were known mainly for their tenacity, their poverty, and their scorched habits.
Perhaps unused to good luck of any kind, the poor monks had been quite overwhelmed by the size of their Faustian’s hoard—to the point that they’d given almost the entire trove to the Wolf-Lords (although Tad had gifted them more than enough for them to rebuild their leveled cathedral). Remembering the sight of the treasure, heaped among crypts and naked bones, Lukasz could almost taste the gold.
Or maybe it was just blood.
With a sigh, Tadeusz settled beside Lukasz. Lukasz wriggled back into his trousers, doing his best not to yelp as his knee scraped against the coarse fabric. Scarlet pooled on the floor, streaked the wooden pew. Tad crossed his ankles, extracted a glass flask from his leather vest.
“Shall we drink, little brother?”
Lukasz took the proffered flask. Inside, gold swirled through the clear liquid.
“The good stuff, eh?”
He took a long draw as Tadeusz chuckled again.
“The slayer of the Saint Magdalena Faustian deserves the good stuff,” he said as Lukasz passed back the flask. “Even if he is only fourteen.”
Of them all, Tadeusz looked the most like their father. Black haired, with the sharp, handsome face of a bird of prey. Usually Tad looked stately. Like the eldest Wolf-Lord, the first heir, the statesman he was supposed to be. But today, his hair was windswept and his beard was singed.
It began to rain. Lightly at first, then crescendoing to a torrent. Under their scrap of roof, the brothers watched it turn into a downpour. The floor ran black with soot, drops thundering off the Faustian’s lifeless hide. Just beyond the dead monster’s jaws, a pool of Lukasz’s blood scattered and washed away.
“Be patient with Fraszko, Luk,” said Tad after a moment. “He’s only taking care of you.”
“He babies me,” said Lukasz shortly.
“Let him. You’re his only younger brother.”
Smoldering and blackened by smoke, painted cherubs leered down from what was left of the ceiling. They seemed faintly malevolent. Demonic, even. Lukasz glanced away. His leg looked skinny, and through the tear in the embroidered fabric, his skin was painted in blood and soot. Franciszek was right. He’d been lucky not to lose it.
Then Tadeusz said, a little thoughtfully, “Fourteen, my God.”
The sounds of the other brothers drifted through what was left of the walls: horses whinnying, men shouting, the metallic tinkle of treasure loaded and unloaded. The steady thunder of the rain.
“Here,” said Tadeusz. “I wanted to give you this.”
Lukasz glanced over. In the gloom, a cross revolved, suspended from Tadeusz’s hand. It was small and plain, wrought from silver. Next to all the gold and jewels in the crypt, it looked rather small.
“It was Dad’s,” said Tadeusz as Lukasz took it. “He gave it to me before . . .”
Tad’s voice trailed off.
Lukasz had been four years old when their father had ridden out under the great gates of Hala Smoków. When he did not return, the other Wolf-Lords had gone after him. In service of their chieftain, in pursuit of gold and glory—who knew anymore. It didn’t matter. Lukasz barely remembered any of it. Barely remembered the hushed voices. Barely remembered how his mother had wept, lighting the sacred gromnica in every corner of the lodge while she prayed.
What he remembered were the domowiki. How they had howled, that last night. Wailing under the floorboards, screaming from the rafters. He remembered every door in the lodge slamming shut, the force shaking them like thunder, while he cowered in his bed. He remembered his mother’s blessed candles, every last one of them blowing out.
Even then, Franciszek had been the smartest.
When the domowiki cry, he’d whispered in the darkness of their bedroom, it means the head of the house is dead.
What do you mean? Lukasz must have asked. He never knew what he remembered and what he just imagined.
He’s dead, said Franciszek. Dad’s dead, Lukasz.
Gone up in golden flames, consumed by golden jaws. Who knew how it had happened. It didn’t matter. Domowiki did not lie. Lord Tadeusz the Elder, Friend of Wolves and Slayer of Dragons, was dead.
The very next morning, their mother sent them away.
Keep your brothers safe, Lukasz had heard her command Tadeusz, amid wood-carved walls and under the glow of dragon bones. I will kill it and send for you.
But she never did. Ten years had come and gone, and the brothers did not go back.
“I think,” said Tadeusz after another moment, “it is time that I returned to Hala Smoków.”