Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale

by Tracy Falbe

  Although he did not know precisely where Valentino resided, he knew from which direction the Condottiere approached Carmelita’s mansion. Thal resolved to sniff him out.

  Pistol helpfully bounded up and down various streets while Thal stayed well away from any lanterns. The loyal little dog eventually detected a trace of Valentino’s passing. When they came across a nice guest house that looked worthy of a man of Valentino’s station, Thal poked around its periphery. The familiar scent drifted faintly from an upstairs window and Thal noticed his horse in the stable.

  Thal went up the front steps into the common room. Only three men were still up at the late hour playing cards. Some insects orbited the lanterns hanging over their heads and cast tiny shadows on the yellowed plaster walls. The men looked up. The night was warm and Thal’s cloak was thrown back, exposing his weapons and part of his wolf fur.

  Curiosity and apprehension played across the card players’ faces as they considered the stranger. Paying them no heed, Thal strode across the room like he owned the place. He roused the servant sleeping next to the cold fireplace.

  “Take me to the Condottiere,” he said.

  The servant rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The fuzzy beginnings of a beard showed his youth. He frowned when he did not recognize Thal.

  “You know the Condottiere?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “I just asked for him did I not?” Thal said.

  The lad supposed Thal looked like the type of person who conversed with the Condottiere, and he dragged himself to his feet. Unhappily he noticed the card players were still awake and resigned himself to having to wait on them all night.

  He lit a candle off a lantern and led Thal up the stairs.

  “This is his door,” he said.

  “My thanks,” Thal said.

  “Is a war starting?” the young man whispered.

  Thal accepted that his late night visit could portend of bad news. “No,” he said and knocked on the door.

  The lad left with the candle. In the darkness, Thal pounded on the door again. Pistol sniffed so hard at the bottom crack he must have dusted the floor inside. Some grumbling finally started within, followed by a bang and curse. A flicker of light peeked out the bottom of the door and illuminated Thal’s boots. A bolt scraped against hardware and the door opened a crack.

  “Who’s there?”

  Thal did not recognize the voice.

  “I seek the Condottiere,” Thal said.

  “I’m his manservant. Leave your message with me.”

  Thal pushed open the door. The manservant protested and tried to shove him back. The candle he was holding sprayed wax that peppered the back of Thal’s hand. Incited by the clinging pain, Thal seized his arm. The strength in his grip froze the manservant.

  “Wake your master. Tell him Thal is here.”

  He let go. The manservant nodded but he had no need to fetch his master. Valentino whipped open his chamber door and came out in a blue silk robe. His gold earrings glittered in the weak light.

  “Thal!”

  “You know this man?” the manservant asked incredulously.

  “Bolt the door,” Valentino said and beckoned Thal into his private chamber. “What has happened?” Valentino asked as he shut his door. Hard deeds clung to Thal like burs on a shaggy dog.

  Pistol jumped onto a window bench. Thal ran a hand over his dog’s head and looked out into the dark courtyard, confirming that it was still empty.

  Casually, he said, “I have the money I owe you.”

  Valentino chuckled. “Well that’s worth waking up for,” he commented and started lighting more candles. Then he poured wine.

  “You look like you need a drink,” the Condottiere said.

  “Do I?” Thal said.

  “That’s blood,” Valentino said when Thal reached for the glass. The stains were obvious on his sleeve.

  Thal knocked back his wine. As the alcohol soothed him, he realized that Valentino was right about him needing a drink.

  Getting out his purse, Thal said. “I’ll be leaving the city. I appreciate the help you’ve given me.” He handed Valentino two gold florins.

  The gold impressed Valentino. It exceeded what he was owed and it was good to be overpaid. Sinning rarely interfered with profit, he reminded himself. “Are you going to tell me what you did?” he said.

  “I’m sure it’ll be the talk of the town soon enough,” Thal said cryptically.

  “Did you change?”

  Thal shook his head. “I acted as a man. Changing was not necessary but the extra gun was helpful,” he said.

  “Why are you killing people? Was it the Jesuits?” Valentino asked, achingly curious.

  “Not the Jesuits,” Thal said. He went to the table and got more wine. “I still have one more man to kill. I should have done it tonight, but…well he’ll be harder to get at now I suppose,” he confessed.

  Valentino lounged onto a chair. He stretched out his thick legs forged by riding. “You need my help with that,” he guessed while walking one of the florins across his knuckles.

  “It’s complicated,” Thal said and downed another full glass of wine. He found his own chair and sat down. Only now could he see where spatters of blood had stained his clothes. It was irksome. Good clothes were hard to get.

  Impatient with his guest’s silence, Valentino said, “What’s making it complicated? I imagine killing is something you’re good at.”

  Thal realized that killing would never feel the same for him after tonight. “There’s a woman involved,” he said.

  “Ooohhh,” Valentino said dramatically, understanding what complicated meant.

  Thal continued, “Valentino, would a woman follow a fugitive? Live on the road with him? Face his dangers?”

  Valentino spread his hands as if opening a book on all possibilities. “On campaigns I’ve seen many women follow soldiers and serve them and love them. They had nothing, often went hungry, but it was their lot. Maybe your woman will go with you into your unknown,” he said.

  Thal withered a little, unable to envision Altea enduring such a piteous life.

  “May I rest here?” Thal said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any paper to write on?” Thal said.

  Valentino heard the sorrow in Thal’s voice and surmised that he meant to write a note of farewell. “Yes,” he said again, sympathetically.

  Valentino bade his manservant to bring paper. While the drowsy servant was rummaging in a cupboard, Valentino said, “Get off those clothes and I’ll have them washed.”

  Thal hesitated, not wishing to trouble anyone but it was a favor he needed. His spare clothing was in his small pack. He waited for the servant to go away before changing his clothes.

  Valentino presumed to look at the lovely wolf fur when Thal draped it over the back of a chair. He summoned back his servant and gave him the laundry. The man frowned at the blood but as the manservant of the Condottiere he was not overly surprised by it. “I can’t get the stains out,” he said.

  “But you can make it look better,” Valentino said and waved the man out of the room again.

  Valentino settled in with more wine and waited in silence while Thal dipped the quill into ink. His movements were awkward. He did not write often.

  He pulled his wolf fur across his lap and stroked it thoughtfully. Then he wrote Altea’s name and sighed. He was not even sure if he was spelling it right. Why were his feelings so strong for her? They had only spoken a handful of times, but there seemed to be an inexplicable understanding between them. She did not judge him for what he was, and he treasured her acceptance. For her part, he did not know what she saw in him. Perhaps it was the same thing. He accepted her.

  I want her, he thought. His memories of holding her and kissing her filled him with cravings for more. He felt spurred by a sharp and stinging desire to gallop headlong into total intimacy with her. He needed a mate. It was natural and good, but she deserved a normal man and a normal
life. Any woman deserved that.

  When they had met in the market that afternoon, he had sensed her own struggle with her feelings. Of course she knew better than to be sneaking kisses with a fugitive, but she refused to deny her attraction to him. She had even recklessly stated again her desire to go away with him. Her willingness was hard to resist. He had meant to do the right thing and tell her goodbye, but instead he had told her he would contact her again.

  He rubbed his temple. The excitement of his vengeful evening had worn him down. Despite his weariness, he had to think of a way to express his love to Altea yet convince her of the wisdom of forgetting him.

  The task was impossible. He wanted her. He had sought her out and lured her close. And she had come to him. He noticed now that his fist had clenched while thinking of her. He wanted to kill her stepfather and steal her away. It was the truth, but many other forces were interfering with his simple need.

  “I love you,” he wrote and stopped again. The act of inking letters upon the paper released hidden memories. The wet words bright in the candlelight blurred while other visions brightened in his mind.

  He saw again his father writing upon the wolf skin. A bright bonfire silhouetted his father in orange. He lifted the fur carefully and held it out.

  “Read the words, Thal,” he commanded.

  Thal scanned the dark red letters. He did not know the name of the language, if it even had a name, but his father had taught him how to read it since he was a young boy.

  “Read them aloud so you will always remember them,” his father said.

  “Yes Father.”

  Thal began to read the words, knowing he must memorize them before going to the stone altar.

  “Don’t say the spell!”

  It was Valentino’s voice. He grabbed Thal’s shoulder and shook him. His eyes were rolled back and his lips were chanting. Valentino smacked his face. Thal lashed out and knocked Valentino’s arm away, but he returned to the present.

  Rubbing his arm, Valentino said, “I had to stop you.”

  Thal set his fur on the table. The vision was still flashing through his mind, and he was troubled to learn that he had spontaneously started chanting his transformation spell.

  “Thank you, Valentino. I was overtaken by an old memory,” he tried to explain.

  “Well, I didn’t want you to ruin your spare clothes,” Valentino quipped.

  “No,” Thal agreed. The vision of his father had been powerfully clear. The smell of him was almost in his nostrils. Spreading his fingers through the soft fur, Thal missed the simplicity of his old life. No wonder he had chosen the bliss of a wild existence. He needed to decipher why his inner spirit had spontaneously beckoned his werewolf power. Darkly his intuition informed him that his mother’s death cry for justice was not entirely fulfilled. As he had told Valentino, one man remained to be punished.

  “You should rest,” Valentino advised.

  Without a word, Thal spread his fur on the floor and fell asleep on it. Pistol curled up next to him and shut his eyes after a little growling sigh.

  Valentino looked at the letter Thal had attempted to write. He had written a few heartbreakers to ladies in his lifetime and he judged that this one was not coming easily for Thal.

  Chapter 37. Thal’s Merry Little Retinue

  Regis played the notes on his harp again, and the other musician copied him on his own harp.

  “Now you have it,” Regis said and they started playing together. Grins split their faces. They had been teaching each other their songs all evening, and the joy of sharing filled the room.

  When they were done, the small audience clapped. The assembly of journeymen and laborers and their women lounged about the small tavern. Their sleeves were rolled up because of the balmy summer night, and the girls had good amounts of cleavage on display.

  Raphael and Carlo were kicked back on a bench with their feet spread out before them. They clicked together their steins and took long drinks.

  “I see you Venetians are learning to like some decent Bohemian brew,” observed the proprietress. She was a round faced widow with wide hips and a skill for keeping her patrons obedient. Ostensibly her son ran the tavern, but the youth was too enamored of the city’s delights to attend to the details of the business, which his mother undertook with confidence. Nearly every night she was heard to boast of how well things had been going since the passing of her husband. No more free beer for his slothful friends anymore.

  “Oh, I drink too much,” Carlo told her and held his gut. He was a little flushed and definitely farther into his cups than normal.

  “You players deserve all the drinks everyone keeps buying you,” she said.

  “The good taste of Prague has been to our benefit,” Raphael agreed and swung his stein wildly. The proprietress dodged the light spray and walked away smiling. She doubted they would be getting any more songs out of the Venetians tonight. Not anything she would want to hear anyway.

  “I havta pish,” Raphael announced and slammed his stein down on the bench.

  “Didn’t need to know that,” Carlo complained in Italian.

  Raphael patted his arm fondly and ambled out the back door. A couple bangs and a cry turned everyone’s heads. Raphael had fallen down the steps.

  “I’m fine!” he shouted and everyone laughed.

  Regis set his harp in its worn case. “It’s been splendid, Rocko,” he said to the other musician.

  “I’m in your debt to learn the fine songs of Venice,” Rocko said.

  “Many of those are original to me,” Regis said.

  “I will remember to say so,” Rocko said although Regis doubted him. Every song was yours when you sang it.

  “And I’ll credit the Bohemian songs to you when again I sing in Venice,” Regis said.

  “You honor me,” Rocko said. His fingers tinkled across his harp, gently playing the melody he had just learned.

  “We should probably go,” Regis said, sweeping his eyes around the room. The audience was thinning. It was late and work started early in the summer. Regis had singing to do for his hostess on the morrow as well and he needed his rest. He hoped Carlo and Raphael would not be too hungover, but he did not resent their indulgence. The relaxed atmosphere and happy attitude were things to treasure. Nights such as these erased all the hardships of their travels.

  The maid who had been serving beer all evening brought Regis a freshly filled stein. The froth on top was creamy and smelled of summer fields.

  “No need to rush away,” she said. Her eyes smiled with the admiration that Regis was accustomed to seeing in women’s eyes. Perhaps they could stay out a little later.

  Four men started out the front door. As they exited, someone in the street demanded, “Are those Venetian players in there?”

  “Oh yes. They’re grand,” declared one of the men as he left.

  Regis looked toward the door, wondering who was looking for them. They were getting a reputation around the Little Quarter and mayhap another household was hoping to hire them.

  The man who entered dashed his pleasant hopes. Wearing armor and weapons and a sour look, he did not appear to be the sort who secured entertainment.

  “You’re no man of Bohemia,” the armed man said and strode toward Regis.

  “What do you want?” Regis demanded. He did not recognize the light haired man with gray in his beard and an uncompromising scowl. Regis hopped over the bench to put it between him and the newcomer. Rocko backed away as did the maid.

  The man kicked the bench out of the way, grabbed Regis by his shirt, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall. Carlo bounded to his defense and tried to pull the big man off his friend, but five more armed men barged into the tavern. Two of them seized Carlo. He protested and struggled until his feet came off the floor but he could not escape.

  The proprietress stalked out of her kitchen with her fists tight around a broom handle. “Be off with you hooligans! I don’t tolerate any rough stuff in my
place,” she declared.

  The man who had Regis looked over his shoulder. “These men are in league with a notorious fugitive. We’ll have them out of here in a trice,” he said.

  “But they’re just musicians,” the lady protested.

  Raphael sauntered back into the tavern. Half in a stupor, he was looking down and fumbling with his codpiece. The laces on his new clothes were vexing and foreign.

  “Run!” Carlo shouted.

  Raphael looked up and was astounded by the scene. He looked first to his lute case on the floor near the feet of the men holding Carlo. He was loath to flee without it or to abandon his companions. Men laid hands upon him and pressed him painfully against a wall.

  “Stop this!” the proprietress insisted and prodded an intruder with her broom.

  Before she became more annoying, the man restraining Regis said, “I am Jan Bradcek Captain of the Guard at Rosenberg Castle. I’ve tracked a perilous fugitive to Prague and I’ll set this place on fire if I hear one more word out of you.”

  The awful threat gave her pause. The maid caught her eye and shook her head a little.

  Jan pressed his elbow against the back of Regis’s neck. “Where is Thal?” he hissed.

  “Who?” Regis said.

  The elbow gouged his upper neck until he thought his head would pop off. Jan said, “I heard all about you players from the folk around Patercek’s castle. Seems all of your songs are quite unforgettable. As was your companion Thal. Don’t deny it!” He banged Regis’s head against the stone wall.

  “Stop this. You’re beastly,” the proprietress dared to say.

  Jan supposed he did not have to interrogate the musicians here. He had a nice little place prepared for them. Wheeling Regis around like a kitten hanging from its mother’s mouth, Jan said, “Forgive the disturbance.”

  He and his men hustled the three musicians into the dark street. The witnesses in the tavern gaped at the sudden emptiness after the unexpected violence.