by Tracy Falbe
When Miguel finished his plate, he stood up and regarded everyone. Altea froze, but his eyes barely took her in. She, however, recognized him with the searing force of a meteor impact. Water sloshed from the top of the pitcher before she controlled her furious shaking.
Miguel said, “On behalf of my Jesuit order, I thank you for the generous meal.” His Italian accent garbled his words, and his provincial audience failed utterly to understand him although his German served well enough in the heart of the empire.
Another monk translated into the Slovak dialect, and the servants nodded pleasantly.
“I’m sure you’re surprised by my visit,” Miguel continued. “I’m seeking a notorious criminal known as Thal Lesky. Have you seen him?”
After the three servants looked at Emil, he said, “We know of no Thal Lesky here.”
“Thal! The Butcher of Prague!” Miguel demanded, but loudness brought no reaction. The placid lack of alarm among these people perplexed him. He had assisted his late mentor in interrogations and had some experience in judging people, but these indifferent folk stymied him.
“Know you of any dealings that Lord Sarputeen might have had with Thal?” Miguel pressed.
Emil cleared his throat. “Brother, it is not our place to discuss who our lord may or may not have contact with. We are not privy to his doings. May I escort you to your meeting with him?”
Miguel hesitated. If this place truly were a dead end in his hunt for Thal, he should not tarry, but the offer to view manuscripts overrode his larger duty.
“Yes,” he said.
Altea acted quickly to make sure that his companions stayed behind. She did not recognize them from her ordeal in Prague. Even if any of them had been in the city, she did not believe they had taken part in her torment.
“Please, brothers, have a drink,” she said and came to their table with the pitcher. “I’ll fetch you more bread too.”
The three monks stayed happily while Miguel departed.
******
Sarputeen laid out three leather-bound tomes on a table in his study. He paged through one. He had not opened these books in years. He scanned the faded runes on the thick parchment next to an illustration of warriors in wolf and bear skins.
When Emil led in Brother Miguel, Sarputeen shut that book and opened a Latin manuscript that recounted the local histories of nearby Poland.
Miguel came eagerly to the table and was immediately impressed with the open book. He hefted his bag onto the table and brought out his books to share. Sarputeen admired the Bible, printed in the new mechanical method, and then he flipped through Miguel’s witch-hunting manual that detailed how to detect witchcraft and force offenders to confess their wickedness.
Miguel continued to skim the history book. Every tale of obscure battle or genealogical detail excited his interest. “I wish I had time to study this thoroughly,” he lamented.
“But you have this criminal to pursue,” Sarputeen said sympathetically.
“You wanted me to tell you about him,” Miguel said.
“Please,” Sarputeen said. He settled into his chair to listen. Miguel told him about the vicious werewolf summoned by witchcraft. Despite the Godly efforts of his late leader, Brother Vito, and the Magistrate of Prague, the beast had killed many men and disappeared.
As Miguel concluded the story, Sarputeen said, “And you tracked him as far as Zilina?”
“I found witnesses who saw or heard of him. Alas, the trail has grown cold although I do not regret coming here,” Miguel said. He turned his attention to the next book on the table but was interrupted when Altea entered. She bore a tray of food and drink and set it near the books.
“Don’t put that there, woman,” Miguel snapped.
“You’re not in charge here,” she declared.
Astonished by her insolence, Miguel looked up from his book directly at her face. She narrowed her eyes and waited.
“You dishonor your lord with your rudeness,” Miguel said.
Altea slapped her hands on the table. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” she said.
“Should I?”
She grabbed the collar of her blouse and yanked it open to expose her shoulders and breasts almost to her nipples. On both sides, bright red little circles showed the scars where the points of an iron maiden had pricked her torso. The threat of the shutting door had provoked her into confessing her alleged acts of witchcraft.
Her display shocked Miguel, but then he saw the nasty scars on her thumbs as she clutched the fabric of her blouse. The scars matched where thumbscrews would have been placed, and he remembered the shrieks of a woman interrogated by Vito.
And Miguel realized that this woman had just spoken to him in Czech with a perfect Prague accent. She was the confessed witch that had disappeared. She was Thal’s woman!
Pure terror provoked him to action. He must reunite with his brothers. He must get the soldiers in the village. Why had he let those worthless dogs slink away? How had he ended up alone in this room? Why had his faith and charms not protected him?
Miguel whirled for the door, but Sarputeen had silently left his chair and blocked the exit. He struck Miguel fiercely across the face and sent him to the floor.
“How has this man wronged you, Altea?” Sarputeen asked.
“He observed my torture and wrote the confession forced from me,” she said. She trembled from the intensity of the memory and the thrill of seeing Sarputeen strike him down.
Miguel clutched his jaw. Pain lanced his chin and blurred his senses. He barely heard what the others said. He managed to get on his hands and knees and scramble to the table. Pulling himself up, he grabbed his Bible and held it forth like a weapon.
“In the name of Christ, stay back!” he thundered.
Sarputeen advanced calmly, and Miguel stepped back until his butt hit the table. With a strong hand, Sarputeen wrenched the book from the monk and threw it on the table.
“That will make a nice addition to my library,” he commented pleasantly although his eyes gleamed with the perfect focus of a predator on a serious hunt.
Miguel raised his crucifix now and recited a prayer against witchcraft, but Sarputeen suffered no holy judgment. His feet did not tread in the world of sins.
He spun Miguel and slammed him face-down on the table. The monk struggled, but age had not dulled Sarputeen’s strength that was as brutish as it was precise. Miguel could do little better than squirm.
Sarputeen yanked the little pouch from Miguel’s belt. A slight odor emanating from that pouch had been tickling his temper since Miguel had entered the room. He tossed it on the table and asked Altea to open it.
She uncovered a small silver box dulled by dark grime that looked like dried blood. Inside, she saw a crusty tuft of hair.
The sight of it distracted Sarputeen so much that Miguel almost wiggled free. He gripped the monk anew and lifted him up. He slammed him into a wall. When Miguel shouted for help, Sarputeen stifled him by pressing his mouth against the wall.
“You should not have pursued Thal. He was the instrument of justice born to avenge your victims,” Sarputeen said.
Miguel protested incoherently.
“Altea, open the door,” Sarputeen commanded.
She complied quickly and then followed Sarputeen as he forced the monk down the hall. When she saw that he was heading toward the door that opened onto the cliff, she rushed to open it. The heavy door strained her hands, but she managed to haul it open.
The monk was thrust into the open air. His shouts battered the twisted old pines that grew tenaciously along the cliff. As Sarputeen pushed him onward, Miguel stumbled over the turf, lumpy with rocks, and laced with tree roots.
Knowing every nuance of the uneven ground, Sarputeen moved across it swiftly and surely. At the edge, he gave the monk a mighty shove and sent him into the thin air. Flailing his arms, Miguel went down. The cold terror of his scream matched the icy water frothing below.
Altea rushed up a
nd stumbled. Sarputeen caught her waist. Carefully, he guided her to a safer ledge and they peered down.
The immobile body of the monk in a brown robe was splayed on the gravel bank of the river. A splash of blood showed where his head had struck a rock.
She gaped at the abrupt violence. The punishment suited her angry heart although she was shocked at Sarputeen’s audacity.
“How will we hide the body?” she asked shakily.
“My friends in the forest will take it,” he answered. Turning, he headed back to his castle, and Altea followed.
In his study, he picked up the silver box. Sitting heavily in a chair, he stared at the object as if he had forgotten all other concerns. The scent of his former mate’s blood upon the box removed the decades that had passed since last he had seen her. Memories of joy and anger jumbled together in his mind as he admired her magic that lingered upon the box that contained a snippet of their son’s hair.
Altea waited for him to say something. At length, she said gently, “Sarpu, what of the other monks?”
“Do you want me to kill them?” he said without looking up.
She wondered about their innocence. Although they had played no part in her suffering, they likely agreed with everything that had been done to her and they were threats to any who failed to meet the standards of a harsh society that made no allowances for those who were different. Even so, she felt little desire to condemn them.
“I’ll see to them,” she announced.
Sarputeen continued to stare at the little box that he had confiscated, content to let her act as she chose.
******
Altea changed into a nice dress and brushed her hair. She went to the kitchen and caught Emil’s eye from out in the hall. She gestured for him to come out. The three monks remained settled in with mugs of beer, and they paid no heed to their meeting.
Altea whispered, “Send for the Duke’s men. Tell them to meet the monks at the gate because they’re ready to go back.”
Before Emil could ask a question, she added, “Take those three to the main hall.”
Then, she hurried away.
Altea grabbed a taper from a wall sconce and lit some candles in the main hall. She sat on Sarputeen’s chair and tried to organize her throats.
The shock of Brother Miguel’s killing still trembled on her nerves. His fate gave her grim satisfaction, but she had to convince the other monks to leave. She knew herself to be a confident liar and played with ideas in her mind.
After what felt like a long wait, the monks disturbed the quiet of the old castle. They sounded jolly as they came down the hall. Emil brought them in. She noted his surprise that she occupied his master’s chair.
The men quieted as they came forward. Her appearance startled the monks a little. Her golden hair flowed around her face, free of braids, ribbon, or headdress. The golden pendant lay upon her bosom, and she sat up straight and looked down on them with haughty authority.
“I am the Lady of Vlkbohveza,” she announced.
Confused, the monks stared at her, wondering about this witchy consort that no one had warned them about.
“Your Brother directs you to return to Prague,” she said.
“Where is Brother Miguel?” demanded a monk.
“He has chosen to stay here and study werewolf hunting with Lord Sarputeen for he is learned in such matters. His wisdom will be needed to succeed in the quest to find Thal.”
The monks digested this. The concept that Miguel would want arcane knowledge to use against the notorious shape shifter made sense, but his absence was suspicious.
Altea wished she had some magic by which to dazzle them and hoped that her wits would serve well enough.
She continued, “Brother Miguel directs you to retrace your steps and seek fresh clues about Thal’s whereabouts for he never came this way. Any new information you collect can be sent to him care of Duke Thurzo.”
“We must speak with him,” a monk insisted.
“You must obey his order with haste for the trail grows colder. The Duke’s men await you at the gate. Emil will take you to them,” she said.
Dutifully, Emil started to steer them toward the door, but the men naturally resisted.
“Tell him we must see him,” cried one monk.
“I am not your errand girl,” she said sternly and looked to Emil to enforce her will.
“Come, brothers,” Emil said, taking one by the elbow. “The Duke’s men will leave without you if you don’t come now.”
The prospect of traveling the lonely mountain road on their own swayed the reluctant monks. They drifted out with Emil, and Altea slouched back into the chair. After waiting a while, she ventured into the courtyard just as Emil was closing the gate.
“Thank you,” she said, happy that Emil had managed to remove them.
“I can’t promise that they won’t come back,” Emil said.
“At least they’re out,” she said.
“Where is the other one?” he asked.
“Dead.”
The news did not surprise Emil.
“I suppose the Duke’s men will convince the monks of their good fortune for having survived their visit to Vlkbohveza,” Emil said and relaxed a little.
“Has this been a deadly place?” Altea asked.
“Not until today,” Emil said and laughed. “But Master’s reputation is not one to be put to the test.”
“Do you fear him?” Altea asked.
“I respect him,” Emil answered easily. “I know him only as an old lord who would protect us from any threat. My mother taught me that living here was a privilege for the cares of the world did not reach here.”
“But Thal and I have brought the world here,” Altea lamented.
Emil bore her no resentment. To reassure her, he said, “Master will distract the world from this place.”
Chapter 6. The Way of the Wolf
Thal approached Zilina on the north road. The pristine pine air of the mountains was behind him now. Chimneys fed a haze of wood smoke over the town, and he detected the stew-like fume of smells that marked human settlements.
“Shall we?” he said to Pistol.
The white and brown dog hopped up.
“I want to see our friends too,” Thal said and continued forward.
Farmers with carts of grain and hay rumbled along the road. Men and women streamed in and out of the city in small groups. Most bore baskets of produce, cloth, or other goods. Some drove livestock. A young boy with a stick kept three geese moving forward. They honked at Thal with extra hostility. He stepped aside, so the feathery gang could pass. Pistol sprang toward the birds, and they waddled away indignantly from the barking harassment.
People directed curious stares toward Thal. By most standards, he appeared to be a mercenary. His polished armor was decorated in a foreign design, and his boots had traveled many miles. He kept his lovely wolf skin beneath a cloak.
He entered the city unquestioned and headed toward the ducal palace. Inside the town, a busy prosperity clotted the streets. New buildings were going up, and people occupied themselves with active trade.
Thal blended in with the flow of diverse traffic. He heard the various dialects of the empire among the regional Slovak speech.
When he neared the main gate to Duke Thurzo’s palace, he drifted out of the flow of traffic. The iron-bound timber gates stood open, and Thal observed the palace guards. They inspected people entering the palace. Thal supposed he could bluff his way by them. He had a natural talent for gaining the confidence of others, but he desired to approach the Duke privately.
He spotted a tavern that catered to a better class of gentleman, like those who visited the palace. Squatting, Thal rubbed Pistol behind the ears and said, “Go find Regis.”
The little dog cocked his head.
“Regis,” Thal said and pointed to the gate. “Get Regis.”
The dog trotted off and slipped through the gate without arousing anyone’s notice. Tha
l crossed the street and entered the tavern.
******
Regis lounged on his little bed. Afternoon sun streamed through his little window, which he appreciated because he hated staying in a room that opened on the dawn. He adjusted a string on his small harp and plucked it. Satisfied, he moved to the next string.
He looked up expectantly when someone tapped on his door. When it opened, he smiled to the maid. Her linen headdress set off her high cheek bones and cold blue eyes.
“Arda,” he said.
He set his harp in its case and made room for her on the little bed. She latched the door and slid eagerly into his arms.
“I thought I’d never find a way to sneak away,” Arda said after a long, greedy kiss.
Massaging her hips, Regis said, “Do they never think that you might need someone to beat your rug?”
She laughed and then moved on top of him. He pushed up her skirts and gripped her thighs as she straddled him. Arda leaned over, but before she started kissing him again, she said, “Why do you get to lay about all day?”
“Because I entertain all night,” he said and pulled her down.
Gently, he caressed her cheek but it was the hand up her skirt that commanded her attention. Her moaning sounded grateful until scratching at the door distracted her.
“Go away,” Regis said.
A bark responded to his voice.
“Has someone sent a dog to hunt me down?” Arda complained.
Regis knew someone who sent a dog on errands. He shifted the maid aside.
The scratching persisted until Regis opened the door. “Pistol!” he said. The dog bounded into his room. Regis looked up and down the empty hall before shutting the door.
“Who’s dog is this?” Arda asked as she petted Pistol.
“A friend’s,” Regis said, deciding against stating the name.
Pistol circled Regis’s feet. He knew the dog wanted him to follow.
“I’ll see you tonight, my darling,” Regis said.
Arda pouted. Regis dove in for another kiss to cheer her up, but then he pulled on his shoes and grabbed his cape.
“Did you notice where Carlo and Raphael were?” he asked.
