Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale

by Tracy Falbe

  Tenzo shook his head. “No, she was no servant. Must be his daughter although she’s prettier than could spring from his loins.” He chuckled.

  “And you saw her with Thal?” Vito pressed.

  “Holding hands,” Tenzo revealed.

  “You would swear to this?” Vito said.

  Tenzo nodded. He would swear to most anything if paid, but since it was true he had no hesitation.

  “Do not tell anyone else,” Vito instructed and waved the man out.

  Tenzo left and anticipated a bountiful evening celebrating with his fellows.

  The two Jesuits shared a contemplative silence until Miguel finally said, “What’s the Magistrate hiding from us?”

  Vito tapped his fingers on his desk. During his encounters with Magistrate Fridrich he had not sensed that the man was protecting the werewolf.

  “I suspect the proper question is what is this daughter hiding from the Magistrate?” Vito said. “The crafty wench is stealing moments with her lover in the market. That means Thal is hardly a legitimate suitor.”

  Vito’s dark eyes glittered as he plotted new plots around the fresh information. The Magistrate was about to become his servant or be replaced.

  After shuffling through the papers he found the first page of the list. “Find out at once the name of this slut and make her our top priority. I think we’ve found our bait for Thal.”

  Chapter 35. Not Really a Thief

  “There he goes,” Thal commented to his dog. Pistol growled.

  Constable Bekcek was leaving the jail for the evening. Thal had loitered in Old Town Square through the late afternoon, anticipating the emergence of the Constable. The man swaggered down the street toward the square.

  Thal shifted his hat low and ducked alongside a moving horse cart. The driver had to rein in the suddenly skittish horse. Bekcek went by, unaware of the sharp eyes watching him.

  Thal trailed the Constable toward his preferred beer garden. He had observed him go to this place almost every evening.

  Although Thal was the most wanted man in Prague, he was amused that no one ever seemed to notice him, or at least report his presence. Ironically the influx of armed men seeking work on the werewolf hunting patrols made Thal even less conspicuous.

  The noise of the city dropped from his hearing. He focused on his prey with a vengeful hunger. He had killed for food and self defense, but the time to murder had come. A wise man Regis was to counsel against vengeance. Truly the bloodlust building inside Thal was unwholesome, but he would not shirk the rotten duty. The scent of Bekcek was taunting him. He remembered its trace upon the trail of his mother’s flight. What horrors had that man inflicted on her? Thal was glad that he would never learn the details for they would surely be unbearable to know. The justice he was about to deliver would be far less vicious.

  Bekcek entered the beer garden. The doors were wide open because of the fair season and the songs pouring out were happy and simple. Thal imagined the man’s colleagues greeting him. Perhaps someone even owed him a beer and Bekcek was about to collect it.

  Thal leaned against a building across the street. He wanted to give the Constable some time to settle in and relax.

  The sun dropped lower. The streets fell into shadow but golden sunshine still spilled across the rooftops. The occasional person walking by glanced at Thal questioningly, but his unfocused gaze saw them not. He was remembering his mother. Examples of her kindness and love were numerous. He still had no recollection of why she had left his father, and his inability to ask her added to his pain.

  “Gretchen,” he whispered, saying her name to honor her. His heart beat harder as if her spirit gave him extra strength. He felt the magic that bound them urging him to action. Sweat ran down his back. His hands shook until he willfully steadied them.

  “Wait here,” he said to Pistol. The liquid eyes of the dog watched his master cross the street.

  He entered the beer garden. People packed benches around tables. The hall was hot and the air tasted of sweat. Men sang their songs and drank their favorite brews. Women with thick arms and flushed cheeks toted steins as frenetically as squirrels collected nuts.

  Thal scanned the crowd. Bekcek’s black cloak was hung on a peg near his table. He was drinking and flapping his jaws about how crucial he was to the running of Prague.

  Thal lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair and then settled his hat back into place. He smoothed a hand over his freshly trimmed goatee. Carlo had helped him with it that morning. Thal had wanted to look good for his meeting with Altea.

  He stalked toward Bekcek and tapped him on the shoulder. The man’s stein halted midway to his mouth and he looked over his shoulder with irritated surprise. His narrow face sneered at the sight of the rude stranger. Slowly he set his stein down and turned halfway on the bench. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams revealed the nasty light in the Constable’s eyes.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said, trying to place him.

  “I expect it’s my mother’s face you recognize,” Thal said.

  “Son, it’s no business of yours what your Mama might be doing with me,” Bekcek joked.

  “Would you please step out in the street,” Thal said.

  “If you’ve got something to tell me, say it,” Bekcek said.

  “It would be better if you came out. This seems a decent place and it would be rude to spray your blood all over it,” Thal said.

  “What?” Bekcek said, starting to rise.

  “Clobber that fool!” shouted a man across the table.

  A man sitting next to Bekcek got up as well. “You best be off before the Constable has you slapped in the stocks, fool,” he said.

  Bekcek wagged a finger at Thal. “I remember you! Your damn dog bit my ankle,” he said.

  Thal gestured toward the door. “I would see you outside,” he insisted.

  “What’s this about?” the Constable demanded.

  “It’s about a certain witch named Gretchen. I expect you recall her,” Thal said.

  Bekcek laughed. “Ah, Gretchen. I do remember that fiery old bitch. I was up all night hunting her. What of her?” he said.

  “Of all the people you torment did it never occur to you that one might have kin to avenge her?” Thal asked.

  Bekcek saw the family resemblance then. A seed of fear sprouted in the belligerent ground of his remorseless world.

  A colleague of the Constable stepped forward. “I’ll beat down this cockhead for you, Bekcek,” he announced and lunged.

  Thal grabbed his swinging fist, twisted the man’s arm, and flung him hard into a wall. A beer maid screamed and dropped her frothing steins. Songs faded and men starting shouting and getting off their benches.

  Bekcek whipped out a dagger. Thal dodged the plunging blade and yanked a hunting knife from his boot. He slashed Bekcek across the throat. He screeched horribly and clasped his bleeding neck. Fiercely he stabbed at Thal again, but the dagger only caught on Thal’s cloak. Thal twirled the knife in his hand and with a downward stroke drove it into Bekcek’s chest. Thal yanked down on the blade, splitting the man’s sternum and tearing open his heart. The knife caught on the medallion and Thal broke the chain with a final pull. Gushing blood, Bekcek tumbled forward. Thal stepped out of the way. Blood dripped off his knife that he held toward the aghast witnesses. When a couple men made moves to attack, Thal quickly drew a pistol. The perilous gun barrel halted their advance. No one was keen to risk a gun shot in close quarters.

  Thal dashed for the door. He burst into the street and ran as fast as he could. His dog followed and they turned a corner. His speed and endurance gave him a good head start on the mob he expected to come after him.

  When he burst back into the Old Town Square, he slowed to a walk and headed to the jail. Upon reaching the bleak stone building he kicked open the heavy door. Three men looked up from their dice game at the intruder silhouetted blackly against the dusky street.

  A fat man with a gre
asy wool shirt got up first. A heavy ring of keys jingled at his belt. “Who the Hell are you?” he demanded. A bludgeon with scuffs and scratches aplenty slid out of his belt and he smacked it against his palm.

  “Thal Lesky,” the intruder answered.

  The man with the keys laughed. “This be the last place that Devil son would show up,” he said.

  Thal advanced into the room menacingly. The other two men got up.

  “Get out of here!” one of them shouted.

  They all drew their clubs. Their sloppy grins showed how they looked forward to delivering a good beating.

  Thal drew both pistols and their expressions changed drastically. They bumped into each other as they collectively dove for the hallway. Thal rushed after them. Two sharp bangs cracked from his guns. The noise was thunderous within the stone walls. The man with the keys dropped forward with the back of his head blown apart. One of his associates met the same fate. Frantic, the third man turned to fight. Thal jumped back from the swinging club and drew his sword. They traded a couple blows, but Thal’s merciless focus defeated the unnerved terror of his victim. He hacked into his neck. The jailer fell against a wall and slid down slowly. Arcs of blood shot across the mortared stones as he gurgled and gagged. Thal whacked him in the head to finish the killing.

  “What’s happening?” someone shouted. Swaying lantern light revealed two figures in the dark depths of the hall.

  The first man to reach Thal was enormous. His bulky shoulders filled the hall and his neck was as thick as his big head. He bowled into Thal with hog-like strength. The jailer cried out as the sword blade cut his meaty torso. Thal shoved him back and plunged in his sword again.

  Groaning, the victim crumbled to his knees clutching his wounds. He looked up at Thal with confused disbelief. Thal put him down with a hard blow to the head.

  The next man in the hall dropped the lantern and retreated, babbling for mercy.

  “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” he squealed, fleeing into the cell block.

  Thal chased him. Pistol hopped over the trail of bodies and stayed at his master’s heels. Thal caught the man by the back of his shirt and slammed him against a wall. He wailed in pain and crumbled into a fetal position.

  “Don’t hurt me!” he begged. The stinky tallow candle burning in a wall sconce showed his pale face. Most of his teeth were missing despite his obvious youth. He was a slack jawed simpleton and blubbering incoherently now.

  Thal beheld the piteous jailer’s servant at his feet. His clothes were threadbare and dirty. Only rags bound his feet and he was sobbing like a child.

  Farther down the hall men were yelling in the cells. Cups rattled against bars.

  Thal went back to the front room that reeked of hot blood and yanked the ring of keys off his first victim. Stepping over the trembling lackwit he returned to the cells.

  A couple candles in the hall illuminated the miserable and stinking cells. Dirty straw spilled out the bars and the floor was slick with grime. Pistol raced into the inky shadows and the squealing of rats ensued.

  Thal went to the first door and fumbled with the keys.

  “That one. That one,” advised one prisoner.

  The key screeched in the lock. The four confined men pushed the door open and fled. Thal opened the next door. Three men rushed out. Thal looked inside. Two more unconscious men were sprawled on the cruddy floor. One lay in his own vomit and urine, and the fume of alcohol permeated the already tainted air. Thal frowned, disappointed in humanity.

  “Come on, fellow, come on,” urged a prisoner from the third and last cell.

  Thal obliged him and opened the cage. Two men rushed out and fled, too amazed by their fortune to ask questions. Only one man lingered.

  Thal grabbed a candle and approached a door in the back. Rusty iron bands bound the thick timbers. The candlelight flickered upon the somber lock but could not penetrate the despairing blackness of the keyhole.

  “Don’t go in there,” the last prisoner warned.

  A short scrawny man with a sandy beard and a scar on his cheek still stood in the open cell door.

  “What’s in there?” Thal said.

  “That’s where they gain confessions,” the prisoner whispered.

  Thal looked at the door, imagining his mother being dragged through it.

  “Confessions from witches?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” the prisoner said.

  A chill clamped Thal’s body with icy claws. He struggled to stay in control. His mother’s agony clung to the very stones of this sad place.

  “Is anyone in there?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Thal believed him. Pistol sniffed at the bottom of the door and then slunk away.

  Also stepping back, Thal decided that he did not need to go in there. “What are you here for?” he asked.

  “I’m a thief,” the prisoner said. He stepped out of his cell. “Who are you?”

  “Thal Lesky.”

  “The werewolf?”

  “That’s what the wanted notices say,” Thal said.

  “Why are you here?” the man said.

  “I had some criminals to punish,” Thal answered.

  The thief laughed.

  Heading out of the cell block, Thal said, “You should get going.”

  “I will. And thank you,” the man said.

  “You’re welcome. Try not to get caught again. Being a thief works best if you don’t get caught,” Thal advised.

  “Yes, I know,” the thief agreed. “Are you a thief?”

  “Not really,” Thal said.

  They stepped around the mewling simpleton, who was rocking on the floor calling someone’s name.

  He went across the front room and entered what was presumably Bekcek’s office. Papers were stacked on a desk. A glance at them informed Thal that they were mostly warrants. Some had lines drawn across them, probably indicating that the person had been caught. He opened the cabinets behind the desk. The thief stood in the doorway watching. Thal hauled out a heavy box.

  Since the thief was still around he told him to get a bludgeon off one of the dead men. The man hesitated but then squeamishly reached over the corpses and retrieved a club.

  “Thanks,” Thal said when the thief returned. He used the club to break the lock on the box. As he had hoped he found a nice pile of gold and silver.

  “Not really a thief?” the thief commented.

  Thal looked up. “These inhuman bastards owe me a great debt,” he explained. He quickly pocketed the four gold florins and then tossed a few thalers toward the thief.

  The man caught them deftly. Thal picked up the rest of the silver. In the distance they heard yelling.

  “I suggest you go,” Thal said.

  Gesturing with his fistful of coins, he said, “Best wishes to you, Thal Lesky.” He dashed out the door.

  Alone now, Thal looked over the bloody disaster he had wrought. It was gruesome and nasty. He was not proud, but he felt some relief. Those who had set cruel hands upon his mother were dead.

  Working in the candlelight, he reloaded his pistols. When he was ready to leave, he found the door that connected to the Court and went through the grim hall where prisoners were hauled toward their judgment.

  The hall was long and had two sets of stairs in it. The door at the top was locked. After fumbling through the keys in the dark, he found the right one and let himself in. He entered the main court room. Balconies overlooked the elevated box where the accused were placed. Rows of seats on the main floor faced the grandiose bench where the Magistrate sat. The last bluish glow from a sunken sun cast the wooden room all in gray. Thal ascended the steps to the Magistrate’s seat. A gavel lay on the polished wood next to the marble block that it was banged against. Thal ran his fingers lightly across the gavel. With a final bang the condemnation of his mother had been completed. Had anyone in the Court protested her treatment? Had people cheered to hear the capital sentence declared for the old woman?


  Thal leaned against the official bench. He pondered if he should kill the Magistrate. Altea had a good reason for begging mercy. It was hard to knowingly orphan her brothers, but Thal believed she hated her stepfather.

  Frustrated, he picked up the gavel and hurled it across the room. It crashed into a bench and thudded onto the floor. Pistol bounded over to it. Thal slammed his fists on the bench. There was no excusing what the Magistrate had done. He had sentenced his mother to death and likely slept well that night. That man presided over a cruel clockwork world that marked time on the cogs of cracked souls.

  Killing the Magistrate appealed wildly to Thal. With that man gone, Altea would have no master except a younger half brother and Thal would take her then. There would be no one to say he could not have her for a wife except for her. Her desire to be with him was genuine. It beckoned his lust. He had wanted to abduct her that afternoon at the market, but he could not so selfishly ruin her life. He had no home to give her.

  Standing straight, he decided it was time to go. He would plot a way to kill the Magistrate another night. He was not going to burst into Altea’s house and do it in front of her and her brothers. She would never love him after that nor would he want her to.

  Patting his newly fattened purse, he figured he should seek Valentino and pay off his debts. He would have to leave Prague very soon. Indeed, he would have to be extra careful just to get out of Old Town tonight.

  “Come, Pistol,” he said. They found a side door out of the Court and departed. As he slipped through the shadowy edges of the square, he heard the rising alarm of shouting and ringing bells. His massacre at the jail had been discovered.

  Chapter 36. Altea, I Love You…

  The bells were tolling midnight when Thal crossed the river. He had not dared risk the bridge even in the dark. A thaler to a half drunk boatman out of beer money at the docks near New Town had sufficed to get him across. After being deposited without question on the Little Quarter side, Thal and Pistol snuck through the shadowy side streets and dark alleys toward Lady Carmelita’s house. Thal crept around back and checked the stables. Valentino’s horse was not present. Then he lurked outside the servants’ wing listening and checking the scent. Regis, Raphael, and Carlo were not about either. Thal recalled Carlo saying something about them going out to meet other musicians that night. He hoped they were having a nice time.