by Tracy Falbe
“Yes, my Lord,” the hunter said. He slid the coins off the table and secured them in his purse. He bowed and left the room. Janfelter closed the door behind him and approached his lord.
“The courier from Istanbul awaits you,” he said.
Tekax nodded and headed toward his chair. He was settled into his seat when Janfelter brought in the next visitor.
The man who entered moved with the gait of a someone who spent more time in the saddle than afoot, but his short loose pants masked his bowed legs. He took off his tall hat and bowed to the lord of the castle. The weathered pouch slung from his shoulders swung forward. When he straightened, he saluted and then opened his pouch. He proffered a trio of scrolls bound by wax and ribbon, and Janfelter collected them for his master.
Tekax patted the scrolls when they were placed on his desk as if his fingers could decode the contents with a light touch.
Their outer markings told of the magnificent source of the correspondence.
“Our emperor turns his eye upon the west again,” Tekax commented.
“I know naught of their content, my Lord,” the courier said. Anxiety flared on his sun-darkened face because the ancient lord had spoken to him.
Tekax knew that the man had arrived in the company of twenty akinci, which revealed the importance of safe delivery.
“Will your guards return to Istanbul with you?” Tekax asked.
The courier shifted his tongue, trying to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. “They are to range westward without me, my Lord,” he said.
Tekax assumed that the akinci would range among the border outposts and perhaps cross the frontier at times. They would likely pillage what they needed from the locals and gather intelligence. They might meet little resistance. Incursions by Christian raiders or spies had been infrequent for more than a year, and Tekax knew the reasons for their distraction, which he had documented for his Ottoman associates.
A gesture to Janfelter prompted him to fetch a small bundle of papers. Tekax himself had carefully inscribed the information in a cryptic script known only to a few in the imperial capital.
When Janfelter handed the papers to the courier, he said, “Your masters in Istanbul will find these reports quite thorough.”
During his failed missions across the border, he had attempted to redeem himself observing as much as possible within the embattled Christian empire.
The courier made no comment because his business was transport and no more.
“Await my response to his Imperial Magnificence,” Tekax said and the courier withdrew rapidly. The proximity of the sorcerer’s champion had made his skin crawl.
Tekax pointed to another chair, and Janfelter gladly took his seat. The serving boy melted into the shadows. The fext watched his master open the first scroll and begin to read. He knew that Tekax would discuss their contents, and Janfelter enjoyed this privilege although he acknowledged that the powerful old lord had no one else to converse with. Perhaps this was why he had quietly forgiven Janfelter’s inability to retrieve Mileko. Tekax had questioned him at length about his encounter with the werewolf who had rescued the spy. The sorcerer seemed to regard these failures as merely initial skirmishes before the main confrontation.
As Tekax worked his way through the scrolls, he grunted thoughtfully at intervals. He let the last scroll drop to the table and curl shut. He scratched his nose and cleared his throat.
“Suleiman plots another campaign upon Royal Hungary,” he finally announced.
Janfelter raised an elegant eyebrow. “What of the civil war bogging down the Turks?” he wondered.
“The matter is at an end. Bayezid was strangled. His war to displace his brother is over entirely. Selim will be the heir,” Tekax explained.
“Strangled,” Janfelter murmured and touched his throat lightly. Since acquiring his healing power, he had endured gruesome injuries, but the thought of a garrote mercilessly crushing his throat unsettled him. He thought to ask his master if he could recover from such a thing, but he understood that he was here to listen.
“Suleiman dreams of reliving past glories,” Tekax grumbled derisively and shook his head.
“You think it not a good time to strike?” Janfelter said.
“The time is good. The Christians squabble amongst themselves more vehemently than they worry about the Turks right now. Rome mustn’t lose its grip on too many souls now can it?” Tekax said. “But it will be a few years before the grand army of the emperor marches upon Hungary. These things do not happen overnight. His Magnificence has requested that I lend my aid to closing the border in this region.”
Janfelter noted with pride how the emperor “requested” things from his great master.
“We shall have plenty of time to attend to my personal vendetta before the Turks call upon me to deliver favors,” Tekax continued. “These reports you bring me of the protection Thurzo affords Sarputeen and his heir irk me. You must assemble men and sow terror in Thurzo’s lands. Make them think it’s the wolf monsters that live among them.”
Approval glinted in Janfelter’s eyes.
“We’ll slay livestock, and they’ll blame the wolves,” he said.
“You’ll do more than that. Kill people. I want them out for blood. Sarputeen has hidden in peace for too long,” Tekax said.
“Yes, my Lord,” Janfelter said.
“Take the big dogs. The wounds they inflict will be easily taken as wolf bites,” Tekax said.
******
Three men accompanied Janfelter on his mission. One was the kennel master of Tekax. He managed the grim brutes that were trained to kill. The other two were mercenaries who had worked for Tekax before. They enjoyed forays into Royal Hungary or Transdanubia where fertile fields made villages plump and ready for plucking.
Janfelter slipped across the hinterlands easily and selected a village not far from the place where he had last encountered Thal. The place was bigger than the rustic hamlet that had harbored Mileko, and he studied the church tower rising above the thatch and tile roofs as a dusk descended.
Janfelter observed from a wooded hilltop at the edge of the valley. He hoped that folk in this area had spotted Thal when the werewolf had recently passed through. If people were already spooked by talk of a beast, then what Janfelter planned to do under cover of night would inflict maximum terror.
During their journey to this location, the dogs had trotted alongside the group and been content to roam and hunt small things, but they now sensed that a real hunt was nigh. The kennel master had tied them on a line, and drool dripped from their broad muzzles as they fretted for action. Muscles rippled beneath their short brown coats, and their torn floppy ears told tales of vicious encounters.
“Get the skins,” Janfelter said, and one of the mercenaries headed to their horses. He lugged back an armful of wolf furs and dumped them on the ground. Janfelter picked up one and told the others to do the same. He draped the empty face skin over the top of his smooth metal helmet. The ragged snout hung over the straight nose guard.
As he settled the front leg skins over his shoulders, he admired the others who did the same. They looked like some band of Huns resisting the Roman legions of old, and he believed that any who glimpsed them tonight would surely see wolfmen.
“We’ll wait until the moon rises,” he said.
The quartet of evildoers hunkered down to wait. They chewed rations and drank while the dogs whined impatiently. Janfelter considered the deeds that lay ahead of him. He pondered with pleasure the powerful effect that his actions would bring. Lives would be lost, and the lives of the survivors altered by what they would soon witness. Hopefully, the ground would shift beneath the feet of Sarputeen and Thal.
What the other men in his company considered of their savage assignment, he did not know. Did they act out of placid obedience or were they motivated by the desire for savage thrills?
For Janfelter, it sufficed that they would follow his orders.
The bell tower ran
g as the dusk dissolved into darkness. The village settled in around its hearths. The coming moon brightened the eastern horizon until it rose triumphantly like a celestial crocus pushing through the cold black snow of Heaven. Its delicate beauty captivated Janfelter. All who looked at the moon thought of higher powers, but tonight he sensed the lunar power more than ever, as if magical worshippers sang to a lost moon goddess, now ancient and overthrown. He supposed the wolf skin encompassing his body polluted him with the distracting notions, and he looked away from the moon and focused on the village. He already possessed a greater power, given to him by a wise man who envisioned a new world where wildness had no value.
He continued to wait. He wanted a later hour when the spookiness of the night had seeped into the minds of those out and about.
His men awaited his order patiently. Their experience with fell deeds had taught them the benefits of later hours. They slipped their hands into their doublets to keep them warm and did not mind the thick hides that stopped the cold breeze.
The frosty night brought a tranquil silence, and liturgical songs rising from the church carried faintly to the hilltop. From inside the church, slow sonorous voices marked compline and beckoned the deep night.
Janfelter rose gracefully. No stiffness impeded his enchanted body after squatting in the chill. The kennel master collected the dogs, and their excited whining marked their advance on the village.
A timber wall encased the community, and impressive stonework framed the main gate. Janfelter watched the gate for a while. No one patrolled the rampart, but he presumed one or more men were ostensibly on duty in the gate house.
He motioned for the others to wait and walked toward the gate. He drew a thick knife and rammed it into the wood of the gate. He used it as a handle to start his climb. He got a foothold on one of the crude gate handles and shifted his knife to a new place. After a couple surges of effort, he slid his hand over the top of the gate.
Pulling himself up, he looked inside the village. A sparse number of lanterns hung outside buildings along the avenues that radiated from the gate. He watched a trio of men spill out of one building. They sang in happy fellowship and jostled jokingly on their way home.
Janfelter hauled himself over the gate and jumped down to the paving stones. The dark gate house showed no signs of activity or occupation. Janfelter heaved the oaken bar off the gate. He pushed it open and waved to his accomplices.
The three men ran inside. The dogs dragged the kennel master.
Janfelter led them toward the church. The bell tower was ringing again. Its final clang greeted the intruders as they entered the church square. They ran around the side of the church and encountered some men and boys exiting the building.
Their voices were warm from singing, and this made their screams especially loud when the dogs were put upon them. The kill order from the kennel master instantly incited the dogs to vicious abandon.
People scattered, and Janfelter and the two mercenaries chased them. The terrified deacons and choir boys had no chance against attackers forged in countless combats.
Janfelter killed two with slashes to the throat. Blood sprayed and fell dark upon the ground in the blue lunar light. The dogs shook and tore at their victims until the kennel master beat them off and sent them after a new victim.
The screams and cries roused a few villagers to their windows. Shutters slid open. Wide eyes peered upon the raving chaos, and shutters slammed shut again.
Janfelter and the others regrouped with the kennel master as he chased his dogs. A choir boy fled wailing down a street. A door popped open, and Janfelter slew the man who looked out before he could even grasp what was unfolding upon his threshold. He fell backwards bleeding to death for his family to watch.
The dogs seized upon the frantic child. A sharp squeal that made every mother in village sit bolt upright marked the end of the chase. As the dogs bit and wrenched the small ragged body, the kennel master looped his chain through their collars and yanked them back. Their canine killing mania ebbed somewhat when his orders penetrated their minds.
“Away with us!” Janfelter hissed and raced back to the gate. It remained open and unnoticed by any in the vicinity. The men and dogs ran back to their hilltop and collected their horses. The bell tower resumed ringing with frantic alarm.
******
An attack by wolfmen spurred a rapid dispersion of news beyond the usual enthusiastic pace of gossip. Farmers and shepherds worried about livestock, and hunters planned their expeditions into nearby groves or wetlands. Those who had lost loved ones in the unexpected violence prayed for salvation and sobbed for vengeance.
The roused state of the countryside quickly burst into the towns and demanded the attention of those in authority. Sir Krengar rode from Zilina to visit the afflicted village himself, and he returned to the palace of his Duke that night riding hard upon his destrier and overcome by a red mood.
He paced in the wood-paneled antechamber as he awaited his audience with the Duke. His thoughts tossed about recent events over and over, and he blamed himself for the terror visited upon the people. He should have pressed his opinions more urgently and convinced the Duke to shed his father’s unholy debts instead of pay them.
The secretary finally opened the door, and Krengar strode into his meeting. He bowed before his Duke’s wide desk. A bright bed of coals in the fireplace offered a nice blaze of heat that matched Krengar’s temper.
Thurzo did not look up from the paper where his quill scratched. “Tell me of this wolf attack,” he said.
“My Duke, the villagers insist they saw wolfmen,” Krengar reported and let his last word hang meaningfully in the air.
Thurzo placed his quill in its stand and pushed aside his correspondence. Only because Krengar knew him well could the knight detect the concern on the man’s face.
“Then you think it’s the work of Thal?” Thurzo said.
Krengar spread his hands. “What else could it be? Since you bade me give him those criminals, folk all about suddenly trade stories of beasts. Credible men speak of seeing them. This is not the idle prattle of women washing clothes by the river.”
“So you think I should not have met Sarputeen’s request?” Thurzo surmised. He shifted back in his chair.
“My Duke, what I think is only for you to consider. I wish I had not played my part in giving souls to Thal because of what was done at the village. Children were killed,” Krengar explained.
The Duke frowned. He had hoped that the news of slain children had been an exaggeration, and he did not enjoy hearing Krengar confirm the fact.
“But why? This makes no sense. Why would Thal commit some random killing spree?” Thurzo wondered.
“Maybe not so random. The beasts struck a choir leaving a church. Thal is an enemy of the Church,” Krengar reminded.
“You said beasts. So you agree there were more than one?” the Duke asked.
“All who spoke to me said they saw more than one,” Krengar answered. After Thurzo ruminated in silence for a spell, his champion added, “He has given his unholy magic to those deviants I released to his custody. He took his wretched pack out on the full moon and made blood sacrifices. They probably needed to kill children to make magic.”
Thurzo could not deny the plausibility of his man’s conclusions, but he still resisted accepting them. He wondered if his superior station prevented him from recognizing an error in judgment. He did not want to believe that he had caused a pack of werewolves to be set loose upon his subjects. He had genuinely believed Thal when the man had given his promise. Even as Thurzo recalled his meeting with the notorious creature, he wanted to believe that Thal had been honest.
He chose to examine the problem through more conversation. He valued Krengar’s candor and hoped that it might provoke him into solving the riddle of the strange attack.
“What response do you recommend?” Thurzo said.
Eagerly, Krengar said, “My Duke, the people want the beasts killed,
and I agree.”
“Do they think it’s Sarputeen?” Thurzo asked.
“They think it’s Thal because of the wanted notices. None I spoke to aimed blame at Sarputeen,” Krengar said.
Thurzo took a candle off his desk and went to the wall. He held the light up to a map of his modest realm. He admired the care taken by the cartographer. Each fine line of ink had been put down with loving patience after close observation.
He pointed to the village where the shocking attack had taken place. “This is south of Zilina, much farther from Vlkbohveza than a dozen other villages,” he noted.
Krengar joined him beside the map. “Sightings of a great beast have been here and here as well,” he said and pointed to the villages.
“Those are on the border,” Thurzo murmured.
Krengar found nothing curious about the locations and said, “My Duke, we must act to correct what has gone wrong.”
The Duke stared at the map as if waiting for its letters to shift into new words that would tell him what to do. Finally, he turned to Krengar. “What would you do? Ride on Vlkbohveza? How many men would follow you there?”
Qualms jiggled the knight’s spine but he braced himself with Godly courage. “I must,” he said proudly. “And this campaign will make men overcome their dread of old tales about the sorcerer. We must cleanse that place.” He spoke firmly although hating that he must be the one to do the deed. He would much rather battle Turkish raiders, bandits, or heretics than the elder power that hung over Sarputeen like a cloud on the peak of a tall mountain.
“This attack could rile the courage of the folk against Thal and Sarputeen,” Thurzo agreed reluctantly. Calculations clicked through his mind as he considered what a march on Vlkbohveza might be like. Exterminating magic users would enhance his prestige, but what if they were not so easily defeated? Should he apply resources to betray a newly cultivated ally, an ally unlike any other?
His father had taught him that Sarputeen had given aid when the Church had only given prayers and orders to hold the border. Sarputeen had kept his word in his bargain with the Old Duke. This strange attack did not fit with the sorcerer’s character.
