Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale

by Tracy Falbe

  Vito clasped his hands and resumed praying. This time he prayed for the door to hold.

  “Dear God keep the Devil within,” he pleaded.

  The werewolf’s roars grew louder. Its caged rage cursed creation. Vito feared people would come to investigate the terrible noise. During previous transformations when he had released Rainer in remote areas, the werewolf had not been so noisy. His howls had receded across the hills, but now that he was contained, the monster’s wrath was limitless.

  Near panic, Vito stopped praying.

  “Rainer quiet!” he ordered and pounded on the door. “In the name of Christ I command you to silence.”

  The savage snapping response from within was so extreme Vito could almost feel the great fangs closing on his flesh.

  “Be silent I tell you! Be silent if you ever wish for the grace of God to cleanse your soul!” Vito yelled.

  His werewolf howled and tore into the shuddering door with renewed fury. Vito stepped back, horrified.

  Then the werewolf abruptly fell silent. Vito sighed. Hopefully the beast was broken and would wait for morning in a dispirited heap. “Good, Rainer, good,” he praised and settled back on his knees to offer his prayers again.

  As he drew a breath to begin a prayer of thanks, Vito heard a new noise outside. The long sonorous howls of a wolf were singing to the night. Notes rose and fell with a melody no man could compose. The aching sadness of the wolf song was astonishing. It was as if Prague were being serenaded by all the sorrows of the Earth. A low whine from within the cell informed Vito that it was this nearly angelic song that had quieted Rainer.

  “Thal,” Vito whispered.

  He rushed outside. Moonlight cooled the brow of the silver blushing city. Towers were bright edges upon steely shadows. Every shifting leaf in the breeze shimmered with fairy dust glow.

  Outside Vito was able to hear the wolf song more clearly. Dogs throughout the city were starting to bark and howl. Each commanding howl began gently and then stretched into rolling notes. No lament ever sung for any saint had ever achieved this clarity of sorrow. The wild howling spoke of feelings beyond words.

  “Where is he?” Vito muttered, turning in circles and trying to judge from which direction the sound came. He wanted to find him. Thal had been an impressive man, unlike the mentally tormented Rainer. Vito imagined that Thal must be a glorious werewolf. Oh to have that power on his side! What could tempt Thal to come to him?

  With the wolf song still inflicting its lovely melancholy upon the night, Vito massaged his bald head and tried to think. He wanted to take advantage of this disturbing incident. Already men were coming out of nearby buildings. They murmured fearfully. Across the city thousands of people had to be shivering with fright. This wolf in their midst was not normal, and Vito plotted how to provide answers and leadership.

  ******

  Altea could not fall asleep. Questions about Gretchen tormented her sense of right and wrong. And the unexpected encounter with the old woman’s supposed son had rattled her badly. She was angry for having placed herself in a situation where the strange man had snuck up on her. She should have never been out there alone. But she could not have asked anyone to go with her to the home of a condemned witch. No one was supposed to go to such a place.

  Worried by her unsanctioned curiosity, Altea wondered if she should go to confession and ask Father Refhold for guidance.

  She shut her eyes and tried to block out what had happened, but the image of the strange man occupied her mind.

  Thal. He said his name was Thal, she thought. “Thal,” she whispered, knowing it was wrong but needing to defy her good sense.

  His resemblance to Gretchen had been strong. Altea accepted the possibility that he really was her son. Perhaps he was older than he looked.

  Recalling the details of his youthful appearance melted her fear. His lips and strong nose were distinct and handsome. The color of his eyes eluded her. She longed for another chance to look upon him. This unexpected desire made her chest ache.

  Wishing their chance encounter had been friendlier, she felt again her sadness for having to deliver bad news unto him. His painful loss had been easy to empathize with.

  Restless, she got out of bed and went to the window. She opened the shutter and admired the wondrous moonlight. On a night such as this even the worn stones of the street were brightened by a mystical glow. The street curved into mysterious shadows that beckoned her to slip away into the secret unknown.

  The soft evening air caressed her skin. Her wispy night gown hung open over her cleavage. She fingered the lace edge of the low collar.

  A low sound like wind moaning through a knothole in a board fence started. The sound grew until it was a living howl that sang across the city. Altea grabbed the window sill and leaned out. The staggering loveliness of the howling engulfed her. Bestial power pushed the sound louder and louder until it became like a musical fever dream. Altea’s mouth hung open. The sound was gently connecting with her body and she swayed. All her sorrow had finally been translated into an expressive essence of unbounded beauty.

  Gradually she thought again of the man. When he had begged for news of his mother, his desperate voice had connected to her sympathies the same way this otherworldly night song was massaging her spirit.

  She pressed her hand against her bosom, remembering Thal and wishing that she could relive the brief moments of their encounter. Her fingers strayed along one breast. The smooth firm flesh was reassuring against her sensitive finger tip. She could not help wishing that someone could touch her.

  The door to her bedroom burst open. With a yelp, she whirled from the window.

  “Get back from there!” Martin said.

  Her stepfather stalked across the bedroom and yanked shut the shutter. The howling song outside could still be heard. Dogs in the neighborhood were barking and howling now. Two people down the street shouted questions to each other.

  “I thought I heard your window open,” Martin complained.

  “What is it?” Altea asked. Strangely she had not realized that the howling could be heard by everybody. It was as if it had been just for her.

  “It sounds like a wolf but that’s impossible,” Martin said. “Woke me up like the Devil had come to take my soul.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” Altea said.

  “Beautiful?” Martin sneered, disgusted by her attitude. “I can’t remember a wolf ever coming this close to the city. People will take it as a bad omen. This thing will need hunting down. I pray no one expects my meager staff to attend to it,” he grumbled.

  The howling outside grew louder along with the increasing cacophony of dogs and frightened livestock. Altea looked back at her shuttered window.

  “Don’t open that window again,” Martin said sharply. He grabbed her wrist. “Get back in bed,” he ordered.

  Altea gasped and tried to pull her arm free. The sudden counter movement made Martin pull her close. She froze. The closeness of his body shocked her. His big meaty presence wafted heat that penetrated her night gown where his belly touched her ribs. She pulled away but he still held her wrist. His hot grip was hurting her. He seemed frozen in place as if his physical connection to her had kicked open a door that had always been bolted.

  She tried to pry his fingers off her wrist.

  “Altea,” he whispered musingly. He reached with his other hand to stop her fingers clawing at his grip.

  The howling song vibrated through the shutters. Wherever the beast was singing it was close. That voice that possessed all the powers of gentleness and savagery gave her courage.

  “Let me go,” she hissed.

  Slowly Martin relaxed his grip and she slipped free and backed against the window sill.

  “Get back in bed,” Martin said.

  Altea could not remember him ever being in her room before. “Leave,” she told him.

  Her command provoked his sense of authority but he resisted his natural urge to lash out at her. Their pri
vate encounter cloaked by the darkness had unhinged him a little, and he stepped back.

  “I’ll check on the boys,” he muttered and went out.

  He did not shut the door, but Altea rushed across the room and latched it. She leaned against it shakily. There was no lock. She had never thought about that before but now it bothered her greatly.

  Feeling like a little girl woken from a nightmare with no one to console her, she slipped beneath the covers. The cocoon of bedding granted her meager comfort. She listened to the howling song that still touched the city in all its places. She wanted to know where it came from but refused to recognize that she knew its source.

  ******

  Regis knocked on the door. “Thal?” he said and received no reply.

  “I saw him go in there this afternoon,” Carlo said.

  Regis turned the latch and called again to his friend. He nudged the door open with his elbow and held out a candle. “No one’s here,” he said.

  The three men entered the small room across the hall from their rooms. The window in Thal’s room was open. Raphael went to it. The blue moonlight fell across his face.

  “I can still hear it,” he said.

  Howling emanated from Prague like a string vibrating on a harp. The dark bulky heights of the royal castle lording over the Little Quarter impassively received the gentle wails clawing at its walls. The lions in the royal menagerie roared.

  “Where is it coming from?” Carlo whispered.

  Raphael leaned out the window and tried to judge his answer. “From across the river I think,” he said.

  “It sounds like wolves,” Carlo said.

  “It’s only one singing,” Raphael said knowingly, and the other musicians did not doubt his determination.

  “Maybe Thal is out looking for it,” Raphael suggested.

  Regis headed toward the window and stumbled on Thal’s boots. For a moment, he refused to believe the evidence at his feet. Then he kneeled by Thal’s bed and lifted the straw mattress. He pulled out the pistol and held it up for his friends to see.

  “Thal wouldn’t go anywhere without his weapon unless made to,” Raphael worried.

  Regis put the gun back and felt around and discovered the sword and knives too. Then he found folded clothing on the bed. Next he hurried to the pegs on the wall and saw Thal’s cloak and traveling bag hanging there too. The change of clothing that Lord Patercek had gifted to Thal was still in the bag.

  Closing the bag, Regis said, “He’s naked.”

  “Not again,” Carlo said, fearing that their friend would return hurt.

  The men stared at each other. Flickering candlelight revealed the questions in their eyes.

  Still at the window, Raphael savored the distant wailing note. The song was sad, beautifully sad. He could hope to play so well.

  “Do you think it’s true what he said about becoming a beast?” Raphael said.

  “No. Remember when he killed the bandits. He was a man. We all saw that he was a man,” Regis insisted.

  “No man can sing like that,” Raphael said, still looking dreamily into the night.

  “No, that’s not a man’s voice,” Regis agreed quietly.

  “Shouldn’t we go look for him?” Carlo said.

  “Where to begin? We’d probably get lost. I don’t know Prague in the daylight yet,” Regis countered.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Carlo said.

  “It’s amazing,” Raphael commented. The utter remorse in the sound would inspire him the rest of his life.

  “I’ll wait up for him,” Regis said. “Go rest. Lady Carmelita wants us to play for her tomorrow.”

  Reluctantly, his friends went to their rooms. Regis stretched out on Thal’s bed and listened to the faint howling. He blew out his candle and pondered the fact that Thal had to be out in the city naked. He knew that Thal was not a madman, but he could not explain this odd behavior.

  When the wolf song stopped, he realized he wanted to hear more. Despite the lengthy serenade, his musician’s heart told him this was just the first verse of a long song.

  With the city quiet, he closed his eyes. Sleeping would be the best way to wait. When footsteps in the hall roused him he looked at the window. The moonlight was coming in from a noticeably different angle. It was much later in the night.

  The footsteps stopped at the door and the latch clicked open. After a moment’s hesitation, a man opened the door and said, “Regis?”

  How did he know it was me? Regis wondered, sitting up. “Thal!” he cried.

  “Ssshhh,” Thal hushed and scooted in the room and shut the door. He tossed his heavy fur over the foot of the bed and grabbed his underclothes.

  “What is this about?” Regis said.

  Thal sighed. Being bombarded with human words after his hours spent in werewolf form was bothersome. Exhausted by his cathartic night, he had little energy for conversation. His transformation had been exhilarating despite his grief. He was certain that doing it when the moon was full enhanced his power. He could have torn gates from their hinges tonight.

  Thal flopped onto his bed. “Regis, why are you in my room?” he asked.

  “Where have you been all night?” Regis said.

  Thal rolled over.

  “Did you hear the wolf singing?” Regis said.

  “You must have,” Thal said. The feeling of the grief vibrating through his throat was still fresh. He had poured all that he remembered of a loving mother into each note.

  “I don’t know where to go. My mother is dead,” Thal said.

  “I’m sorry my friend,” Regis said sincerely. The vague huddle of Thal upon the bed distressed Regis, who had never seen Thal appear so vulnerable.

  “I wonder if my mother will still be alive when I return home,” Regis said.

  “I should not have left,” Thal said although he knew in his heart it was what he had wanted to do.

  “Don’t say that. You not to blame. If you had stayed in Prague it wouldn’t mean your mother would live. Death comes to us all,” Regis said.

  Abruptly Thal sat up. Startled, Regis took a half step back.

  “I could have protected her,” Thal hissed. The vehemence in his voice made Regis cringe.

  “What happened?”

  Thal hesitated. He knew he should not tell anyone, but he was not ashamed. His mother had never hurt anyone.

  “She was condemned as a witch and burnt in the Old Town Square,” Thal whispered.

  “Oh that cannot be true,” Regis said.

  “It is!”

  Regis did not know what to say. He should be afraid. Perhaps Thal truly was Devil-begotten, but he would not hurt him. He would not hurt anyone who did not deserve it.

  Thal swung his feet onto the floor, giving up on the idea of sleeping. “I plan to do some terrible things. You won’t want to be counted as my comrade. It will put you in danger,” Thal said.

  “You don’t have to do anything bad,” Regis argued. “Make a new life. You can always travel with me. I need you, and I won’t stay in Prague forever. We could go to Paris.”

  Thal appreciated that his friend still valued him even after hearing the terrible news, but he shook his head. “I must punish her killers. My mother used the last of her power to call me home. She wants vengeance for what was done,” he said. Speaking the words reinforced his commitment to honor the spell that had retrieved him from his purely wolf state.

  “I’ve sung many songs about vengeance. None of them end well,” Regis warned.

  “Then I’ll call it justice,” Thal said.

  “Not many songs about justice,” Regis said.

  “Either way, do not involve yourself with me,” Thal said and reached for his boots.

  Gently Regis intervened. “Thal, you’re tired. Upset. Let me think for you tonight. Where you going to go? The gutter? Don’t let those that killed your mother drive you to crime,” he said.

  Thal sat back on his bed. He could agree with Regis that he was tired and
emotional. Giving up the shelter that Lady Carmelita had provided would be foolish.

  “You’re right. I must think this through better,” Thal conceded, realizing that he should plan his hunt carefully. To kill was the birthright of a wolf, but a man must plot how to get away with it.

  Chapter 20. Bound by Loss

  Needing time alone with his grief, Thal stuck to the solitude of his room. He busied himself cleaning his gun and polishing his boots. Mud clung to the boots from his trip to the city. He had walked the whole way, unable to ride in Patercek’s supply wagons because he agitated the horses.

  After rubbing a boot clean, Thal sniffed it. Faintly the scent of Captain Jan still clung to it, which irritated him.

  In the hall he heard the faint approach of small feet. A timid little knock at the door sought his attention.

  Thal wanted to command the visitor away with surly words, but the apprehensive little soul outside sweetened his mood a little. And Pistol was wagging at the closed door, eager for a visitor.

  “Yes,” Thal said heavily.

  The dark shaggy haired head of a pot boy looked inside. His eyes were wide as he beheld Thal up close.

  “Sir, are you the mercenary?” the boy said.

  “I’m a huntsman,” Thal corrected.

  Even a little servant boy knew that the employ of a huntsman in an urban household was a bit ridiculous.

  “Lord Mika wishes to see you,” the boy said.

  “Who’s that?” Thal said, not very interested. He returned to polishing a boot.

  “Lady Carmelita’s son,” the boy said. “He wants to see your gun.”

  When Thal looked up, the boy smiled and glanced hopefully at the pistol on the table.

  Thal decided it might do him some good to trade brooding in his room for being annoyed by pups.