Werewolf Castle

by Tracy Falbe

  But those who might hunt him feared him too, and he considered renewing his reputation. His powers had gone unused for too long. Tekax was a worthy target, and ridding the world of him might brighten the darkness of the coming ages by a little bit.

  And he had Thal to teach. His son was mighty but raw as a fish just hooked.

  Sarputeen shifted his attention to the old book and fragile scrolls scattered on the table.

  He consulted one document and silently mouthed a few words. While his gaze drifted upward, the scroll slipped off his finger and curled up. For some time, he stared at the landscape of his imagination before coming back to his surroundings.

  He continued with his inventory of field gear and weapons until satisfied with his choices. He swung his fur around his shoulders and went to the window overlooking the courtyard. Emil was directing exercise for the volunteers. Altea watched their activity from a chair. Even from this height, Sarputeen detected how closely she observed the newcomers, and the female drew her attention most of all.

  Sarputeen considered the volunteers. They had recuperated somewhat from privation and distress. Until now, Sarputeen had limited his contact with them, but he needed to mingle with them before he finished his potion.

  He scanned the outer world. From the tower of Vlkbohveza, the landscape looked pristine and untroubled. Each day was an age of Creation unto itself, and he its privileged sentinel.

  Heavy clouds crowded the horizon and pressed against the slopes until their voluminous edges overtook the rocky peaks. The storm front had the pallor of a dead man’s dirty face. The snowfall would be heavy tonight.

  Thinking of Thal and Mileko, he hoped to see a raven flapping toward him with news. The absence of a wild winged colleague was not a bad sign. No sensible raven would bother to travel with snow imminent unless the news was dire. No news could be good news.

  He descended to the courtyard to interact with the newcomers. His natural stealth prevented them from noticing him. Lenki and Ansel and Harvath and Mitri were paired off and trading blows with wooden sticks. Emil instructed them in basic swordplay, imparting what little knowledge he possessed in such arts. Johan was catching his breath next to Altea.

  Sarputeen stepped out of the shadowy archway that concealed him. Ansel spotted him first. Startled, he failed to block a blow from Lenki.

  “Ow!” he scolded playfully and stepped back.

  Lenki turned to Sarputeen. Exertion bloomed rosily upon her pale face. She lowered her stick and watched him pass through their group like he was a mythical beast. The others froze as if any movement might provoke him.

  Sarputeen approached Altea. Pistol jumped up and wagged approvingly around his feet. He told Emil to resume the drills. Emil drew Johan back into the exercises and served as his partner.

  As the volunteers went back to their sparring, Sarputeen said, “What think you of them?”

  Altea had yet to resolve any of her feelings about the volunteers, but Sarputeen might value her opinion.

  “I believe they are content to join us,” she said.

  “Would they be so agreeable if they had other choices?” he wondered.

  “I know that I appreciate my second chance to have a home,” she said.

  Her blue eyes beamed at him with a familial affection that had never shone upon the stepfather whose house she had grown up in.

  He patted her shoulder. “You’ve not come to me since we talked of your education,” he said.

  Altea looked down. “You seemed busy.”

  “You’ve not been shy about interrupting me before,” he commented.

  She smiled primly, proud of her audacity, but said, “I’ve had much on my mind.”

  He read the turmoil upon her body. The impositions of her upbringing that reviled magic might still be difficult to overcome.

  Sarputeen stepped forward and started giving instructions to the volunteers. He advised Mitri how to strike with more precision. He recommended that Harvath move his feet more. Johan showed no confidence and acted only to defend himself. Sarputeen knew this derived from the punishing depletion of the man’s spirit.

  He circled around to where Lenki and Ansel traded blows.

  “You strike at her too softly,” Sarputeen scolded.

  “I don’t want to hurt her, my Lord,” Ansel said.

  Sarputeen yanked the wood from the young man’s hand. “Everyone else wants to,” he said sharply and swung at Lenki. She blocked him but was knocked off balance and had to regain her footing. “Is that not right? You’ve been hurt haven’t you?” Sarputeen said and acted to strike again but did not follow through on the swing.

  He appreciated the ferocity in her eyes. Wild was not the right word for her. She had gone rogue almost to the point of ruination. No wonder Altea watched her so closely.

  He tossed the stick back to Ansel. “Strike for real. Train her,” he said.

  “Yes, Lord.”

  Before they resumed sparring, Sarputeen stepped in front of Lenki. “When you walk in the tracks of the wolf, you’ll be stronger than you are as a woman,” he said.

  The concept startled her, as if it were too tempting to even bear thinking about.

  Sarputeen returned to Altea’s side and watched the sparring. Ansel pressed Lenki with substantially more vigor although he was still holding back, but he was at least making Lenki work harder. He admired Ansel’s confidence and grace. They indicated that he had come into his manhood with a mentor to guide his development.

  A gust of wind moaned over the castle walls and sent a cold draft into the courtyard. The snow would not hold off much longer, and he thought of his son.

  A decision came to him suddenly. “I’ll go look for Thal and Mileko. I feel they are close,” he said.

  “I shall accompany you,” Altea announced, standing up.

  Sarputeen resisted his urge to deny her company. The abuse that she had suffered earlier in the year made him protective of her.

  “You’re accustomed to taking care of things,” he remarked.

  “I was my mother’s eldest,” she said although thinking of her mother was difficult. In her final days, she had relied on Altea entirely to tend to the other children, the half brothers that Altea expected to never see again.

  “Have Emil come too,” Sarputeen advised.

  Altea relayed the order to Emil and excused the others. They watched her hustle after Sarputeen, curious about her errand in the company of the sorcerer.

  Altea followed him up to his work room.

  His battle blades scraped heavily against the table as he grabbed them by their straps. “Your help would be appreciated,” he said.

  She recognized the shark fin shaped cleavers that strapped to his arms and back when he shifted. “Do you expect trouble?” she said.

  “It’s best to be prepared these days,” he said and pulled off his shirt.

  Altea turned her head while he undressed.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  She glanced at him. His back was to her. Although the fur covered some of his nakedness, she stayed focused on the straps as she attached the blades over his shoulders and arms.

  “Will it not frighten the villagers to see you like this?” she wondered because it was still daylight.

  “They are among those rare people who understand what to fear and how much,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where do you feel safest? Here or any other city in the Empire?” he said, and she began to understand. The villagers feared his capabilities yet were grateful not to ever be the target of his powers. He was their guardian, and to betray him would shatter their peace.

  Altea moved to the door and awaited his shifting. He began to chant the spell while saluting the four winds.

  “Sarpu!” he cried as if calling out to a long lost friend, and the transformation began.

  Once his painful convulsions were complete, a stunning white wolfman replaced his body. He elevated onto his hind legs and s
wiped with his forearms to test the fit of his battle blades.

  The weapons enhanced the brutal power of his great body. Not only could he tear flesh or crush bones with his huge black-lipped jaws, but he could slice opponents by buffeting them with his bladed body.

  He dropped to all fours and loped through the door. Altea followed him down the winding stairs.

  Emil had two horses ready in the courtyard, and he helped Altea mount one. No one openly observed them. The volunteers and servants glanced at Sarputeen shyly from windows and doorways. Some among the household would never entirely admit that what they saw was the old man of the castle. They believed instead that they viewed a spirit monster summoned by him.

  Sarputeen departed at a fast pace. His slightly mannish four-legged gait marked him as something other than a wolf, but he still moved swiftly with tireless strides.

  Emil and Altea galloped after him, down the mountain road, as the wind drove the first snow flakes.

  Down the switchbacks they traveled. The snow thickened, and the horses took greater care on the turns. The accumulated snow ahead of them revealed the wide tracks left by the Lord of Vlkbohveza.

  The riders slowed as the wet snow deepened, and they fell farther and farther behind the werewolf.

  Sarputeen had caught the scent of his son and protege. He bounded through the snow, nearly heedless of its presence even as snowflakes hit his eyes. At last he rounded a bend and saw two figures. Mileko’s cloak wrapped his bowed body. He led his limping horse that was too lame to bear a rider. Thal led the way. He was in werewolf form and limping too. His ears shifted forward with instant recognition when his father appeared.

  Visible excitement animated Thal’s movements as he hurried forward. He forgot his open wound in that moment. They touched noses and then Sarputeen sniffed Thal’s leg wound. Dried blood dirtied the fur around the ragged edges of skin.

  Sarputeen hurried next to Mileko who had not been able to rush forward.

  “Master,” he gasped, reaching out and then sinking to his knees in the sloppy snow. The horse’s reins slipped from his hand, and he pitched forward, utterly spent.

  Sarputeen stuck his nose under Mileko’s neck and turned him over. He smelled the scorched fabric and blood that told of a gunshot wound.

  Mileko moaned and tossed his head. His eyes fluttered. A white wolf face with fur as perfect as wind-sculpted snow welcomed him back from his swoon, and Mileko remembered what it was to look into those dark eyes aglitter with wisdom and savagery.

  “Master,” Mileko whispered.

  Sarputeen lay his great body next to him to keep him warm. Thal came along the other side and did the same. Sarputeen wanted to know what troubles had befallen them, but the story would have to wait until they could converse in the speech of men.

  The body heat of the supernatural beasts alongside Mileko halted the punishing chill that had taken hold down to his bones like frost that cracks rock. Grateful to be back in the company of his mentor, he let his eyes close again.

  A lantern held by Emil revealed his arrival with Altea. Each snowflake within the defiant sphere of light sparkled with surprise after falling so far through a dark abyss. Thal moved carefully, mindful not to spook the horses. Altea jumped down and rushed to him. He leaned his head against her chest as she embraced him. Her womanly scent reminded him of their love and gave him hope that the future might grant him gentle pleasures instead of persecution.

  “Thal,” she murmured sweetly and petted him. Her gloved hands massaged the luxurious fur over his shoulders as if searching for the man’s body that was her husband.

  When Emil passed them with the lantern, she saw Mileko’s condition and rushed to his side. “What is wrong?” she said.

  “I’ve been shot and…” Mileko trailed off, too weary to go into detail.

  Sarputeen moved off of him, and Altea and Emil sat him up gently. “Where are you hurt?” she said.

  Although Mileko honestly hurt everywhere, he patted his left shoulder.

  “Can you get back on your horse?” Emil asked.

  “My horse is lame,” Mileko said.

  “Then you’ll ride mine if you can,” Emil said.

  Weakly, Mileko nodded and got to his feet with Emil’s assistance. Altea took his other arm and helped him forward. Mileko managed to get on the horse.

  “I’ll lead him,” Emil offered, and Mileko slumped in the saddle with his arms coiled inside the cloak.

  Altea collected Mileko’s horse. The animal appeared to have a sore hind foot. She got back on her horse and tugged the lead for the other horse. Despite fatigue, proximity to home inspired the animal to start moving again. She had to keep a slow pace as the horse limped up the mountain, and she soon was last in line. Sarputeen and Thal were ahead of her and behind Emil. In the faint light of swirling snowflakes, she noticed Thal’s limp. She hoped that he was not badly injured. He always seemed to have some cut or scrape.

  She watched the two werewolves. Their kinship showed in the easy synchronicity of their movements. Sarputeen pressed close to Thal’s side so that his son could lean on him. His strength was doubled in the presence of another of his kind, and Altea wondered what it would be like when he was surrounded by five more of his making.

  Seeing him with his father in their altered forms impressed on her the gulf that separated her from them. How long would Thal consider her a worthy mate? She knew that he had given her no reason to question his love, but the whispering fear refused to fall silent. Her cold dread of even the possibility of his disinterest sapped her spirit more sharply than the cold mountain air. Her worries made the plodding trek back to the castle feel even longer.

  Upon reaching the old fortress, Thal and Sarputeen released their magic. Altea took Thal to their chamber, and Sarputeen and Emil took Mileko to his room.

  Shifting shape had set Thal’s cut to bleeding again. Altea wiped the wound clean and prepared a bandage. She could see that it had already healed partially. She marveled at the way he accepted pain. She had seen him shift back and forth tearing open wounds before.

  “I wish you would stop getting hurt,” she said. This fresh cut slashed across the bright scar of a recently healed wound.

  Thal sat back against the headboard of their bed while she tended him. “I’m not fond of it,” he said.

  She set a hand on his thigh, grateful to have him next to her again. Teasingly, she said, “I don’t see so many scars on Sarpu. Maybe your father could teach you something.”

  “Maybe being a werewolf is harder these days,” Thal grumbled.

  She dabbed a healing ointment on the cut and wrapped a soft cloth around the leg. When she slid up next to him, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Leaning against his firm warm body reassured her.

  “I should get you food,” she murmured.

  “Let me just rest a while,” he said.

  “Are you very tired?”

  He ran a hand across his bare chest. “I’ve been many days as my other self. I need a chance to become accustomed to my manhood again. Even speaking feels strange,” he admitted.

  “I can wait to hear what befell you on your journey. It pleases me enough that you are home and Mileko is rescued,” Altea said.

  Thal kissed her forehead and pulled his fur over them. Pistol curled up at their feet, and they dozed as cozily as two old cottagers whose cares were trivial and few.

  He opened his eyes just as Pistol lifted his head. Although no footsteps could be heard in the hall, he knew that his father approached.

  Altea rubbed her eyes and slid out of bed when he came in. Sarputeen motioned for Thal to stay supine and walked around to the foot of the bed.

  “What think you of Mileko’s wound?” Thal said.

  “He got the ball out and it seems not to have gone foul in his flesh thankfully,” Sarputeen said. “But that’s only part of it. He was badly beaten. Bruises cover his body and two ribs are cracked. That he came so far cross country after such a thrashing is
a feat in itself.”

  “Did he tell you much of what happened?” Thal asked.

  “Only that he entered the tower of Tekax and even saw him, but then I bade him rest. We shall discuss all that he knows in council soon. We have six days until the moon fills and you will make your pack. Until then you must rest as much as possible. I’m preparing a strong potion for you to take before the making. This will give your werewolves greater strength,” Sarputeen said.

  “What will it do to me?” Thal asked and exchanged a look with his wife.

  “Nothing permanent, but it will take a toll. That is why you must rest,” his father insisted. He came alongside the bed and embraced his son. He ran a hand through his hair and regarded his face fondly. “This is a great thing you are about to do. Not even I have made five at once,” he said.

  Chapter 15. Questions

  Lenki wondered if she would ever stop feeling hungry. Her share of food since coming to Vlkbohveza had been generous compared to her portions as a maid in a penurious house. The privation of her imprisonment had scarred her appetite and left her hard to satisfy.

  Supper would be served soon, and she awaited Ansel’s knock on her chamber door. Sarputeen had bade the volunteers to take their meals together. The other men in their group mostly ignored her existence, but Ansel genuinely courted her friendship. He came to get her before every meal.

  He tapped on her door. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” she said and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to judge how much it had grown back. She missed weaving her long tresses into glossy black braids. The rough memory of her hair being shorn off in ham-fisted clumps made her shudder.

  I’ll be powerful soon and not have to fear any of them, she told herself, and the anxiety eased.