Where Wolves Run: A Novella of Horror (2 page)

4.

The next few weeks
passed quickly, Konrad spending his time learning how to wield a dagger and listening to his father ramble on about werewolf lore.

Konrad was a fast learner. He was no means a master with the weapon, but he quickly picked up the basics: how to attack, how to parry, and how to drive the point through a man’s heart. Despite his youth and small frame, Konrad showed surprising strength, fueled by violent determination. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in speed and deftness. But the physical training was meant to be precautionary; Father hoped to kill the werewolves without a fight—to kill them as humans and when they least expected it.

As far as Konrad was concerned, justice was justice no matter how served. But the second part of his training, his father’s lectures, seemed pointless. If the goal was to kill them before the full moon, then what more did Konrad need to know beyond their regenerative capabilities and apparent allergy to silver? He remembered how easily his mother had been lifted, how big the beast sounded, how much power it flaunted. He shuddered. He was no match for that.

“What if I have to fight a beast?” The question came out weakly, blunted by the hideous possibilities it evoked. Father heard it.

“Then you have already lost.” The gravity of his words fell hard upon Konrad’s shoulders. “If you spot it before it spots you, you run, you hide, and you pray. If you are cornered and cannot escape, then you die bravely. But die you must! Never let it turn you.”

Konrad stared, speechless. It was not the answer he had hoped for.

Father ran his fingers through his wiry hair. “I am sorry, Konrad. You are too young to have this misery thrust upon you. You should be out kissing girls and causing mischief, not fearing for your life.”

Konrad tilted his head and threw back his shoulders. “I am not afraid.”

“Then it is just as I feared: a head full of rocks.” Father tapped his temple. “This is your best weapon,” he said. “This is how you survive.”

Konrad dismissed the insult. He
would
survive. The thought of running one of those vile creatures through brought a wicked smile to his face. If his choices were kill or be killed, logic dictated the former. His heart would guarantee he enjoyed it. He saw himself acting without hesitation, without remorse. He prayed reality would be as kind.

“I am ready.”

Father grunted. “Yes, well, you are as ready as time will allow.” He shook his head. “So be it. We have waited as long as we can. The full moon will be upon us two nights hence. We must do it tonight. Do you remember the plan?”

Konrad nodded.

“Then let us be off.”

Konrad grabbed his coat and followed his father into the cold, late-October night. His breath rose like a specter from behind chattering tombstones. The moon shone brightly above, a sliver shy of a full circle. Konrad had always found it beautiful. That night, he looked upon it with disdain.

“Come help me with this.” Father called him over to the small cart that often went with Father on his long trips. Konrad had thought he had used it to carry vegetables or livestock to trade wherever his travels brought him. Father had always returned with salt, linens, or other valuables. Konrad had a new guess as to where all the supplies came from: robbed from those his father killed or paid for in coin similarly acquired.

His father looked as if he were trying to tear off the bottom of the cart. As he approached, Konrad saw that a false bottom, an unremarkable slab of weather-worn wood, covered the true base. Beneath it rested a rusty shovel and a damp, pungent-smelling blanket, stained by the horrors it had smothered.

As they pulled the board free, Konrad struggled to support its weight. Something metallic clanged beneath it.
Chains?
He tilted the slab and peeked under it.
Shackles
. He raised an eyebrow, beginning to wonder if he knew anything of his father at all.

“Keep tilting it. I will grab the other end. We can carry it into the house sideways.”

Together, they lugged the slab into the house and slid it across their table, chain-side up. Konrad tasted acid in his mouth. The board sat where he had last eaten with his mother. It hovered over where his mother had herself been eaten.

As he gawked at it, his distaste for the crude device intensified. While its flipside had been ordinary, this side conveyed a vivid history. Worse, its arrangement in their home could only mean that it would continue to serve its terrible function. Shackles were embedded into the wood at each corner. Half a meter down, another shackle sat centered. This locking clasp was big enough to fit Konrad’s waist.

He gasped as its purpose became clear: it was meant to trap a beast at its neck.

The shackles were thick, heavy half circles of iron. Jagged metal shards jutted from the undersides of each mechanism. The clasps appeared sturdy enough to hold even the strongest man. But man was not their prey.

He ran his fingertips across the surface of the slab. Splintered wood stung him like a swarm of wasps. He recoiled, examining the grooves that marred the board’s face.

Not grooves. Claw marks
. Some seemed almost human, wider than Konrad’s fingers but matching Father’s. Others were as big as a bear’s. All were darkly stained.

He pulled a splinter from his middle finger and squeezed beneath the puncture to dull its sting. A bubble of blood formed. It dropped onto the primitive device as if drawn to it and seeped into a dark crevice as though the board had acquired a taste for it.

This twisted table, this crude, sinful creation, was not meant to exact justice. It was meant for torment.

Konrad tried to dispel his morbid curiosity. He could not stop his gaze from returning to the scars in the wood. Many had seen this board before, and many had struggled to free themselves from it. He wondered if any had succeeded.

As if sensing his thoughts, Father stepped closer. “It will hold as long as we need it to.” He placed his hand over Konrad’s, together losing their fingers into the clawed canyons. “Killing a man is not always easy.” Some unperceivable memory blurred his eyes. He stiffened.

“It never should be,” he said, ushering Konrad outside. “Remember, this is not murder but mercy. We are freeing a soul from the beast blood contaminating its body. Let God have the man; the Devil may take back his beast.”

Murder or mercy, Konrad did not care. He hopped into the cart. His father mounted Vulkan and urged his old but sturdy Oberlander into motion, Rattenberg their destination.

5.

The path into town
was quiet. At the outskirts, an owl hooted until the horse and cart approached it. The bird sped off through the air, leaving the travelers alone again. Vulkan’s hooves battled against the remaining silence, their cadence a dirge upon which Konrad drifted into town.

They passed the twin naves of the Gothic Church of St. Virgil, its cold marble stonework standing as solemn as a cemetery. No one held its vigil. War had taken many from the town to die upon fields they had no interest in protecting. As many structures stood empty as there were filled. The silence in the streets, the forgotten homes, the unplowed lands—all gave Rattenberg the bleak feel of being half dead.

Even the air seemed heavy, giving no levity to Konrad’s thoughts. He focused on their plan, reciting it continuously in his head, steeling himself for his dangerous role.

At the start of the main road, Father brought the horse and cart to a stop beside a trader’s stand. A tattered woman was busily closing up shop. The woman saw his father and pointed down the road at Linhart’s Inn. Father acknowledged this and gave Vulkan a kick as the woman hustled away.

Arriving at the inn, Father parked in a dark alleyway where the building’s steep wall blocked out the moonlight. He hopped off his horse and tied Vulkan’s reins around a post.

With weak knees, Konrad slid from the cart and approached his father. His feet seemed heavier with every step.

Lips pressed flat, Father grabbed his arms and shook him. “Stick to the plan. He will smell you, know you as soon as you are near him. Do not try to be clever.”

Konrad nodded. His hand fell upon the dagger Father had given him, tucked beneath his belt. Taking a deep breath, he entered the inn.

“You will know him by his eyes,” his father had told him. Konrad scanned the interior. The inn was more like a tavern with rooms at its far end. Their doors were closed. The werewolf could have been in any of them.

One man stood at the bar. Another sat at a table, fondling a serving girl who sprawled across his lap. A larger table in the corner hosted four more men who were playing cards. One of them, his face hidden behind a low-tipped Tyrolean hat, tipped his head politely at Konrad when he looked their way.

Father said he had come alone
. Konrad studied the fat, hairy man molesting the barmaid. His face was buried in her bosom. When he came up for air, he revealed his eyes: wild, full of lust, animalistic, but altogether human. They looked Konrad’s way.

“Wait your turn, boy,” he said, donning a sinister smile that highlighted his blackened teeth. “Unless you want to eat my knuckles.” He shook a fist, his other one grabbing a handful of buttocks.

Konrad turned away. Black Tooth seemed cruel, but he did not strike Konrad as the werewolf type. Not that he had much to go on. He had never seen a werewolf before. Sounds and glimpses were no substitute for experience. He began to doubt the solidity of their plan.

It must be him then
, he thought, staring down the back of the ragged looking tramp slouched over the bar. His hair was long but thin and oily. His breeches, naturally brown, and his shirt, browned by sweat and dirt, reeked of poverty despite a life of hard work. He looked in every way the farmer, old and feeble, not some vicious denizen of the night.

But Konrad knew the beast’s power came from its curse. As a man, it was vulnerable. And this man seemed to be easy pickings, so long as Konrad had his knife.

He walked up to the bar. His confidence returned as he stood at the farmer’s side. The man did not so much as turn, seemingly unaware of Konrad’s presence. His hand quivered as he raised a glass to his mouth.

“This hardly seems a proper place for a boy your age.”

Konrad’s heart pounded against his ribcage. The voice had come from behind him. Eyes wide, he turned to face its owner. The farmer kept to his drink. The man with the low-tipped hat swaggered up to the bar.

“Your father must be worried sick,” he said, baring a cocksure grin, one incisor biting into his lower lip. His clothes were clean: a white pressed shirt covered by a close-fitting doublet and tan breeches held up by suspenders. Stubble lined his jaw. His skin was smooth, pox-free, tell-tale signs of an easy life. Tall and lanky, with sandy blond hair, he had an air of royalty. But his clothes suggested a tradesman, or a barber perhaps, the dirt beneath his fingernails the only contradiction.

The brim of his cap cast a shadow over his eyes. He raised it.

Konrad gasped. He gazed into orbs that swirled with combative colors. Emerald green, beautiful yet mysterious, was the dominant shade. But with each flicker of the lantern, a pale and sickly yellow spiraled through those eyes like worms curling up to die. Certain virility resided in those eyes, though—something dreadfully alive.

Konrad gulped. He had found whom he sought.

His resolve fled through his pores and his armpits dampened. His hands, too, felt clammy. Konrad wiped them on his pants. His fingers twitched. He could feel his lips trembling.

The man leaned into the bar. Konrad stumbled backward, knocking into the farmer. The beer in his glass swished but did not spill. He grunted, downed the drink, tossed a coin onto the counter, and stumbled toward the door.

The bartender, a short, stocky fellow with a crooked nose, snagged the coin and stuck it in his apron pocket. He glared at the man with the cap as if he were disgusted by the mere sight of him. Did he know the man’s true nature? Konrad hoped he had found an ally. He needed one.

“Beer,” the man-beast said. “Make that two.” He turned to Konrad and winked. “Your father need not know. Where is he, by the way? Surely he has not sent you in here alone.”

“You . . .” Konrad began, his voice failing him. He tried again, but the words refused to form.

“Joren,” he said, patting Konrad on the back. “At your service.” He laughed heartily, full of mirth. He sounded friendly, but there was a hint of malevolence in his tone, something frightening beneath his smile. And those eyes—

Konrad sucked in air. He tried to remember the plan, but hate and fear clouded his mind. “You killed my mother,” he managed at last, his voice louder than he had intended. The bartender’s forehead creased when he returned with the drinks. But he skirted away, leaving Konrad and his company to their beers.

He was alone, a boy against a savage, one of the very fiends who had murdered the only person he had loved.

Joren exaggerated a frown. “Now that is not a nice thing to say. And after I just bought you a drink?”His voice was slippery, hissing like a snake. Even in human form, the creature had fangs.

Konrad’s blood boiled. Joren’s casual dismissal of his crime sizzled like fat in a skillet. If only he had fangs and claws, Konrad would have torn Joren to shreds.

“You will be damned for what you did,” he said, the words spitting through clenched teeth. He opened his coat, showing off his dagger. “Your time has come.”

The yellow of Joren’s eyes burned like torches. He stared at Konrad with all the heat and intensity of an inferno. He fell silent. His humor left him.

Konrad froze. The tension between them rose with the anger welling inside him. Every gram of his being yearned to stab Joren, right then, right there. He had yet to find the courage to draw his blade. His fingers coiled around the hilt of his dagger. His courage would come sooner than later.

“There will be no trouble in here,” the bartender said. “You both should leave.”

Konrad broke from Joren’s hypnotic gaze. He had not noticed the bartender approach.

Joren’s smug grin returned. He flashed it at the bartender and downed his beer.

Konrad’s beer remained untouched. He scoffed at Joren and headed for the door, hoping the man-beast would take the bait. If Father followed through with his part in their risky scheme, maybe, just maybe, Konrad would not end up food for mongrels.

Joren followed. Konrad heard his boots clomping upon the floor behind him. He stepped into the brisk night air, a brutal killer trailing at his heels.

“Here is the first and last lesson I will ever teach you,” Joren began. “Never turn your back to someone you accuse—”

His words were cut off by the sound of metal against bone. Konrad turned in time to see Joren falling to the ground, unconscious before he hit the dirt. Father stood over him, a shovel ringing like a tuning fork in his hands.

“Help me lift him,” he said. Konrad hurried over. The street was empty, but the night was young. Passers-by were likely. They had to get Joren into the cart quickly.

Father ran to the cart and threw the shovel into it. He hustled back to Konrad, who had lifted Joren to a sitting position. They raised the unconscious man to his feet. Father slung him over his shoulder, carried him to the cart, and dumped him in with all the delicacy the beasts had shown Konrad’s mother.

They covered Joren with the blanket. Konrad hopped in beside him, while his father untied Vulkan. Without another word, they stole away from the inn.