Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale

by Tracy Falbe

  “Looks bad,” he whispered.

  “I’m hoping to live,” Thal said.

  “I’ll take you to the master’s mother Lady Zsazi. She’ll know what to do,” Orsh said.

  Everyone passed under the ponderous barbican and entered the courtyard. A servant was lighting a couple braziers alongside the main steps of the castle. A recent addition of nicely cut stone hugged the bottom of the more elderly main keep. Most of the windows were dark, but the stained glass above the ornate doors glowed faintly.

  Orsh hauled open a heavily carved wooden door. A cat scooted out and darted past the dogs. Orsh bid the guests to enter but admonished the guard dogs to stay in the courtyard. He frowned at the wagging beasts, still wondering at their odd permissiveness with the strangers.

  Inside, an enormous hall branched off into three doorways and two staircases. Smooth marble flooring flickered fluidly in the candle light. Shiny tin tiles on the ceiling glittered. Footsteps echoed in a shadowy hallway. Tapestries and portraits hung on the wood paneled staircases, and a coat of arms with two rams and crossed lances hung opposite the main door.

  Thal’s companions noticed him lagging and checked on him after their initial admiration of the glitzy interior.

  “Go on and meet our host,” Thal advised. “I must have my wound looked at first.”

  Regis presumed to pull aside Thal’s cloak and was dismayed by the bloodiness. “Thal,” he cried. “Why did you not tell us how badly it had gone?”

  “I didn’t want to stop until I found secure lodgings. If we stayed afield and murdering lurkers came upon us tonight, I would not have wished to fight them,” he admitted.

  With his neck still sore, Regis felt a new surge of gratitude for the effort Thal had made for all their sakes. The exertion had aggravated his wound. Knowing now that Thal had hiked all day while bleeding deepened Regis’s appreciation for the man.

  “Go wash your face. Get a drink and sing well tonight for this Lord Patercek for I have need of his charity,” Thal said.

  “I will,” Regis said. Although he wanted to stay by his friend, it was important that he and his companions ingratiate themselves to their newest host.

  A valet came to investigate the visitors. Quite interested, he invited the musicians to meet the lord.

  A big man came in the main door and stopped next to Orsh. He was the first man Thal had seen in the place that appeared to be a guard. Despite his late appearance, his thick arms and the baton at his belt hinted broadly that he knew how to twist an arm or crack a skull.

  Orsh cleared his throat. “We ask that you disarm,” he said.

  Naturally Thal was reluctant. The request was like being asked to give up his teeth, but if he was to go into the care of the lord’s mother, he supposed it was a reasonable request.

  “You’ll get them back,” Orsh added, eyeing Thal closely.

  “Yes,” Thal agreed and pulled out his knives and handed them to the big man. Next he gave up his bare sword. Its lack of scabbard suggested that it had been salvaged. Lastly he offered his pistol and powder horn.

  “Take care with that,” Thal said.

  The guard shifted his already full hands and received the gun. The weapon lit his eyes with interest, and he admired it on his way out.

  Lifting his lantern, Orsh led the way up one of the stairs. His stiff gate made the going slow, and Thal studied the fine portraits staring at him. The little strokes of colors on canvas or wood amazed him. The faces looked so real. The jittery candle light enlivened the eyes staring down noses with noble confidence. Delicate strokes made buttons and beads and leaves and flowers appear. Thal marveled at how the carefully chosen placement of pigments could recreate the glow of living flesh.

  At a landing they started up another flight of stairs. They reached a hall and turned into its long dark emptiness. He stumbled a bit on a low ledge in the floor. He put a hand out to catch himself. The thick stone was cool against his palm.

  “Forgot to mention that bump,” Orsh said.

  The character of the walls had changed and Thal realized that he was in the inner castle that was much older than the outer portion. An Earthy smell had crept into this place. They turned another corner and firelight marked a distant archway.

  When they reached the lighted room, they interrupted three women spinning and chatting. Wool twirled fuzzily from the spinning distaff in the hands of a lady in a blue smock. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes popped with surprise at the sight of Thal.

  “What is this?” she cried.

  Her two companions looked up from their carding and spooling. Pistol waggingly flirted with them.

  “What a cute little dog,” the lady with gray hair said. She squinted up at Thal.

  “I’ve got a man here needs a wound tended. Says his name’s Thal. He and his friends were attacked by bandits,” Orsh explained.

  The female trio exclaimed with sympathy and tossed aside their work.

  “Nasty bandits,” muttered the lady in blue.

  The youngest maid stared at Thal with fearful excitement. She twirled a lock of hair from beneath the edge of her head linen.

  The elderly lady took charge. Stooping shoulders cut down her already tiny stature, but she had an air about her that expected all to take heed. Although stiff and slow, she shuffled toward Thal purposefully and people kept out of her way.

  “Lady Zsazi?” Thal said.

  “I am,” she said.

  “I humbly ask for help with a bad cut on my chest,” Thal said.

  “Yes, of course, young man,” she said. Zsazi grabbed his elbow with gnarled but firm fingers and steered him toward another room with a cot. She told her serving women to fetch clean water and bandages and her medicine basket.

  Orsh settled into one of the chairs still warm from the spinners and stretched out his legs. He fingered the fluffy pile of clean wool and wondered which sheep it was off.

  The serving women soon returned with supplies and more candles. They set to work on Thal with curious eagerness. The maid blushed as his cloak and fur and shirt were taken away. The lady in blue smiled like she was enjoying a treat. Thal relaxed into their care, quite unfettered of modesty, and relished simply the chance to lie in a soft place. The rest of his clothing was taken off and a soft blanket laid over him.

  Zsazi pulled up a chair and the maid held close a light. The elderly lady leaned close and even sniffed the wound.

  “Well somebody made a good attempt at these stitches but you’ve pulled them all loose,” she said.

  She set a hand on his forehead and then his cheek. “You don’t burn with poisoned blood, but you are tired,” she determined.

  Weakly he agreed.

  “We’ll get you fixed up,” Zsazi said. She bade the two women to wash the blood away and then she carefully removed the old stitches. They were crusted into the skin and hurt coming out.

  It was the young maid who stitched Thal anew while Zsazi oversaw the task and often gave advice. “Very good,” the elder lady praised when it was done. She sent the servants off to fetch food and drink. Placing a bowl in her lap, she rummaged through her medicine bag and selected herbs. After pouring in a little water and a dollop of honey, her knowing fingers mixed everything into a poultice.

  While dabbing the medicine over his wound, she said, “Where are you from?”

  “Prague.”

  “Ah, a fine city,” she said and glanced up at his face. She had been concentrating on his injury but now the uniquely enticing colors of his eyes caught her notice. He held her gaze.

  Finally she broke the contact and started patting his wound again.

  “It feels better already,” he complimented.

  “You’ll need to rest a couple days or you’ll tear it open again. I’ll tell Augie to extend all hospitality,” she said.

  “Is that Lord Patercek?” he asked.

  “Yes, he’s a good boy,” Zsazi said with a mother’s love.

  “Are my friends safe with him?�
� Thal said, seeking her confidence.

  The question took her aback. “Certainly. Why do you worry?” she said.

  “They’ve been ill used on their travels. I met them in Budweis and they asked me to protect them on their journey,” he said.

  She wiped her fingers on a rag. “We’re all friends here. Augie is not a man who makes trouble. A trait too rare among men I would say,” she said.

  “Indeed,” Thal agreed. “My friends are musicians. Talented ones. I think you’ll find they earn our keep.”

  “Musicians. Lovely,” Zsazi murmured. “And what is it you do?”

  “Of late I keep bad people away,” Thal said.

  “Oh yes, the bandits,” she said but was interrupted when the servants returned. Zsazi seemed to have more to say but she stood up. “Eat and sleep, Thal,” she advised.

  “I doubt that I could do anything else,” he said. His eyes were wide for the trencher of bread and stew, steaming on a tray. He had to wait while the servants bandaged his chest, but finally the maid propped him up and he could eat.

  All the women withdrew and let him be. He set aside his empty tray. Every drop of gravy was licked away. As he fell asleep he heard familiar music in the heart of the castle.

  ******

  Zsazi listened to the same music as she lay awake thinking of her youth. When she did slumber, odd dreams frightened her. On a dark winding trail she ran for her life but could not see what was chasing her.

  A predawn cock crow down in the courtyard roused her. She was glad to be in her bed instead of running from an unknown dread. Dressing as quickly as she could, she was careful not to wake her maid. Zsazi crept out of her chambers. The castle was quiet. Everyone had stayed up late enjoying the music.

  The groggy gray light that precedes the rising sun revealed the windows and drove back some of the gloom. Even in the dark with her aging eyes, she knew every step of the castle that had been her home since the age of fifteen.

  Thinking of my youth again, she thought and wondered if she was trying to remember something. She slipped through the kitchen and tore a scrap of meat from a cold roast before heading to Thal’s room.

  At the door to his room she slowed to a tiptoeing silence. She cracked open the door. As expected, Pistol jumped off the bed and met her, but he did not bark because he recognized her as one who helped his master. She gave him the meat scrap and slipped inside. She heard the deep breathing of Thal’s sleep. Carefully she went to the chair where his things had been set. Most of his clothing had been taken for washing but his cloak, hat, boots, and fur were still there.

  With great care she slid the fur out of the bundle. The glossy coat was pleasing against her chilly and aching fingers. It seemed as if a living warmth came from it. She turned it over and nearly gasped.

  The bloody script entranced her. She squinted at the words in the dim light. Her heart beat harder because she knew that she was looking upon something secret, something forbidden.

  “Can you read it?”

  Zsazi squealed and tossed the fur down. She whirled and saw Thal looking at her from the bed.

  Feeling foolish and guilty as a girl breaking Lent, Zsazi tried to reclaim her dignity. “I’m not one for letters,” she said.

  “Bring it to me,” he said.

  His voice did not threaten but it did command, and Zsazi complied. Thal spread his fur across his lap and petted it.

  She said, “Do you know what it says?”

  “I do.”

  “But you shan’t tell me,” she surmised.

  “No, Lady.”

  “I apologize for snooping,” she said.

  “You don’t mean it,” Thal said. Polite words could not hide her immense curiosity. “Was there something about it you recognized?”

  Zsazi looked down and shook her head. “No…but your name Thal is an ancient word,” she said.

  “Do you know what it means?” he said.

  A frustrated frown tightened the wrinkles on her face. Her memories were like fallen trees buried in leaves and dotted with fungus. When she was a maid there had been an old woman who had mentored her in herb lore. She had known many stories and legends.

  “Once upon a time I heard that Thal was a word from the old times, the very old times, before even the Romans. It is uttered to complete a spell,” Zsazi said. Giving voice to the old memory depleted her a little. When she looked upon Thal in the growing light of day, she sensed the magic of legend clinging to him.

  He smiled, and his natural charm was disarming. “Does not every mother see magic at the birth of her son? Surely that is why she chose such a name,” he suggested.

  His logic was soothing and Zsazi relaxed. “You stay in this bed all day,” she ordered, needing to assert herself.

  “I will,” he said. When she turned to leave, he said, “A favor, my Lady?”

  She looked over her shoulder with noncommittal interest.

  “Don’t tell anyone about the writing on my fur. There are men in the land seeking such relics and they would trouble me and perhaps those with me,” he said.

  Zsazi thought of her son. He would be delighted to examine such an esoteric thing, but his tongue would be wont to wag. Mothers always had more secrets than their children, and she knew better than to entice the greedy cravings of the larger world into her home.

  “All right,” she said softly.

  Chapter 15. Talk of Monsters

  Thal’s friends visited him in the morning. They reported that Lord Patercek was as wonderful as the Mayor of Budweis had been horrible.

  “I feel friendliness here as well,” Thal said.

  “Most people are good when they are not afraid,” Regis observed. He strummed his harp quietly and adjusted a string.

  “In five days Lord Patercek give banquet just because we’re here,” Raphael said.

  “We should stop at castles more often,” Thal said.

  “We need to play for higher social circles unless that Budweis bastard ruins our names all the way to Prague,” Regis said.

  “No one in Prague is going to care what anyone in Budweis thinks,” Thal predicted.

  “Ha, and you’ll make sure for us, right friend Thal,” Regis said.

  “I doubt the need will arise. Your talents are more charming than mine,” Thal said.

  “Let us hope,” Regis said and a few soft notes tinkled from his fingers.

  Carlo stood up and pushed his chair back against the wall. “I glad you are healing. Sorry my stitches did not hold,” he said.

  “Your stitches were not at fault. I was too active after the wound,” Thal explained.

  Memories of the terrifying attack quieted the group for a moment.

  Ending the silence, Carlo said, “Lord Patercek ask me to ride with him. I must go.”

  After he left, Regis mentioned that Patercek had taken quite a liking to Carlo.

  “He speaks Venetian very well too,” Raphael added.

  “He sounds like a well traveled man,” Thal remarked.

  “Yes,” Regis agreed. “He’s been to Paris, Nuremberg, and Rotterdam. He said he’s even expecting a friend to send him something from the New World. I didn’t understand what he was trying to get.”

  “The New World?” Thal said, intrigued by the term.

  “Lands beyond the ocean. You hear wild tales about the place more and more,” Regis said.

  “Empires of gold and a thousand savage paradises,” Raphael chimed in.

  Intrigued, Thal could not recall hearing about such a place when he was a child, but much of his life before the forest remained vague.

  Regis put his harp in its case and flexed his fingers. “I’ll go find someone to find us wine. Want me to bring some to you Thal?” he offered.

  “No, I truly wish to rest,” Thal said.

  “As you wish,” Regis said. He and Raphael left Thal in peace. Pistol curled up at the foot of the bed.

  Thal stroked his wolf fur. He flipped it over and looked at the brick re
d runes and thought of his father. He remembered his blue eyes, dark like stormy skies. They had always rained fondness upon him. Gentle memories surfaced. Walking through a forest with his father. Sitting around a fire. Hunting. Skinning animals.

  Shutting his eyes, Thal looked farther within himself. Finally an image of his father with a woman appeared. She had a strong nose and a challenging gaze. Auburn hair flowed to her shoulders.

  Mother, he thought.

  He still hoped to find her in Prague, and he reminded himself not to tarry long in the home of Lord Patercek. If she was still alive, then she could tell him more about his powers and maybe how to find his father.

  His encounter with Rainer had informed him that his powers exceeded the abilities of the other werewolf. The monk had said that during a full moon he could not stop the transformation. Thal was grateful that he could control his changing. Recalling that a werewolf bite had caused Rainer’s condition, he wondered if his bite would have the same effect.

  The implications aroused his curiosity but worried his morality. Lost in the labyrinth of possibilities he did not hear the maid approach until Pistol lifted his head.

  Thal welcomed the distraction of the young woman bearing a tray of food.

  “I don’t recall getting your name last night, Miss,” he said.

  “People call me Frannie,” she said.

  “Is that what you want me to call you?” he said.

  “Francesca,” she said.

  “What have you brought me, Francesca?”

  His playful use of her full name made her giggle. “Just bread and cold pork,” she said.

  He pushed up onto an elbow. “Don’t strain yourself,” she said and quickly set down the food and reached behind him. She supported him and made sure he moved slowly. “Lady Zsazi would slap me if I let you tear open those stitches again,” she said.

  With her arm still across his back, Thal discovered her bosom at eye level. He was sure that more cleavage was showing this afternoon than last night. His palm suddenly itched from the idea of placing his hand against the firm flesh bulging from her bodice.