14
The Eyes of a Maiden
Pillars of dusty sunlight shone in the shaded glen around Ranthos and the buck, its heavy head hung low, its jagged crown shattered, and its skull lacking any skin. It breathed harshly, coughing and wheezing desperately. The golden flecks in the air spiraled around its lolling mouth and its torn throat with each of the creature’s breaths.
Ranthos stood, immobilized by fear before it. “I killed you,” he tried to say, but choked on his own voice. He took a breath, “I killed you,” he managed through his dread.
“You broke my body,” hissed the dangling lips of the buck with a raspy voice, “But I live.”
“No, no, you’re dead,” Ranthos said, cold fear running down his body like raindrops.
“Death has died,” spat the buck, shaking its broken head.
Ranthos was silent.
“No longer are we dust,” the oozing lips of the creature proclaimed. Worms slithered through its skull. “No longer do we fear Eternity. We have become Eternity.” The buck stepped closer.
Ranthos tried to flee, but found himself grappled by rent creatures, like the carcasses in the Labyrinth, each one rotting away and oozing with death, pulling each of his limbs down against the ground. Flies covered his skin as the creatures tore into his flesh with broken bones and ferocious teeth.
Ranthos struggled against them, but their soft bodies collapsed as he shoved them, trapping his hands and feet inside.
The buck loomed over him, heaved in a heavy breath, carrying into itself Ranthos’ fear, and shrieked.
Ranthos woke suddenly, in the dead of night, to find himself back in the camp in the canyon. It had been almost a week now of waiting. Ranthos took a few steps yesterday, but he was still in sorry condition. And his nightmares only worsened.
The buck was certainly dead. Ranthos had watched it burn on a pyre, and wore its scut around his neck. Ranthos could smell hot rage boiling in his stomach. He wondered why the creature must still haunt him. Why after all Ranthos had done to be free of hurts and worries, he was still tormented.
He held his wounded side and groaned as he got to his feet. He bore a number of antler-punctures, and each one stung as he moved. He first pulled himself to his knees, and then shakily to his feet. His leg, which was cased in a heavy splint, could barely hold him. Ranthos gritted his teeth as he shifted his weight. It all hurt like Hell.
He stumbled a few steps before bracing himself against the sandstone wall.
“Damn,” he spat, leaning off his broken leg.
“Easy there,” said Nosgrim.
“Scut!” Ranthos sputtered, “Nosgrim what—“ How’d Ranthos not smell him coming? He must’ve been too distracted by the wounds.
Nosgrim smelled kind, “Sorry, friend,” he said, offering a hand down to him.
Ranthos looked away for a moment, slightly ashamed, but Nosgrim didn’t move, and Ranthos took his hand and then his shoulder as Nosgrim walked him back to his bedroll and set him down on it slowly.
“Thanks,” Ranthos offered.
Nosgrim smiled and nodded. Then he sat himself on a rock nearby and folded his hands.
Ranthos was surprised.
Nosgrim never stayed to talk longer than he needed to. Nosgrim was thicker than Ranthos by a wide margin, had a deeper voice, and—though he was only twenty-three Winters old—was balding; it was tragic, and a sore subject for poor Nossy. He wore simple brown clothes and torn boots. Currently, he smelled like an unpleasant mixture of sweat and dirt. Vhurgus had him training almost all day for the past few days.
“How have you been sleeping?” Ranthos asked, almost wanting Nosgrim to ask him the same thing. He doubted that he would actually tell him about his nightmares, but he would have liked to have been asked anyway.
“Alright,” Nosgrim shrugged, “I had been sleeping on my chair since you and Bell moved in. So the new arrangement is actually an improvement.” He reached down to close and button Ranthos’ bag beside his bedroll. He then flattened it and patted it so it wasn’t creased, and then folded the strap in against it neatly.
This man was something else; he did that to everything, he couldn’t help it. Ranthos grinned. He was oddly glad to know something like that about his former worst enemy. He enjoyed having him around, really.
Curious, Ranthos reached over and grabbed his cloak, and handed it to Nosgrim, just to see what he’d do with it. “Thanks again for that, friend. I know Bell doesn’t do well without a proper mattress.”
Nosgrim took it without a word and dusted it off. He started folding it. “Don’t mention it,” he placed the cloak down by the bag, lining their bottom edges up against each other perfectly. “It was funny though; you never ended up needing that gold piece I gave you. Maybe it’ll come in handy on our journey.”
Ranthos’ eyes widened. He had folded the cloak to the exact size of the square bag. It was beautiful. He grabbed his boots, handed them over. There was no way he’d just do that again without question. And with a pair of crusty boots, no less. “Undoubtedly,” Ranthos said nonchalantly, “If the next town is anything like Tatzelton, a gold piece will go a long way.”
Nosgrim took the boots and frowned.
Damn.
Ranthos was foiled.
Before Ranthos’ bandaged face could curl into a full cringe, Nosgrim folded the soft of the boot down against the sole on each of them, and arranged them against the squares in yet another perfect square. “I’ve heard Sortie-on-the-Hill is better-to-do than Tatzelton.”
Ranthos couldn’t breathe. It was amazing. He took the edge of the folded cloak and tossed it out of formation.
“What the Hell, Ranthos?!” exclaimed Nosgrim, throwing his arms in the air before fixing it.
“Sorry,” Ranthos’ felt his ears flush. He supposed that was a step too far. “It looks really nice.”
Nosgrim grimaced, “Then why’d you scut it up?”
Ranthos sputtered, “I really don’t know, I’m sorry.” Just keep talking; change the subject. “It’s good to talk to you. I’ve been real anxious to get back on my feet and start training like you and Bell.”
Nosgrim creased his brow, “Now don’t you get too anxious. You’ve gotta heal right and proper before any of that.” Nosgrim was acting strangely protective of Ranthos, and strangely helpful, and attentive, and friendly. Maybe it was his way of returning the favor Ranthos did him.
But he still wanted to get back up and learn to fight. Some training like that would’ve made the buck encounter hurt a Hell of a lot less. “Yes, sir,” Ranthos said halfheartedly.
Nosgrim nodded. “You don’t want to be running, anyway. Vhurgus is a tyrant. He’s got us running our feet to the bone.”
“Sounds fun,” Ranthos said sarcastically.
Nosgrim chuckled, “I’m headed to sleep, you need anything before I do?”
Ranthos knit his brow. He was so kind. He sniffed for any ulterior motives and found none. “Uhm…” he thought for a moment.
Nosgrim waited patiently.
“You could stop folding things like an old lady!” Ranthos said, smiling.
Nosgrim rolled his eyes, “I’m going to bed.”
“Seriously,” Ranthos smiled and railed him a little more as he walked across the dead campfire to his bedroll. “What is that? It’s pointless.”
“It’s soothing,” Nosgrim said. “It just looks nice!”
“Yes…” Ranthos trailed off. He was right. “Still weird.”
“G’night, friend,” Nosgrim chuckled as he rolled over in his bedroll.
“G’night, friend,” Ranthos said.
“Gagh, scut, scut-damnit,” Ranthos stammered as he tried walking again the next day.
It was late afternoon, and they were sitting in the shade of the deep canyon. Really Bell should have been running with Nosgrim, but she weaseled her way out of it somehow. Vhurgus promised to make them fine warriors, but thus far only proved that they were poor runners.
“Ease i
nto it,” said Alrys, passing behind Ranthos. He was a well-built hodgepodge, half-man, half-alfar, like Ranthos and Bell, with long hair, red like theirs, which Ranthos never thought twice about, but Bell found fascinating. He wore a loose shirt and a long green vest that reached his knees, all tied with a thick leather belt with a large buckle made of gold. His muddy, worn boots, each had three golden buckles.
Ranthos assumed that someone who could afford to be wearing gold would take better care of it. He was dirtier than the average townsperson, but he did live on the road with the caravan—a group which neither Ranthos, Bell, or Nosgrim knew much of at all.
All Ranthos knew about any caravans was that the butcher who’d owned Nosgrim’s shop before he did had a son who, incidentally, owned Ranthos’ and Bell’s house before they did; that son was a drunkard who ran off to marry some caravaner girl and was then eaten by bears.
Bell helped Ranthos sit down on a log and sat down beside him. Once Alrys was out of earshot, Bell said, “Well, this is very difficult.”
She was wearing her yellow flowery dress and brushed her fingers through her dark red hair. Her clothes were absolutely filthy, a fact she was not happy with, but, on the bright side, her red-and-white striped stockings only had a few holes, and her hair was almost as close to a place of manageability as it could ever come. The only thing about her that was untouched by recent events was her bright, wide smile with dimples.
Ranthos only wore a pair of too-short trousers which he had almost outgrown, patched at the knees with scraps of patterned fabric, his suspenders dangling at the hip.
Ranthos smelled Bell’s frustration. “What is?” he asked, “The training? Or the rock-hard beds?”
“They’re not rock hard, Ranthos,” she said, shaking her head fervently, “They are rocks! It’s terrible!” She threw her arms up in the air and collapsed backward onto the ground, sprawled limply on the rocks. “And I thought Nosgrim’s bed was uncomfortable.”
Ranthos smothered a laugh.
She poked her head up to glare at him, “Yes, brother?”
His ears flushed, “Nothing, sister. This all sounds very difficult.”
“Mhm.” She nodded and lowered her head again.
“I’ve got to sit around and rot on the rocks all day long,” Ranthos bemoaned.
“It’s all terrible,” Bell said. She cleared her throat and proclaimed defeatedly, “I long for the fleshpots of Tatzelton.”
Ranthos didn’t understand. He tilted his head, “What’s that?”
“It’s Scripture,” she waved her hands in the air, “Or a joke about Scripture.”
“Oh,” Ranthos nodded, “Was it funny?”
“A little niche.”
“I wish I got it, then,” he smiled.
“Thank you, brother.”
“Since when did you know Scripture?”
Her head popped back up again, “I’d eavesdrop on morning services when you were out hunting some days. I’ve certainly told you.”
He didn’t doubt that, but at the same time did not remember, “Oh yes, I remember.”
She scowled.
Remy, Ranthos’ spotted white cat, slinked up beside Ranthos. He curled up and closed his eyes as Ranthos began stroking his fur. He was a good cat, and Ranthos suddenly realized that it had been a long while since Remy had spent any time with him at all.
“And Alrys has a lectionary he’s helping me read,” Bell said.
“Huh,” Ranthos never found the appeal of reading, and frankly, was illiterate. But he did see Bell enjoying herself some evenings with Alrys’ books. “What’s a lectionary?”
“Scripture! You heathen!” she exclaimed with arms outstretched to the sky.
“Oh, yes. I forgot,” he lied.
“You’re hopeless.”
Ranthos shrugged.
“Where’d Alrys get a book?”
“He found it in a destroyed monastery.”
“Where’d he find a monastery?”
Bell shrugged.
“He’s strange, isn’t he?”
“He’s kind!” Bell said, “He reminds me of you!”
Ranthos chuckled. He doubted that. But he was certainly kind to them. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Have you seen how much gold these caravaners wear?”
Bell nodded.
“Isn’t that strange?” In truth, it wasn’t even that much gold. But any gold was a large sum to a pair of Tatzelton hodges. “What’s the point of that?" he whispered so that only Bell could hear.
“It’s pretty,” said Bell, “I love Sarky’s necklace.”
“Then why does Alrys wear it on his grimy boots?”
“In truth,” Bell said, “I think he’s just an odd person. You’d do the same thing.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Probably not. What do you think, Remy?”
“Meow.”
Bell frowned and held up his arm to inspect his side. He wasn’t wearing a shirt—he didn’t these days. The bandages covered him up well enough. “Alrys,” she called, smelling fearful, “What’s this?”
Alrys walked over, and his eyes widened.
“Should it be turning black?” asked Bell.
“It very much should not be!” Ranthos shouted.
Bell looked up at him and patted his cheek and smiled, “Don’t worry, brother, everything is fine.”
Alrys crouched to see what Bell was looking at. “That’s not good at all. Cub, these are the antler wounds, yes?”
Ranthos looked down at them, “Those or the butcher’s cleaver.”
“No, I can see where that is,” said Alrys. “I feared that this would happen. We must leave sooner than expected.”
“How?” Bell asked, “He obviously can’t walk.”
Alrys sighed, “We’ll figure it out.”
“What’s wrong?” Ranthos could smell a bit of fear wafting off himself and didn’t like it. He thought of a happy kitten. That changed nothing.
Alrys thought for a moment, “Shall I put it to you delicately or tell you straight?”
Bell gasped, covered Ranthos’ ears with her hands and said with wide eyes, “You had better say it delicately. He’s a sensitive little cub.”
Ranthos batted her away, but groaned at the effort.
Alrys thought for a moment as he said carefully, “You’re rotting from the inside out.”
Ranthos felt like his eyebrows crawled all the way up his forehead. “What?”
Bell covered her mouth in her hands and whimpered.
“Do you have nightmares?” asked Alrys.
“No.”
Alrys raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“You’re almost dead. In time, it’ll turn your brain to mush, and turn your body into a walking corpse.”
That news was a surprise, to say the least. Ranthos hardly knew which way to think.
“I know a spell that can reverse the rotting inside you,” said Alrys, “But I cannot perform it here.”
“What is it?” asked Bell urgently, “Why can’t you do it?!”
“Because there aren’t enough magics in this land,” said Alrys.
“Then let us go somewhere else,” said Bell.
“We will,” said Alrys, “I promise you, Bell. I will do what I can when I can.”
“Alright,” said Bell, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands.
“How long do I have to live?" asked Ranthos.
“A month,” said Alrys, “More or less.”
“Will you find enough magic in a month to reverse it?” asked Ranthos.
“Don’t look so dour,” said Alrys, “Of course we will. I’ve got a plan.”
“And what’s that?” asked Bell.
“Once Ranthos is well enough to walk, we take him to our friend, a healer who has arrived at Sortie-on-the-Hill. There are sufficient magics in the grasslands about the city that I’ll be able to conjure enough magic to reverse the buck’s poison, and our healer friend will mend his wounds and
broken bones.”
Ranthos hoped he was right.
“You promise you’ll do this?” asked Bell.
“By my bones,” pledged Alrys, kissing his knuckle.
Bell seemed satisfied.
Ranthos passed the rest of the day staring blankly, contemplating mortality. Perhaps he was being dramatic, as Bell reassured him at every opportunity that, “They have healers that can make it all go away, Ranthos don’t you worry. Ranthos don’t be so down. Ranthos you’ve got a big happy, fun, happy life ahead of you. This is nothing.”
Ranthos couldn’t help but think that Bell was reassuring herself as much as she was him. It was sweet nonetheless.
Nosgrim was especially attentive to him that day, which Ranthos did not appreciate. Ranthos felt like a scut for shooing him away, but felt like just as much of a scut when Nosgrim was waiting on his every whim like a servant.
Later, everyone sat round the campfire while Bell passed out their dinner. “It’s not much, but it’s what I could manage with the poor supplies we have here.”
She said something similar every meal. Apparently it was not far-fetched for her to imagine that a hidden encampment in a dry canyon could boast a fully stocked kitchen. The food was perfectly fine, for what was available: stewed carrots and hare. A filling, if bland meal, a far departure from the extravagant suppers Ranthos was accustomed to. Nosgrim didn’t see any issue. He said that since Bell showed up, he’d eaten better than he ever had in his life.
“And that’s saying something,” Ranthos said.
Nosgrim chucked a spoon at his head, but quickly apologized, “Woah! Didn’t mean to hit your cut.”
“That’s alright. It’d be harder not to,” Ranthos said grimly, his smile fading slightly.
“So… If Nosgrim is wrong,” Bell asked Sarky, “Then how many types of magic are there?”
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 16
