He killed his first hare when he was sixteen Winters old.
No one would buy it, though. No one wanted a hodge’s catch. So he sold worms.
Nosgrim sold a fish that he had gutted. Ranthos and Bell were markedly impressed, but they didn’t talk to Nosgrim, so it turned out to be of little consequence.
They caught him one day wandering the streets with a wooden sign draped over his chest that read something that Ranthos couldn’t read.
He never learned his letters.
Bell read it out to him, “Butcher! Will buy catch for cheap money!”
Eventually, Nosgrim was snatched up and beaten by the Tatzelwatch for trying to steal business away from the hardworking family-owned businesses of Tatzelton.
Ranthos dropped a hare in Nosgrim’s coin bowl. “Twelve pennies,” said Ranthos sternly, disgusted that Bell made him interact with this scut. Ranthos didn’t even know what scut meant, just that it was a foul word that Nosgrim used on him when they were younger.
Nosgrim scrambled to his feet, holding his bruised arm, “They took my knife.”
“I saw one in the woods,” said Ranthos, “I’ll get it for you. Can you make it sharp?”
Nosgrim nodded, “But I don’t think it's too wise for me to be around you. They already hate me. They’ll call me a hodge-licker.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Ranthos.
“Something bad,” said Nosgrim.
“They don’t like you much anyway,” said Ranthos.
Nosgrim rubbed his head, which, Ranthos noticed, was already going bald. “They like me enough to buy some things from me.”
“But not enough to sell you things.”
“Right,” said Nosgrim, “Six pennies.”
“Eight.”
“Fine.”
Ranthos and Bell lived through the easiest Winter they had since the orphanage. They bought warmer clothes, which Bell made even more comfy with the animal skins that Nosgrim had left over.
Ranthos bought more arrows, and he killed his first deer the next Summer. He could barely carry it back into town. Nosgrim hadn’t a clue how to butcher it and was forced to pay all his savings to his old butchery master to teach him.
Nosgrim also wasn’t allowed to keep the buck. But he stole a knife from the man.
In time, Nosgrim could pay the butcher’s rent, and earned his mattress back, and Ranthos and Bell could buy real clothes. Ranthos got some proper shoes and a hunting cloak, which he began to wear at all times. He felt safe and protected under its hood, and beneath its warm folds. Bell bought a dress, and red and white striped stockings, and some shoes. She loved it all and eventually tore each piece apart to learn how to make it herself.
Eventually, they only bought fabrics, which sold for half the price, and Bell sewed their clothes together while Ranthos hunted and grunted.
Winter came again, and they hardly minded, it was only a little colder outside.
The butcher died—killed in a brawl at the tavern, and Nosgrim bought the butchery from his drunkard son, and moved his mattress inside. The butcher’s son fell in love with a caravaner girl, and Ranthos and Bell bought his house after he skipped town.
The gossips said he was eaten by bears.
Ranthos and Bell had a house. They smashed their hovel to bits, and danced on the rubble. It had been six Winters since Ranthos and Bell had a proper roof over their heads. It was full of holes, and the house was about the size of a wagon, but it was something, and it was theirs.
It was nestled alone outside of the North town walls, near the forest, and with no protection from the barbarians. It was cheaper out there, so the butcher’s son was able to have a house and waste his money on booze, women, and apparently bears.
They weren’t protected from the barbarians, but Ranthos and Bell had never seen a barbarian in their life, so paid little mind.
Bell threw open the creaky door and screamed joyously into it, “Hooooooooouuuuuse!”
Ranthos scooped her up in his arms and danced inside. “I’ve got a surprise. Something I found in here.”
“And what’s that?” asked Bell, spinning out and smelling the sweet scents of every wall in her new home.
Ranthos pulled open a loose floorboard, and revealed a casket of Tatzelbeer, which was said to be the worst in the realm. “I know this wasn’t great the first time we had it,” he said, “But I think this warrants some celebration.”
Bell snatched a bottle out of his hand, “I think it does! Dear brother!”
Remy stepped through the doorway to meet two markedly drunk hodges. They each had a whole beer. They danced across the dirty floorboards, and they howled at the moon through the window that was irrevocably theirs.
Ranthos sang a song. It was bad.
Bell danced a jig; she fell through the wall.
Ranthos would fix that when he was sober.
It was a good night.
Three Winters later, Ranthos, twenty Winters old, shouldered open the door to the butchery. “Behold!” he said proudly, lugging a fly-ridden carcass of a tatzeldoe over his shoulder.
“I’m busy,” said Nosgrim, now twenty-three Winters old, “Hang it in the back.”
Ranthos sighed, though he wasn’t too interested in chatting with Nosgrim either. He squeezed past Nosgrim and hung the deer on a hook in the back. When he returned, Nosgrim had lain out two shillings and a semi-circle half shilling for him, some twenty-eight pennies in total.
“Two and a half?” asked Ranthos incredulously. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and ran his fingers through his tangle of red curls.
Bell kept his hair short, but it was long enough to cover his forehead, poof up top in a series of gnarled cowlicks, and almost cover his huge ears. Long as his finger, and tapered to a point, they stuck out from his head and made his identity unmistakable from his silhouette alone. He was thin and gangly as he had ever been, a skeleton draped with clothes, Ranthos was strong, but only strong enough to draw his small bow. He wore a baggy shirt and a pair of old, patched trousers that had been too short for him for three seasons now.
“This is the first deer I’ve caught in weeks. I need at least three shillings,” said Ranthos, hoping Nosgrim would be more lenient with him today. Three would be stretching it thin, and Ranthos didn’t know when he might come upon another deer.
“Three?” growled Nosgrim, rubbing his round nose. He had a bald head, and a three-hair combover that fooled no one. He was one of the largest men in Tatzelton, despite also being one of the poorest. He must not have gone out much. “I’ve got dues to the watch. You think I’ve got three shillings for you?” he asked, hands on his butchering block.
“I think that’s what you usually pay,” said Ranthos with a shrug, “And besides, I’ve got repairs to do on the house. The wall fell out again.”
“Two and a half,” said Nosgrim, not looking at him.
“Look, Nosgrim,” said Ranthos, almost pleading. He didn't enjoy doing it, especially for someone like Nosgrim, but usually a little groveling went a long way, “Summer’s almost through, and we have still got a long way to go before we’re ready for Winter.”
“So do I,” said Nosgrim, furrowing his brows, “Yannick needs my money at the end of the month or the butchery loses its protection.”
“From whom?” asked Ranthos. “Yannick?”
“Essentially,” said Nosgrim with a sigh.
Ranthos blew his lips and thought for a moment. If he didn’t have enough for Winter, they’d be in serious danger, but the same was true if the Tatzelwatch set its sights on the butchery. “Two shillings and nine pennies,” said Ranthos, meeting somewhere in the middle.
“Eight—”
“What?!”
“Nine,” said Nosgrim with a wave of his hand, slapping three more pennies onto the table. “Now get out.” And there was the temper again.
“Thank you,” said Ranthos, with a bow of postured courtesy, not letting the door hit his stubborn ass on the way out—a
s requested.
He snapped his hood back up over his head—he didn’t like being recognized. Ranthos stopped at a small stand in the market, traded three farthings for three buttons, all mismatched, just to upset Bell, and marched through town back to his house, careful to not draw too much attention to himself.
The small cottage had a tall thatched roof and rickety, peeling walls. It was nice.
“Ranthos!” sang Bell, twirling out the front door to greet him. She must’ve heard him coming, though he made little noise as he walked. Her ears had always been better than his, though Ranthos liked to think he had a better nose.
Any proof of the idea was yet to be acknowledged.
“Bell!” said Ranthos, catching her in his arms as she dipped down dramatically, like she was a real dancer. “You’re not a very good dancer.”
“Better than you,” said Bell, fixing her flower-studded headband, “Come inside, I’ve made supper, and give me your shirt. I’ve got to patch that hole up.”
Ranthos tugged it off and tossed it at her face.
“It smells awful,” lied Bell.
Ranthos and Bell had become rather adept at hearing each other’s heartbeats to tell if the other was lying. Eventually, Bell could eavesdrop on a whispered conversation twenty paces away, and tell which parts of it were exaggerated and which were true.
Ranthos sat down on his creaky chair beside their creaky table, and Bell served supper, some stewed greens and hare, while she sewed a patch of green fabric onto Ranthos’ shirt. It was his favorite color. Reminded him of the woods, and of himself and Bell; they had green eyes.
“Did you eat?” Ranthos asked.
“While I was waiting,” said Bell absentmindedly “Did you get the buttons I needed?”
Ranthos slid them across the table.
She took one look at them, and rolled her eyes, “Hilarious.”
“Hah hah,” smirked Ranthos with a full mouth.
With a shake of her head, Bell dropped the buttons onto her basket of crafts, and flopped lifelessly onto her creaky straw bed in the other room. Though Bell was certain that she'd never snored in her life, within minutes Ranthos could hear the familiar rumble.
Ranthos finished his supper and went to bed, putting his cloak over her before lying down himself.
Early the next morning, Ranthos marched back into town, and turned toward the Southern gate, named the Tatzelgate. Tired townsfolk dragged rumbling carts through the busy streets. He walked quickly, with long steps, and avoided the most crowded areas.
The Tatzelgate was intricately carved, unlike the other gates of Tatzelton. The main posts stood taller too, and coiled around each was a wooden, hissing tatzelworm which (as any Tatzelton local understood) was a mythical cat-headed serpent with clawed chicken feet. Ranthos had heard it said in the square that this-or-that hunter actually saw a tatzelworm, but he believed none of the tales, which have been told in every single way imaginable. One said that the tatzelworm was thirty feet long and spewed fire, another that it was tiny and its poison could kill a horse, or even that the tatzelworm could shape-shift into a normal cat and stalked the homes of hunters who abused the forest and its creatures. The last was Ranthos’ favorite, and he had tried to make it known to Remy that—if he was a tatzelworm—that he wasn’t to eat him or Bell.
Out of habit and superstition, Ranthos approached an old arrow said to have been shot into the post by the legendary Tatzelhunter, and twanged it with his thumb. He breathed in the good luck he didn’t believe it brought and departed for the woods.
“Where are you headed, boy?” a watchman posted at the gate asked.
Wilbur. Or Willem. Ranthos didn’t care which.
Ranthos placed a hand on his hood. It was drawn over his head, as it should be. Wilbur (Willem?) didn’t know who Ranthos was. By the looks of him, he was simply a young hunter, which was common.
“I’m going out hunting” he said, trying to be polite, but he knew he didn’t try hard enough.
Sauntering closer, Will grinned, “You’ve heard of the tax? The family of Durm—”
“How much is it?” Ranthos asked dryly.
Will smelled put-off, then mischievous, “Up to the desecration of the posted watch,” he lied, “And I say four shillings.”
Ranthos was sure the word was ‘discretion.’ “No,” he said coldly.
“No?” Will took Ranthos' hood in his fist, batting away Ranthos' resistance easily, then drew close to Ranthos' face so that Ranthos could smell on his breath the decades-old buildup of fogbloom, a herbaceous narcotic common in Southern Eisenland.
Ranthos pulled his face away, “I don’t have any coin on me.”
Will’s eyebrows pulled together, and he ripped the hood off Ranthos' head, then saw his ears, “Well, would you look at this? A hodgepodge resisting the tax.”
“Let me through, Willem.”
“Wilbur,” he corrected, “If you can’t pay the tax, then you can’t leave here.”
“I’ll go around,” said Ranthos.
“Scram,” he said, seemingly happy enough to push him around as to take the money, “Keep that hood up, hodge!”
Ranthos snapped his hood back over his hair and trekked back into town, out the other gate, and then back into the wood, prowling through the trees and breathing finally the fresh air away from the wretched town. His boots stepped lightly on the damp floor. The fragrance of the surrounding pines eased him gently into his purpose. Bow in his left hand, his right danced hungrily over his quiver slung at his hip. He carried no scents for his prey to find him by; he was sure, as he rubbed himself down with kea leaf this morning, and did so every morning.
The sky above was fair, and the sun heated patches of earth on the cool ground. He could feel the breeze on his skin balance the touch of the morning sun. Birds chirped in the trees, Ranthos’ ears pricked back and forth, pinpointing each. He knew the birds; none were worth shooting, and—now he’d never tell Bell—but he loved the way they sang. It was like a whisper from a someone close.
The wood was a refuge, a free place. The intricacies of that land puzzled and amazed Ranthos. Every bird’s song was a signature, every tree’s shadow a portrait, and the eternal and pervasive green, the beautiful gaze of a friend he knew but had never met.
Ranthos was deep into the wood now; he had gone deeper, but rarely. He sniffed the pine air, and his face drank in the sunlight. Looking about him, he adjusted his course to find a mossier area, where hoped his prey, the tatzeldeer, would be found.
He clambered over crawling roots, under reaching branches, around the ferns that greeted his passing. Moving ever forward, he checked every direction for signs of movement.
And as usual, Ranthos found the brown hanging beardmoss beyond the tall slender stone. Tatzeldeer would hide in the drapes of this moss because their shaggy coat blended with it so perfectly. Beautiful and strong creatures, with coiled muscles and long, draping fur; the females were regal beasts, and the males pronged kings. They were indigenous to only the Tatzelwood, cut off from the world by a massive canyon, and even here, they were rare. Ranthos had caught one only yesterday, so he thought it unlikely to find another today.
The town would usually only see one or two deer a week, brought in by one of the dozen hunters. They mostly built snares, shot turkey, and gathered herbs and wild berries to sell and grow in town.
Ranthos checked one of his snares. It had been sprung, but then its catch had been taken by another hunter. Not unusual. With some coarse rope slung at his side, Ranthos lashed the trap back together, and hoped to get back to it before anyone else.
Moving South-West, with the wind to his right, he came into a clearing formed by an alcove of a tall dirt cliff. He loved this place. It was serene, hidden from the rest of the wood, draped with beardmoss, and littered with flowers.
He’d never told Bell of this place. He’d hate for her to know he enjoyed these flowers so dearly, and in truth, he wasn’t sure that she could appreciate them the
same as he did, as he smelled so deeply into their fragrance. He could distinguish between each color and scent like kind greetings from his friends.
His pace slowed, and his guard dropped. He wasn’t hunting now. He was simply present here, in this wood, in this place most holy. He smelled the flowers, bathed in the loving shafts of sunlight, and surrendered to the song of the birds, letting them take him away to somewhere else. Somewhere that was here, but far away.
As his moment of serenity faded, Ranthos' nose seemed to stop working suddenly, and unnaturally, and he was left with nothing, no sense of smell at all. He almost lost himself surrounded in a colored, loud, but scentless and invisibly empty world. His sense of direction, location, and balance disappeared as his mind spun out of control. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on his smell until it was completely gone.
Ranthos slowly felt the color drain from his face. What’s going on?
Then, from nowhere a tatzelbuck stepped out from the beardmoss where it hid so perfectly, from its thick lips came a shriek, ear wrenching and bloodcurdling. Crowned by a twelve-pointed rack, his head faced directly at Ranthos and his eyes focused intently on him. The shaggy hair draping from his sides and around his face swayed rhythmically as he lumbered forward with an unnervingly heavy gait. It was unnatural. The creature seemed to move like a hellish marionette. The head lolled dully to the side and its jaw twitched, flashing bloodstained teeth. Its long tatzelfur was matted and knotted, caked with mud. This was possibly the largest buck Ranthos had ever seen, and it was not a creature Ranthos wanted to see. To say that something was wrong with it was an understatement; it seemed to have walked out of a nightmare.
Ranthos was used to deer musk, but this buck had no scent at all.
He took a step back, but now he was against that tall cliff, fanged with roots and dressed in wet soil.
Nowhere to run.
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 4