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

by Jasper B. Hammer

Yannick and Wilbur were not paying any mind to Ranthos, smelling more interested in gutting him than hearing his excuse.

  Ranthos’ heart pounded like thunder in his chest. They had every excuse to kill him on the spot. He had to get away. He couldn’t fight these two, and if he tried, he’d appear all the more guilty for Erhardt’s death.

  Ranthos turned on his heel, snatched up his bow, and darted into the surrounding brush.

  The watchmen scrambled after him, shoving through the undergrowth angrily.

  Ranthos ducked and weaved through the forest, following an old game trail rather than pushing through the thick bushes. The watchmen didn’t seem to catch onto his trick.

  Thankfully, they were less comfortable navigating through the wilderness, and soon quit giving chase, winded easily.

  When Ranthos could no longer smell them on his tail, he collapsed against a tree to catch his breath. He hadn’t even ran that hard. The entire affair left him breathless. He had almost died; and likely would have died if his pursuers were more persistent.

  Ranthos pondered his next steps.

  He couldn’t return to town now; no hunters returned to town at sunset. It would be too suspicious. He needed to lie low until midday tomorrow, when he could return without too much suspicion and head to Saint Corwyn’s Church. Father Gerald had rarely been able to give much aid to the older orphans, but Sister Edmona was long dead, so Ranthos figured he could garner some holy sympathy.

  Wasn’t the One wrongfully accused at some point?

  Maybe… Ranthos would ask Bell once he got back into town.

  Ranthos would tell Father Gerald that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time and Father Gerald would understand, he would offer sanctuary to Ranthos and Bell. There weren’t many murders in Tatzelton—none that Ranthos could remember being proven—but Father Gerald had a good reputation of keeping things peaceful during the court judgements. He’d cleared up misunderstandings like this before, for orphans even. The friar seemed to think the Tatzelwatch was a bit too rash. Once Ranthos explained that it was that ‘Hexencaster’ who killed Erhardt, then Father Gerald would know that Ranthos was no such thing. Yannick and Wilbur just needed to be told by someone respectable that Ranthos was not the Hexencaster, and Ranthos would be left alone.

  Ranthos knew his absence would worry Bell half to death, but she would understand.

  He had to lie low for the time being. Ranthos rushed himself to the Oakstop, somehow more terrified of the prospect of walking through the Tatzelwood after nightfall than of being accused of murder. He’d found that darker things than Tatzelton folk haunted the wood.

  Ranthos washed his hands in a nearby stream and hurried away.

  The Old Oak stood against the darkening sky mightily, its heavy boughs strung with glowing lanterns, a bastion against the black night. Ranthos felt welcomed under its guard by a massive leaf the size of both Ranthos’ hands drifting down and landing on his head. He smiled up at one of those elderly faces in the bark, who smiled back at him warmly, lit by golden lantern light.

  There were no wagons outside The Acorn, but there was a light shining out from the window. The place must have been fairly empty. An older fellow poured out a bucket of feed for a mule in a stall. He tipped his hat to Ranthos as he came into the light.

  Ranthos bowed his head in reply and pushed the creaky door open with his tired arms. He felt exhausted, though he’d done little in the way of strenuous activity. The sight of the dead man earlier must have drained him.

  “Welcome in, traveller,” said the serving girl with a drowsy smile, “Come for a room?”

  “Yes,” he said, rubbing his sore neck as he traded a halfpenny for a brass key.

  “Have a good rest!” she beamed kindly.

  Ranthos was hardly feeling up to niceties. “Goodnight,” he snarled. He turned and strode to his room; little more than a cot and a window. He locked the door behind him. Rage bubbling up from his stomach, he clenched his teeth and struck the wall with his palm. Then, as the fury burned hotter, he hit harder and harder until finally dropping into the cot, panting. He was spent, completely, and felt an instant pang of remorse as he realized that he had struck the carved face of a woman.

  He buried his face in his hands; half of him feeling like he had just hit a grandmother, and the other half feeling stupid for thinking that at all.

  He thought of leaving Tatzelton on his own with Bell, but knew they’d never survive. He was a hunter but by no means a woodsman; they’d starve, or die of exposure. He slowly wrapped himself in his patched and scratchy cloak, and lay there, tired but not sleepy.

  “He’s in there, that room by the corner,” said the serving girl quietly in the main hall.

  Ranthos sat up and sniffed the air… It was hard to discern, but he thought there could have been another person to have entered The Acorn.

  “There?” a shifty man’s voice said.

  “Yes,” said the serving girl, “I heard him hammering on the walls and I was scared half to death.”

  “There won’t be nothin’ to fear after I find him.”

  8

  Ablaze

  Ranthos heard footsteps drawing near his room. He scrambled to his feet and stood flush against the wall beside the doorstop, his heart pounding loud as thunder. He could smell his fear wafting off his skin more than the scents of the man approaching.

  There came a knock on the door. Then another.

  “He’s probably asleep,” said the serving girl, “Just go on ahead in.”

  Ranthos didn’t dare say a word; though he hadn’t an inkling of what he’d do when the door opened. He heard the knob click and the hinges squeak, and held his breath as the dim light crawled into the room, and revealed the long, threatening shadow of the man.

  “Where is he?” said the man.

  “He was just in there, I swear,” she said, “Look under the bed.”

  The man sighed and plodded into the room. He was thin, lanky, and reeked of fogbloom; it was a Yannick.

  Scut. Ranthos felt like a buffoon. Of course they would look for him here. Ranthos could hardly control his deafening heartbeat as he tried desperately to harden his spirit against the fear pulsing off his skin.

  Yannick squatted by the cot and looked underneath. “He must’ve split when—” Then Yannick’s head spun to Ranthos, but had no expression.

  Ranthos held his breath, and one of the Old Oak’s branches passed over the moon, blotting the light from the window.

  Yannick looked away from Ranthos casually and back at the serving girl, “Yes,” he said with a yellow smile, “He’s likely just out causing more trouble; nothing for you to worry about.” Yannick stood and walked out of the room.

  Had he not seen him either? It was dark; but what happened? What could’ve happened?

  An elderly oaken face on the room’s wall opposite Ranthos seemed to wink.

  Yannick strutted out the room and closed the door behind himself.

  Ranthos finally took a breath and his shoulders collapsed in relief as he heard Yannick’s footsteps leave The Acorn.

  The Hell?! How was he not found? He didn’t understand how that could’ve happened. That shadow passed over the window at just the right time—Hell of a coincidence. It didn’t sit right with him, no matter how glad he was about it.

  Had the Oak somehow helped him? Hid him away from Yannick? Ranthos approached the face on the wall and inspected it closer. It was perfectly motionless and still, offering a wrinkled and toothless smile. He poked it and nothing happened. He whispered, “Hello,” and it didn’t respond.

  His brow furrowed. Perhaps it was just fortune; because Ranthos had never, and will never believe in any sort of magic.

  He hardly believed in Miss Cinnamon’s tricks. He didn’t think there was anything magical about being friends with Nosgrim. That wasn’t magic, it was cruel.

  “You don’t think I’m cruel, do you?” Ranthos imagined the oaken face asking him tenderly.

  “
No,” Ranthos whispered back with a smile, “Thank you for hiding me… That was very kind.”

  The face drew its smile wider, “I always liked you, little cub.”

  Ranthos blinked and shook his head; that almost seemed real. He’d gone absolutely mad. Talking to a tree? “Well,” Ranthos said, opening the window, “Thank you anyway, I suppose,” and crawled out into the wood.

  The leaves outside stroked his shoulders, “You’re always welcome.”

  He knew he couldn’t stay there any longer. But he had nowhere else to go, either. His trail through the dark wood was fraught with fear. Every crash in the brush or scrape of leaves above seemed to herald that buck. He knew he had to kill it, but he had no idea how, and he realized now how much he truly feared that creature, and now desperately he dreaded meeting it again.

  Regardless, at the moment, he cannot kill it—or so says Miss Cinnamon. He’s hardly become friends with that butcher, and if he wasn’t his friend, then that meant Shee’mortem, the corruption rune. What corruption meant, he had no idea, and why he needed Nosgrim was even more odd.

  His anger flamed again, as Ranthos thought of how Nosgrim spat in the face of his attempted kindness. He hated the thought of Nosgrim, and hated the sound of his voice, and hated the smell of his sweat.

  Ranthos found a crook between two roots of a thick maple to lie between. He wrapped himself in his cloak and shivered himself to sleep, wishing all the while for a friend to sit beside him.

  Ranthos awoke many times that night under the maple; though, perhaps he never met true sleep, only a wary rest. When the sun rose, his eyes and his throat felt rough and scratched, his fingers and toes, even underneath his boots, felt like icicles. He stood from that spot and began his trek homeward, and bearing with him more questions than he ever wanted answers for: Who murdered Erhardt, and for what design? How dangerous was Yannick? And was the Old Oak magical?

  It wasn’t, because magic wasn’t real.

  While these questions egged on his tired mind for hours during the night, all relieving each other when any became too unbearable. In the throes of his worry, one greater question plagued him, and that was the plain inquiry of his next steps. What is to come after all this? What could?

  Killing the buck could mean escape, but he was in no position to hunt it at all, and he was losing time. The buck could be days away from Tatzelton now. He had to act fast, or Bell could be in real danger, especially if a murderer is about the town; he had to get to the Church.

  The rising sun shone through the trunks of the trees, and Ranthos tread between the cold shadows and the Summer light. He smelled no threatening scent, no creatures save the birds who greeted him a morning song. The land was peaceful, as it once was before the dangers came about, before all this, when he was only a child collecting rocks in the wood. He yearned for those times, that innocence; they weren’t easy days, but they were carefree.

  His brow creased as he remembered then, when the most pressing danger was ridicule from a fat little Nosgrim, and his most important duties were catching kittens and stealing salt. He remembered that boy that he once was, a boy who’d never seen death, never been scared, not really, not like he was now. He remembered Bell’s squeaky giggles and her terrible jokes. He slowed his pace and leant against a mossy trunk in a spot of the morning light, smelling on himself that feeling between joy and loss.

  Those days were gone, and he’d never even bid them farewell. The world was different now, less green. That boy who collected rocks was dead, and Ranthos never even realized he’d gone missing.

  He still had a rock or two in his bag, but they were stowed there Winters ago, and he couldn’t even remember where he’d found them. Ranthos pushed off the tree and continued his march home.

  He hardly looked at the trees on his way. Hung low, he watched his feet step over the roots and up and down the hills. He stepped and stepped until he reached the Southroad back into town.

  Those questions that kept him up last night still bogged his thoughts until they became so heavy now that he could hardly carry them; it was all too heavy. He had no one to turn to, and no one to help him carry that burden. Even if Bell were near, what could she carry? And further, he couldn’t imagine dropping his weights upon her.

  He walked and walked on into town with the soles of his feet worn and his neck knotted. The hike back was grueling and seemed to be twice as lengthy as the hike out.

  His heart raced as he thought of nothing in particular, but everything in amalgamation. Was it rage or was it fear? He couldn’t know; the scents were each the same, each vapor twisting into each other, swirling into the cold and heavy barrier around his bones. The fear, whistling and ringing in his ears, felt like a looming imp with its feet upon Ranthos’ ribs, curling over, reaching into his body and clawing about with its wicked nails, gripping and twisting his heart, which was barely able to beat fast enough, constrained by its bony fingers. The rage was a still, slow-creeping frost, sticking together his bones and coating his soul in its chill.

  He stepped into the morning light and could now see Tatzelton upon the next hill. All was as it always was, the rickety houses in the clearing, the horrid smell of people and their droppings, the lunchtime plumes of smoke from the chimneys, and the—

  Why is there so much smoke? He could smell a huge fire, not used for cooking, it was fresh, and the smoke was thick and black. It plumed from behind the town, on the North side, outside the walls.

  That was—no, it wasn’t. Bell—No, that’s ridiculous.

  He had to get there, had to make sure.

  He took haste, and over root and under branch he barreled through the brush, cutting across the wood straight to his home, which was nestled outside the town walls. A broken arm of a tree cut his cheek, and a sharp stone tore a hole in the bottom of his boot. He scraped his elbows, clambering up the Chickenrock. Hands and feet clawing the coarse surface of the tall stone. He reached the top and saw the smoke billowing out from a spot on the Northroad too near his home.

  He smelled that imp of fear return, that fear. It stank like death and screamed like steel grating on steel.

  Ranthos hardly remembered how he reached the forest floor, but flakes of bark clung to his sweaty palms as his shoulder hit the ground and he rolled to his feet. He glanced behind him to see a branch a yard or two below the peak of Chickenrock break off its tree. He had never been an acrobat, but somehow he managed to descend like a wild beast in the trees.

  Though, he hardly thought of it, he needed to get home.

  A tree caught on his cloak and snagged his throat. It threw him back to the ground. He fumbled himself free, tearing through the fabric. He was sweaty, all his limbs ached, and he had too many cuts and scrapes to count, and before he realized anything, he had started running again, and came upon his and Bell’s house ablaze.

  The stone foundations were blackened and charred, the thatched roof was blown apart by the flame, and everything inside was piled in the center and burning bright.

  He was speechless. Where was Bell?

  “Bell?!” he shouted, “ Bell?!” where’d she gone? What had happened? He charged forward to the burning house, shouting his baby sister’s name. He couldn’t smell anything but the smoke, and couldn’t see anything besides the blaze. His eyes watered as he blinked and struggled to keep them open as he entered the cloud of black before him. He stumbled forward as far as he could until he fled the dark mouth and eyes rank with ash.

  Ranthos emerged from the ruin, calling her name between coughs as he fell to his knees. His hands shook, and they were black, fallen into the soot. His hands, which hours ago touched the blood of that man in the wood, were now black.

  This was his fault. They had assumed he was the killer and had come after him.

  “Ranthos!” called Bell’s unmistakable voice.

  “Bell!” he rose and rushed toward her. She clutched her arms together against herself and tears streamed down her face. Her bonnet had come loose and hung a
bout her neck; strands of her hair escaped their ties. The knees of her skirts were stained green and black.

  He took her shoulders in his black hands, “What happened?”

  “Where were you?! I was so afraid… I couldn’t—I didn’t know. It wasn’t my fault, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, smelling afraid.

  “Of course it’s not your fault, what happened?”

  She only sobbed and dropped her face into his chest.

  “Ranthos,” said an old man’s voice.

  He turned to look at him. It was Father Gerald, exactly the person Ranthos needed to see.

  Ranthos wanted to run to him and plead for shelter, for safety, for aid. But when Ranthos neared him, he only saw the face of a man who had allowed this to transpire. “What happened here?” Ranthos snarled, letting go of Bell and starting toward the friar. He balled his fists, prepared to do horrible things.

  “Ranthos, no!” Bell yelped, taking his arm in her hands and pulling him back.

  Father Gerald tried to calm Ranthos down with outstretched palms, but Ranthos ripped free from Bell’s grasp and seized the friar by his habit viciously.

  The priest was not afraid; he was indignant, “I did none of this, you fool!”

  “It’s true,” said Bell behind him, “He saved me.”

  Ranthos released him.

  Father Gerald smoothed his robes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them,” he said after a sigh.

  “Who?” Ranthos demanded.

  “Wilbur and a handful of his boys wearing sheepskins, they led the charge,” Father Gerald said, “and behind them were half a dozen butchers and hunters.”

  “Nosgrim?”

  “No,” said Bell, “he hasn’t come outside since Yannick accused you of Erhardt’s death last night.”

  “He fears being implicated because of you,” said Father Gerald.

  “I didn’t kill Erhardt,” Ranthos said to the friar.

  “You seem to have.”

  “I found him that way,” Ranthos roared.