Bell shook her head, “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either… I am sorry Bell,” he said, “I’ll be better with him.”
Bell nodded, “Thank you.”
Ranthos smiled faintly.
“You’re very brave, Ranthos,” said Bell earnestly, her eyes wide.
Ranthos averted his eyes. She wouldn’t think so if she had seen him at the Shortcut.
“I know you don’t believe me… but I think you are,” she smiled.
Ranthos tried to disagree.
“You work very hard,” she said, “and you’re really bad at a lot of things.”
He rolled his eyes.
“But you’re hunting this monster to save us,” Bell looked at his face kindly while he tried to hide behind some fallen strands of hair. “That’s very brave.”
“Bell,” he said in a low voice, “It’s hardly bravery…”
She lifted his chin, brushed away the hair from his face, and removed his hood. They were seldom affectionate enough, and that small touch heartened him enough that he might meet her eye.
Ranthos’ heart hammered inside his chest, “I am so afraid.”
“I know,” Bell said, “It would not be bravery if you weren’t.”
He shook his head, but he hardly even knew what he thought, save that he was a coward, and that therefore Bell was wrong. Miss Cinnamon said that the only reason he wanted to kill the buck was to prove that he could; that he wasn’t the hodge they said we was; that he could do the impossible. If Miss Cinnamon was right, then Ranthos was a selfish scut.
Further, if the buck killed him, then Bell’s only escape from the watch was gone.
It was plain as his racing heartbeat that the task set before him was impossible to achieve, and merely trying to kill the buck had put Bell in greater danger than before, for if the buck killed him, then her only escape from the watch’s manhunt was gone.
He was so afraid that he was that person Miss Cinnamon said he was.
Ranthos began speaking with a timid undertone in his voice and a terrified oversmell on his body, “I don’t think—“
“I actually don’t care what you think,” Bell said flatly with a grin and inspired eyes as she straightened her back to speak, “I care that you kill it.” She pointed one finger to him; her hand shook slightly, “Because I believe that you are the person that could, if you stop submitting to the fear and fight it.”
Ranthos' ears flushed, and he sniffed the happy scent on his sweaty shirt. He shifted his stance to be a bit more upright and heroic, then said the only thing he could manage, “… Thank you, Bell.”
Bell didn’t smile, but her eyes bore an honesty as sweet as honey and as damning as Hellfire.
By his bones, he had better not disappoint her.
He thought he should kiss her on the head, because she was a wonderful sister and his best friend, and, well… Ranthos kissed her on the head. Bell smiled a full, toothy, dimpled smile up at him through curls of red hair.
Bell’s twangy ears perked and her face brightened, lifting the somber mood, “Wash up, you smell horrid.”
“You smell like Nosgrim,” Ranthos shot back.
Bell hurled her shoe at his head and marched off to Nosgrim’s bed to finish embroidering what looked to be his stinky apron. That was nice of her. “I have so much work to do, Ranthos, you silly boy.” She raised her chin at him. “You’re clearly exhausted and acting just looney.”
Ranthos seemed offended, “Strong words, Bell.”
Nosgrim slipped through the door into the room. He seemed overly cautious. “Everything safe in here?”
“Uhm, yes,” said Ranthos.
“Alright,” he raised his palms, “I just didn’t hear anything. I was worried.”
“Nossy!” Bell raised her eyebrows, “Were you? That’s so sweet. Don’t you worry about us.”
He smiled and blushed, mumbling a reply. He looked to Ranthos and straightened his posture. “Keep up the… Keep hunting good.”
“Thank you,” Ranthos grinned, “I will.”
“Alright. Alright,” he dried his hands on his breeches, “Alright, stay safe.”
“Thank you, Nossy!” Bell called after him as he left the room. “He’s so good to us, isn’t he, Ranthos?”
Ranthos, lying himself down on Nosgrim’s straw mat, mumbled a begrudging reply before saying, “Goodnight, Bellelar,” too tired to remember that it was morning.
“Goodnight, Ranthos,” she said sweetly before returning to her work.
Ranthos rolled into his cloak and tried to sleep. Despite brave words said, Ranthos was still wracked with dread; he spent the day in sparse sleep, stitching up the torn patches in his soul so that when the moon rose again, he would be ready to battle fear.
His sleep was long and fitful, plagued by imaginings of the rent dead; he felt as if he’d looked into the sun and its shape had burned itself onto his eyes, mounds of savaged deer bits and the dangling intestines of a still-living leopard.
“So, uhm. Who do you think did it?” Nosgrim asked, tossing Bell a deer steak to cook on his small fire pit.
“Did what?” Bell asked, sprinkling seasonings onto the meat.
Nosgrim looked both ways and whispered, “Killed Erhardt.”
Ranthos, who had been sleeping, or trying to, looked up at them, interested. He’d hardly slept, and the night was already upon them. He’d have to leave soon. With all that had transpired, he hadn’t any time to think about who killed Erhardt. “It doesn’t matter now that they think I did.” His voice was scratched and worn from the lack of sleep.
“Sure,” ceded Nosgrim, “But we’re mostly certain that you didn’t.”
Bell chuckled, Ranthos squinted grimly. Nosgrim seemed amused with himself.
“Ranthos!” Bell crouched beside him and tilted her head to see him underneath his cowl. She had a huge dimply smile. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine,” he said, sitting up.
“Bullshcite,” said Nosgrim, “You were tossing and turning all day.”
Bell glared at him. “I think,” she said, changing the subject with a raised finger, “That it was the Hunter’s Guild who killed Erhardt.”
“You’re crazy,” said Ranthos and Nosgrim simultaneously.
They gave each other a look, but quickly looked away again.
“I am in no way crazy,” she said, returning to her cooking, “Now listen up boys, allow me to explain… who has anything to gain from Ranthos’ death?”
“I do,” Nosgrim said.
Bell hit his arm with a spoon, “Be nice! And it’s the Hunter’s Guild! They don’t like him hunting their game in their woods.”
“So they kill Erhardt?” Nosgrim said, shaking his head.
“So they frame Ranthos for killing Erhardt!”
“They could’ve just killed me,” Ranthos said, “They wouldn’t have needed to kill Erhardt too.”
“He’s got a point,” Nosgrim said.
“Alright, then. What do you think, Ranthos?”
“I don’t know,” he said, brushing off the question. The entire ordeal made him nervous.
“Betcha it was Miss Cinnamon,” Nosgrim said.
“What?” Bell didn’t believe him.
“She’s got all that magic… Who knows why sorcerers do what they do,” Nosgrim said, “Think about it.”
“Miss Cinnamon is not a sorcerer,” said Bell.
Ranthos cocked his head, “What’s a sorcerer then?”
“Well,” Bell held her palms out to explain, “There are three—or maybe four—yes four. Four types of magic in the world.”
“I knew that,” said Nosgrim, sitting back in his chair confidently.
“But sorcery is different from Miss Cinnamon,” Bell said. “Sorcery has to do with blood.”
“No, that’s alfar magic,” Nosgrim said.
“No!” Bell said, “No, I heard some ladies in town saying that Miss Cinnamon uses blood in her readings.”
“I didn’t see any blood,” said Ranthos.
“And she’s not an alfar,” said Nosgrim.
“But she’s not a sorcerer,” Bell said.
“I think she is,” said Nosgrim. “She’s got to be… There aren’t any leylines that run through Tatzelton, so she can’t be an alchemist, and she’s not alfish, so she can’t use alfar magic.”
Ranthos laughed, “You two don’t believe any of that, do you?”
“Oh, Ranthos,” Bell said, “Of course we do.”
“Humor us,” Nosgrim said, “You’re hunting a magic buck.”
Ranthos rolled his eyes, “Alright, fine. I’m listening.”
“There are four types of magic: alchemy, alfar magic, sorcery, and atvyyrk.”
“Alfar magic and atvyyrk are the same,” Nosgrim said.
“And how would you know anything about alfar magic, Nosgrim?” Bell said.
“Because I read it on a tapestry,” Nosgrim said.
“You can read?” Ranthos asked.
“Can you not?” Nosgrim asked.
Bell shook her head.
“Course I can,” Ranthos lied, knowing that Nosgrim couldn’t hear his heartbeat quicken.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Nosgrim said.
“Shut it,” Ranthos crossed his arms.
“There are three types of magic,” said Nosgrim, “Humans can draw magic from the leylines to do alchemy, alfar draw magic from their blood, and sorcerers draw magic from Weird arcane powers.”
“Who are sorcerers, then?”
“Anyone, I think,” Nosgrim said, “But you have to make a pact with the arcane.”
He was pretty sure that they had no idea what they were talking about. They’d contradicted themselves at least twice already. “That’s fantasy,” Ranthos blurted out.
Nosgrim shrugged. “I believe it.”
“And so do I,” proclaimed Bell, “and you should too, Ranthos. Maybe then you’d be happier if you had a little magic.”
“Alright, then Nosgrim, my wizardly friend,” Ranthos said, leaning forward, “Then why, pray tell, would Miss Cinnamon, a sorcerer, kill Erhardt?”
His eyes took on a wide and fearful grandeur, “To please the Weird.”
“That’s ludicrous.”
“I believe it,” Bell said, “Alright, Ranthos, come up with a better theory.”
“Easy,” he said with a smirk, “After your guesses I can say literally anything, and I will be closer to the truth.”
“So you did kill him…” Nosgrim said ponderingly.
Bell squinted and pursed her lips, “That doesn’t follow.”
“Or maybe it does,” Nosgrim said. He touched his temple and mouthed, ‘Think about it.’
“It was someone named the Hexencaster,” Ranthos said. “Erhardt, Yannick, and Wilbur were chasing him… But Yannick and Wilbur didn’t see him, so they think it was me.”
“Do we know it’s a him?” Nosgrim asked.
“I think so,” Ranthos said, “I think they said he.”
“What were the three of them doing out in the wood?” asked Bell.
“I don’t know,” said Ranthos, “It makes little sense. And they were all wearing sheepskin vests, too. Like the people who burnt down the house.”
“This stinks of sorcery,” said Nosgrim.
Bell nodded.
“Then what’s a Hexencaster?”
“A sorcerer,” Nosgrim said.
“I don’t think so,” Bell said.
Nosgrim rolled his eyes.
“Were all three of them chasing the Hexencaster?” asked Bell.
“Probably,” said Ranthos, “Though only Erhardt actually recognized him, and I don’t think Yannick and Wilbur heard him.”
“How did they confuse the person they were chasing with Ranthos?”
“The Hexencaster was probably fairly handsome,” Ranthos said with a shrug.
“Nope. Next idea,” said Nosgrim.
Ranthos tossed his boot at Nosgrim, “Shut it, Nossy!”
Nosgrim growled a bearish laugh.
“Now I think this was a great discussion and I think we are very close to solving this mystery,” Bell said, as she presented finally the dish that she had been working on this whole while. It smelled delicious and tasted better. The three of them laughed quietly over the meal before bidding Ranthos a good hunt.
He drew his hood and began out the door.
“Ranthos, uhm,” Nosgrim said, stopping him with a heavy hand on his shoulder, “Before you go… I was thinking about it. And suppose you actually can’t kill this thing…”
“Yes?”
“If it’s not going to die, you could try to put it into a whole mess of different pieces, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he said, “Look at this fellow.” He gestured to a side of deer hanging on a hook in the other room, extremities all carved and removed. “It can’t really do much, even if all its parts were still kicking. If I were that Stranger, I’d consider an immobilized demon practically the same as a dead one.”
“Hmm,” Ranthos considered it. “How am I going to take it apart?”
Nosgrim furrowed his brow, “With this,” he gave him his meat cleaver, tied in a leather bundle.
“I don’t know if—”
“You have a better idea?”
Ranthos dropped his face, “I do not,” and accepted the cleaver, looping the strap around his belt. “Thank uhm,” he cleared his throat, “Thank you,” he managed.
Nosgrim nodded.
“I oughta go,” Ranthos said. He knew the dark and rancid wood held no pleasantries in store for him. The wood was once his home, but now it was tainted, rotten. Ranthos felt like a leaf fallen in Spring. Everything he had days ago was gone. He dreaded to return.
“Very well,” said Bell with a worried scent, “Be careful, alright, Ranthos?”
“Yes, Bell,” he opened the back door.
“You’ll kill it tonight, eh?” Nosgrim said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.
“Uhm, sure,” said Ranthos without turning around.
“Alright!” Bell said cheerily, “Make sure—”
But Ranthos closed the door on her.
He marched away.
“What a scut,” sneered Nosgrim from inside.
Bell didn’t reply.
Ranthos smelled her sadness as he walked off.
Before he could turn around to make amends, out of the thousands of Tatzelton smells, Ranthos caught a whiff of one very sweet hair oil. It was far off, but unmistakable. Anger fumed in Ranthos’ chest. He marched through the back alleys until he saw shiny long hair, lathered heavily in this sweet oil.
The Stranger.
11
In the Dirt
The Stranger dressed himself now with arms, equipped with wrought iron pauldrons and a shield strung over his shoulder; a cord around his waist dangling beasts’ teeth and claws, precious stones, and other wild trinkets; and the same dusty cowskins over his shoulders that Ranthos had seen before, and a green tunic underneath that. He must’ve had a weapon somewhere in his bag. It was wise not to show that so openly, even if every other aspect of his appearance was girded for a fight.
“Stop you!” Ranthos snarled and spun the Stranger around by his cowskin poncho, “You were real vague and unhelpful,” he said, shaking an accusatory finger, “This buck is… um… dangerous,” Ranthos understated. “I’m in far over my head.”
The Stranger’s face was bothered at first, but then he recognized Ranthos, “Ranthos, cub! How are you? Did you kill it?” he asked, arms out for a hug he didn’t receive and felt a little awkward about.
“No. Because I’ve no idea how to kill something that can’t be killed,” Ranthos said, thinking the Stranger ought to know that.
“That’s a shame… Because if you can’t, I’ll be needing another huntsman…” he said, brows furrowed.
“I’m going to kill it, alright,” Ranthos said without regar
d for volume. He let out a breath, “But some advice would be appreciated, Stranger.”
The Stranger smiled, “What steps have you taken already?”
“I’ve spoken to the Tatzelteller.”
He smiled and nodded, “She’s funny, isn’t she? Did she tell you anything?”
“She said I can kill it with friendship.”
“Did you try that?” the Stranger asked.
Ranthos paused, “Sort of, we’re kind of friends now, but not in a way that—”
“Well, there you go,” the Stranger nodded, sending a whiff of hair oil into Ranthos' sniffer and readjusting his pauldron. Ranthos noticed now that it was engraved with skulls and stylized flowers. The Stranger looked around him. He was obviously up to something. But he took this moment to speak with Ranthos, “Kill it with your friendship, talk to me when it’s dead, then we’re in business, far away,” he obviously knew how important leaving Tatzelton was to Ranthos, and he dangled “far away” like yarn before a cat.
“I can’t—You don’t expect me to trust Miss Cinnamon’s ludicrousy?”
“You trusted my ludicrousy. I didn’t believe a fortune teller’s word would be less credible than a Stranger’s,” he shrugged his spotted shoulders, then straightened his green robes, “I’ve business to attend to,” he rubbed some dust off his river stone, the same one he had at the Oakstop.
Ranthos would never forget a rock.
He smelled something odd on the Stranger’s clothes. It smelled like blood. Ranthos’ eyes widened as he developed a slight suspicion—no, that’d be preposterous. There was no evidence supporting that idea.
Ranthos couldn’t shake the feeling, though, and decided that he had to ask. “Are… Are you the one who…”
“Cub, it’s great to see you, but—”
“Are you the Hexencaster?”
The Stranger scowled, “I don’t know what you mean.” He lied.
“They thought it was me,” Ranthos said coldly.
A worried look crossed his face, “I am sorry, cub.”
“That’s it?!” Ranthos raised his voice perhaps too loud, “They burned—”
“I know,” said the Stranger, holding his palms out to Ranthos, “Quiet your voice now. They’re searching for us.”
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 12
