Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (22 page)

His devotion touched Thal, and he saw that
the other two men felt the same way.

“I am a wanted man. Please think of
yourselves and be free of me,” Thal insisted even if he hated to
speak the words.

“How can we go enjoy a roof over our heads
and earn our supper and leave you here?” Regis said. “I won’t do
it.”

Carlo and Raphael agreed.

“I don’t want to put you in danger like I did
fleeing the Jesuits,” Thal said.

“That’s very thoughtful, but you’ve saved us
as well and we still need you. I don’t know what would have
happened in Budweis if we had been dragged back to the Mayor. He
might have whipped us or broken my fingers. Who knows? But you
appeared and made it all go away. You say your power can bring
danger. Well I say I want your power on my side,” Regis
declared.

Pistol barked.

“Even your little dog thinks you’re daft,”
Regis added.

Pistol wagged his tail. The Gypsy dog did not
want to miss a chance to go inside a castle.

The deeply familiar caw of a raven high in a
tree spoke to Thal. A second raven seeking its evening roost
settled on the branch next to the first. It screeched at Thal as if
telling him to quit upsetting his friends.

Such birds had long been his dark partners
and their wisdom was not to be discounted.

“I’ve warned you,” Thal grumbled in
surrender.

Regis laughed, happy that he had won the
argument. “Come, Thal. I have a good feeling about this place,” he
said.

“You say same thing about Budweis,” Carlo
pointed out.

“I have more experience now,” Regis defended.
With a fresh spring in his step he started down the slope.

Although concerned about his friends’ blithe
dismissal of his warning, Thal did not really want to rest on the
cold ground with a half open wound. And the castle artfully placed
in the landscape and catching the last rays of the sun on its
ramparts excited him.

When they reached the road, a farmer hailed
them from across his field. He stopped at the stone fence that
hemmed his green barley. Curiosity twinkled in his eyes as he
looked the four travel-stained men over.

“Did you fall out of the sky?” he asked.

The musicians waved back and praised the
loveliness of the vale. Their accents thwarted the man’s attempt to
understand them.

“Good evening, Sir,” Thal said. “Is your lord
at the castle friendly to travelers?” he inquired.

The farmer squinted at Thal. His cloak hid
his weapons but the farmer guessed the character of the bulges
beneath the fabric.

“Friendly enough,” the farmer replied
cryptically.

A dog bounded over the stone fence and barked
furiously at Pistol. The two animals raced down the road yipping
and nipping until the local dog finally turned back. Pistol pranced
along Thal’s side on spritely paws, well pleased by the sport.

A blushing twilight outlined the dark blocky
castle by the time they reached it. Everyone was plodding after the
steep hike up the winding road to the old fortress. Open meadows
carved by several dirt trails surrounded the stone walls. On this
open height the wind was stronger and flags snapped. It was getting
too dark to discern the color and design of the banners.

The drawbridge was down. Its elder timbers
were worn smooth by generations of traffic. A weedy vine from the
edge of the moat climbed one of the thick chains, proving how
little the bridge was raised. The moat was overgrown and murky with
green puddles. No people were in sight.

The windy emptiness was obliterated by the
deep baying of dogs. The castle hurled out two hulking beasts.
Their wide paws thudded on the bridge.

Raphael cried out. Carlo gripped him with
dread. Regis retreated and called to his fellows to run. Thal
slipped a hand inside his cloak and touched the soft fur. The
gentle connection to his truest nature gave him a supreme
confidence in the face of the onrushing canines. He unflinchingly
met the slavering challengers.

The two massive war dogs slowed to a stop.
They continued barking. The booming calls vibrated from their heavy
jaws like the striking of drums.

Thal walked toward them. Their barking ceased
and their heads lowered. He stroked their broad skulls and
scratched their floppy ears. Both dogs whined.

Pistol trotted up and the three dogs engaged
in a comical series of sniffing as the little dog proved hard for
the big dogs to pin with their noses.

“Shall we go meet your master now,” Thal
proposed in a friendly tone. He called to his friends who clung to
each other in amazement.

A man rushed out onto the bridge with a stiff
limping gait. He lifted a lantern and gaped at the guard dogs
wagging their tails for a strange man like he was their dearest
master.

Confused but trying not to be rude, the man
asked who it was.

“I am Thal and my friends are Venetian
musicians traveling to Prague. We ask for shelter this evening,”
Thal said.

“Musicians,” the gatekeeper murmured.

“Gladly will they entertain your household
for some food and a place to rest,” Thal said.

Although pleasantly surprised by the news,
the gatekeeper reminded himself that suspicion was the foundation
of security. He called the dogs by their names and scolded them for
their sudden lack of discrimination.

“This is not a roadside inn. Who sent you?”
he demanded.

“No one. We’re weary travelers. We were
attacked by bandits most foul and lost our way for a bit. Where are
we?” Thal said.

“The Castle of Lord Patercek. How am I to
know that you’re not bandits?” the man said.

Carlo took out his zink and put it to his
lips. A few beguiling notes as mysterious as a night bird answered
the gatekeeper’s question.

“Oh, that was nice,” the gatekeeper said.
Regis and Raphael came forward and showed their instruments.

“The master will be pleased with this
surprise. I’m Orsh,” he said.

The musicians thanked him and gave their
names. Orsh ushered them inside, but Thal lingered on the bridge.
The dogs went back and circled him. His shoulders sagged suddenly
and he gestured for Orsh to come back to him.

Softly Thal said, “I’m hurt. Is there anyone
within who can help me?” He opened his cloak. Orsh leaned closer
with the lantern and saw the wide streak of blood soaking the
shirt. He noted also the weapons and wondered what sort of
mercenary was tramping about the countryside with foreign
musicians.

“Looks bad,” he whispered.

“I’m hoping to live,” Thal said.

“I’ll take you to the master’s mother Lady
Zsazi. She’ll know what to do,” Orsh said.

Everyone passed under the ponderous barbican
and entered the courtyard. A servant was lighting a couple braziers
alongside the main steps of the castle. A recent addition of nicely
cut stone hugged the bottom of the more elderly main keep. Most of
the windows were dark, but the stained glass above the ornate doors
glowed faintly.

Orsh hauled open a heavily carved wooden
door. A cat scooted out and darted past the dogs. Orsh bid the
guests to enter but admonished the guard dogs to stay in the
courtyard. He frowned at the wagging beasts, still wondering at
their odd permissiveness with the strangers.

Inside, an enormous hall branched off into
three doorways and two staircases. Smooth marble flooring flickered
fluidly in the candle light. Shiny tin tiles on the ceiling
glittered. Footsteps echoed in a shadowy hallway. Tapestries and
portraits hung on the wood paneled staircases, and a coat of arms
with two rams and crossed lances hung opposite the main door.

Thal’s companions noticed him lagging and
checked on him after their initial admiration of the glitzy
interior.

“Go on and meet our host,” Thal advised. “I
must have my wound looked at first.”

Regis presumed to pull aside Thal’s cloak and
was dismayed by the bloodiness. “Thal,” he cried. “Why did you not
tell us how badly it had gone?”

“I didn’t want to stop until I found secure
lodgings. If we stayed afield and murdering lurkers came upon us
tonight, I would not have wished to fight them,” he admitted.

With his neck still sore, Regis felt a new
surge of gratitude for the effort Thal had made for all their
sakes. The exertion had aggravated his wound. Knowing now that Thal
had hiked all day while bleeding deepened Regis’s appreciation for
the man.

“Go wash your face. Get a drink and sing well
tonight for this Lord Patercek for I have need of his charity,”
Thal said.

“I will,” Regis said. Although he wanted to
stay by his friend, it was important that he and his companions
ingratiate themselves to their newest host.

A valet came to investigate the visitors.
Quite interested, he invited the musicians to meet the lord.

A big man came in the main door and stopped
next to Orsh. He was the first man Thal had seen in the place that
appeared to be a guard. Despite his late appearance, his thick arms
and the baton at his belt hinted broadly that he knew how to twist
an arm or crack a skull.

Orsh cleared his throat. “We ask that you
disarm,” he said.

Naturally Thal was reluctant. The request was
like being asked to give up his teeth, but if he was to go into the
care of the lord’s mother, he supposed it was a reasonable
request.

“You’ll get them back,” Orsh added, eyeing
Thal closely.

“Yes,” Thal agreed and pulled out his knives
and handed them to the big man. Next he gave up his bare sword. Its
lack of scabbard suggested that it had been salvaged. Lastly he
offered his pistol and powder horn.

“Take care with that,” Thal said.

The guard shifted his already full hands and
received the gun. The weapon lit his eyes with interest, and he
admired it on his way out.

Lifting his lantern, Orsh led the way up one
of the stairs. His stiff gate made the going slow, and Thal studied
the fine portraits staring at him. The little strokes of colors on
canvas or wood amazed him. The faces looked so real. The jittery
candle light enlivened the eyes staring down noses with noble
confidence. Delicate strokes made buttons and beads and leaves and
flowers appear. Thal marveled at how the carefully chosen placement
of pigments could recreate the glow of living flesh.

At a landing they started up another flight
of stairs. They reached a hall and turned into its long dark
emptiness. He stumbled a bit on a low ledge in the floor. He put a
hand out to catch himself. The thick stone was cool against his
palm.

“Forgot to mention that bump,” Orsh said.

The character of the walls had changed and
Thal realized that he was in the inner castle that was much older
than the outer portion. An Earthy smell had crept into this place.
They turned another corner and firelight marked a distant
archway.

When they reached the lighted room, they
interrupted three women spinning and chatting. Wool twirled fuzzily
from the spinning distaff in the hands of a lady in a blue smock.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes popped with surprise at the
sight of Thal.

“What is this?” she cried.

Her two companions looked up from their
carding and spooling. Pistol waggingly flirted with them.

“What a cute little dog,” the lady with gray
hair said. She squinted up at Thal.

“I’ve got a man here needs a wound tended.
Says his name’s Thal. He and his friends were attacked by bandits,”
Orsh explained.

The female trio exclaimed with sympathy and
tossed aside their work.

“Nasty bandits,” muttered the lady in
blue.

The youngest maid stared at Thal with fearful
excitement. She twirled a lock of hair from beneath the edge of her
head linen.

The elderly lady took charge. Stooping
shoulders cut down her already tiny stature, but she had an air
about her that expected all to take heed. Although stiff and slow,
she shuffled toward Thal purposefully and people kept out of her
way.

“Lady Zsazi?” Thal said.

“I am,” she said.

“I humbly ask for help with a bad cut on my
chest,” Thal said.

“Yes, of course, young man,” she said. Zsazi
grabbed his elbow with gnarled but firm fingers and steered him
toward another room with a cot. She told her serving women to fetch
clean water and bandages and her medicine basket.

Orsh settled into one of the chairs still
warm from the spinners and stretched out his legs. He fingered the
fluffy pile of clean wool and wondered which sheep it was off.

The serving women soon returned with supplies
and more candles. They set to work on Thal with curious eagerness.
The maid blushed as his cloak and fur and shirt were taken away.
The lady in blue smiled like she was enjoying a treat. Thal relaxed
into their care, quite unfettered of modesty, and relished simply
the chance to lie in a soft place. The rest of his clothing was
taken off and a soft blanket laid over him.

Zsazi pulled up a chair and the maid held
close a light. The elderly lady leaned close and even sniffed the
wound.

“Well somebody made a good attempt at these
stitches but you’ve pulled them all loose,” she said.

She set a hand on his forehead and then his
cheek. “You don’t burn with poisoned blood, but you are tired,” she
determined.

Weakly he agreed.

“We’ll get you fixed up,” Zsazi said. She
bade the two women to wash the blood away and then she carefully
removed the old stitches. They were crusted into the skin and hurt
coming out.

It was the young maid who stitched Thal anew
while Zsazi oversaw the task and often gave advice. “Very good,”
the elder lady praised when it was done. She sent the servants off
to fetch food and drink. Placing a bowl in her lap, she rummaged
through her medicine bag and selected herbs. After pouring in a
little water and a dollop of honey, her knowing fingers mixed
everything into a poultice.