Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (53 page)

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.

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.