Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale

by Tracy Falbe

  “So very glad to make your acquaintance. I’m excited by the prospect of the Jesuit Academy reinvigorating the university community,” Zussek said.

  “We are united in our battle against ignorance,” Vito said. He was trying to get a feel for what the professor’s motives might be. He was coming across as a bit of a toady, which Vito found interesting.

  “I brought that heretic prosecution manual I was telling you about,” Miguel said and patted his book bag.

  “Excellent. I’m happy to see the latest publication out of Rome,” Zussek said and invited them toward his office.

  His chamber had the expected clutter of paper, books, ink bottles, and quills. Printed pamphlets and various public handbills with tattered corners were stacked on the professor’s desk. Outside the windows the spreading limbs of a larch filtered the sunlight. Ivy leaves crept along the corners of the windows and sparrows pecked at seeds left for them on the sill.

  Vito and Miguel sank into deep cushy chairs. Zussek took a seat facing them, eschewing the formality of sitting behind his desk.

  “Thank you for meeting with me so quickly,” Vito said.

  “We just finished for the summer, so my schedule is much less demanding although I intend to catch up on my writing,” Zussek said.

  Miguel unpacked his book and gave it to the professor who accepted it excitedly. He recognized one of the author’s names and confirmed him as a reliable scholar. “Oh why hasn’t this title reached Prague yet?” he lamented as he carefully paged through the book, scanning the chapter headings. He took a bit of paper off his desk and dipped a quill.

  “The Identification of Heretics, Sorcerers, and Witches and Methods for Gaining Confession,” he murmured as he wrote.

  “I’ve found this one to have the most precise research on the lifestyles of Devil worshippers and how their influence steers innocent populations toward heresy,” Miguel said. He directed Zussek to some pages deeper in, and they happily discussed nuances of witchcraft.

  When Vito tired of their scholarly chatter, he said, “I was told that many important families in Prague were familiar with the witches recently put down.”

  Zussek straightened up from the book open across his knees. “Please don’t think ill of us, Brother. Those families were victims. These magic workers are capable of great deceptions, even upon pious minds. We must avoid grouping the innocent with the evil. The people of Prague honestly welcome the help of holy men to fight what we’re up against,” he said.

  “And what are we up against in Prague?” Vito said.

  Zussek handed the book back to Miguel and got out of his chair. He folded his hands behind his back and frowned as if on the verge of making a grim proclamation.

  “I fear the whole city is bewitched,” he said.

  “But you just defended your fellows as pious,” Vito argued.

  “I mean that I fear a spell has been cast that endangers everyone,” Zussek clarified. He sat down again.

  “A spell cast by whom?” Miguel asked. He leafed through his book seeking the section on spells.

  Zussek tapped his fingers on the armrest. Concern clouded his face. “You’ve heard about the witches burned already this spring,” he said.

  “Yes, twelve of them,” Vito said.

  “Thirteen,” Zussek corrected dramatically. “The court condemned twelve of them but then a final woman was brought in after her acolytes gave up her name. Many tortures were needed to get that information. Thank Heaven the Empire endorses torture against these tight-lipped magic workers. She was obviously their coven leader.”

  Miguel nodded and ran a finger along a line of text he had found. “Each coven has a leader, a diabolical priestess who mates with the Devil and entices her followers to do the same. A coven usually numbers thirteen to mock Christ and His Apostles,” he quoted.

  Zussek agreed, “Exactly. And I harbor no doubt that the thirteenth witch was one such as that. She was hard to catch. No ordinary old woman could have run so far. I personally attended her execution. She shrieked at the crowd of the retribution to come. She said that all who had harmed her would know brutal death. Her vicious oaths went on well after the fire reached her body.” Zussek leaned forward and lowered his voice as if the next detail would be a mortal sin if he said it too loudly. “The flames burned white around her body. I’ve never seen that before, and that’s why I believe that she cast some parting magic upon the city. The minions of the Devil are surely coming to Prague,” he concluded.

  “How long ago did this happen?” Vito asked.

  “Two months ago.”

  “I see,” Vito murmured, wondering what he might do with the information.

  Now that Zussek had shared his local tale he was eager to derive information from the newcomers. “Miguel hinted this morning that you had heard fresh tales of devilry on your travels. I collect such information and would appreciate hearing any news you have. I’m writing my own book on the subject. What was the incident recently at Mirotice?”

  Vito glanced at Miguel, disapproving of the detail Miguel had apparently let slip when introducing himself to the professor. Miguel avoided the critical gaze of his leader, and Vito reluctantly accepted that his associate had been trying to start a rapport with their new acquaintance. Miguel was sneaky like that.

  “The sellswords in our company described an encounter with a wild beast of great size,” Miguel said.

  “A wolf perhaps?” Zussek suggested.

  “I don’t know,” Miguel said.

  “A werewolf,” Vito said.

  Miguel’s mouth dropped. He had not heard Vito express that idea before.

  Vito continued, “There’s been talk of werewolves to the south. We encountered a transient in Mirotice. Something about him did not set well with me and I sent my men to find him. He had fled the village and then they were attacked by something on the road at night. We never saw him again.”

  Miguel easily recalled Thal and how Vito had even attempted to recruit him. “You think that man was a werewolf? But there was no moon that night. A werewolf is always associated with the full moon,” Miguel insisted.

  “Quite right,” Zussek agreed.

  “This one must be different,” Vito said. He could still see Thal in his mind. Those entrancing eyes had looked back at him from an unknown world. A rare charisma spiced with mystery had encompassed him, and Vito wondered what it would take to bring such talent under his control.

  After giving the professor and Miguel a moment to absorb his startling idea, Vito said, “Mirotice is not particularly far from here. If we encounter a werewolf again, as I fear we might, do you know any way to contain it?”

  Zussek looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I would say that a man who you suspect of being a werewolf should be held in a windowless cell where the moonlight cannot reach,” he said.

  I’ll be putting that idea to the test soon, Vito thought to himself and then said, “But what if there is one that does not need the light of the moon? How could his magic be subdued? How can he be killed?”

  Zussek frowned, clearly disliking the suggestion that a werewolf was not bound to the full moon. It went against everything he had read, but as a researcher Zussek understood that there were always more mysteries to unveil.

  “Kill it by attacking it when it is a man,” Zussek decided. “When it is a man, it is just flesh like us. When it is a werewolf, the creature may be too powerful to kill. Its magic is in full effect then. But the great difficulty lies in striking at the right man. One must be sure of the identity of the shape-shifter. To wrongly execute would be a sad mistake.”

  “Right,” Vito agreed absently. “And have you ever read of any way to cure a werewolf?”

  “Cure it? No. Such victims of sorcery are irredeemable. I have no doubt,” Zussek said.

  “So they are made by sorcerers?” Vito asked.

  “Presumably, but no decent man is sure,” Zussek said.

  “Does the literature suggest any way to
control a werewolf?” Vito asked.

  “Clever thought,” Zussek said. “If you can control it, then you can wait for the moon to go away so the lost soul will become a man again and you can kill him. Maybe even give him a chance to confess.”

  “Of course,” Vito said.

  “Unfortunately I’ve never exactly heard of controlling such a thing. But I will look into it and get back to you. I do know, in general, that magic workers are known to control others by acting upon some intimate possession of the target, like a head scarf or even a lock of hair.” He looked at Miguel, obviously considering him the more knowledgeable person, and asked, “Does not the Church have any rituals or incantations for such a situation?”

  Although Miguel did not want his Church to appear anything less than omnipotent, he admitted, “Nothing precisely for werewolves.” He was still getting used to the possibility and wondered at Vito’s sudden fascination with the subject.

  “Well, you’ve rather got me intrigued. I think there are some Polish and Russian texts that might address such beasts in detail. Many legends come from the endless forests of those lands,” Zussek said.

  Vito stood up and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. If you learn anything please find me at the Clementinum,” he said.

  Shaking his hand, Zussek rose as well. Then he shook hands with Miguel, who thanked him for the appointment and offered to leave his heretic manual there until the end of the day.

  “You honor me,” Zussek said.

  “I’d be interested in hearing your expert opinion on it,” Miguel said.

  “That I will most definitely promise to provide,” Zussek said. He turned to Vito and added, “Brother Vito, please consider my services at your disposal if anyone else at the Jesuit Academy would like to consult with me on these subjects. I personally see no reason that the talent at Charles University cannot benefit from contact with your brotherhood’s scholars.”

  “That is very reasonable,” Vito said, pleased by the overture. He hoped that building his own network in Prague would come as easily as this first auspicious meeting.

  After some more parting compliments, Zussek saw out his guests. Tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lips, he strolled through his storeroom. He was trying to recall where he had placed his books about magical forest creatures.

  Abruptly he stopped. Excitement shot through him. Vito’s questions had opened a new possibility for the origin of one of his newest items. Zussek rushed upstairs to his office. He took a leather-bound box disguised as a book off a shelf and opened it. From inside he plucked out a key and went to a heavy wooden cabinet. After unlocking the cabinet, he drew out a small corroded silver box. He had cleaned the mud and blood off of it but the chunk of hair matted with old clotted blood clung dirtily to the inside. He did not touch it but now considered that it was not the hair off the Devil’s back pulled out during some unholy orgy. The hair was from a beast and the witch blood had cast a spell to summon it.

  His fingers snapped the box shut. Cold rushed through his body despite the balmy day. Beyond any doubt he believed that a werewolf was coming to Prague.

  Chapter 18. The Great Question

  Altea felt conspicuous walking by herself. Trying to dispel her discomfort, she casually swung her empty basket and lifted her chin. Carts, riders, and pedestrians passed her in both directions as she headed to the New Tower gate. Its immense presence jutted up from the Old Town wall like a knight in bulky jousting armor.

  When she passed beneath the hulking tower, fresh air greeted her. The scent of green land reminded her that the odiferous grime of city life was not necessarily desirable.

  The innate freedom beyond the city walls beckoned her. With more confidence she hurried down the lane that she had traveled with her mother in happier days.

  Cottages, taverns, stables, smithies, and shops sprawled along the roads radiating out from the gate, but their arrangement was looser than within the walls, and muddy livestock paddocks and green gardens filled the gaps. She took several turns on the crisscrossing roads until she was following a track up a hillside. Dwellings became more infrequent and the traffic diminished until she was alone on the road.

  The empty path ahead was unnerving. She looked back at the jumble of small holdings clustered on the lower reaches of the hill. Bushes and mature trees crowded the weedy track. Boulders bulged out of the vegetation like the weathered tombstones of giants. If she went around the next bend, she would be out of sight of the nearby dwellings.

  She drew courage from the warm sunny day. Birds were singing and in the distance she could still hear children playing. An empty hill was nothing to fear. Altea continued up the half forgotten path toward the cottage where Gretchen had lived.

  “Oh!” she cried sadly when she saw the burnt out rafters and blackened stucco walls. The thatch was all gone except for some singed chunks on the ground. The fire had burnt part of the big old tree that shaded the cottage. A wound of blackened branches undercut the remaining green crown.

  At the threshold she hesitated for a long time. Ashes spilled out the charred door frame. Rain had left little indentations across the ashes. Inside only black hunks remained of Gretchen’s meager furnishings.

  Looking over the sad ruin, Altea scolded herself for her stupid adventure. Her nagging curiosity about Gretchen’s witchcraft had compelled her to come out here. She had wondered if she could find some magic relic. Mostly Altea had needed to convince herself that Gretchen had indeed been evil as everyone now claimed.

  Altea was about to step over the threshold when she noticed boot prints in the ashes. There were more tracks throughout the cottage along with the paw prints of a small dog. She supposed the neighbors had looted pots and pans, and she expected to find nothing left of value.

  Cautiously she stepped inside. The collapsed roof left the cottage open to the sky. Altea recognized the arrangement of charred furniture. The bench and table in front of the single window. The chair in front of the hearth. The cot where an old woman had curled up to sleep alone every night.

  While growing up Altea had come here several times a year with her mother. For every pregnancy her mother had come to consult with Gretchen. She had sometimes traded for medicinal herbs, especially for her young boys. Seeing the cottage in ruin emphasized the loss of her mother. A nostalgic wave of pain hit her. How she wished her mother was alive and everything was as it had been.

  Many times Altea had sat with her mother and Gretchen and sipped tea that tasted like flowers. She had listened to the women talk and learned about the mysteries of womanhood that would be hers to experience someday.

  Altea rushed out of the cottage. Her plan to poke through Gretchen’s things struck her as nearly sacrilegious now. Yet she lingered and went to the southern side of the building. The herb garden was trampled and a few of the larger bushes uprooted. Altea remembered when the spot had been lush and blooming. Gretchen had crafted her medicines from her clever harvesting. Although Altea was generally a healthy person, once she had fallen ill with a bad cough and Gretchen had concocted a relieving poultice for her chest. Altea had trouble reconciling the helpfulness of that medicine with the witchcraft that Gretchen had died for.

  She rubbed her forehead, fighting her confusion. Only now she understood that she had come to this place to privately pay respects to a woman now officially reviled. She owed it to her mother to give that condemned woman some passing regard.

  Altea kneeled and fingered a trampled Valerian plant that was sending up some fresh shoots. She supposed the Constable’s men had needed to destroy this place of witchery, but the little sign of resilience cracked her control and tears spilled down her cheeks. With her mother gone, she felt like the little green shoots beside broken branches.

  She cried. She missed her mother and missed Gretchen too. The old woman had been there her whole life. She had been so old as to seem undying, but now she was gone. If she were here now she would pat Altea on the head and say some
thing weird to make her laugh.

  Altea sobbed harder and grabbed a cloth out of her basket to wipe her nose.

  “Do you cry for the woman who lived here?”

  Altea screamed and jumped to her feet. Her handkerchief fluttered to the ground. She whirled and looked upon a man. A small brown and white dog was wagging at his heels.

  Her next scream caught in her throat. Her body shook with the urge to flee, but the strangeness of the man trapped her curiosity. His striking eyes reached inside her. They were bright, a little sad, very alert, and fixed on her with a force she had never felt before. It was not the common lust of crude men that was flung at women in the streets. This man was beholding her.

  “Did you know her?” the man asked.

  “Gretchen,” she sputtered, finding herself barely able to speak. Her mind raced for her next action. She worried that running away would be an invitation to chase. As long as he stayed back, perhaps she could walk away. Slowly she squatted and picked up her handkerchief.

  “Gretchen,” the man whispered. He looked down as if forgetting Altea. She edged away a step. He did not seem to notice so she started walking away.

  “Miss,” he called.

  Altea did not turn back. She did not want to look at him again. If she did that she might not be able to stop looking at him.

  “I’m Thal. Thal Lesky!” he called.

  Altea kept walking. Then the little dog trotted up next to her. She looked down before she could stop herself. The canine’s perky ears popped up as if begging her to please listen to his friend.

  “She was my mother!” he called.

  Altea faltered and then stopped. The pain that had cracked through his voice had been too much for her to ignore. The vibration of his agony still resonated in her chest.

  Slowly she looked back. He was still standing where she had left him on the edge of the herb garden.

  “Hello, Miss,” he said.

  His voice warmed Altea. Its rich sound seemed distinct from other men. His courteous greeting loosened her knot of fear. She studied him. An auburn goatee set off his attractive face. He took off his hat. His reddish brown hair glinted in the sun. It was wavy and a little unruly. It gleamed with luxuriant health. His strong lean chest was exposed by his shirt hanging open on the warm day. The smooth lines of his pectorals scattered her thoughts. Willfully she resisted the distraction of his masculinity. Her eyes widened when she noticed the pistol angled inside his belt.