A little generous if anyone asked Ranthos.
After she left, the Stranger began again quietly, as if uninterrupted, “Take the hood off. You’ve nothing that ought to be hidden. In fact, those menfolk ought to hide themselves from you.”
And Ranthos, not completely understanding why, slowly dropped his hood to his shoulders, hardly believing himself as he did it.
After a curt nod, the Stranger smiled and set a small, expensive-looking glass vial in front of Ranthos. Sniffing it, it was the same oil that coated the Stranger’s hair, that oil which prevented Ranthos from smelling any emotion on the Stranger. The kea leaves in Ranthos’ pocket only masked his scent to animals, but Bell—and he assumed this Stranger—could still smell what he felt. This hair oil must’ve been something very expensive. “You’d have a good head of hair; if you took care of it,” the Stranger said.
“Thanks…”
“Don’t mention it,” the Stranger said offhandedly as he tucked his small river stone into a pouch on his belt. “What brings you here, cub?”
“Hunting.”
“Ah, like everyone else in this Oneforsaken pit of a town…”
“I apologize for making a living.”
The Stranger laughed a bit, “You jest. I can’t imagine you’re making a living.”
“Well, actually —”
“Oh, shut it. Whatever you do earn, it’s not quite enough and nowhere near how much you should be earning,” he said, batting Ranthos' words away like flies. “How well do you hunt?”
“Weller than I’m paid.”
“Weller isn’t a word.”
“Is now,” Ranthos smirked.
The Stranger seemed to like that. “Regardless,” his eyes narrowed on Ranthos, “what’s the biggest thing you’ve killed?”
“Ten-pronged tatzelbuck wandering the flats past Chickenrock,” Ranthos replied almost rehearsedly. It was a great kill, and a better story. Because it was so impressive, Bell didn’t believe it, and Nosgrim wished it never happened.
“Smallest?”
Ranthos thought for a while, “Genu egret. My sister bet I couldn’t hit it.”
“Ahh…” The Stranger relaxed in his chair, disappointed, “I thought you were a huntsman.”
“I am.”
“No. You’ve some raw talent, also good blood, natural instincts maybe, but I’m in search of a huntsman.”
“For?”
“A very particular creature, far away from here.”
Far away? That’s interesting. His ears perked up, and he leaned over the table, “How far away?”
“Plenty farther than you’ve been.”
Ranthos’ skin prickled with excitement, “I’ll kill it.”
The Stranger must’ve smelled whatever brewing ambition radiated off Ranthos because he gave a wide smile with his uneven teeth. “This creature is said to be immortal.”
“Immortal?” Ranthos asked, reminded of the buck. “That’s impossible,” Ranthos said, but lacked true certainty in his voice.
“How do you know? Have you seen things… more mystical than mundane?” The Stranger questioned and leaned closer.
“‘Course not, just a thing that didn’t die when it should’ve.”
“And what’s that?”
“A buck. One I shot in the heart that kept walking.”
The Stranger smiled, “Wonderful.”
Ranthos was surprised, “You believe me?”
“I would know if you lied to me,” he said.
“I can help you hunt this far away creature.”
“How am I to know that you can? You haven’t even killed the buck yet.”
“Not for long,” Ranthos’ face was steeled, until his thoughts got the best of him. How could he kill something immortal? Aside from being a terrifying prospect, it was definitionally impossible.
“You’ll kill it then?” said the Stranger, impressed with his spunk.
“By my bones,” he swore against the terror.
“By your bones… a heavy oath. Do you understand what you’re saying?”
Ranthos paused. ‘By my bones’ was just a saying. To him, it meant little more than an emphatic ‘yes.’
“Someone who swears by his bones, swears by his soul. Our bones are the physical form of our spirit, our courage. Do you understand?”
“Sure.” Ranthos had heard something similar in the Saint Corwyn’s Church once as a child.
The Stranger sighed heavily, “I hope you take heed against such swearings.”
“No need. I’ll not fail.”
“Arrogant little cub, aren’t you?” his face lit up with a half-grin and raised eyebrows.
Ranthos flushed, but his face kept its sincerity, “It’s not arrogance if it’s true, is it?”
“And if it’s false?”
“Then, I suppose, the buck’ll kill me,” Ranthos’ heart sank into the pit of his chest as he thought of the beast again, and himself, powerless before it.
“Ah! Good!” The Stranger looked him deep in the eye and pounded his fist on the table in excitement, “Hunt it down, cub, or die and pray for iron.”
Ranthos gave a quizzical expression.
“If you die, you’ll understand what I mean…”
“What do you know about immortal creatures?” Ranthos asked.
“I know they don’t exist,” he said, “And I know that villainous folk mean them to. I am in the business of proving to those villainous folk that everything is mortal, and nothing escapes the end.”
Ranthos’ eyes widened, “This sounds like a fairy story.”
The Stranger chuckled, “In many ways, it is.”
Ranthos would’ve questioned the Stranger’s sanity had he not wanted so dearly for it all to be true.
“Kill it, and find me again, cub. Then we’ll talk of hunting faraway creatures. If you can do this, you’ll find true adventure. If you can kill this buck, cub, I will take you with me. You will face beasts unimaginable, and terrors unforgettable.” He spoke with a passion that seemed to originate from memories that were simultaneously scars and marks of honor.
“Terrors?” Ranthos asked, concerned.
“The Open Road is not for the weak of heart, cub. The Open Road which my family travels is fraught with danger. And we wolfhounds weren’t born to live mundane lives, cub. We are called to the cliffs of fear and the valley of death; to the mountaintops, dear cub.”
Ranthos felt his heart swell. He wanted nothing more than this. Like a flood, the realization of what he was missing drowned him. The mountaintops, meaning, purpose, each of these longings had dwelt silent in his heart until this Stranger named them; gave them form. He would kill this buck, and then climb to the mountaintops, from which he would behold the world in all its glory and peace.
“Who are you?” Ranthos finally decided to ask the Stranger.
“A Stranger,” he said as if he read Ranthos' mind, then smiled and stood, “whom I hope you’ll remember.”
Ranthos stood too, but slower, more pensively.
The Stranger smiled, clasped Ranthos by the shoulders, and looked him over with a curious eye. “Now stay out of trouble,” the Stranger said, “or better yet, don’t.” Then he left with a courteous bow of his head to both Ranthos and to the serving girl.
Watching the Stranger march out the creaky door, Ranthos' unhooded ears tingled; they were cold, and he felt naked, but the Stranger said he had nothing to hide. He also had a dead flea in his hair, which was disgusting.
No, actually, he’s got plenty to hide, he’s a hodge, walking refuse, a scapegoat on two legs, a bullyable lowlife.
What was the problem anyway? These local folk couldn’t smell what’s right in front of them, or hear what’s screaming in their ears, and he did nothing to provoke them but be born. Tatzelton folk were morons, buffoons, and fat, ugly, balding butchers, while he, and more truthfully, his sister, were worthwhile people. And who’s treated like animals? “We are.” His upper lip twitched and he felt a rus
h of blood to his ears. Snapping his hood onto his head, he slumped back into his chair, with a scrape and a creak.
Breathing slowly, he cleared the anger out of his head till he couldn’t smell it on himself.
On to more important things: the buck, and how, by his bones, he could ever kill it. And what did the mountaintops mean? He didn’t care. He needed to get there.
5
A Thoroughly Useless Butcher
“You have to help me, because if I kill it, I can leave Tatzelton,” said Ranthos, standing in the back doorway of the butchery. He pleaded with Nosgrim while the sour-faced fellow tossed organs into the back alley for the feral dogs.
The sun had set already and Ranthos hadn’t even been walking down the market row for half a moment before Nosgrim demanded the day’s catch—a less than pleasant conversation, and even more so after Ranthos told the ‘outlandish lie’ of the massive tatzelbuck.
“I’m smart enough to know not to give you a week’s pay in advance to hunt some buck that doesn’t exist,” Nosgrim said in his usual self-righteous manner.
“You know,” Ranthos began with a flare of his hands, exasperated to high Hell, “we’ve never been friends, and that’s not what I’m asking you to be, but can’t you just do me one favor? We’ve both helped each other survive here in this mudhole, and now I’ve got a way out. Don’t you see what that is? A way out, damnit.”
Nosgrim tossed the last bit of deer-gunk and started into the back room of his butchery, shoving past Ranthos.
Ranthos followed, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t need you,” said Nosgrim, turning his bald head to Ranthos, who held aside a hanging deer carcass in order to see Nosgrim’s face, “ My butchery does fine without you,” he lied, "If you think that —by my bones—I would ever pay you in advance to chase after some nonsense like this, you are wronger than you’ve ever been.”
Ranthos wanted to leave. He dropped his face against the doe in his hands defeatedly. He’d heard everything that Nosgrim said a hundred times before, but they cut him today because Nosgrim crushed that fleeting hope the Stranger offered. But he didn’t leave. Ranthos hoped that his determination stemmed from something noble, but inside he knew that it was little more than wounded pride. “Wronger isn’t a word,” he replied.
“It’s a word,” Nosgrim said, and left his mouth hanging in an angry sort of way. Like a dog at the end of a chain. He pointed to the door, “Now go home.”
“No,” Ranthos let the deer swing and the chain dangling it from the ceiling creaked and scratched against itself, making both him and Nosgrim cringe. “Look at all this catch. It’s all mine,” Ranthos started, gesturing to the various animals dangling around the room, “This is the doe from yesterday, I grunted that bucket of worms on Monday, those three hares hanging in the corner were from my traps, and where’s that wild pig?”
“Sold it,” Nosgrim grimaced.
“Sold it!? You sold my kill. You need me. Nothing else in this room is from any other hunter. And I don’t sell to anyone else, toecheese.”
“Toecheese?”
“It’s an insult!” Ranthos said, finger extended in a whirl of his hand.
“You don’t sell to anyone else because no honorable butcher will buy from you, hodge.”
“And no honorable hunter will sell to you, orphan.”
Nosgrim wasn’t angry, but embarrassed. Angry would’ve been preferable, as embarrassed Nosgrim was an unreasonable, tyrading monster.
“I’m not asking for much, Nosgrim, please.”
“You’re making up stories. You half-witted piece of—”
Ranthos tried to shove past him in a fit, but caught the strap of his satchel on the handle of the cleaver in Nosgrim’s pocket. Two rocks rolled out, one landing on Nosgrim’s toe, his coil of rope unspooled and rolled across the room, and two broken arrowheads clinked onto the floor.
“Scut!” Nosgrim shouted, hopping on one foot. “The Hell is wrong with you?!”
Ranthos flushed hot, and immediately stooped down and scrambled to collect his things. He snatched up a rock and shoved it back in, the arrowheads too, and began frantically coiling his rope back together.
Nosgrim picked up the rock that fell on his foot and smelled like he felt a pang of some distant recognition—it was hard to discern. Ranthos looked up at him and saw disgust on his face. He was looking at the green, yellowish, and red stone. The one Ranthos had offered him when they lived in the orphanage.
Ranthos stood and snatched it out of his hands before he could say a word.
Nosgrim tried to speak, but Ranthos quickly put in, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I’m going to hunt this buck, and I’ll do it without your help, and you’ll have to survive without my catch.”
“What about your ratty sister? How are you going to take care of her without my pay?”
Ranthos’ ear twitched, and he said—almost shouting, fists clenched and teeth barred, “Don’t you call her ratty.” His voice died down, but the snarl in his nose curled for a second longer.
Nosgrim flinched, but didn’t say anything.
Ranthos slammed the door behind him on the way out. The rage brimming on his skin burnt his nose like smoke. The feral dogs in the alley parted ways for him, and Remy, whose scent Ranthos caught nearby, gave him a wide berth.
Nearing his house, however, Ranthos forced his attitude into control by thinking of how he's going to tell Bell about the buck and the Stranger's offer, and how they're going to leave Tatzelton and go somewhere without all these pointless troubles.
He imagined the mountaintops again. He saw Tatzelton as a speck in the distance. Everything that he ever knew, all the insurmountable troubles were but an insect to the magnificence offered him atop the mountains. He imagined that place to be quiet, save the wind, and scentless save the air. He could feel in his bones an ache for something higher, a place where his heart could rest. He could feel that ache for truth.
Something was true about that mountain, something that wasn’t true about Tatzelton. Atop that mountain, he could feel in the very marrow of every bone of his body, that there would be the truth revealed to him, that truth of the feeble speckness of his life now, and the glory of all that he’d find there. The things which he couldn’t imagine, the truths at the peak that he couldn’t anticipate.
Nosgrim may be in his way, but for this moment at least, Ranthos could see that he was a pebble on the road. He knew that he’d lose this optimism by next morning, but he also knew that whatever he felt next morning was further from the mountaintops and therefore less true than what he felt now.
He calmed himself as he squeezed past the crowds, thinking of the climb up the mountain with Bell. He knew the smells and the sights would be breathtaking, and there wasn’t a soul who he’d rather climb with than her.
They could get there. He knew it. He really did. The mountaintops were far, but they’d found a compass. His heart raced, and his hands shook out of genuine excitement, though he still knew nothing of what was there.
The rest of the walk home, he mused on what it could be that drew his heart to that place, but couldn’t concoct anything good enough.
Now grinning wildly, Ranthos blasted through the doorway, almost knocked the door off its hinges and made Bell cringe when he shouted, “You will not believe what happened!” his face radiated pure ecstatic joy and thrill, “it’s the craziest, most mad, mostest unbelievable thing that’s happened to anyone ever.”
“Good Heavens!” said a startled Bell, brushing a knot out of her hair. “You startled me,” she said, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal.
“How? Didn’t you hear me coming?” Ranthos sat onto his chair across the table from her.
“I wasn’t expecting you to shout at me,” she said, then changing topics without pause, “Look at this, what do you think?” she held up the dress she was working on. She began to explain all the intricacies and the details of the floral embroidery before Ranthos interrupted
her.
“Bell, this is important!” he pounded his fists on the table.
She raised an eyebrow, “So is this.” She smelled slightly hurt.
Ranthos felt that detestable pang in his chest, and forced the words out, “Bell… tell me about this dress you’ve made.”
Her ears perked up and, smiling, she explained it all, starting over from the beginning. Ranthos didn’t listen, but smiled, nodded, and complimented the handiwork. He didn’t know much about sewing or anything similar, but the dress looked nice, the flowers looked almost real, and he was glad she was enjoying herself.
Once she finished, she then asked him, very excitedly, what happened to him that brought him into the house in such a fuss.
He smiled and began to explain the encounter with the buck, with raving hand motions and a crazed gleam in his eye, from the loss of smell, to the shrieking, and finally to the Stranger, “He said that if I can kill this buck, he’d take us to the mountaintops! And—and—and further. Do you see what this means, Bell? We could leave. This is our way out.”
Bell, who sat listening to the story wide-eyed, finally spoke, “What color were the flowers in that glade?”
“Some were yellow,” Ranthos said, then tilted his head and furrowed his brows. “Did you not hear the important parts?”
“I did,” she said, “I was just wondering about the flowers.”
“Uhm, alright,” said Ranthos.
“Do you trust the Stranger?” she asked.
“I couldn’t smell him, but I could hear him,” Ranthos answered, “He wasn’t lying.”
“Do you think it’s possible to kill it?”
Ranthos was unsure, “Yes,” he said.
“So you’re going to do it right?” Bell said, standing and stepping nearer him, “Kill the buck?”
“I am going to try,” he said, mustering as much resolve as he could.
“Oh! Ranthos!” she exclaimed and then hugged her brother briefly. She twirled her skirts and ran about the room, packing her things into baskets and flour sacks, telling herself of all the things she’ll see out in the world outside, and of all the things she’s heard others speak of out there.
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 6
