by Tracy Falbe
“Give them a head start,” Mileko said as the pack disappeared into the town.
The werewolves slunk through the shadows along buildings without entering the bright strips of moonlight cast upon the narrow streets. Any dogs that caught a whiff of them refrained from barking, and the people gathered around brightly lit tables knew not what passed beneath their window sills where children had left out shoes and boots in expectation of treats from Saint Nicholas.
Thal returned to the place where Janfelter had been seized by the mob. Drops of his unholy blood still polluted the packed snow on the street. The scent put a foul taste in his mouth as he followed the trail. Although many people had trampled his path, the vile potency of his passing made the way obvious.
The pack halted at the edge of the courthouse square. Only the dark platform that served as a gallows disturbed the bright moonlight illuminating the square. The castle on the heights overlooked the square with dispassionate authority, and the smeared lines of smoking chimneys laced the sky like ghostly banners.
Thal abandoned stealth in favor of the speediest route to his destination. The werewolves followed him boldly across the square. He now heard and smelled horses and men in the dark alley alongside the courthouse that likely led to the gaols where the condemned awaited the details of their judgments before execution.
A shout of warning alerted Thal that someone was watching. Prudently, he shifted his path, and the pack understood his signal to scatter. Sarputeen quickly nudged Altea in a new direction.
A musket’s flash came from the alley, and its wild missile blazed with meteoric heat over the ducking heads of the magic beasts. Thal charged into the alley at his top speed.
The sentry who had shot at him tried to defend himself, but Thal leaped over the swinging musket stock and angled a blade along the man’s exposed arm. It sparked against a metal bracer and then bit through cloth and flesh. Mitri pounced directly on the man and soon had his jaws around the man’s neck. Crunching told of the force of his bite, and the burly werewolf surged forward alongside Thal.
Torches ahead showed a cluster of horses and men. Thal recognized them as the mercenaries from earlier in the day. Two armed men were emerging from the building with Janfelter. They had even tracked down the fext’s horse that awaited its unwholesome master.
Thal’s savage growl launched the pack into a wholesale assault. Lenki shot along the wall that hemmed them in on the left. She ducked beneath a slashing sword and seized a man’s ankle. She yanked him off of his feet, but he valiantly thrust again at the glossy black beast intent on vengeance for all of the wrongs in the world. The blade cut her shoulder. Her scream turned Thal’s head, but she continued forward and finished the kill. Although concerned about her wound, battle was upon him. He raised up onto his back feet and swatted a spear aside. He jumped forward and tackled his opponent across the chest. They went down in a heap, and Thal twisted so that he could shove a blade under the man’s chin. His father sailed over him. The torchlight transformed his fur to alabaster, and his vicious brightness nearly blinded his target. He struck a mercenary and sent him tumbling against more men.
Johan joined with Mitri to challenge a group of men with their backs to each other. They defended their circle with torches and swords as the werewolves probed their defenses.
The fearsome hooves of panicking horses thwarted the mercenaries trying to mount them. Only Janfelter’s horse maintained some composure, and the fext got a foot into a stirrup.
Altea dodged several attacks to prevent his escape. The fext tumbled to the ground with her furry body on top of him. A knife in his hand soon got her off of him as the point grazed her front leg.
Ansel joined her and tried to pin the fext’s legs. Lenki, wild with the excitement of the fight, grabbed Janfelter’s head in her jaws. Her clamping teeth gave her the leverage to twist his neck, but a few drops of his blood upon her tongue soon repulsed her. She coughed and spat and was forced back by a mercenary thrusting a spear.
Janfelter slashed at Ansel, but Mitri seized his knife-wielding arm with his jaws. The clothing insulated him from breaking the creature’s skin.
Thal scrambled on top of Janfelter’s heaving torso. He tried to bring a blade to bear against the man’s legs. He shrieked as the blade cut across his thighs on its way to hitting bone.
Trendel came out of the jail doorway where he had been standing as the mayhem unfolded. The supernatural reality snarling in front of him tore his mind far beyond his limited imagination, but fighting was what he knew, and he finally roared into battle. The mercenary captain drew his pistol and aimed at the back of Thal’s head.
Sarputeen saw his son’s danger. Love could not describe the ferocity of his concern, and he heaved a dead man into the path of a desperate mercenary coming toward him. This cleared a path for the white werewolf. He stomped on the back of a fallen man’s neck, and the lethal snap made a distinctive sound among the cries of battle.
Surging forward, Sarputeen slammed into Trendel as he pulled the trigger. The erratic pistol ball blasted a hole near Ansel’s face as he struggled to keep Janfelter’s legs pinned. Mitri flinched at the shot as well, and Janfelter pulled his arm free. He stabbed at Thal. The knife scraped across his armor until it reached shaggy skin. Thal withdrew from the stinging point before it could go deep, and Janfelter yanked free his bloody legs. He rolled away as the severed tissues knit together enough to give him command of his limbs. He scrambled to his feet, and he stabbed at Sarputeen who was about to dispatch Trendel. With speedy grace, the old sorcerer somehow eluded the blade except for a small cut. His white fur made the bright blood look worse than it was, but Trendel took the narrow opportunity to escape.
The mercenary captain grabbed the reins of the closest horse. He vaulted into the saddle and seized the bridle of Janfelter’s horse.
“Come!” he shouted, and the fext bounded toward the animal. The horse sprang forward just as Thal lunged for its legs.
Janfelter slammed his heels into the horse’s flanks, but a mob suddenly clogged the path of the fext. Pitchforks and poles were silhouetted against torches, and bloodthirsty shouts high-pitched with terror called for God’s vengeance.
Thal looked back and saw that another mob had entered the alley behind them. The noise of his battle had roused townsfolk to action. The sight of monstrous werewolves filling the alley amid dead bodies inflamed their frenzy. The desire to cleanse their town of the warlock reached new heights as they witnessed the devilish beasts swarming Janfelter. Thal knew that his pack would share in the wrath of the local people. His father’s incitement of their fears had gone too far.
The pair of mobs distracted the werewolves and mercenaries from their battle. The werewolves rushed to Thal’s side. Sarputeen surprised them all by letting go of his wolf form.
“Run!” he commanded his son and advanced on the howling mass blocking their escape. With his bright fur slung over his loins, he approached the crowd. The brilliance of his aura drew the ravenous gaze of every man and concealed the werewolves from their vision. They saw only a stern face and the gleaming crucifix and nothing else.
“In the name of Christ, get that warlock!” Sarputeen thundered. He cast a condemning finger toward the fext.
Thal and the werewolves dashed along the wall, knocking people out of their way, but the townsfolk never lost their focus upon the rider whose horse reared against the other mob.
Thal burst into the square, and the dazzle of his father’s magic no longer concealed him. People screamed at the sight of the werewolves and scattered.
Thal stopped and looked back toward the alley where his father exhorted the mob to action. He quickly confirmed that all of his pack and Altea were clear, but they were too exposed. Knots of men were regrouping and pointing at him. When he dashed across the square, a group launched a pursuit. The men urged themselves forward with loud cries. Thal turned to face their onslaught to cover his pack’s withdrawal, but the werewolves stayed with him.
Fur quivered on their backs and they bared their already bloody fangs. The furious people defied their fearsome stance and kept advancing. Thal resolved to kill some of them if he must.
As he coiled for the confrontation, two figures ran between the pack and the attackers. A tall broad-shouldered man brandished two pistols, and the one in a black cape had a sword. Thal accepted that Valentino and Mileko had been prudent to guard their escape.
Valentino discharged one pistol over their heads, and the attackers ducked and halted their advance. The Condottiere raised the other pistol and took a step forward. His aim swayed across the front row of the mob and kept them cringing. Men determined to attack a beast with a club felt less courage at the prospect of stopping a hot ball of lead.
Thal looked back at his pack. He could smell Lenki’s dripping blood, but she was still firmly on her feet. He gestured his head in the direction of the river, and they understood to go. They loped off with Mileko, but Valentino stayed with Thal and Altea. She could not bear to leave Sarputeen behind and neither could Thal.
Thal led Altea toward a side street. Valentino followed while still threatening the crowd with his gun. Once the shadows consumed the werewolves, they hustled through a few intersections, working their way back to the square.
Valentino slammed his back against a stone wall. He caught his breath while reloading his pistol. He had thought that he would never know again the sensations of running free and fighting for his life, but here he was.
“Are we going for your father, Thal?” he asked. A glance from the glistening eyes in the darkness told him that he had guessed their business.
******
The mob surged past Sarputeen and beset the few mercenaries who had survived. Someone with a pole bashed Trendel across the back and unseated him from the saddle. He hit the ground and covered his head against the feet and hooves stomping close to his skull.
Janfelter’s horse kicked in all directions and inflicted crunching injuries upon several men, but the violence only tightened the focus of the mob on Janfelter. The pressure of the collective fear overwhelmed the animal. Its screams faded beneath clubs, cleavers, and pitchforks.
Hands driven to violence by their terror pulled Janfelter down. He killed two men, but dark magic cannot always repel a multitude of hands. People yanked and twisted his body before they pinned him by his arms and legs against the stone wall of the courthouse. Janfelter had regained his armor when Trendel released him, but men stabbed or cut him on the face and arms. They watched in trembling wonder as the blood ceased to flow and the flesh mended. The unnatural spectacle unhinged the men.
“Witchcraft!”
“Burn him!”
“Fire!”
Sarputeen approved of the violence that he had sown. The sorcerer stooped next to Trendel who crouched on the ground. He appeared undecided about whether to play dead or run. Sarputeen pulled an arm away from the man’s head.
“Are you a servant of Tekax?” he demanded.
Gripped by the fierce stranger, Trendel shook his head. Sarputeen’s hands quickly inspected the mercenary and yanked away a hefty pouch of gold. Sarputeen sniffed it carefully but the coins did not bear the scent of his rival.
Trendel made no move to snatch back the coins that normally motivated him above all else. Tonight, they were the markers of his ruin, and he was glad to be rid of them. He jumped to his feet and ran.
Sarputeen discreetly distanced himself from the milling crowd that surrounded Janfelter. Men were hauling the fext toward the gallows. They strapped him to one of the posts supporting the grim platform.
Men rushed to gather fuel for their fire. In their haste, they cracked apart crates and carts parked in the alleys. Some people pounded on doors and demanded firewood, which was hastily handed forth. More spectators crept from their homes, and the square continued to fill.
Sarputeen, who had filled their vision with his fury, slipped from their perception. Of those who did notice him, they saw only a dottering fellow who had wandered off half naked in the night.
He felt the closeness of Thal and Altea and joined them in a shadowy street connecting with the square. The werewolves crouched along steps beneath front doors as an oblivious group of people ran by them. Valentino attracted no attention because he was just another bewildered onlooker like so many drawn out on the wild night.
Sarputeen ducked between Thal and Altea. Their shaggy shoulders were warm against his bare arms. They watched as a fire started at the base of the gallows. Janfelter screamed curses at the howling people.
“We must go,” Sarputeen said.
They left Janfelter as flames drove back his mob of tormentors. No one confronted them as they rushed back to the river. Sarputeen paused when he saw some little shoes on a window sill and deposited gold coins in them.
He had to lean away when two little children threw open the shutters.
“Mikulas!” they cried with delight to confirm that which their older siblings had relentlessly ridiculed.
Sarputeen put a finger to his lips, and the girl and boy fell into a reverent hush. The old man patted their heads and praised them for being good children.
He raced away with his fur flapping around his bare legs.
After a profound silence, the little girl commented to her brother, “I thought he’d wear clothes.”
Chapter 35. The Wishing Well of the Damned
Janfelter jerked his arms violently against the ropes binding him to the post beneath the gallows. Despite his vicious struggles, more hands had always come from the mob like wasp stingers. His fine armor had been stripped away and his shirt ripped asunder. His breeches were wet from his own blood and being dragged through the snow.
His long hair stuck to his pale face. The fext gnashed his teeth at the two men still winding rope around his body. If he could have spit venom at them, he would have.
Three fellows had already taken turns trying to garrote him, but the flexing muscles of his strong neck and his ever-healing flesh had driven each one of them away in horror of his sorcery.
People began to arrive with faggots of wood. The men stepped away so that the scurrying townsfolk could fling their kindling around his feet.
Confronted by the prospect of immolation, Janfelter tried to form a new strategy besides mindless struggling. He could find no slackness in the ropes that lashed him to the post. He twisted and pushed hard against his bindings until they cut into the flesh across his chest and upper arms.
People continued to toss wood in a haphazard circle around his feet. Clearly, the impromptu architects of this unsanctioned execution had no concerns about destroying the gallows structure that the authorities had taken the time to build for less combustible forms of capital justice.
A man tossed an armful of straw near his feet and three people threw their torches into the tinder. The greedy flames jumped up like dogs fighting over a piece of meat. The crowd roared, and more people rushed forward with their torches. They flung their brands toward the fext with fearful haste as if making a wish at the well of the damned.
Smoke soon choked Janfelter. Pain seared through his throat and chest as he continued to struggle. Heedless of the wood and ropes scraping his skin, he managed to rotate his body on the post a little bit, but the spreading fire was encircling him as it traveled the loose fuel.
The crowd parted for a man who raced toward the fire. With a great yell of wild blood lust, he threw a spear into Janfelter’s stomach. The sharp intrusion made his head spin with pain. The advancing fire cooked his toes in his boots.
Defiantly he took a deep breath of the violent ashy air and shouted, “A curse on your town. May your births be still and your deaths long!”
He felt blisters erupting on his lower legs as the flames came higher. The shaft of the spear still sticking out of his body caught fire. His agony overran his ability to make speech, and his curses gave way to howling shrieks. The people of Pressburg cheered his suffering with lurid satisfaction for ta
king this urgent matter into their own hands.
As awful damage spread across Janfelter’s body, the staples holding the enchanted placenta against his ribs gleamed in the fire. As the heat singed the organ’s flesh, Janfelter felt his magical protection waver. This part of him was vulnerable and he tried to twist his side toward the post and delay his demise.
Despite his blinding pain, hope came into his Hell. The spear finally fell free of his torn and blackening belly, but its point had nearly severed a coil of rope. The fire was now eating at the fibrous hemp, and Janfelter pressed with all of his might against his fiery bindings. When finally the coil broke, his awful shrieking turned darkly triumphant. He threw his body back and forth against the ropes. Each convulsion loosened him a little more.
His wicked audience stepped back in collective horror as they watched the strange man with half cooked flesh and hair falling to ash shake off the ropes inside his ring of fire.
In a fury that rivaled Lucifer’s fall from Heaven, he kicked at the flaming fuel and sent hunks of fire flying toward his tormentors. He staggered forward and scooped up the still burning spear. With the magical placenta free of the heat, vitality surged through his body with vengeful potency.
Consternation overwhelmed the men standing closest to him. Under the full moon with Hellfire at his back, Janfelter swept his gaze over the mob with the most serious hatred. The man in front of him saw how the horrific facial burns already receded a bit. Pink skin fringed black blotches and framed the demonic eyes of dark magic’s favored son. Janfelter gored him with the spear.
Spurred by the need to conduct a killing spree like no other, Janfelter launched a wild and deadly dance. His partners fell quickly from his striking spear, and utter panic scattered people. The security of the mob gave way to individual terror, and Janfelter thrust his spear into every back that he could reach.
He was left alone in the square with his chest heaving. Behind him the fire began to consume the gallows. Its brightness cast his shadow far across the square.
