Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (32 page)

******

Altea could not fall asleep. Questions about
Gretchen tormented her sense of right and wrong. And the unexpected
encounter with the old woman’s supposed son had rattled her badly.
She was angry for having placed herself in a situation where the
strange man had snuck up on her. She should have never been out
there alone. But she could not have asked anyone to go with her to
the home of a condemned witch. No one was supposed to go to such a
place.

Worried by her unsanctioned curiosity, Altea
wondered if she should go to confession and ask Father Refhold for
guidance.

She shut her eyes and tried to block out what
had happened, but the image of the strange man occupied her
mind.

Thal. He said his name was Thal, she thought.
“Thal,” she whispered, knowing it was wrong but needing to defy her
good sense.

His resemblance to Gretchen had been strong.
Altea accepted the possibility that he really was her son. Perhaps
he was older than he looked.

Recalling the details of his youthful
appearance melted her fear. His lips and strong nose were distinct
and handsome. The color of his eyes eluded her. She longed for
another chance to look upon him. This unexpected desire made her
chest ache.

Wishing their chance encounter had been
friendlier, she felt again her sadness for having to deliver bad
news unto him. His painful loss had been easy to empathize
with.

Restless, she got out of bed and went to the
window. She opened the shutter and admired the wondrous moonlight.
On a night such as this even the worn stones of the street were
brightened by a mystical glow. The street curved into mysterious
shadows that beckoned her to slip away into the secret unknown.

The soft evening air caressed her skin. Her
wispy night gown hung open over her cleavage. She fingered the lace
edge of the low collar.

A low sound like wind moaning through a
knothole in a board fence started. The sound grew until it was a
living howl that sang across the city. Altea grabbed the window
sill and leaned out. The staggering loveliness of the howling
engulfed her. Bestial power pushed the sound louder and louder
until it became like a musical fever dream. Altea’s mouth hung
open. The sound was gently connecting with her body and she swayed.
All her sorrow had finally been translated into an expressive
essence of unbounded beauty.

Gradually she thought again of the man. When
he had begged for news of his mother, his desperate voice had
connected to her sympathies the same way this otherworldly night
song was massaging her spirit.

She pressed her hand against her bosom,
remembering Thal and wishing that she could relive the brief
moments of their encounter. Her fingers strayed along one breast.
The smooth firm flesh was reassuring against her sensitive finger
tip. She could not help wishing that someone could touch her.

The door to her bedroom burst open. With a
yelp, she whirled from the window.

“Get back from there!” Martin said.

Her stepfather stalked across the bedroom and
yanked shut the shutter. The howling song outside could still be
heard. Dogs in the neighborhood were barking and howling now. Two
people down the street shouted questions to each other.

“I thought I heard your window open,” Martin
complained.

“What is it?” Altea asked. Strangely she had
not realized that the howling could be heard by everybody. It was
as if it had been just for her.

“It sounds like a wolf but that’s
impossible,” Martin said. “Woke me up like the Devil had come to
take my soul.”

“It’s so beautiful,” Altea said.

“Beautiful?” Martin sneered, disgusted by her
attitude. “I can’t remember a wolf ever coming this close to the
city. People will take it as a bad omen. This thing will need
hunting down. I pray no one expects my meager staff to attend to
it,” he grumbled.

The howling outside grew louder along with
the increasing cacophony of dogs and frightened livestock. Altea
looked back at her shuttered window.

“Don’t open that window again,” Martin said
sharply. He grabbed her wrist. “Get back in bed,” he ordered.

Altea gasped and tried to pull her arm free.
The sudden counter movement made Martin pull her close. She froze.
The closeness of his body shocked her. His big meaty presence
wafted heat that penetrated her night gown where his belly touched
her ribs. She pulled away but he still held her wrist. His hot grip
was hurting her. He seemed frozen in place as if his physical
connection to her had kicked open a door that had always been
bolted.

She tried to pry his fingers off her
wrist.

“Altea,” he whispered musingly. He reached
with his other hand to stop her fingers clawing at his grip.

The howling song vibrated through the
shutters. Wherever the beast was singing it was close. That voice
that possessed all the powers of gentleness and savagery gave her
courage.

“Let me go,” she hissed.

Slowly Martin relaxed his grip and she
slipped free and backed against the window sill.

“Get back in bed,” Martin said.

Altea could not remember him ever being in
her room before. “Leave,” she told him.

Her command provoked his sense of authority
but he resisted his natural urge to lash out at her. Their private
encounter cloaked by the darkness had unhinged him a little, and he
stepped back.

“I’ll check on the boys,” he muttered and
went out.

He did not shut the door, but Altea rushed
across the room and latched it. She leaned against it shakily.
There was no lock. She had never thought about that before but now
it bothered her greatly.

Feeling like a little girl woken from a
nightmare with no one to console her, she slipped beneath the
covers. The cocoon of bedding granted her meager comfort. She
listened to the howling song that still touched the city in all its
places. She wanted to know where it came from but refused to
recognize that she knew its source.

******

Regis knocked on the door. “Thal?” he said
and received no reply.

“I saw him go in there this afternoon,” Carlo
said.

Regis turned the latch and called again to
his friend. He nudged the door open with his elbow and held out a
candle. “No one’s here,” he said.

The three men entered the small room across
the hall from their rooms. The window in Thal’s room was open.
Raphael went to it. The blue moonlight fell across his face.

“I can still hear it,” he said.

Howling emanated from Prague like a string
vibrating on a harp. The dark bulky heights of the royal castle
lording over the Little Quarter impassively received the gentle
wails clawing at its walls. The lions in the royal menagerie
roared.

“Where is it coming from?” Carlo
whispered.

Raphael leaned out the window and tried to
judge his answer. “From across the river I think,” he said.

“It sounds like wolves,” Carlo said.

“It’s only one singing,” Raphael said
knowingly, and the other musicians did not doubt his
determination.

“Maybe Thal is out looking for it,” Raphael
suggested.

Regis headed toward the window and stumbled
on Thal’s boots. For a moment, he refused to believe the evidence
at his feet. Then he kneeled by Thal’s bed and lifted the straw
mattress. He pulled out the pistol and held it up for his friends
to see.

“Thal wouldn’t go anywhere without his weapon
unless made to,” Raphael worried.

Regis put the gun back and felt around and
discovered the sword and knives too. Then he found folded clothing
on the bed. Next he hurried to the pegs on the wall and saw Thal’s
cloak and traveling bag hanging there too. The change of clothing
that Lord Patercek had gifted to Thal was still in the bag.

Closing the bag, Regis said, “He’s
naked.”

“Not again,” Carlo said, fearing that their
friend would return hurt.

The men stared at each other. Flickering
candlelight revealed the questions in their eyes.

Still at the window, Raphael savored the
distant wailing note. The song was sad, beautifully sad. He could
hope to play so well.

“Do you think it’s true what he said about
becoming a beast?” Raphael said.

“No. Remember when he killed the bandits. He
was a man. We all saw that he was a man,” Regis insisted.

“No man can sing like that,” Raphael said,
still looking dreamily into the night.

“No, that’s not a man’s voice,” Regis agreed
quietly.

“Shouldn’t we go look for him?” Carlo
said.

“Where to begin? We’d probably get lost. I
don’t know Prague in the daylight yet,” Regis countered.

“I suppose you’re right,” Carlo said.

“It’s amazing,” Raphael commented. The utter
remorse in the sound would inspire him the rest of his life.

“I’ll wait up for him,” Regis said. “Go rest.
Lady Carmelita wants us to play for her tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, his friends went to their rooms.
Regis stretched out on Thal’s bed and listened to the faint
howling. He blew out his candle and pondered the fact that Thal had
to be out in the city naked. He knew that Thal was not a madman,
but he could not explain this odd behavior.

When the wolf song stopped, he realized he
wanted to hear more. Despite the lengthy serenade, his musician’s
heart told him this was just the first verse of a long song.

With the city quiet, he closed his eyes.
Sleeping would be the best way to wait. When footsteps in the hall
roused him he looked at the window. The moonlight was coming in
from a noticeably different angle. It was much later in the
night.

The footsteps stopped at the door and the
latch clicked open. After a moment’s hesitation, a man opened the
door and said, “Regis?”

How did he know it was me? Regis wondered,
sitting up. “Thal!” he cried.

“Ssshhh,” Thal hushed and scooted in the room
and shut the door. He tossed his heavy fur over the foot of the bed
and grabbed his underclothes.

“What is this about?” Regis said.

Thal sighed. Being bombarded with human words
after his hours spent in werewolf form was bothersome. Exhausted by
his cathartic night, he had little energy for conversation. His
transformation had been exhilarating despite his grief. He was
certain that doing it when the moon was full enhanced his power. He
could have torn gates from their hinges tonight.

Thal flopped onto his bed. “Regis, why are
you in my room?” he asked.

“Where have you been all night?” Regis
said.

Thal rolled over.

“Did you hear the wolf singing?” Regis
said.

“You must have,” Thal said. The feeling of
the grief vibrating through his throat was still fresh. He had
poured all that he remembered of a loving mother into each
note.

“I don’t know where to go. My mother is
dead,” Thal said.

“I’m sorry my friend,” Regis said sincerely.
The vague huddle of Thal upon the bed distressed Regis, who had
never seen Thal appear so vulnerable.

“I wonder if my mother will still be alive
when I return home,” Regis said.

“I should not have left,” Thal said although
he knew in his heart it was what he had wanted to do.

“Don’t say that. You not to blame. If you had
stayed in Prague it wouldn’t mean your mother would live. Death
comes to us all,” Regis said.

Abruptly Thal sat up. Startled, Regis took a
half step back.

“I could have protected her,” Thal hissed.
The vehemence in his voice made Regis cringe.

“What happened?”

Thal hesitated. He knew he should not tell
anyone, but he was not ashamed. His mother had never hurt
anyone.

“She was condemned as a witch and burnt in
the Old Town Square,” Thal whispered.

“Oh that cannot be true,” Regis said.

“It is!”

Regis did not know what to say. He should be
afraid. Perhaps Thal truly was Devil-begotten, but he would not
hurt him. He would not hurt anyone who did not deserve it.

Thal swung his feet onto the floor, giving up
on the idea of sleeping. “I plan to do some terrible things. You
won’t want to be counted as my comrade. It will put you in danger,”
Thal said.

“You don’t have to do anything bad,” Regis
argued. “Make a new life. You can always travel with me. I need
you, and I won’t stay in Prague forever. We could go to Paris.”

Thal appreciated that his friend still valued
him even after hearing the terrible news, but he shook his head. “I
must punish her killers. My mother used the last of her power to
call me home. She wants vengeance for what was done,” he said.
Speaking the words reinforced his commitment to honor the spell
that had retrieved him from his purely wolf state.

“I’ve sung many songs about vengeance. None
of them end well,” Regis warned.

“Then I’ll call it justice,” Thal said.

“Not many songs about justice,” Regis
said.

“Either way, do not involve yourself with
me,” Thal said and reached for his boots.

Gently Regis intervened. “Thal, you’re tired.
Upset. Let me think for you tonight. Where you going to go? The
gutter? Don’t let those that killed your mother drive you to
crime,” he said.

Thal sat back on his bed. He could agree with
Regis that he was tired and emotional. Giving up the shelter that
Lady Carmelita had provided would be foolish.

“You’re right. I must think this through
better,” Thal conceded, realizing that he should plan his hunt
carefully. To kill was the birthright of a wolf, but a man must
plot how to get away with it.

Needing time alone with his grief, Thal stuck
to the solitude of his room. He busied himself cleaning his gun and
polishing his boots. Mud clung to the boots from his trip to the
city. He had walked the whole way, unable to ride in Patercek’s
supply wagons because he agitated the horses.