3
A Normal & Completely Unextraordinary Encounter
Taking a step forward, the buck shrieked again: a warning call. Those kinds of calls were used to fend off predators so that the deer could escape, not back a predator into a corner.
Everything was wrong.
Deer's eyes were supposed to be completely black, but these had distinct pupils and white around them. They looked human.
Ranthos threw aside all the questions pounding in his skull; he untied the slipknot binding the arrows inside his quiver, selected his best one and took aim at the left side of the buck’s chest just below a certain scruff of fur; a well-placed arrow there would drive straight through the heart and stop the buck dead in his tracks.
Ranthos nocked the arrow and raised his bow, heart seeming to beat with the rhythm of the buck’s steps, skipping a beat when it shrieked again.
If the buck could smell anything on Ranthos, it would be blatant and unmasked fear—but fear was a distraction, a pointless survival instinct to be disregarded. Ranthos had to be brave, and therefore tried to shove his fear out of his mind completely, with little success.
The buck’s head jerked sideways half an inch, its eyes trained on Ranthos.
Ranthos inhaled and felt the cool air rush across his lips, drew the bow, and exhaled, releasing his grip on the bowstring and letting the arrow fly.
Thump.
The arrow sunk into the buck’s chest, right into the heart, the exact spot. But somehow, the buck hardly seemed to notice the killing blow. The arrow swayed with the beast’s breast as it hunkered forward, the muscles tense and stiff, eerily unimpaired. Each step looked like a spasm.
Ranthos yelped after the supposedly wounded buck shrieked once more, rattling Ranthos’ bones together. Bleating and groaning, the shriek echoed through the wood and across the cliffs and hills.
Ranthos turned on his heel and took hold of the roots protruding from the cliff behind him, which was much too steep to climb if the buck were to persue, but he didn’t have any better ideas. His scrawny arms grasped hopefully at roots which seemed to reach out for him; some were sturdy enough to bear his weight, but those roots looked exactly like the other roots…
He ascended hastily and haphazardly, listening to the buck screaming after him, and his hooves falling like a puppet on strings.
When the buck shrieked again, Ranthos put too much weight onto his right foot, and dropped, his grip too weak. In a desperate reflex, he clawed his fingers into the softer bits of the cliff side. He caught himself but had no clue for how long. He teetered back and forth. And the buck lurched after him, reaching the bottom of the cliff. Ranthos snarled, and hearing it himself, was shaken by his own ferocity.
Pressing his now profusely sweaty forehead up against the cliff, he clambered higher and higher, but not fast enough; the buck zigzagged up the cliff like a goat. Ranthos had never seen a buck do anything like that, let alone one of this size. It was unnerving, like something dragged it up the side. Its hooves finding each sturdy root and ascending faster and faster.
Every few moments the buck shrieked again, sending metronomic rings and echoes through Ranthos' head. Thrumming through his body with waves of pain and dread. Dread which he could smell, and nothing else.
In a moment of providence, Ranthos' hand landed on flat ground. He felt wet grass underneath his fingers and heaved his elbow up onto it. Hardly believing his own eyes, he pulled his torso up and then with both hands on the ground and feet kicking at the ledge; he rolled horizontally onto the top. He exhaled a breath through an exhaustedly cold throat and forced himself onto his feet. He was up, and that was good, but the buck was still giving chase
With what little energy he had left, Ranthos charged away from the ledge, not caring what lay before him as long as it wasn’t a monster deer.
Ranthos pushed through a thick wall of brush and branches and emerged onto a stretch of dirt and moss. Scanning the area, he pinpointed landmarks: Chickenrock, whose rough stone beak towered above the trees in the East; and he could hear the Severium River in the distance. He wasn’t too far from town because Chickenrock was still visible, but being downriver enough that he could hear the Severium River rushing over the rocks wasn’t a good sign. He could probably rest at the Oakstop, an ancient oak tree where travelers often make rest; hopefully the buck would be deerish enough to avoid it.
Another shriek pierced Ranthos' ears as he saw the buck with an unharmed yet bleeding chest standing, heavy head hung low upon a tall boulder staring down at him with those mannish eyes, black, white, and bloodshot. Spheres of intelligent nothing hungered as their gaze rippled forward and pulsed through Ranthos' bones again.
Icy dread coursed through his body like a plunge into a frozen lake, and the reality of this beast’s emptiness took root in his heart. This buck did not belong in this wood, which Ranthos knew.
But before Ranthos had time to decide what to do, it dragged itself around and turned back into the wood like it was pulled away by whatever ghastly chains kept this creature breathing, as if the boy wasn’t worth the trouble anymore.
He debated following it for a moment, but then decided to count himself thankful to have escaped with his life. Ranthos wasn't afraid to follow, obviously; Ranthos was only not in the mood. Fear was useless, weak, and simply not what Ranthos felt. Obviously.
“Well, I’ll return!” Ranthos shouted, relieved, but with a wounded pride, “And I’ll feed your heart to my cat!”
It looked back to him, immense antlers rustling a nearby tree, snorted what seemed like a laugh, and jerkily walked off. Its haunches were slowly eaten up by the brush, and Ranthos was alone.
But as the buck lurched away, Ranthos’ sense of smell returned, and he finally smelled the pines and the birds again.
With a relieved breath, Ranthos knelt at a small puddle to wash his hands of the grime they'd collected on the cliff. He scrubbed the dirt off his palms with the hem of his cloak. As he looked at himself in the reflection, he saw those lifeless eyes of the buck again, but in place of his own.
Ranthos sprang to his feet, stomping away the reflection. He must have been too shaken up; he was surely seeing things.
He glanced down again at the water as it settled and found his own eyes again. Ranthos felt his heartbeat settle and realized just how afraid he was in that moment. Though no one was present to sense his fright, he was still ashamed, “Coward,” he muttered to his reflection.
He was overreacting; there was nothing to fear.
4
Strange Smells & Stranger Folk
After being chased by a monstrous, arrow-immune demon buck, a flea shouldn’t have bothered him so much, but this particular bug found Ranthos' hair particularly delightful, and imbedded itself so deep into it, that it was impossible for him to scratch the pest out, due in part to the unkempt nature of his mane, but surely to the skill of the flea as well.
He was headed to the Oakstop, the walk to which would have been quite scenic if it weren’t for the damned flea. Ranthos hopped across the stones of the Severium River, too distracted to even pick out a rock for his collection, and ignored the skyfin lizards gliding across the branches as he crossed through the Labyrinth (a small and ironically named natural trench that, miles West, opened up to the even more ironically named maze-like canyon known as the Shortcut).
A little above his right ear, the flea clung to his skull like a dog to a bone. Perhaps, like the buck, the flea was also an evil shrieking beast determined to kill him, only by making him scratch his own brain out. His hike continued as if he were trekking through Hell, a Hell with only one immortal flea.
In a desperate attempt to enjoy the forest he so loved, Ranthos tried to force out of mind the irritation and the futile need to scratch himself, only to catch a whiff of his own scent. Terribly pungent, revolting.
What a horrible day.
With a slight detour, he picked the leaves off a kea plant and rubbed them under his arms and on the
back of his neck, then stuffed clean ones in his pockets. The kea masked scents, leopards roll in it when hunting in the Tatzelwood, and beside that, it was also useful for sweaty little hodges with hypersensitive noses.
Still not rid of that devil-flea in his hair, he arrived at the Oakstop, where an impossibly huge oak tree stood confidently, sprawled over the tops of the tallest pines, covered in ages of beardmoss hanging off the branches, mushrooms spiraling up its trunk, animal nests full of activity, and names of travelers roughly scratched into its bark. Folk said the tree was magical, Ranthos didn’t believe it, but it was certainly different from all the other trees in the Tatzelwood. The leaves were the size of kitchen plates, and the branches as thick as a bull. And Ranthos always assumed that travelers carved the faces in the bark, not magic. But he couldn’t explain how they all seemed to watch him approach, and how their smiles grew wider each time he looked at them.
Circling about the Oak were a collection of merchant stands selling trail rations, rope, wagon wheels, saddles, and other traveling gear, each with a colored banner and a kindly old artisan; campsites of both distant and local people; rickety livestock stables housing horses, donkeys, oxen and even the occasional large wagon goat; and, most prominently, The Acorn, Tavern and Eatery for the Roadbound and Wandering, a wide, squat building with a roof heavily blanketed by massive fallen leaves, and a scratched green door.
Ranthos drew his hood over the flea’s happy little home and sauntered down through the campsites and into the tavern for a rest.
The Acorn was a quaint little place with a squeaky door. Inside, the thick, shaggy hides of tatzeldeer were draped over the mismatched tables and chairs that freckled the square room. Along each wall were many little doors, each a cozy little bedroom to squeeze into for the night. The thick wooden supports of the place seemed to be cut from the great Oak itself, with the kind faces smiling down at the folk inside.
The place was mostly empty, save a maid embroidering her apron, and a Stranger with a dappled cowhide draped over broad shoulders. Twiddling a smooth brown river stone in his gloved hands, he sat with his gold-clasped and mud-crusted boots kicked up on the table. He seemed to skip a breath when he saw Ranthos enter, dropping his feet to the floor. His eyes were wide; he looked as if he recognized Ranthos. No, that couldn’t be it. “You, cub,” the Stranger asked, pointing a finger at him. “Why do you wear that hood?” He raised an eyebrow. He scratched his forehead, and Ranthos noticed that the man’s face was marred by two scars: one running from his temple to his jaw, and another that cut over his lips down to his chin.
“Sorry?” Ranthos asked.
“The hood, why wear it?” he asked.
Ranthos sniffed the air curiously, but the only scent the Stranger carried was a sweet smelling oil that lathered his long hair.
“I’ve got a flea on my head and I’m suffocating it.”
“You’re not.”
“I am, also, who—”
“Do you think it hides what you are?”
“What…?”
“Because it doesn’t. I smelled you before you came in the door,” the Stranger said, then offered a chair across from his.
Ranthos sat, but not sure why, and patted his hood over his unrelenting itch.
“Actually, it’d be misleading to tell you that I smelled you,” said the Stranger, “In truth, I heard you, then smelled nothing, which was odd… You understand where I’m going with this?”
“Not at all,” Ranthos said, and itched the flea through the hood; it didn’t work well.
“You’re hiding your scent. But that scent is not something that most folk could smell. But you’re not most folk.”
“Yes…” Ranthos said, stunned and hesitant. How’d he know that? Also, damn this flea.
“Therefore, you can smell your own odors, and bathe well. That also explains the kea leaves in your pockets, muffles body odor.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Who—”
“Shush. I know what you are—”
“What?”
“I’m one too. How else would I smell you?”
“But you didn’t smell me.”
“Gooooood,” the Stranger intoned, bobbing his head while an approving smile drew across his face. He paused, and asked again, “Why the hood?”
Ranthos then noticed pointed hodgepodge ears just barely poking out from beneath the Stranger’s hair. His face lit up in a confused and surprised sort of way, “Your skin’s so… tan, pink, peach, like a human’s. I never would’ve guessed that you’re a hodge.”
“Aye, you’re a pale one, cub, except for that nose, it’s as pink as pork. You oughta spend more time in the sun,” the Stranger said, picking something out of his crooked tooth absentmindedly, “Your father was snow-alfar, by the looks of you.”
Ranthos had never enjoyed thinking about his father. It gave him a yearning hole in his chest. Why hadn’t he stayed with him and Bell, and where was their mother? Were they truly so ashamed that they abandoned their children? And they were born during the Hacking, that terrible war between men and alfar. How?
The Stranger chuckled, shaking Ranthos from his thought, “I’ve seen many a snow-alfar wrinkle their face like that when they’re thinking.”
Ranthos didn’t understand.
The Stranger mimicked the face—or tried to. It didn’t work.
They were both caught at an awkward impasse.
“Well,” the Stranger cleared his throat, “My father was likely a snow alfar too,” said the Stranger, “We’ve got Bzo blood.”
Ranthos could not fathom what that meant.
The Stranger continued, breaking the silence again, “But alfar come in more colors than frost-white.”
“Gray too, right? From the Ashenwaste,” Ranthos offered. He wanted to leave but was also too interested in meeting another hodge.
“Sure,” the Stranger said, “and green, from the Sweaty Isles, and red, from across the Eastersea.”
Ranthos nodded slowly, “I’ve never met another hodge, you know.”
The Stranger’s eyebrows raised, “No? I don’t imagine you would have.”
“Well, my sister’s a hodge too,” Ranthos added.
“A sister?” he asked, taken aback, “She’s a hodge like you? How? I had assumed you were a product of a raider’s conquest during that war. You’re the right age. How old is your sister?”
“Two Winters younger than I,” he said.
“Fascinating,” he said, “and you’ve never met either of your parents?”
“Never.”
“Well. That means there was love between them, cub. Consider yourself lucky, that’s not something many hodges can boast.”
“Boast? They obviously didn’t love us enough to remain with us,” said Ranthos, indignant. He picked at the tatzelfur tablecloth. It was rather uneven and bumpy for a table, a terrible choice really. Bell would never have allowed it.
“We live in a cruel world, cub,” the Stranger said, trying to offer some measure of comfort, as he fidgeted with the brown river rock for a moment, “I don’t know many folk who would’ve approved of their love. I suspect they were not to blame for your orphanhood. They were likely hacked apart in that war by both sides.”
Ranthos nodded, unsure of how to take this information, or if it mattered at all. Then he looked at the other hodge inquisitively, “You’re what, thirty Winters? That’s a bit old to have been born from the Hacking.”
“Yes,” he smiled, “If only I were still thirty. But my story is much like yours, I suspect.”
“Have you met your parents?”
“No. But they weren’t involved in the Hacking.”
“Then what?” Ranthos asked, forgetting his manners. It made little sense for alfar and men to come together in any other circumstance.
“No clue,” said the Stranger, “And what does it matter? I found myself a family.”
“Who?” Ranthos said, shocked; who could possib
ly accept this half-breed? And would they accept Bell? Or even himself?
“Very special folk,” the Stranger smiled, but explained no further.
Ranthos only made a frustrated face, equally piqued and intrigued. He tried to rub the back of his head casually with his palm to squish that damned flea without being obvious.
“Why the hood?” the Stranger repeated,
“Uhm…” he thought for a second, “I don’t like folk gawking at my ears.”
“I know what it is, and that is not it,” the Stranger said, waving it away.
“If you know already, then why are you asking?”
“I want to see what you think the reason is,” he leaned in closer, elbows on the table and two fingers pointing to Ranthos' face, one made little circles while the other, balancing that brown river rock, stood perfectly still, “Are you embarrassed? Cautious? Frustrated?”
“Angry,” Ranthos said without thinking, then killed the flea with his fingernail through the rough cloth of his hood and his brambly hair. It gave off the slightest smell of defeat, which was an almost delicious scent.
The Stranger gave a muted smile, and an accepting nod, “Why are you angry?”
“Why the questions?”
“Because I want to know. Why do you think you’re angry?”
“I’m different from folk and—”
“So what? If you’re to define yourself by what you lack and another has, you’re bound to live a wanting life, cub.”
Before Ranthos could respond, a serving girl came by and asked the Stranger if he’d like anything to drink. Her voice was like thunder in Ranthos' ear, and after a moment he realized that she was in reality talking at a normal volume, and that he and the Stranger had actually been whispering to each other the whole time. Bell and Ranthos often spoke quieter than any human could hear; not on purpose, it happened unconsciously sometimes.
With uncanny speed and practiced efficiency, the Stranger switched from his scolding whisper to, “Thank you very much miss, and that’s a lovely apron,” smiling at the sort-of-pretty girl and telling her that he and his new friend didn’t want anything, tipping her a shilling anyway.
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 5