Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1)

by Jasper B. Hammer

  Bell pranced in through the door with an armful of flowers seemingly uprooted from across town, twirled over to a stack of clay pots full of soil, and humming an invented tune. She busied herself to some elaborate task.

  “How the Hell am I supposed to befriend Nosgrim?” Ranthos asked.

  Bell turned, plucked a small flower, and handed it to Ranthos as she thought. He affixed the daisy to her crowning braids, as he had done many times, and she adjusted it slightly, as she had done many times.

  “Just be friendly,” she said, and returned to potting flowers with a skip and a spin.

  Ranthos groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “Anyone can be friendly,” she said, “Even you!”

  “I can be friendly,” Ranthos said, “But not to him. That’s impossible.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be killing the impossible?”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s alright,” she said, “He’s tough, but you’ll never befriend anyone by being rude and abrasive. I know you think you will, but you’ll never.” She continued humming her tune, until she recalled a thought, “Oh! And Ranthos! Your bow and arrows are outside, I took them outside.”

  “Why?" he asked, buttoning his cloak about his shoulders.

  “Because, uhm, well I was just working on my things.”

  Ranthos said a goodbye with a shrug, and walked past the three flowerpots on the windowsill, pushed open the door wreathed in daffodils, and took up his bow and quiver, each trimmed in poppies.

  At about midday, Ranthos walked up the uneven cobblestone steps of Nosgrim’s butchery, a limp turkey dangling over his shoulder and a pouch of worms in his hand. He stopped before the door and took three deep breaths.

  All is well. Just make conversation. Nice, simple, conversation. That’s all. Smile and be happy.

  Ranthos shouldered the door open and dropped his catch on Nosgrim’s table. “Nosgrim,” he nodded.

  “Hmm,” Nosgrim didn’t look up at him; he was counting up coin inside his strongbox, not much by the looks of it. “You’re late.”

  “Slept in.”

  “I expected as much from the likes of you.”

  Be nice. Be nice. Smile, “Haha… Good one, Nosgrim.”

  Nosgrim took out two shiny shillings, a bit more for a turkey than the usual dozen and a half pennies, and slid them across the table in exchange for the catch and the worms, then lifted Ranthos' turkey and hung it in the back. When he returned, Ranthos was still inside, waiting for him with a forced but pleasant expression, leaning uncomfortably on the counter.

  “So… you doing anything interesting this week?” Ranthos said, making conversation.

  “Sure, I’m going fishing down at—” he paused and scowled, “Stop that,” he demanded.

  “Down where?” Ranthos asked, feigning interest.

  “… At the Tatzelpond.”

  “Oh, really? I oughta learn to fish. Those worms are nice and—”

  “What are you doing? I already paid you. Go away.”

  Gladly. Wait, don’t say that. Pretend to be offended, “Nosgrim,” Ranthos put his hand to his heart, “I was only trying to make conversation with you, my… butcher.”

  “I pay you for your catch, not your personality.”

  “Excellent choice. If you paid me for personality, you’d be bankrupt.”

  “Oh, please. You’re duller than—”

  “Your head. Because it’s bald. And also you smell bad too.”

  “Get out!”

  “Bye!”

  Just try again tomorrow.

  “Did I tell you about how I caught that one?”

  “No,” Nosgrim paid Ranthos and hefted the tatzeldoe over his shoulder.

  “It was tough… She was hiding between some rocks covered in beardmoss, and you know how their fur blends with it so well.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I could smell her, but I couldn’t see her. And, of course, you can’t line up a shot by smell alone.”

  “I’m tired of your voice.”

  “I’m tired of seeing my reflection in your forehead!”

  Nosgrim lifted his cleaver, “I’ll stick this in your head!”

  “I’ll do it myself!”

  “That’s a big fish, Nosgrim! You catch that at the Tatzelpond?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, where’d you catch it?”

  “The Tatzelpond, why does it matter?”

  “We should go fish—”

  “You’re a disgrace to the art of fishing. You should be ashamed to speak of it.”

  “So, how about that—”

  “Shut it.”

  “You shut it!”

  “Shove it.”

  “What?”

  “Shove this pig’s hooves up your—”

  “Alright! I’m leaving!”

  “How are you today?”

  “A lot worse since you walked in the door.”

  “So if I leave, you’ll be happier?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Goodbye, friend.”

  Ranthos entered his kitchen (which was also the living room, entryway, and dining room) in a huff and threw his bow and arrows on the table haphazardly.

  “Ranthos!” Bell said, turning round suddenly and hiding something on the counter behind her back, “I’m working on supper, it’s not done yet, so you can’t look.”

  “Alright,” he said and sank deep into his rickety chair. He could smell the baked pheasant on the counter, but didn’t tell her.

  “How’s it going with Nosgrim?” Bell asked, turning to finish spicing supper.

  Ranthos explained, and then acted surprised when Bell revealed the pheasant, and they talked over supper about how to somehow pacify the angry butcher. They were at a loss until Bell piped up, “What if I helped?" she asked.

  “What good would that do?”

  “No, listen,” she smiled, “You’re rude and abrasive. I’m not! I can be nice to him and talk to him while you’re there and maybe even start a conversation between you two!”

  Ranthos mulled it over in his mind, and he didn’t much like the idea of Bell being around Nosgrim. He didn’t want him to belittle her too, “I don’t know if that’s the best—”

  “Do you want to see the mountaintops or not, Ranthos?” she asked with intent eyes.

  A grin touched the corners of his face, “Yes,” he said, “Yes I do. Thank you, Bell.”

  7

  Murder

  “Nosgrim!” Bell beamed as she burst through the butchery door, radiating pure joy. Her hair was tied in two braids with sunny yellow ribbons, holding two flowerpots in her arms.

  Ranthos crept in after her and quietly slid a hare onto the cutting table along with a bag of worms.

  Nosgrim’s face was aghast, hardly believing his eyes, or his ears, as Bell had already begun a torrent of little facts and opinions on the flowers she’d potted and set on his windowsills.

  Nosgrim began a slow, “Hello, Bellelar…” to which she replied, “I just was looking at your windows the other day and I really thought they could use some flowers!” She patted the window gently, “Because, I mean, who doesn’t love flowers, right Nosgrim?”

  His face soured, “I uhm don’t know…”

  “Nobody!" she said, “Not even Ranthos. He loves all the flowers I put up all over our cottage, I can tell. I can see right through his rough shell, he’s a real sweetheart.”

  Nosgrim shot a glance to Ranthos, “Explain this, now, hodge.”

  He shrugged and began an explanation, but Bell butt in with, “I think you’re a sweetheart too, Nossy! Can I call you Nossy? I think I like it a lot,” she flashed a playful smile and bounced her eyebrows at Ranthos, “Don’t you think Nossy is great? You should call him Nossy!”

  Both Ranthos and Nosgrim mumbled disagreements.

  “Well I think it’s perfect!” Bell said, nudging Ranthos with her elbow.

  “Uhm yes, of course, dear sister, what a perfect su
ggestion,” he said convincingly.

  “No!” Nosgrim shouted, “You’re just trying to weasel my money into your hands with your sister!”

  “Shut your mouth, cheesewheel!” Ranthos said, “She’s just being nice, Nosgrim.”

  “Shut your mouth!” he said, “I know you better than that. You’re trying to escape Tatzelton with my money. And I know that your plucky little sister here is your accomplice.”

  “Leave her out of this, Nosgrim,” Ranthos snarled.

  “You obviously didn’t, why should I? I’m a hardworking man, and she’s after my money just like you!”

  “We’re really sorry, but—” said Bell

  “Sorry?” Nosgrim said, “You’re sorry? You’re sorry for trying to destroy everything I’ve built here?” He smelled hurt… and scared. Bell seemed to notice his fear too, by the look on her face. “I’ve made myself a life out of the scraps that were left me, and you folk are hinderances to my well-being. I’ll never become a reputable Tatzelton citizen by buying my catch from the scutty hodgepodge and putting up his sister’s flowers.” He spoke firmly and slowly, the fear wafting through Ranthos’ nose like smoke.

  Ranthos stood speechless. He felt guilty; he didn’t know why, or for what, but felt it nonetheless.

  Bell, smelling similarly guilty, took a step closer to the butcher with tender eyes looking up at him, “We didn’t ask to be born hodges, Nosgrim,” she said steadily, “The same way you didn’t ask to be orphaned. It’s wrong of you to blame us for trying to make a way in the world, same as you.” She forced a smile, “I hope you enjoy the flowers. Now we only ask for fair pay on Ranthos’ hare and that you have a pleasant day.”

  Nosgrim listened sullenly, relinquished Ranthos’ payment, and bade them farewell.

  On the butchery porch, after the door squeaked to a close, Bell’s fortitude broke and she let out a sob. Ranthos held her to his shoulder and whispered that everything was alright, that it’s not fair of him to say that, and that she did nothing wrong.

  It did little to stop her though; she was devastated. She put forth everything she could and Nosgrim—the scut—chewed her up and spat her out. Ranthos was furious and had half a mind to march back inside and start a fistfight with the swine.

  Bell took a handful of deep breaths and composed herself. She straightened her shoulders and dried her eyes, holding herself on the edge of calm. She smelled no different, but struggled against the feeling. She looked up at him after a moment and dried her eyes, “Ranthos, he’s in just as much pain as you, couldn’t you smell it?”

  “I could,” said Ranthos.

  “He needs us,” she said, “He’s alone, and we need to help him.”

  “He’ll never let us,” said Ranthos.

  Out hunting the next morning, Ranthos missed his shot. The doe was alone, unobscured, and perfectly still, but he missed, and the beast bolted away. He was distracted. The conversation with Nosgrim had gone so poorly that he now thought it impossible to convince him to pay the advance, let alone become his friend.

  He couldn’t fathom tracking the doe further. He could hear her cross the river; her scent would be almost lost completely. He resolved to make rounds at his snares, which were all left unsprung save one. Some other hunter had taken his catch.

  This was a fairly common occurrence, but today it drove Ranthos to the brink. He almost broke the snare completely as he reset it with shaky hands. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, but quickly prevented any such outburst. No one was there to see him, but he still couldn’t bear to see himself weep.

  He marched quickly away to the muddier part of the wood, which Ranthos had named the mudwood, as he was rather creative. He scooped some soil in his hand and sniffed it for any trace of worms. He was in luck. Wonderful. One thing had gone well for him today.

  He pulled his stob from his bag, a thick wooden stake about a foot and a half long, and a small rusty saw. Ranthos found it Winters ago in a back alley, and even then it hardly worked as a saw, but for worm grunting, it did the trick. He stomped the wooden stob halfway into the dirt and knelt in front of it, running the flat of the saw over the head of the stob a few times. The two groaned against each other and vibrated the soil. Ranthos closed his eyes and smelled for worms.

  The first job he ever had was grunting these worms out from the ground to sell as fishing bait.

  His nose pricked and he could smell the worms crawling up. He opened a small purse and started collecting them. He counted but quickly lost track. He had filled the bag halfway and set to grunting the stob again.

  Ranthos had never actually used the worms for anything; Bell had no use for them in cooking; and he never owned a fishing pole. Bell didn’t like fish, so there was no use in catching one. Nosgrim seemed to enjoy fishing well enough and never turned down whatever worms Ranthos could scrounge up.

  He gathered up more of them and tied the wriggling bag shut. He hoped it wouldn’t slip open again. That was rather embarrassing. He had to dump his bag out onto the floor and rifle through his rock collection and everything else in there to find a handful of disgusting worms that only earned him a couple of halfpennies.

  Ranthos double checked the purse just in case. He had little left to do today, but could hardly bring himself to march back into town and face Nosgrim again.

  Disheartened, he returned to that hidden glade where he first encountered the immortal buck. It was his favorite spot in the wood, even if he had almost died there. It was as it always was, with its flowers and moss and stones, except that it wasn’t as bright. It was a pale shadow against the hope of the mountaintops that he had fostered for the past week. The sky was still blue, and the trees still green, but they were also a tinge more gray and empty.

  He dropped onto his rear with a sigh, leaning his back against a warm, sunlit rock, and sighed, rubbing his face. He hated that he believed Bell when she said that Nosgrim needed them; he hated Nosgrim, and he wanted to be rid of him completely, instead of trying so desperately to appease him.

  He sat for a while longer, thinking of all the witty things he could’ve said to Nosgrim as he railed him and his sister, but that was pointless, and only bore up more anger in his gut, darkening the glade further.

  A cloud passed over the sun and darkened the surrounding wood. This mere coincidence almost drew tears to his face. He watched his hope whither and crumble before him, left in the gray.

  Through the trees he could see the blue fangs of the mountaintops, mocking him, ethereal against the sky. They seemed smaller than he’d ever seen them before, and at the same time taller too. He felt small, and the mountains were impossible.

  The anger in his gut eventually settled as the sun curled back from around the clouds, and he rested there empty, and lost count of the hours. He might’ve fallen asleep, or perhaps drifted into the space between wake and slumber that is neither restless but passive. Regardless, when he realized where he was again, the sun was setting.

  Setting? He’d only arrived there at the glade at midmorning.

  A figure of a man crashed through the brush about two dozen paces downwind.

  Then another.

  They were frantic, one chasing the other.

  He sniffed the air, but couldn’t catch any scents with the wind against his back. Ranthos rose and strung an arrow to his bow—though he thought it silly to do, but after his encounter with the buck, he decided that he’d rather face whatever lurked nearby with a weapon in hand.

  “The Hexencaster!” shouted a gruff voice in the deep of the wood. “He’s here!”

  No reply from elsewhere.

  Ranthos heard faint sounds of a scuffle, and then an abrupt silence. Ranthos could only hear the wind in the trees.

  Ranthos tightened his grip on his bow and sprang forward, ducking under and vaulting over moss-laden branches and round-headed boulders.

  Ranthos caught a whiff of a man fleeing deeper into the wood.

  What was going on? Who was the Hexencaster? />
  Ranthos gave chase, rushing Eastward after the man; but before he could come within view, his foot caught on the forest floor and he stumbled to his knees.

  Ranthos lost the man’s scent in an instant.

  Ranthos turned round to pick himself back up, but froze in place when he realized what he had tripped over: the sprawled, motionless body of a tall Tatzelton man.

  With a shaking hand, Ranthos nervously inspected the man behind him. He recalled that the man’s name was Erhardt, a merchant, though he wasn’t sure what he traded. He was bleeding, and there was blood staining his sheepskin vest. Ranthos’ heart dropped into his stomach; the man hadn’t a heartbeat at all. Was he dead? He’d never seen a dead body before. He poked Erhardt’s shoulder and listened intently, hoping against hope that he simply wasn’t hearing very well. Then he cautiously lifted his hand and felt Erhardt’s wrist for some sign of life. Nothing.

  Ranthos rolled him over to discover that he was pierced through the chest, and hot blood covered Ranthos’ hands. He had never seen such a sight—never seen the husk of a person, made empty by death.

  The gruff voice who shouted out earlier could easily have been Erhardt’s. Did the Hexencaster kill him?

  And what was a merchant like Erhardt doing here in the Tatzelwood? And why was he wearing a sheepskin vest in the middle of Summer?

  “What do we have here?” asked a slurring voice from behind Ranthos.

  Ranthos jerked to his feet, to see Yannick and Wilbur—those watchmen who liked to give Ranthos and Bell trouble. They were each wearing a sheepskin vest themselves and smelled rather angry. Wilbur’s beady eyes squinted at him, while Yannick stroked a knife on his belt expectantly.

  “You killed Erhardt, you dirty hodge!” shouted Wilbur, pointing a crooked finger.

  Ranthos looked down at his hands, covered in blood, and back up to them, desperation in his eyes, “I didn’t—” he pointed to the way the other man ran off to. The Hexencaster, perhaps. “He—”