at Hainburg, Molly and Leon were meandering across Austria from west to east, following the Danube and avoiding any reason to stop. The terrain became less and less familiar to Leon, who had an eye for landmarks outside of France, but after they lost sight of the Rhine, Molly’s inner sight was the only reference either of them had. After arriving in Germany, their pace became slower, and the early winter weather forced them to stop with more frequency and for longer periods of time.
For two nights before crossing the Austrian border, Molly did not sleep. It was far too uncomfortable outside and, because of Leon, she did not want to go knocking on doors to ask for a place to spend the night. The hot breath of her ruby ring was more than enough to provide warmth, and at times her hunger wasn’t even noticeable. Leon brought her simple things like fruits and bread when he returned from his own meals each night, and Molly thanked him each time, even though her conscience told her when she ate it she was just as much a thief as Leon. But hunger has no conscience, and her stomach refused to argue about it.
On the third day, after a half day’s ride, Leon pointed out Vienna and advised Molly to stop for a few hours if she wished for a full meal and rest. It pained her to lose time, but for three days Thomas had not gotten any farther away from them. In fact, his location had not changed, or if it had, it had changed little. Molly’s first instinct was to worry, thinking Thomas had found trouble or was hurt, but he was not weak, judging by the signals she was collecting. Using her better judgment, Molly agreed to detour to Vienna for the day after Leon promised he would pay for whatever comforts she desired. It was only then, when the two rode into Vienna and Molly again saw signs of civilization, that her rugged half yielded to her pampered one, and all she could think of was food and a bath and a bed. The time spent in search of these things was humbling, for the Austrians turned a curious eye on the paradoxical pair as they passed by on their weary horses. Molly, though angelic in appearance, knew she could use some soap and hot water. Her hair was ragged and felt like a bird’s nest; her boots, dirty and wet. The worst realization was that the blouse she’d put on in Paris hadn’t been changed once since she’d left. The look on her face was one of chagrin, but Leon knew better than to ask her what was the matter. Instead, he kept an eye out for lodging so Molly, wallowing in her embarrassment, could freely watch the ground.
A pleasant, hard-of-hearing old man showed Molly to her room in the largest inn in Vienna. Leon had made the choice because Molly wouldn’t dare look up, for fear people in the street would see her tired, sweaty, frowning face. Leon paid in francs, which no one opposed, and then bid Molly a good night, leaving to spend the night out on the city.
It took an age for the little innkeeper to climb the first flight of stairs, and Molly was far too famished to wait for him, so instead she suggested he show her to a dining table. Smiling and turning around slowly he led the way back down the stairs and, his old jaw twitching, named a few confectionary options, speaking as clearly as possible without teeth. Unable to understand him, Molly nodded at the third choice and made a gesture that the old man took to mean, bring me the full course. Dinner lasted almost two hours because the little innkeeper kept over-estimating Molly’s requests. After the main meal, some kind of pork sausage and soup, plus two glasses of red wine and three (small) pieces of cake, Molly finally managed to communicate to the little innkeeper that if she ate any more, she would have to request a room on the first floor, not wanting to block up the stairway like a cumbersome piano.
Thanking the old man for offering to guide her, Molly assured him she could find her room on her own. The last thing she needed was to take twice as long to carry twice her weight up four stories of stairs. Fortunately, she did not have to go that far, for on the second floor she found her room, which overlooked the city from the front of the inn. The sky would have been sprinkling snow on Vienna if winter were three weeks closer, but on this night the sky was clear.
Having nothing to unpack but her pockets, Molly peeled off her gritty clothes and dumped them in a wash basin, to be dealt with after her bath. That evening she discovered that being a magesmith had more benefits than she knew, one being able to take a never-ending hot soak. Whenever the temperature in the tub dropped, all she had to do was hang an arm over the tub and blast it with her ruby ring.
After a few tries she also managed to get the water bubbling and stirring, a surprisingly soothing sensation that nearly put her to sleep, that is, until a sound at the window startled her. She’d learned to be distrusting of everything, and her gaze lingered on the window for the longest time, but nothing suspicious ever revealed itself. She suppressed a haughty grin, imagining Leon trying to peep in on her; the thought wasn’t all that off-putting in truth. And, in any case, she mused, she could blast him to ashes if she really had to.
The night passed quickly only because Molly’s mind was occupied. Her worries were far away and she remembered, in order, all the things she and Tom had gone through together since first meeting. She also remembered a time when she would have loved to live life as if it were ball night in London or bath night in Vienna, every day of the year. Lately, though, she had realized that although she and Thomas had no single, steady home, the places they visited in a short amount of time were all invariably interesting. Each had its dangers, but not one of them was terrible or entirely repulsive, not even close. Time spent traveling had made her more of a pirate, she thought, because as badly as she wanted a sedentary life, she wouldn’t be able to stay anchored in one place. The thought of doing so was, in all opposition to her old
beliefs, boring.
****
The bottoms of his feet stinging with cold, Tom stamped around in circles, beating the sensitivity back into them. It was dark, but the eyes he looked through saw bodies walking about with much secrecy. The fires in their lanterns burned faintly, for the wicks were turned down low and short. Tom rubbed warmth into his arms and hugged his chest tight, feeling the icy air in his lungs crowding out the heat. Disoriented, his eyes grabbed at the scant visual clues the darkness allowed them, trying to remember where he was and how he got there. He couldn’t focus because his gaze was magnetically drawn to the several bright violet orbs of light dangling about the necks of the bodies walking around. His fascination with them was out of his control, and suddenly he realized it was not his absorption at all; the enthrallment belonged to someone or something else. Without warning, the dreigher began moving Tom’s body for him, tiptoeing him around in the background of the scene, trying to get him closer without alerting any of the bodies. It wanted to get closer to the violet lights, as a moth would obsessively seek a candle flame. That was when, for the first time, Tom heard the dreigher speak, not in words, but in excited, hollow chatterings and hisses that filled his head. It was too strong to force away; all he could do was watch as the dreigher observed the bodies—dressed in white uniforms, reaching down to the ground—and spoke to them.
They were in a graveyard in the village below Hainburg, Tom realized. The lights hanging around their necks were not lights, but crystals. Tom looked on uncomfortably as one of the white uniforms stood up and backed away from a grave as something climbed up out of it. Whatever it was followed every command it was given by the white uniform, and Tom watched as it marched itself over to a large congregation of things just like it. The white uniforms surrounded the group, and their crystals glowed brightly. The dark congregation inside the circle bustled in tighter and tighter until it appeared to be one moving mass. It was then that the dreigher hissed loudly. It turned to look up at one of the white bodies, whose face was looking straight back at it. With a screech, it twisted around and sprinted off into the dark woods.
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 47