Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale (65 page)

Pain troubled her as well and woke her often.
Thal wished he could do more to comfort her. He expected the food
to help a little.

His stomach rumbled ravenously as the aroma
of the rabbit drifted up from the fire. Pistol rolled around in the
leaves playing with the fresh rabbit skin. He had eaten the
entrails and was close to content. Thal checked the meat. Some
bloody juice still oozed out and he adjusted its position over the
fire.

When it was done, he let it cool and then
roused Altea.

“You must eat,” he said.

“I don’t think I can,” she whispered.

“Of course you can,” he said and held a
little chunk under her nose.

She took the food. Chewing the tough and
gamey bite took some effort but as soon as it got down to her
stomach she nodded for more. Thal smiled, pleased to see the spark
of life in her. She ate steadily until she noticed that the rabbit
was almost all gone.

“Where’s your food?” she asked, turning her
mouth from the piece he held up for her.

“You need this to heal,” he said.

“But you must be hungry,” she argued.

“I am fine.”

She shook her head. “I’ve had enough.” When
he started to insist, she said, “You must eat too.”

Her firm tone surprised him and he
acquiesced. After he ate the dainty front legs and nibbled the
ration off the back, he recognized that she had been right. He
needed his strength too. Thal tossed the bones to Pistol. Even with
his hunger quite unsatisfied, he was pleased to have taken care of
his two companions.

In the distance the abrupt baying of hunting
dogs ruined his tiny good feeling. Altea had shut her eyes again
but Pistol had heard it. Thal rushed through the underbrush until
he emerged with his dog onto a little ridge that looked down the
slope. Again the baying sounded. He judged that it came from the
direction of the city. The dogs were not close, but he needed to
get farther from Prague. Altea needed shelter, and he did not know
how to accomplish either.

At least the tall trees obscured the smoke
from his little fire and they had good water. Although he hated to
leave Altea alone, he needed to get more food so she could regain
some strength. He debated whether he should hunt or slink onto a
farm and steal something. That would be quickest he reasoned and
she did not need to know.

From his vantage point he watched the land.
Evening was drawing down. A flock of starlings swirled up and down
over a patch of trees. He did not hear the dogs again, but the
feeling that he was not alone kept ripening inside him.

He checked on Altea. She was still asleep. He
bade Pistol to stay with her and then stole off quietly into the
woods. At the edge of an outlying meadow he found a place to watch
the trail he had broken to the spring. Most plants that he had bent
with the cart during his passing had popped back up through the
day, but someone with a good eye could still find the trail.

Thal checked his guns to make sure they were
properly loaded. Sinking down into the weeds, he tapped into his
predatory patience and waited.

Sagging seed heads of grass brushed his
cheeks and tried to lull him with the lazy peace of the
countryside, but his attention remained edgy. When a raven flew
over him and screeched, he knew something was amiss.

Finally he heard the jingle of tack and the
swish of a horse tail swatting bugs. A single rider approached.

Thinking that it was some scout broken off
from a hunting party, Thal fingered a pistol thoughtfully. He might
not want to risk the noise, and the prospect of spilling more blood
depressed him. But if it was the only way to keep Altea and himself
safe, then he must.

When the rider appeared across the meadow,
Thal was surprised by his appearance. A black cape was swept back
from his shoulders. His hair was very dark, straight, and held in a
ponytail. He rode a black horse with a white blaze. The steed came
from fine stock. Its sleek yet powerful body and long legs showed
that it had been bred for speed. The man’s black clothing was of
fine fabric and construction. Nothing about him suggested that he
was some local ranger hired into a fugitive hunting party by
whatever official was left alive in Prague to arrange such
things.

A bounty hunter? Thal wondered.

Ending the career of such a threat with a
lead ball to the skull began to bother Thal much less. After the
rider disappeared into the foliage Thal snuck along very carefully
with a pistol drawn. When his dog started barking he knew the man
was upon his camp.

Prowling from tree to tree, he came up behind
the rider. The man dismounted and regarded Pistol’s yapping with
his hands on his hips.

Altea was awake and terrified of the
stranger. She glanced around for Thal. To her credit, when she
spotted him approaching stealthily, she looked away quickly. He
admired her quick thinking that did not spoil his ambush.

“Who are you?” she demanded, quavering with
vulnerability.

“Who are you?” the man asked back. His accent
was a little strange to Thal’s ears. He could not be from
Prague.

Thal rushed forward and leveled a pistol at
the man’s head. The horse shied away and the man whirled. He
appeared about to fling something from his hand, but he
straightened and withdrew his hands into the fluttering folds of
his cape.

“Put your hands up,” Thal said and gestured
with his pistol.

Slowly the man raised his hands.

“Answer her question. Who are you?” Thal
said. He circled around the intruder so he could be near Altea and
keep her out of the line of fire. Pistol yapped a couple more times
and settled into a steady growl.

The man stared hard at Thal, seemingly
preoccupied by something other than the pistol pointed at his
forehead. His eyes were strikingly blue, but it was his poise that
had Thal’s attention.

“I am Mileko.”

“And how are you going to convince me not to
kill you?” Thal said, very curious to hear the answer.

“Because I’ve come to help you, Thal Lesky,”
Mileko said. “It appears your need is great. The good people of
Prague are rather upset by your penchant for killing sprees. Gangs
with dogs are roving all over.”

“Their dogs won’t track me,” Thal said.

“Why not?”

“They respect me,” Thal said.

The response impressed Mileko. “Still you
need help. Don’t you want it?” he said.

Thal was very uncertain about Mileko but he
sensed no lie behind the offer of help. Slowly he lowered his gun.
Altea gasped lightly but said nothing, choosing to trust him.

“How did you come by the name Lesky?” Mileko
asked as he lowered his arms.

“I made it up,” Thal said.

Altea was surprised. She had not known that
people could make up their names.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself,”
Mileko remarked.

“Why do you want to help me?” Thal
demanded.

Slowly Mileko reached inside his jacket. “My
Master bid me give you this token. He said you would recognize it,”
he said and drew out a silver medallion on a chain.

Thal approached Mileko and accepted the
medallion. He held it in his palm and stared at the lupine face
with tiny runes around it. He turned it over and there was a moon
stamped into the shining silver.

The object struck Thal deeply. He did
recognize it. As a boy it had hung around his neck. He had fingered
the medallion while falling asleep each night.

“Who is your Master?” Thal asked.

“Your father.”

Thal closed his fingers over the medallion. A
rush of memory overtook him. He was upon the altar. The potion he
had consumed was altering his mind. Colors were different. His
flesh felt watery. His father leaned over him. The rune tattoos
upon his chest blurred and squiggled and danced on the skin. His
father’s strong hands drew off the chain from his neck. Fondly he
laid a hand on Thal’s cheek as if in farewell.

Thal blinked and came back to the present.
“My father,” he whispered in shock.

“He is pleased to hear of you. He had given
up hope that ever you would come back from the forest. He bids thee
come to him for you are most welcome,” Mileko said.

“Where is he?” Thal asked.

“His castle is in the Tatras Mountains in the
land of the Slovaks,” Mileko answered.

Castle, Thal thought.

Mileko studied Thal and deemed that his
master would not be disappointed. His youth surprised him. The
powers within him had to be strong, and Mileko truly accepted that
his Master’s tales of great works in his past had not been
exaggerated, or at least not in this instance.

“How did he know about me?” Thal
wondered.

“He dreamed of you and sent his minions to
see if you truly did walk now as a man. Then he sent me. Who is
this woman?” Mileko said and stepped toward Altea.

Thal surged into his path. Mileko halted and
took note of the intensity of Thal’s flaring temper. “Both of you
are injured. Let me help. I have some medicine,” he said.

“What do you have?” Thal said.

“Some healing salve. A little food,” Mileko
answered.

Reluctantly Thal nodded. Mileko went to his
horse to fetch his supplies. Thal stooped beside Altea and showed
her the medallion. “I remember this. He is from my father,” he told
her.

“Is that a good thing?” she whispered.

Thal regarded the silver wolf as if expecting
it to give him an answer. Good was not a word he would use with his
father. He slipped the medallion around his neck. “Methinks we
shall find out,” he said.

Although hardly reassured, Altea accepted
that any help was far better than none, but she cringed when Mileko
approached with a bag. She reached for Thal but her useless hand
slipped off his wrist because pain struck her like a hammer. It was
hard to make the mind forget it had thumbs.

Gasping, she shook her head. “Don’t let him
touch me,” she begged.

Thal put up a hand. “Stay back and give me
what you have,” he said.

Mileko complied but stared at Altea, greatly
intrigued by her. When Thal came up to him, he whispered, “Did you
hurt her when you were changed?”

Thal bristled with disdain that Mileko would
think him so out of control. “She was tortured at the Prague
jail…because of me,” he said.

“How bad are her injuries?” Mileko said,
expecting her condition to be hopeless.

“I think she can recover,” Thal said.

“Is she your mate?” Mileko inquired softly,
determined to learn why Thal had rescued this injured woman.

“Give me what you have,” Thal said
tersely.

Mileko handed him a small bag and told him to
use the salve in the dark jar. It would help wounds heal instead of
fester. Thal expressed his gratitude and went back to Altea.

Thal put the salve on the puncture wounds
left by the iron maiden. She complained that it stung and he hoped
that was a good sign. Then he began the unpleasant task of
unbandaging her thumbs. He worked with meticulous care and pried
off the fabric from her crusted and oozing skin as gently as he
could. Altea trembled and tears fell, but she kept still.

“You’re so brave and strong,” he praised.

Although encouraged, she did cry out several
times as he applied the salve to her thumbs. The salve burned
deeply but she endured it. The ordeal was not as bad as when he had
set the bones that morning.

Carefully he bandaged and splinted the thumbs
again and eased her onto her back. “Rest. I will protect you,” he
said.

“Don’t leave me,” she said.

“I won’t,” he promised. The lump in his
throat choked him with guilt for the misery he had brought her.

She shut her eyes and Thal returned his
attention to Mileko. The mysterious man was rekindling the
fire.

“You have a good eye for hiding spots. We can
have a fire tonight,” he said.

Thal stood over him, still amazed by the
arrival of his father’s agent.

“Let me tend your wounds,” Mileko said.

Thal agreed and Mileko spread what was left
of the salve on Thal’s arm and hip. “I saw the evidence of your
mighty battles. Your father will be impressed,” Mileko commented as
he worked.

“How do you know my father?” Thal asked.

“I’m his protégé,” Mileko answered
proudly.

“What is his name?”

The question surprised Mileko. “You don’t
remember? Mayhap you can’t. He said you ran with wolves a long
time. I suspect he has many names. I know him as Sarputeen.”

Sarpu! The word burst into Thal’s mind like
someone rushing in a door with urgent news. He remembered people
calling his father Sarpu. They had spoken it like an honorary
title.

“We shall leave for his home in the morning,”
Mileko said.

“I don’t know if Altea can travel,” Thal
said.

Mileko looked over his shoulder at the
sleeping woman, taking note of her name. He had not expected this
complication. “We can risk taking her a short distance. There is a
convent not far…”

“No,” Thal cut him off. “She stays with me.”
Then in a heavier tone he added, “There is no one who will take her
in.”

“She is accused of witchcraft,” Mileko
surmised, putting the clues together. He had not been in Prague
long but had noticed the building hysteria.

“Because of me. I lured her to me. I told
myself I had a good reason, but it was only my desire,” Thal said.
The words had spilled out and he hated that he had made such an
admission to Mileko, but perhaps he had needed to air his guilt
before confessing it to Altea.

“Man is ever the ruin of woman,” Mileko
remarked casually.

Thal supposed the man had a point, especially
in his case. “She must travel with us, when she can,” he said.

Mileko fed twigs into the fire. The little
flames filled his unblinking eyes as he went over the situation in
his mind. “We must avoid the roads until we are well away from
Prague. After what you did, you’ll be as notorious as Luther. Why
all the killing?” He looked at Thal, very interested in the
answer.