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

by Jasper B. Hammer

  “Tell that to Yannick,” he said, “He saw you standing over the body with a strung bow.”

  “Why would I have killed Erhardt?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Father Gerald, dropping his eyes and shaking his head. “But the evidence opposes you.”

  “There was another man,” said Ranthos, “The Hexencaster.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You must believe me!” said Ranthos, “I would never do this.”

  “I know,” said Father Gerald, his weathered forehead creased, “But folk around here…” The friar trailed off.

  Ranthos was silent.

  “They are not easily dissuaded from their judgements,” said Father Gerald with a nod.

  “What have they done to my home?” Ranthos asked quietly.

  Bell stepped between Ranthos and Father Gerald, “They came with torches and oil,” she said. Her hands shook as she held them to Ranthos. “They called you a murderer and they—”

  “Did they touch you?” Ranthos asked with wide eyes.

  “No,” Bell said, “Father stopped them. He kept me safe from them and the fire.”

  He looked at the friar, and Ranthos’ eyes watered slightly.

  The priest gave the hint of a kind expression and nodded. “I cannot do anything more. The watch doesn’t answer to anyone, and the Church is full up of hungry mouths.”

  “There must be something,” said Ranthos, almost begging.

  “Perhaps,” shrugged the friar, “My superiors wouldn’t risk bringing shame upon the Church by harboring a murderer.”

  “But you know I’m innocent.”

  The friar was silent, smelling something like a tinge of fearfulness. Perhaps of the watch or perhaps of his superiors, whoever they might be.

  Ranthos knew that he should thank the man for what he had already done, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “I couldn’t stop them from taking your home,” Father Gerald admitted, “I’m sorry.”

  Ranthos didn’t even look his way. He only held Bell to his side and turned her away from the heat so that only he could feel it on his back.

  The friar bowed his head and left, muttering a pained goodbye to the cubs he had raised.

  Bell sobbed and shivered while Ranthos could do nothing but seethe as that icy rage crept back over his soul. He raged and raged in his heart, with thoughts of blood and imaginings of vengeance, but smelled nothing on himself or his baby sister but pure, undiluted fear.

  This fear was no longer a single imp, it was the world. Everything about them was terror, each tree and every stone made them tremble. They had lost every scrap of what little they had.

  They hadn’t the foggiest inkling of what to do; they couldn’t go into town, that could be dangerous, and they couldn’t stay where they were. The men who did this will come back. They could go to the wood, Ranthos knew it well, but the older hunters knew it better, and Bell hardly at all. Though that seemed the only option.

  “We must hide,” said Ranthos through the lump in his throat.

  “Where?” Bell asked through hers.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You think we can hide from them?”

  “I do not.” Ranthos grit his teeth. “Follow me.”

  She smelt scared as all Hell. That rotting scent of fear was too present now, and it followed them into the wood.

  Ranthos led Bell under tree and over rock. They’d gone North, in the opposite direction of town from the Oakstop and Ranthos’ legal hunting ground. Hodges couldn’t hunt in this half of the wood, it was no different than the rest, just disallowed. Because he’d never been in these woods before, he assumed it would be the last place they’d come looking for him—though if they did, it’d be easy to find him as they knew the woods better than he.

  His plan was to keep moving at all times to avoid detection. While they stayed on the move, they couldn’t just run away; even if they could hunt consistently, neither Ranthos nor Bell could clean a carcass, and without shelter they wouldn’t last long once Winter arrived. Even if they somehow found the next town, there was no guarantee they’d be taken in. They had no maps, no experience, and no hope.

  Bell groaned, leaning up against a tree. It was about noon, and they’d been walking since morning.

  Ranthos turned and asked if she was alright.

  “I’m tired,” she said, “I can’t walk much longer. Where are we going?”

  “We’re almost there,” Ranthos lied.

  She shot him a glare, for she could hear his heart flutter when he lied, “Where are you taking us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what are we doing?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” she said, flustered and red, “Can we wait here for a moment at least? I’ve got something in my shoe.”

  He knew she was earnest. She had hardly ever stepped foot in the wood, much less hiked through the brush for hours. After he sat beside her on a rough stone, he realized how tired and sore he truly was himself. Everything ached. His arms were scraped and his legs were bruised. He’d gotten a splinter in his left palm, and his neck was knotted and tight.

  Bell slipped off her small brown shoe and pulled out of it a tiny piece of bark, “Look at that,” she said, “This has been in my shoe for hours.”

  “That’s terrible,” he said laconically.

  “Truly,” she sighed, “But it’s alright now, I’ve fixed it.” She slipped her shoe back on and made an unsettled face with knit brows. He smelled her building her inner resolve as she took three short breaths. She forced herself to stand with a groan, and pulled a smile across her worn face, “Alright, let us get moving.”

  They were both tired, and Ranthos at least was clueless how he was to process all that’d happened. It’d been a rush of disaster, from the dead body, to the Oakstop, to the fire.

  But they kept marching, making zigzag circles in the forest.

  “Ranthos,” said Bell, her ears flushed and her hair an absolute mess. She tried to keep it tied with her bonnet and a ribbon, but that was hardly effective. “What if we—no, nevermind,” she cut herself off timidly.

  “What?”

  “What if we went to Nosgrim?” she asked.

  Ranthos was absolutely appalled. Any idea like that was plainly out of the question. “He’d jump at any opportunity to see me hang, Bell.”

  “No,” she said, stopping in her tracks, “He wouldn’t.”

  “Why? Because he needs me?”

  “Yes,” she said, “But that’s not what I mean.”

  Ranthos turned to face her, “Then what do you mean?" he asked, exasperated.

  “He would help us, Ranthos,” she said, “Because he’s a good man.”

  Ranthos laughed.

  “Ranthos!” she said “I’m being honest.”

  Ranthos paused, “Bell I—”

  “When it gets dark, we go to him. They’ll find us here.”

  Ranthos was about to protest again, but she stopped him.

  “And he knows the townsfolk better than we. He might help us, or know who could.”

  “The best help we’ll get is from Father Gerald, and he wouldn’t dare help us any further.”

  “Do you want to be found trespassing? Or do you want to try Nosgrim?”

  He sighed, “Alright,” he said, “Once it’s dark, let us head back into town.” Ranthos turned away begrudgingly and kept walking.

  “Ranthos, I know you’re scared,” she ran up close behind him.

  “No, I’m not—”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder and shushed him gently.

  He looked back at her with wide eyes.

  “I know you’re scared,” she said, “We’ll make it through.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I just know that it doesn’t end here.”

  Ranthos dropped his face. Pragmatism was obviously not Bell’s strong suit.
<
br />   “I know it, Ranthos,” she said, “You wouldn’t have met that Stranger if it ended here.”

  “Bell—“

  “That would never just happen,” she said, “It’s on purpose.”

  “By whom?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said with an innocent smile. Evidently, whoever did it on purpose was of very little consequence compared to the fact that it was done on purpose.

  “How do you know it’s on purpose?” he asked, indulging her.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” she said, “But I know I’m right. I know we will see tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after.”

  Ranthos turned to face her now. His disbelief was plain on his scent, but it was fringed with a hint of hope, “Do you?”

  She nodded, the hint of a smile brushing her face.

  “Then alright,” he said, relenting. “But!” he raised a finger to her, “We are still to be very careful, Bell.”

  “Of course, of course, so very careful,” she was fighting a smile on her face.

  How she could be smiling now was beyond him, which either meant that she was an absolute lunatic, or absolutely right.

  They’d find out later.

  9

  Perhaps the Only Gold in Tatzelton

  In the deep of night, under hoods and with wary eyes darting all about them, Ranthos and Bell crept up the back porch of Nosgrim’s butchery. He slept in a room adjacent to the storage room. There was a small window with wooden blinds.

  Bell rapped on it nervously, and much too quietly. Ranthos himself could hardly hear it.

  Ranthos tried himself and caused Bell to shush him.

  “Bug off, lady,” he said.

  They began an angry back and forth of whispered insults.

  An afraid and red eyed Nosgrim snapped open the window, took one look at the two of them, and said, “Nope,” slamming the blinds again.

  “Nosgrim you sc—“

  “Ranthos!” Bell chided, “Nossy—“

  “He hates that,” Ranthos said.

  “I won’t be found harboring a murderer, hodge,” he said. His voice was hoarse from a lack of sleep, and his scent was chock full of fearful odors. The thugs had likely intimidated him somehow.

  “I’m not a murderer!” Ranthos said, almost shouting as he slammed his hand against the window.

  Bell and Nosgrim shushed him.

  Nosgrim opened the window and glared at him, “I know you’re not.”

  “You do?” Ranthos asked dumbly.

  “I don’t know who is,” he said, “But obviously it’s not you.”

  Ranthos puffed his chest, “It could be me.”

  “Shut it, you stupid little man,” said Bell.

  “So you’ll help us, Nosgrim?” asked Bell hopefully.

  “No,” Nosgrim said.

  “Nosgrim, without Ranthos, you’ll be back on the streets.”

  “And so will you,” he replied, thinking he made some point.

  “Uhm,” she said, “Yes…” she refocused, “Alright! But the idea is you and Ranthos could carve out a living for yourselves together after we grew out of the orphanage. We were all beggars, but you two made a life for us, together. Now, Ranthos is—”

  “Get inside,” Nosgrim said.

  “What?” Ranthos was shocked.

  “Thank you, Nossy!” Bell said.

  “Nosgrim,” he muttered.

  Ranthos rolled his eyes to Nosgrim as Bell entered, apologizing for the nickname.

  Nosgrim huffed.

  They entered the small, rickety, copper-smelling building and were let into his room.

  Nosgrim had few things inside, and it was all markedly well-kept, clean, and orderly, in stark contrast to Ranthos’ side of the room back at their cottage.

  Well, when they had a cottage.

  Bell thanked Nosgrim profusely, embracing him warmly right as he opened the door. She was crying. Nosgrim gave her a stiff pat on the back and moved out of the doorway so Ranthos could enter, Bell still clinging onto him.

  “Why are you doing this?” Ranthos asked, still in disbelief.

  “It’s because he loves us, Ranthos,” Bell said, sobbing into Nosgrim’s gut.

  “It doesn’t matter why,” Nosgrim growled with a red face, prying Bell’s arms off him. “Bell, you can take my bed, and Ranthos I’ve got an old straw mat from the orphanage if you want it.”

  That was one of the first times Ranthos had heard Nosgrim use his name. “Uhm,” Ranthos stammered, ‘Thank uhm thank you,” he said, unsure how to drop his own wall.

  Nosgrim nodded and fetched it for him, tossing it on the floor.

  Bell was already cozying herself up under Nosgrim’s neatly tucked covers. Her shoes and her bonnet and ribbons were all lying in a haphazard pile by his immaculately dusted nightstand.

  Ranthos rested his weary limbs down on the mat and wrapped himself in his cloak.

  Nosgrim tidied Bell’s mess and placed it all on a small stool, against which he laid Ranthos’ bow and arrows. Ranthos pretended to close his eyes but watched Nosgrim fix his fishing pole, a hat on a rack, and several other odds and ends that Bell had disturbed before sitting down in a creaky wooden chair. He slumped his posture and sank into it comfortably. On the wood, in the spots beneath his elbows and his hands, the varnish was completely rubbed away by Winters of sitting in this exact position.

  Ranthos wondered how long he spent in that chair, alone, cleaning his room, staring at the wall. Tatzelton was a terrible life for him too.

  “Nosgrim?” Ranthos whispered.

  “What?” Nosgrim’s eyes stayed fixed on the same spot on the wall.

  Ranthos cleared his throat, trying to drop his wall, “Thank you.”

  “Sure,” he replied.

  After a few moments of quiet, Ranthos heard Remy, his loyal catten, hop onto the windowsill and curl up for the night. It was good to have him near.

  Eventually Ranthos drifted away to sleep. It was much more peaceful here than under the maple the night before, despite the fact that this mat was much less comfortable than the forest floor. He wasn’t alone this time, and apparently, that was all the comfort he needed.

  “Five,” said Nosgrim to some buyer in the other room. It was well after sunrise, and Ranthos was only just now waking up.

  The buyer muttered some ungrateful reply and marched out the butchery doors.

  Nosgrim sighed.

  Ranthos stretched and rubbed his eyes, scratching his matted hair as he rolled to his feet.

  Bell was sprawled like a twisted sea creature over Nosgrim’s bed, very, very asleep.

  Ranthos clasped his cloak about his shoulders and drew his hood. He noticed that the window was tied closed with a string of twine, something that Nosgrim must’ve done while they were asleep. Slinging his bow over his shoulder and his quiver around his hip, Ranthos poked his head into the butchery once he heard all the talking die down inside.

  Nosgrim turned, “Morning,” he said, “How long are you two going to stay?" he smelled nervous.

  “It’ll be hard to get out of town without being recognized,” he said.

  “Well, you should’ve left earlier this morning,” he snarled, “You idiot. You’ll get me hanged.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Ranthos snapped back, “I didn’t realize—“

  The door flew open with a loud bang.

  “Who’s this?" a watchman asked gruffly.

  A watchman?

  Ranthos’ heart raced, and he smelled fear on both himself and Nosgrim.

  It was the same watchman that had been chasing Ranthos; Yannick was his name, a wiry man with bulging veins on his thin arms, speaking through ale stained teeth and glancing around the room with bloodshot eyes.

  He was on something, Ranthos could smell it. Fogbloom, probably.

  “I’m a hunter,” Ranthos said, dropping his eyes to the floor, hiding his face behind his hood, but couldn’t sound his voice very loud past the nervousness in hi
s throat.

  “What?” Yannick asked, leaning down to look under Ranthos’ hood.

  “Yannick—” Nosgrim said in a timid voice.

  Yannick snapped his attention back to Nosgrim and cracked him on the head with the butt of a heavy cudgel.

  Nosgrim yelped and stumbled backwards onto the floor.

  Yannick chuckled. “Stupid boy,” he spat, “I’ve had quite the bad few days… You won’t believe what happened. We found a… a, uhm, a one of those…”

  Ranthos was terrified, he felt paralyzed. He hadn’t a clue what he should do.

  Nosgrim groaned in pain on the floor as he got to his knees.

  Yannick pursed his lips, trying to think of what he was about to say, “One of those, uhm,” he shook his dizzy and inebriated head clear of thoughts, “It was bad.”

  Did he not remember?

  The fogbloom must’ve muddled his head.

  Otherwise, Ranthos would be on the floor like Nosgrim.

  Nosgrim stood up, holding a wooden strongbox and a key, “I’ll get it, Yannick, it’s right here. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, sir.”

  Ranthos saw the wound on Nosgrim’s forehead, a welting bruise and a large bloody gash. Ranthos’ ears flamed up beneath his hood.

  “Eyes here, boy,” Yannick snapped his bony fingers.

  “I’m a hunter,” Ranthos managed, filtering out the anger brewing in his gut.

  “I can see that,” Yannick slapped the bow over Ranthos’ shoulder with the back of his hand, “But who are you to wetbones here?” and he shoved his thumb toward Nosgrim.

  “I’m his friend,” Ranthos said, inexplicably not lying. Not that Yannick could tell if he were, but Ranthos didn’t hear a single fluctuation in his own heart.

  “A friend, huh?” Yannick smiled, “Then you wouldn’t have been involved in the little fiasco yesterday?”

  “The what?” Ranthos tried to dodge the question.

  “He wasn’t there. It was the hodge,” Nosgrim lied, not making eye contact with Ranthos or Yannick, but sliding over a gold coin to the latter, worth something like sixty shillings.

  Ranthos had seen gold piece once.

  Nosgrim had a gold?!

  “Don’t give it to him!” Ranthos felt he was shouting, but thankfully he barely whispered it.