Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (52 page)

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 greasy 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.

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.