Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (31 page)

Then Thal circled back to the ruined cottage.
It was time to track the young woman. There had been enough of a
relationship between the women for the young one to come back here
and weep for the executed witch. He suspected that she knew who had
committed the atrocity against Gretchen.

Thal stooped over her clear footprints in the
ashes at the threshold. The odor of burned wood was strong but her
recent feminine presence was vivid against his senses. Her scent
soothed him as he memorized it. The floral aroma of her budding
womanhood blurred his grief and made him think about his masculine
desires to an extent that no other woman had heretofore
inspired.

Dreamily he recalled her pretty face. He had
seen a thick golden braid hanging beneath her head wrap when she
had run away. He imagined that hair freed from its plait, like on
the High Priestess card Emerald had shown him.

Sighing, he traced her footprint and admired
how she had comported herself. He had frightened her yet she had
controlled her fear. Caught unaware and physically vulnerable as
she was, she had still hoped to get away…and she had. Perhaps her
brave façade was a sign that she possessed a strength of character
that could match his own.

Sadly he ran a hand up the remnant of the
door frame as he stood straight. For the first time he regretted
choosing the forest. He should have stayed here and taken care of
his mother.

Adrift among his terrible emotions, he headed
down the narrow lane. He strode with deadly purpose but inside he
was staggering under a grievous burden.

Pistol tracked the young woman eagerly. Thal
did not even need to do anything. When they reached the busier
streets closer to the city wall Pistol slowed down and had to sort
out the many overlapping tracks and dung smeared by moving wheels.
Thal stared straight ahead. The other people on the streets were
mere ghosts in his perception.

Pistol led him through the New Tower gate. In
his overwhelmed state, Thal did not notice the gate guards
eyeballing him as he entered. His strong physique and weapons
marked him as a mercenary or worse, but he was not strange enough
to stop. Men of various harsh occupations were not so rare a sight
on the streets of Prague.

The trail left by the young woman veered onto
a narrow side street instead of following the main avenue into a
square. Thal paused and looked toward the open square. A great hall
with a pointy tower overlooked the space filled with people and
carts and stalls. His spirit quaked. Was this where Gretchen had
been executed? Thal tossed his rampaging feelings into a pit that
they could not jump out of. He was not ready to confront the place
where his mother had met her agonizing end.

He followed his waiting dog. They passed fine
residences. The houses were clean. Flowers grew from pots alongside
the doorways and fancy wrought iron rails led up to paneled wood
doors, many painted brightly. Children dashed back and forth
rolling hoops or simply chasing each other. One little girl ran
across Thal’s path and stopped. Their eyes met and she gaped at him
as if she had blundered across a satyr in a meadow. He was too
ravaged inside to muster a friendly smile for her, but her bright
innocent eyes reminded him that not all that was human was bad. He
stepped around her and went on his way.

He continued to follow his dog. Pistol went
to two young boys sitting on a doorstep. Sun was beaming down on
them, and they were sorting a collection of pebbles.

Slowly Thal walked up to them. He ran a hand
along the rail and then put his fingers to his nose. This was the
place. The little boys stared at him.

“Do you know my Papa?” the boy asked.

“Maybe. Who is he?” Thal said.

“He’s the Magistrate,” the boy said
proudly.

“Is he?” Thal murmured. He looked up at every
window across the front of the house. None of the curtains
fluttered, but she was in there. Pistol bounded up the steps
between the boys and scratched on the door.

“Hey!” the youngest boy shouted.

The door opened and a woman with a frilly
apron stepped out. “Who are you?” she demanded of Thal. Intrepid
suspicion sparked in her eyes. She beckoned the boys to her
sides.

“I seem to have the wrong house. Forgive the
disturbance,” he said and called Pistol down the steps. He was too
upset to think of a way to lure the young woman and speak with her.
Now that he knew where she lived, he could monitor the area and
encounter her again.

Thal plodded away. He headed toward the
Kamenny Most. His grief needed some time to settle. He needed
solitude. The indifferent souls filling the streets pressed
painfully against his spirit. The normalcy of their daily routine
contrasted too sharply with his internal devastation.

Oblivious to the sights around him, he
crossed the bridge. The serenity of the flowing water gave him no
comfort. Without ceremony these waters had carried away the dusty
remains of Gretchen.

Upon reaching the Little Quarter on the other
side of the Vltava, he headed toward the home of Lady Carmelita.
Her home was quite new, built only ten years ago by her late
husband. Ornately carved stone blocks framed the windows and doors.
A balcony spread across the whole front of the house, and the red
tiled roof reached up to a small tower. A graceful archway formed
the front porch and framed the gorgeous front doors that were
carved with scenes from Greek mythology.

Thal did not go to the front doors. There was
no reason to spoil the cheerful household with his dark mood. On
his way around back he passed two men with a cart and a shovel
cleaning up horse apples on the gravel drive. At the farthest flung
servants’ entry he slipped into the wing where he and his friends
had been given rooms.

The musicians were not there, which suited
Thal. He sat on the edge of his narrow bed and did nothing. Pistol
nudged his fingers but he lacked the spirit to even pat the dog’s
head.

In a near stupor he sat there slumped for
most of the afternoon. Memories of his mother gushed through his
head. They had gotten along well. Only one bad fight had marred
their relationship. He had been about fifteen or sixteen and asked
his mother when his father was going to come live with them. She
had said that he would never come to Prague. Thal had then stated
that he would go to his father because he wanted to see him. His
mother had become very angry and begged him not to go.

Thal rubbed his temple, straining to remember
where his father had lived. Why could he not remember? Why had his
mother not wanted him to go to his father? They had been happy
together once, as a family should be.

He shook his head. Memories from his distant
youth did not matter so much today. He knew his purpose now. In her
final moments his mother had called him back from his wolf life.
Thal felt this truth in his bones, and he would perform in
accordance with her final wishes. Perhaps her magic had not given
her the power to defend herself, but the magic that worked in him
had no restrictions. He possessed all the strength and resolute
ferocity of the predator.

Slowly he drew out his pistol and then his
sword. Next he took off his cloak and shirt and spread his fur
across his lap. For a long time he petted the glistening fur. Its
thick softness against his sensitive fingertips connected him with
his deepest nature.

Eventually, he flipped the fur over and
silently read the blood-lettered words. Tonight the moon would be
full and he would call upon that sacred energy that oversaw all the
ages of the Earth. In his beast state he would give voice to his
grief.

******

Brother Vito sent everyone to a prayer vigil
at the main chapel, except for Rainer. The twilight was late in
coming due to the fair season, and he watched the daylight fade
with dread.

Rainer was shakily putting down another mug
of beer. Vito did not agree with the drinking but he allowed it
because he pitied the strain that Rainer endured.

“It is time,” Vito announced. He stood over
Rainer and put a hand on his shoulder. The man’s chest heaved as he
took a deep breath.

“I don’t want to be locked away,” Rainer
whimpered.

“You know you must,” Vito said.

Rainer stood up from the table in Vito’s
chamber where his master had given him the privilege of a few
drinks. He swayed a little.

“Take me out of the city,” he begged.

“There’s no time for that,” Vito said, and
clanging bells across the city enforced his statement. “I will be
on the other side of the door and we will pray together. Maybe this
time it won’t happen.”

Doubt clouded Rainer’s face. Already his skin
was crawling. Soon it would stretch and shift and erupt with
fur.

With Vito’s continued urging Rainer headed
toward the cellar stairs. The steps descended into pitiless
darkness. Vito extended his lantern, highlighting cobwebs hanging
from the ceiling.

“Hurry,” he hissed.

Trusting in his master, Rainer went down.
When they reached the heavy door that opened to a windowless
storage area, Rainer stopped again.

“Give me the lantern,” Rainer whispered.

“You could burn yourself,” Vito said.

He gave Rainer another moment, knowing the
man would comply. Rainer slipped out of his clothing but kept his
beads. Murmuring prayers he walked through the door and Vito barred
it behind him.

“It’s dark,” Rainer cried.

“Pray with me,” Vito insisted.

He kneeled by the door and led Rainer in
prayer.

Above Prague birds flew to their roosts. The
last sunlight kissed the clouds goodnight. The moon brightened the
horizon. Its splendor greeted the night like a dear friend,
brightening the open places and restricting true dark to the
shadows.

Vito raised his voice and called upon his God
to save Rainer from his affliction. Rainer begged for salvation and
blathered promises to defend Christianity. His fervor touched even
Vito’s clockwork heart. Such faith was a miracle almost in
itself.

When Rainer fell silent, Vito kept up his
prayers until the groaning began. Then he knew there was no point
in soothing the emerging beast. It wanted liberty and the
satisfaction of the hunt. No talk of God would be heeded when the
Devil worked the puppet strings.

Rainer’s groans turned to wails and then
painful screams. Then there was a brief silence that was soon
obliterated by savage snarling. A body thudded against the door and
claws scraped urgently. The beast circled the cell, clawing and
banging and digging at all sides. Then it returned to the door and
pounded on it. The door shook against its heavy bar. Vito watched
the trembling door with wide eyes while dust was shaken down from
the ceiling. The werewolf’s roaring and snarling increased
desperately. The assault on the door strengthened.

Vito clasped his hands and resumed praying.
This time he prayed for the door to hold.

“Dear God keep the Devil within,” he
pleaded.

The werewolf’s roars grew louder. Its caged
rage cursed creation. Vito feared people would come to investigate
the terrible noise. During previous transformations when he had
released Rainer in remote areas, the werewolf had not been so
noisy. His howls had receded across the hills, but now that he was
contained, the monster’s wrath was limitless.

Near panic, Vito stopped praying.

“Rainer quiet!” he ordered and pounded on the
door. “In the name of Christ I command you to silence.”

The savage snapping response from within was
so extreme Vito could almost feel the great fangs closing on his
flesh.

“Be silent I tell you! Be silent if you ever
wish for the grace of God to cleanse your soul!” Vito yelled.

His werewolf howled and tore into the
shuddering door with renewed fury. Vito stepped back,
horrified.

Then the werewolf abruptly fell silent. Vito
sighed. Hopefully the beast was broken and would wait for morning
in a dispirited heap. “Good, Rainer, good,” he praised and settled
back on his knees to offer his prayers again.

As he drew a breath to begin a prayer of
thanks, Vito heard a new noise outside. The long sonorous howls of
a wolf were singing to the night. Notes rose and fell with a melody
no man could compose. The aching sadness of the wolf song was
astonishing. It was as if Prague were being serenaded by all the
sorrows of the Earth. A low whine from within the cell informed
Vito that it was this nearly angelic song that had quieted
Rainer.

“Thal,” Vito whispered.

He rushed outside. Moonlight cooled the brow
of the silver blushing city. Towers were bright edges upon steely
shadows. Every shifting leaf in the breeze shimmered with fairy
dust glow.

Outside Vito was able to hear the wolf song
more clearly. Dogs throughout the city were starting to bark and
howl. Each commanding howl began gently and then stretched into
rolling notes. No lament ever sung for any saint had ever achieved
this clarity of sorrow. The wild howling spoke of feelings beyond
words.

“Where is he?” Vito muttered, turning in
circles and trying to judge from which direction the sound came. He
wanted to find him. Thal had been an impressive man, unlike the
mentally tormented Rainer. Vito imagined that Thal must be a
glorious werewolf. Oh to have that power on his side! What could
tempt Thal to come to him?

With the wolf song still inflicting its
lovely melancholy upon the night, Vito massaged his bald head and
tried to think. He wanted to take advantage of this disturbing
incident. Already men were coming out of nearby buildings. They
murmured fearfully. Across the city thousands of people had to be
shivering with fright. This wolf in their midst was not normal, and
Vito plotted how to provide answers and leadership.