by Tracy Falbe
When Sarputeen finished with his clothing, she handed his staff back to him. He brushed a kiss against her cheek and thanked her for the assistance. He withdrew to a private distance and sat down facing the Tower of Tekax that remained cloaked in the night.
Ansel joined Thal and Altea. “I can take over the watch,” he said.
“Very well,” Altea said and led Thal to where she had spread their blankets. He lay back gratefully as if only acknowledging his exertions now that he had stopped moving. Altea stroked his hair. It was getting longer, and his beard had filled around the edges where he usually shaved it. He relaxed beneath her gentle caresses. The Earth beneath him massaged his back as her loving fingers tenderly moved across his temple and scalp.
Eventually, he rolled over to face her and pulled her close. “I suppose I should not have bothered dressing,” he said and kissed her fully.
Despite their weariness, they summoned their passion that had not been indulged recently. The violence that they had shared in the earlier battle transformed to physical ardor as their connection helped them cope with the omnipresent possibility that one or both of them might soon die.
They stayed nearly silent amid their trembling urgency. The cold air titillated their bare skin. Altea’s nipples were sharp and dark against her flaxen flesh, and she gripped his firm pectorals with desperate desire.
In the afterglow of their joining, they snuggled beneath their blankets and his heavy fur. Thal savored the heady scent of her body. As he sensed her fertile state, he tightened his arms around her protectively. He wondered if this coupling would be the time that brought conception. She was more like him now and perhaps a child might come. Risking the act on the doorstep of their enemy seemed irresponsible to him, but it was done now, and his spirit and flesh could not regret the act.
Thal told himself not to think of it. He must fight the coming battles without hesitation. Defending Altea mattered more to him than his life. He understood that he could not make the world safe for her, not ever, but he called upon all of the mystical powers that flowed in his blood to grant him this one victory. Janfelter and his maker must be defeated, no matter the cost.
******
Thal touched his earring. The metal post itched lightly when he thought about the object in his earlobe. He took away his hand lest he trigger the magic needlessly. He hunkered on the hillside obscured by clumps of dead weeds that had caused some snow to drift around them. He admired Mileko’s artful advance across the land as he returned from watching the road.
Dusk was gathering, and the cold deepened with every moment. He and the others had rested through the day, and he felt somewhat refreshed. Janfelter had not chosen to harass them although their position had to be obvious to even the most inexperienced tracker. The canon limbers left clear tracks wherever they went.
Mileko drifted closer. His movements were almost ghost like. He seemed mostly to move when the breeze picked up, and he paused when the breeze lessened. The breathing of the world guided his movements, and Thal admitted that Mileko needed no werewolf magic to increase his stealth. He wondered how many tricks the magician knew because he doubted that he had seen them all.
Thal rose from his hiding place when Mileko drew close. Although the man hid his surprise superbly, Thal had the satisfaction of knowing that Mileko had not seen him before he moved.
“Janfelter and his surviving men returned to the tower by the road,” Mileko reported.
“Very good,” Thal said. “What of Gyongyos?”
“I suspect those folk might not come out till spring,” Mileko said.
“They shall tell the story of this winter for a long time,” Thal predicted. “Are you ready for another reconnaissance?”
“A warm drink first would be welcome,” Mileko said.
“Of course,” Thal agreed. They returned to the camp fire and took cups of tea.
The young men in Valentino’s company shifted away shyly. Their eyes showed their awe as they glanced at Thal and whispered among themselves. Curiosity and the promise of hot excitement overcame their fear of what they had been taught was dark magic.
Thal thought it strange that they would attribute such darkness to the animals of the land when they lived in the shadow of a sorcerer who stooped to such atrocities as making a fext.
Valentino stood by the kettle over a tripod. A day’s rest had seemed to renew him greatly. The fever of the campaign was upon him fully now, and he had never felt more eager to play his role against an enemy.
He knew of Thal’s intention to approach the village beneath the tower that night. “I want to come with you, Thal,” he announced.
“I welcome your company,” Thal said. He stooped to rinse out his cup with snow and set it back near the fire. The crimson streak of sunlight grew thinner on the horizon as the sun forsook the winter landscape.
The men checked their arms and prepared to leave. Thal bid his pack to guard the camp and then went to speak with Altea. She was wrapped cozily in her blanket and cloak. Her wolfen magic gave her the internal heat to nap on the frozen ground as if she curled up in a feather bed. Thal brushed her hair away from her face. She glowed with vitality.
He kissed her and suggested that she keep resting. Sleep would not come as easily in the coming days as the moon grew full.
He departed with Valentino and Mileko into the night. They dared to use the road because the land seemed entirely empty. When the moon rose, it silhouetted the Tower of Tekax. Thal studied the hard edges of the ancient fortress on the craggy mount. At first glance, it did look impenetrable, but tonight’s exploration could reveal a weak point.
They continued in silence until Mileko drew them to a stop. He pointed out a whitewashed pile of rocks barely visible on the grasslands in the moonlight.
“We’ve reached the range of the tower’s guns,” he said.
Valentino looked from the tower to the marker and frowned. He judged that they had some long range weapons fixed on the ramparts.
“Father says that we refrain from speech as much as possible when close to the tower,” Thal said.
“Can he hear us?” Valentino whispered. He looked at the tower and tried to imagine the sinister man who had made himself the enemy of Thal and Sarputeen.
“Perhaps,” Thal whispered.
Mileko took the lead because he had prowled this landscape before. The change of season and darkness troubled his memory somewhat, but he did his best as they snuck past the village and circled the hill below the tower.
As they hiked in silence, Thal and Valentino regarded the cliffs below the tower walls and felt discouraged, but hope eventually emerged. The land was not quite as steep behind the tower. The rocky rises were certainly impassable to any army and horses could never draw siege equipment or canons close, but men on foot could wind their way up to the wall. Centuries of erosion had carved some channels between the stones where men could trudge on the gravelly soil and grasp woody shrubs that grew between the boulders.
They crouched low and scampered like raiding rats up to the foundation stones. The tower leered down at them like a lewd and drunken uncle pleased to blunder upon unattended children.
Mileko refrained from touching the wall for fear that it might somehow alert Tekax to their presence. Pistol sniffed the wall but did not mark with his urine. Thal inspected the spot as well and judged that it was the only place where they could approach by foot. He watched the ramparts and listened. No sign of activity reached his senses, and no watch fire glowed on this side of the dark tower.
Without conversing, the men descended from the wall. Thal and Mileko took care to remember the way. Only once they were all of the way down the hill did they dare to speak while hidden under some
“We haven’t enough rope to get up that wall. Or any hooks to grab on,” Valentino whispered.
“We’ll look for such things in the village,” Thal decided.
“You don’t mind if I look for a flagon of wine while we’re thievi
ng?” Valentino said.
“No,” Thal said and looked forward to sharing a drink with his friend.
******
Altea sat wrapped in Sarputeen’s white fur. She kept vigil as he chanted quietly. Before descending into his murmuring trance, he had explained to her that he hoped to distract Tekax from his son’s reconnaissance. She hoped it worked.
The thick fur against her fingers comforted her as she waited for Thal’s return. She thought also how her own fur would sprout when the moon filled up. Her longing for the transformation nagged at her like a drunkard’s desire for drink. She wondered if she would learn to be patient with the moon that kept a schedule set by forces far greater than herself.
Altea did not understand the speech that Sarputeen used, but the rhythm of the words and their lyrical sound held her attention. She wondered if he would ever teach her the language.
When he fell silent, she moved closer. His eyes were rolled back, and he clenched his fists. She wanted to do something, but she could only watch helplessly as he rocked and fought some mental battle.
At length, his movements subsided, and he lapsed into silent staring. His eyes were fixed faraway, and she dared not say a word to disturb him. The night wore on tediously until she decided to lay down. Her blood flowed hotly and the cold night bothered her not at all. She thought of her coupling with Thal the night before and allowed the pleasurable memory to lull her to sleep.
A faint rattling sound woke her very late. Sarputeen was casting his rune bones again. Without lifting her head, she watched him toss them on the ground. He sorted through them and scrutinized their symbols. He cast them three more times as if striving to receive an answer that was not forthcoming. He sighed and carefully returned the bones to their pouch. As he drew the strings tight, he looked at Altea. She could tell from his look that he knew she had been watching.
“Thal is on his way back,” he said.
“You saw him?”
“I smell him on the wind,” Sarputeen said.
“Did you contact Tekax in some way?” she asked, shifting closer to him.
The name of his rival clearly displeased him. “He was listening to the land. I succeeded in distracting him. He still bears me great resentment,” Sarputeen said.
“Over Gretchen?”
“Among other things,” he said.
“Do you wish things had been different between you and Tekax?” Altea wondered.
Sarputeen shrugged. “I’d prefer not to have an enemy, but he is a dark man, an empty man. I could not associate with him without becoming corrupted. I would have lost my magic.”
“Where does your magic come from, Sarpu?” Altea whispered.
“Mmm, I was wrong to say my magic. It’s no one’s. It just is,” he said. Clearly his vague answer disappointed her, and he added, “Altea, when you become the wolf try to pay attention in the moment of transformation. In that moment of impossible possibility, you can see the workings of the universe.”
“I’m not sure that my mind was made to understand such things,” she lamented.
Sarputeen laughed. “No one’s is,” he said. “Give your Father a hug.”
She embraced him sincerely, and he patted her shoulders affectionately as if about to give a daughter away at a wedding and never see her again.
He held her until they sensed Thal’s return at the same moment.
“Thal brings news,” Sarputeen said and got up to greet his son.
Thal, Mileko, and Valentino hiked up the hill. Thal had a large coil of rope across his torso, and Valentino carried a sack of other spoils pilfered from the sleeping village.
“Father, we have an attack plan,” Thal announced.
“Very good,” Sarputeen said and accepted that he would soon be face to face with his rival. Perhaps he should have sought out this moment years ago, but he had believed that retreating from the world was the better course. He had wanted to avoid trouble, but Tekax had provoked him, hating that the spirit of the wilderness might prosper quietly.
Chapter 42. Concern for His Kin
Janfelter pulled the hood over his head to hide the disfigurement. His vanity pined for his dark locks of hair that were now only patchy stubble. He supposed that he should be grateful that his skin had mostly healed despite its uneven and discolored state.
He squeezed shut his eyes briefly. His sprouting eyelashes prickled him weirdly as he forced away the memory of his flesh cooking. He wanted to revel in his invincibility as he once had, but his great power had only brought great suffering. What he thought had been a glorious gift from his master was taking the shape of a curse.
He exited his room and went down the hall to the where his mother and sister had been placed. After a gentle knock, he entered their room. His mother had brought her spinning wheel from the village, and the wool was sliding through her fingers and forming yarn. She worked by the narrow window in the wan sunlight that dared to slide through the thick stone wall.
Janfelter stayed on the shadowy side of the room. He glanced around to confirm that they were alone. Keeping his head bowed so that the cowl would hide his face, he said, “Mother, I have to ask some questions. They will be strange questions.”
The peace that her task had imparted unraveled, and concern rippled on her face. She glanced at the gloves that her son wore. She knew that she had lost him to dark ways many years ago, but his smooth cocksure voice had been replaced with a grinding anguish. She had not thought him capable of remorse, shame, or guilt, but his evident sadness stirred her maternal heart.
Her feet halted on the pedals, and she set aside her spinning. “Ask,” she said simply. Her eyes stared at him tiredly from a haggard face that had all its youth chiseled away.
“What happened to the afterbirth when I was born?” he said.
The question forced a gust of wind against her mental doldrums. She opened her mouth to ask for clarification, but Janfelter interrupted her. “You heard what I said. My afterbirth,” he said.
The aging matron looked back on that memorable day when she had born a beautiful son under ugly stars. She threw up her hands. “The midwife took it. I know nothing of it,” she said.
“Did you know that it was taken to Tekax?” he asked.
Her jaw dropped open as she dumbly contemplated her memories. “No. I never heard of any such thing,” she said.
“It must have been the midwife following his orders,” Janfelter muttered.
His mother thought to demand his reason for asking about such things, but she did not want to know what had happened or what role her own flesh and blood had played in godless spells.
“What of Mina’s? Where did her afterbirth go?” Janfelter asked about his sister.
His mother shook her head and put her hands over her face. “Stop. I don’t know. I don’t know anything!” she moaned.
The brief interrogation satisfied Janfelter that his mother had not knowingly cursed him. He took some comfort from it.
“Why am here?” his mother asked.
“I think my master wants to ensure my devotion to the tasks ahead of me,” Janfelter said.
“Have you given him reason to doubt your devotion?” she said.
“No, unless you count failing to kill his enemies,” he said heavily. His rage at the werewolves remained, but he could not contemplate his next encounter with them without feeling doubt. No other foes that he had been sent against had proven so indomitable. Tekax seemed to have provoked something beyond the reach of his magic.
“So your sister and I are hostages,” his mother said. She had already reached that conclusion but was glad to have her son acknowledge the situation. His strange question had informed her that he had never really been hers. Tekax had cultivated her son as his servant since birth. She had only been the conduit.
Janfelter moved toward the door. He thought that he had nothing left to say, but concern for his kin sprouted for the first time from the thin soil of his threadbare soul. He set his hand on the
door handle and observed the slots were a bar could be set across the door.
“Mother, enemies approach this place. A battle will happen when the moon is full. You and Mina are to bar yourselves in this room until it is over. Your protection will not be my duty,” he said.
Janfelter left before she could respond. He had already kept his master waiting.
Janfelter expected to find the sorcerer in his chambers, but the quiet serving boy told him the Master had gone up to the ramparts. When the fext emerged outdoors on the wall, he saw Tekax with two men-at-arms. They had a small keg of gunpowder out and were loading shot into the gun mounted over the gate. Tekax was clamping a telescope onto the oiled iron barrel. The veins on his bony hands bulged as he turned the screws to tighten the telescope into place.
Janfelter had often admired the accessories that his master crafted for the guns. He wondered if a smaller version of the device could be fashioned for a musket so as to improve his aim.
Flakes of snow swirled down gently from the sky and clung tentatively to the black cloak around Tekax’s shoulders. The sorcerer tested his view through the telescope several times and made adjustments to the brace that held the canon to change its angle and alter the firing distance. Tekax had built a frame beneath the canon that allowed him to pivot the gun as well. When he was content with the positioning of the gun, he looked at his fext.
Janfelter bowed deeply. “You summoned me, Master,” he said.
“Some time ago,” the sorcerer groused.
“I am here now.”
“Our enemy approaches,” Tekax said and gestured for his servant to look through the telescope.
Janfelter moved carefully to avoid jarring the precise adjustments and peered through the lenses. He saw the road. A group of people with two canons approached.
“Foolish Sarputeen. I don’t know what he hopes to do with his stolen guns,” Tekax sneered.
Janfelter stepped away, and a man brought forth the botefeux with a lit match. With a final signal from Tekax, he set the flame in place, and the canon roared. The sound hit everyone with concussive force, and the gun lurched back on the recoiling frame that Tekax had designed for it.
