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

by Jasper B. Hammer

  Ranthos ran forward, dodging the swinging, broken antlers of the buck, to kneel before Remy’s body. He doubled over it and grasped at his fur with his tattooed hand as the moss slowly began dragging the two halves of his little body back towards each other.

  Remy inhaled a tiny breath, looked up at him, “Hello once again,” said he in his nonchalant tone, “For perhaps the final time.”

  “Let us not waste any time” asked Ranthos.

  “That is prudent,” said Remy with perfect diction. “You seem to have grown more aware since our last meeting, dear cub.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Follow!” said Remy, bounding out of Ranthos’ hands and scurrying away under a thick curtain of moss.

  Ranthos followed, his feet crushing the bodies of soft carcasses beneath him. The buck tried to pursue, but was entangled in the curtain of magical moss, seeking its blood. The buck shrieked, but Ranthos didn’t look back, following Remy through a dark tunnel. They rounded a corner and Ranthos was blinded by the light outside.

  They emerged in a snowy forest, with a frozen river running through the center. Ranthos was suddenly cold, and Remy was suddenly covered in his thick Winter coat.

  Ranthos looked behind him and found no cave there at all. Wonderful. Everything seemed to go according to plan so far. “Where do we go now, Remy?” asked Ranthos.

  “I am you. So I do not know.”

  “You’re Remy,” corrected Ranthos through a shiver, “I am me.”

  “I am your inmost self, you are your conscious self—we’ve certainly discussed this.”

  “I don’t quite remember then.” Ranthos rubbed his arms together to gather warmth to himself. It was ineffective.

  “Erm,” Remy scratched his ear with his hind leg in thought, “I know the ins and outs of your dreams, you do not. I am your guide.”

  “Alrys said that this wasn’t my dream.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Why didn’t you say that?”

  “I’m strange!” said Remy, dancing a jig on his hind legs.

  Ranthos blinked and he stopped. “I don’t like that.” He didn’t wake up again, a good sign.

  “Apologies,” Remy licked his paw. “When you freed me from the buck, you were given some measure of control over your dream. I can help you control aspects of your own mind inside this dream. But I have no control over the Lamb’s Head, or anyone else who happens to find their way in. He has final control of all creatures and environments you may find here.”

  “Can you make creatures to serve me?”

  “Have you ever had a creature serve you before?”

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  “How normal can we force this dream to be?”

  “I will try my best to ensure realism. Physics should work as normal, so long as I am not harmed. But if you ask me to start to bend the laws of nature, I can do so, but I will slowly begin to lose power over the dream, and things may begin to behave strangely, and the Lamb’s Head will then gain that power. It’s a delicate give and take. Does that make sense?”

  “The more power I use, the less control we have.”

  “Yes, and these dreams, especially in your woten-induced state, can be very dangerous without a touchstone in reality or a proper grasp of time, places of things, and heaviness of things.”

  “Understood,” said Ranthos, only partially understanding. “And what about my magic?” he asked, looking hopelessly for a Winter cloak. “I couldn’t use blossom until I was healed, and I couldn’t use theromancy until I learned it in real life.”

  “Magic works the same if you’re awake or asleep. Though you’re a measure more powerful when you’re asleep.”

  “How do you know that if you’re me? I didn’t know that.”

  “You heard that once from Nosgrim,” said Remy, “You forgot it almost immediately.”

  “Sounds like me.”

  Remy nodded, “You look deathly cold, dear cub. Could I make you a coat? I know you prefer realism.”

  “A coat, a bow, some arrows, and a sword,” said Ranthos, “and nothing more.”

  “Very good,” said Remy. “Look behind you.”

  Ranthos turned to find a long coat with a furred hood, his bow, and some arrows. “What about the sword?” asked Ranthos, pulling the coat on quickly, and buttoning it closed.

  “You’ve never even touched a sword,” said Remy, “What makes you think I could make you one?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Ranthos, “Really just anything at all. This is so strange. And I touched Nosgrim’s sword. And Vhurgus gave me one of my own.”

  “It seems that is true,” said Remy, dancing another jig.

  “What did I tell you about that?”

  “Apologies, dear cub.”

  “Can you make the sword?”

  “I cannot,” said Remy, “You don’t know it well enough.”

  “I don’t know blossom hardly at all, but I can use it here.”

  “You’ve given enough thought to it that I can give it to you. Would you like me to take it back?”

  “No, no, that’s alright. Thank you, Remy.”

  “Of course, dear cub.”

  “What of this? I’ve never had this coat.”

  “That’s Nosgrim’s coat,” said Remy, “You were always jealous of it in the Wintertime.”

  “Oh,” Ranthos smelled it, “…It’s his, alright.”

  Remy nodded. “I can summon for you any object with which you are familiar without giving the Lamb’s Head any power. But I can only summon it once, any more, and he will be given some further measure of control over the world.”

  “How is it that I am inside the Lamb’s Head’s dream?”

  “I don’t know,” said Remy, “Why don’t we go discover that?”

  “Let us please,” said Ranthos.

  They marched together through the cold wood, crunching snow underneath their feet, and ducking through branches of bristly pine trees. Ranthos could hear birds in the treetops, and could spy an eagle or a hawk distantly on the horizon, but more distinctly, he could see the mountains, or their bases, the peaks were obscured by a hanging cloud. Ranthos decided that was where he must go.

  He and Remy carefully stepped foot onto the frozen river. “Woah, there, dear cub,” said Remy. “Take it slow, we don’t want to cut our adventure short on account of a bad fall.”

  Ranthos nodded and agreed, holding his arms out to his sides to keep balance as he stepped carefully on the ice, which creaked slightly and made sounds which didn’t quite put Ranthos at ease.

  “Are you sure that this is the way we must go?” asked Remy.

  “The mountaintops are this way,” said Ranthos.

  “I suppose…” said Remy, “But this is the Lamb’s Head’s dream, not yours. Why would he be at the mountaintops?”

  Ranthos took a nervous step forward on the ice, about halfway across. “Because Bull’s Hoof and Worm’s Heart knew Bell’s name.”

  “I don’t exactly follow,” said Remy, walking along the ice effortlessly.

  “If the White Cult knows Bell’s name, they must know mine. Yannick and Wilbur knew us. If word got to Sortie-on-the-Hill that she and I exist and are now following Alrys, the Lamb’s Head, being a powerful sorcerer, must have ways of knowing that I want to reach the mountaintops, right? ‘The mountaintops’ were even Alrys’ exact words to me at the Oakstop.”

  “And if this mountain is a trap?” asked Remy.

  “Then we’ll destroy the whole mountain.”

  “That would be foolish. Lamb’s Head’s dream would be given enough power to kill you immediately if I destroyed an entire mountain.”

  Ranthos nodded, finally reaching the other end of the frozen river, “Then we find another way out. Like we usually do.”

  “I wouldn’t count two weeks of narrow successes to be a meaningful record.”

  “I would,” said Ranthos, steeling his resolve against the cold. His boots
were now very wet, and his toes felt numb. He stuffed his bare fingers into his coat in hopes of regaining some feeling. “How dangerous would it be for you to make me some boots and gloves?” asked Ranthos.

  Remy thought for a moment. “Remember those mittens Bell made you?”

  “Of course,” said Ranthos, “With the flowers.” And they appeared instantly on his hands, warm and cozy. “Thank you.”

  “Nosgrim had some nice boots too,” said Remy, “They might be a bit small for you though.”

  “Better than these,” said Ranthos, looking down at his sorry soggy footwear.

  “Let me know if you want anything else,” said Remy.

  “Will do,” said Ranthos, loosening the laces of Nosgrim’s thick horsehide boots. “Can you just make my feet not get wet?”

  “I could, but that might be dangerous,” said Remy, “Who knows what could happen.”

  “Right,” said Ranthos, “Best not take any chances until it was absolutely necessary.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Remy.

  Ranthos agreed, and they walked back into the wood toward the mountain, the tall pines covered in thick mounds of snow, and the lichen clinging tightly to the rocks. Remy kept pace with Ranthos through the hike, but could easily have run ahead, able to travel through the snow with much more ease and relative comfort.

  Nosgrim’s boots were a little tight, and Ranthos could feel the blisters coming on, but still preferred the pain to the cold.

  Ranthos pulled up the hood, lined with shaggy tatzelfur, over his head and asked Remy to summon up a scarf for him to wrap his face in. It was a scarf from one of the caretakers in the orphanage.

  “You always found her incredibly attractive,” said Remy.

  “Let us not dwell on that, please,” said Ranthos, wrapping his face in the bright, multicolored scarf. It was a little scratchy, and he could feel his hot breath bounce back and wet his face. It wasn’t ideal, but better than the cold.

  “She was a nun,” said Remy, unasked.

  “I know,” said Ranthos, squinting down at him. “I was what? Nine Winters?”

  “More or less,” said Remy. “Terribly awkward memory.”

  “Yes,” said Ranthos, “Thank you for reminding me of it.”

  “Of course!” said Remy, bounding from gray rock to gray rock alongside Ranthos, who had begun to use his hands to scale the ever-increasing incline. “You know… We really have no idea how old you actually are,” said Remy.

  “I know,” said Ranthos, “It never much mattered to me.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that you and Bell are separated by a few years? She is obviously younger than you. It doesn’t add up.”

  Ranthos nodded, “Alrys brought that up.”

  “If your father was supposedly a berserker alfar in the Hacking, then it’d be impossible for her to be born. Or you, depending on your true ages.”

  “How long ago was the Hacking?” asked Ranthos.

  “How would I know?”

  “Right. Nevermind.” Ranthos pulled himself up onto a flat ledge, one which curved along the slope. Remy walked a few paces ahead of him as Ranthos wound along the rock face, his mittens holding onto the icy ledge for support as he carefully placed his steps forward.

  “Be very careful, dear cub,” said Remy. “Don’t look down.”

  “I won’t,” said Ranthos sternly. He didn’t, except for when he did. His mind whirled, “Damn you,” he said to Remy.

  “I told you not to!”

  Ranthos didn’t think it necessary to reply to the scut.

  That eagle they had seen earlier was nearer now, and seemed oddly low to the ground. It was little more than a black silhouette, and Ranthos noticed as it turned around that its tail was strangely long, with a large fan of plumage at the tip. It must not have been an eagle like he had known in the Tatzelwood, and some sort of long-tailed mountainous variety.

  Ranthos seemed to reach the end of the slope he travelled along, and then was forced to slide down the mountainside a few paces on his rear in order to be able to move forward. Remy was an invaluable scout, able to tell him which ways lead further up the mountain and which didn’t. Hopefully he was trustworthy.

  Ranthos seemed to round some corner, and suddenly found himself in the shadow of the mountain. It was a hundred times colder there, and set Ranthos’ teeth to chatter even behind his thick scarf. He could look up now and see the rocky mass of the mountain looming mightily above him, a now dark shadow against the bright white sky.

  Remy and Ranthos reached what seemed to have been a waterfall in warmer months, and very slowly and carefully traversed its slick surface. Ranthos used an arrow in each hand to help him cling to the side.

  There was a mis-step, but his arrow saved him, and Ranthos avoided looking down, which was wise, and Remy didn’t tell him to, which was appreciated.

  They continued on flatter ground after that, though the snow was thicker now, almost knee deep. Ranthos felt chilled to the bone.

  “Hold here, dear cub,” said Remy, his ears twitching at some sound. He narrowed his eye on the horizon, which to Ranthos looked like only an every denser mass of vertical tree trunks. The wind was at their back, so Ranthos couldn’t smell anything ahead of them.

  “What is it?”

  “Some sort of creature,” said Remy.

  Ranthos looked to the sky, and tried to spy that strange eagle again, but couldn’t through the thick canopy.

  “How big?” asked Ranthos.

  “Very large,” said Remy.

  “Barrus?” asked Ranthos.

  “Not quite that large,” said Remy.

  Ranthos saw a number of shapes moving in the distance, and he heard some sort of deep moaning sound. “Oxen?” asked Ranthos, “Sounded like oxen.”

  “Could be,” said Remy, crawling up a rock and then onto Ranthos’ shoulders. He smelled a little nervous.

  Ranthos decided to move forward. Were it barruses, he would bow and wait for them to pass, but were they oxen, they would hardly notice him and just march on by. He skirted to the side, closer to the mountainside as he neared them. Finally his ears detected their footsteps crashing through the snow, he heard braying, like horses, and a deep moo, like oxen.

  “I don’t quite like this,” said Remy.

  “Oh, be still, catten,” said Ranthos. He wasn’t afraid of whatever approached, he’d never seen a herd of any sort of animal up close, but couldn’t imagine that he would be any threat to them. “And your claws are digging into my shoulder.”

  “Apologies,” Remy attached to a thicker part of his coat so he wouldn’t feel it. “Could you at least ready your bow?”

  “What would an arrow do to an ox?”

  “Just please, dear cub.”

  Ranthos bit the mitten of his right hand and stowed it in his pocket, and then unslung his bow from his shoulder and knocked an arrow, trudging through the snow nearer to the herd.

  Ahead of him, he saw a shaggy horse, with a low hanging thick face, and rotund belly blazing a trail through the snow. It took no notice of him or Remy. Behind it were a number of other horses, ranging in color from blonde to deep brown, most dappled with many colors. The heavy mist of their breath hung around their perimeter like a fog, marching with them through the wood.

  Ranthos passed the lead horse, walking in the opposite direction perhaps twenty paces away. And slowly passed the others. Ranthos was sure to keep his cool, so as not to provoke them with any fearful scents. He noticed, further down the way, the massive herd still marching through. Neighing and snorting as the massive number weaved through the trees.

  For every four horses in their number there was a massive wild ox, with a shoulder nearly double the height of the stocky horses. They had gnarled patches of thick fur, and huge menacing curved horns, like a halo extending over their dark heads. They mooed and bucked at any horses who strayed too close, but for the most part, didn’t seem to mind them.

  “
This isn’t my dream is it?” said Ranthos as he was slowly overtaken by the herd, the horses walking round him like he was but a tree in the wood. The most recognition they offered Ranthos was a glance, once even a misty snort.

  “No,” said Remy, “You’ve never seen a wild horse, much less a herd of this magnitude.”

  “Are we in danger?” he asked, excusing himself between two horses, their shaggy fur brushing up against him clumsily.

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  The dark mountain of a wild ox began marching for Ranthos, and finally his nerves began to stir, and his heart began to quicken.

  “Best move out of the way,” said Remy frantically.

  Ranthos couldn’t take his eye off the ox, and tried to move away, but found it troubling to be assertive enough to move past the horses.

  They seemed to sense his nerves, and began to eye him more closely. Two even whinnied as he neared. The general chatter amongst the herd rose louder and louder as Ranthos tried to avoid the approaching oxen, and his fearful scents reached the nostrils of the beasts around him.

  He tried to walk behind the horses only, not wanting to disturb their march and perhaps anger them. He’d seen what a horse hoof could do to a man. Gertrude was never the same after that accident back in Tatzelton—or so Bell had told him.

  He moved behind a horse slowly, but found himself in the path of another, which he hadn’t seen, eying the ox so closely.

  It brayed and snorted at him to move aside, Ranthos dropped his eyes to let it pass. He stood still now, out from the path of the ox. It passed him and cast only a momentary eye towards him, uncaring.

  Ranthos took the first breath he had taken in—

  His back hit a thick body and his ears perked straight up as another ox behind him mooed. He turned around to meet an angry mist, and a threatening jerk of its horns. Ranthos flinched and ducked low to the ground, moving too fast for the likes of the nearby horses, who brayed and picked up speed themselves.

  Stay calm, Ranthos demanded himself. There was no danger here if he but stayed calm.

  “Dear cub,” said Remy.

  “Yes, Remy?” said Ranthos standing straight up again and planting his feet firmly, breathing deeply to alleviate his fearful heart. The horses passed by him without issue once more, and no oxen were near enough to notice him.