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

by Jasper B. Hammer

  Bell struggled against his grasp; she needed to escape, and she needed to do it fast. She tried to cut his arm, but her blade was deflected by his armor. She could hear the sheep nearing. Bell kicked at his groin and tried to stab the hand that held her hair. Her hair got caught in the chinks of the heavy gauntlets as he tightened his grip on her. Bell would have cut her own hair off if that would give her a chance at escape; but there wasn’t enough room between his hand and her head.

  The sheep moaned. Closer now.

  Bell thrust her sword at Bull’s Hoof’s chin, the dulled, melted point bloodying his lip and slipping past it into his mouth; Bell heard teeth chip. She dropped the sword in disgust.

  “Wwah!” screamed Bull’s Hoof, before releasing Bell’s hair and calling her a rather disrespectful name.

  Bell landed on her feet, but struggled to keep her balance. She was surrounded by absolute chaos, and struggled against every fiber of her being to not freeze. Everything in her vision melted together, and she felt like she’d lost control of her body. The scent of fear rose in her faster and faster, doubling on itself, tempting her to hold still and let them take her just so that it would go away.

  Fear was a sickly scent, like a rotting carcass, or like clotted blood.

  Bell wanted it gone. She could hardly stand it any longer. She wanted so dearly to be anywhere but here. She wanted a locked door to hide behind, and a cozy chair with a pot of flowers.

  But all she had was the scent of fear.

  Be brave, Bellelar.

  Bell could feel her limbs freezing up like they did when they were ambushed at the shortcut; she could feel herself giving in to the fear. She couldn’t see anything past the murky tears welling in her eyes. Bell became lost in her own body, like she was drowning inside herself.

  Good Heavens, Bellelar.

  Ranthos needs you to be better than this.

  Bell turned on her heel, kicked away the ugly face of a sheep, and ran further into the city.

  The rough cobblestone road quickly tore through Bell’s red and white striped stockings. A mixture of mud and blood seeped between her toes and splashed up onto the hem of her skirts. Bell wiped the grime away from her eyes and her mouth. She spat grainy mud out onto the road, which she slowly found to become more and more muddy as she ran up the hill to the center of town. Her muscles cramped as she climbed the hill; she felt like she had been caught in a steel trap. Her breath felt heavier than her entire body, and she felt as though she were suffocating, unable to inhale fast enough.

  The sheep were slipping over their own feet, but Bull’s Hoof slowly gained on her. Bell panted a prayer of thanks under her breath that she had some measure of training as her legs carried her up the hill. Some fighting techniques would have come in handy, but Bell hurriedly concluded that, because she was still alive, she was in no condition to complain.

  She could hear more and more folk from within the houses hush themselves as she neared, and whisper about the devil-sheep that chased her, and the ‘one with the hammer.’

  Absolutely no one cared enough to help. She felt like she was in Tatzelton again.

  Bell crested the hill of which Sortie-on-the-Hill was named, and entered the town square, where she found a circle of large covered wagons—like the Drake’s Tongue, the wagon where Vhurgus had found his friends dead, except these were blackened and burned. Smoke wafted off the smoldering embers. Charred corpses littered the street, propped up in grotesque and vulgar positions.

  Bell was woefully unprepared to see such a sight. Bell could see their lips pulled away from their black teeth; she could look at their pained faces, but hear no breath. A remnant of her childhood innocence shattered and tore away from her. They were clearly people, people like herself, or Ranthos, or Nosgrim, but poured out and left empty.

  Bell felt like she was falling into a bottomless pit, and scrambled desperately to crawl out, but couldn’t shake the image of Ranthos’ empty face from her mind.

  “Ranthos wake up,” she murmured, holding his cold cheeks, as tears rushed down her own.

  Focus, Bellelar.

  She heaved in a quivering breath and clenched her fists, forcing herself to act.

  This was likely the place where Vhurgus was expecting to find Blossom, the healer. Bell listened for any living caravaners within, but couldn’t hear much past the murmurs in the surrounding buildings, the crackling fires, and the clattering of hooves and iron armor behind her. If Blossom was still alive, then she certainly wouldn’t be here, but perhaps Bell could possibly find some sign as to Blossom’s whereabouts.

  If she wasn’t dead, of course.

  Through Bell’s heaving breaths, she forced herself with all the might she could muster to clear her mind of her fears and brave what was set before her. She had to act under the supposition that Blossom was still alive and that there was still cause to hope. She couldn’t bear the thought of anything else. If Blossom was dead, then so were Ranthos and Sarky. And truthfully, Bell and Vhurgus were probably through if there was truly nothing to find in Sortie-on-the-Hill.

  The supposition of hope was all she had, so Bell bolted forward. Her feet felt hot as she tread over smoldering bits of wood, and she kicked up clouds of ash around each step.

  Bull’s Hoof emerged from behind a broken wagon and arced his hammer over his head and down at Bell.

  Bell thrust her fingers into the scalding embers below her, gathered them in her fist, and flung them at his eyes. She screamed at the top of her lungs as it burned her palm.

  Bull’s Hoof screamed similarly, though much deeper, as he stumbled around blindly, trying to scratch out the hot coals from beneath his helmet.

  The sheep were drawing near.

  Bell rushed to the body of a burnt caravaner and pushed it off its pike and onto the ground with her shoulder and a strained grunt. She gripped the pike with both hands and heaved it out of the ground, her burnt palm tender against the blackened wood.

  She narrowly batted away a biting sheep with a wide swipe. The pike clattered against the ground heavily. Bell’s arms felt like they would be torn off by the momentum.

  With great effort, she shoved the pike through the side of the other sheep. Bell was sickened by the ease with which the instrument pierced the rotten flesh of the sheep. Bull’s Hoof swung his hammer at the other sheep, disoriented. It moaned and bleated as he crushed it, finally removing his helmet so that he could wipe his eyes clean. Bell needed to kill a sheep—or him. She would never escape if they all kept following her. Bell pulled the pike out from the side of the sheep and stabbed down at its face, pinning its head to the muddy ground. It was immobilized, for now.

  Bull’s Hoof was obviously frustrated that Bell had eluded him for so long. He doubled over, flushing bright red, and screamed his throat hoarse. He lifted the hammer in one hand and charged forward.

  The free sheep tripped on the other, and Bull’s Hoof trampled them both and crashed his hammer onto the skull of the final dangerous sheep out of pure frustration. If Bell were able to smell anything but fear, she was sure that his rage would be almost nauseating.

  Bull’s Hoof groaned as he lifted his hammer, trailing strings of blood from the mound of flesh that was left of the sheep’s head. And the sheep were dealt with.

  Bull’s Hoof screamed again, and Bell scurried away from him. Bull’s Hoof gave chase.

  Bell slipped in the mud as she ran down the hill, her body meeting hard stone. She finally began to sense the pains that covered her body. Her fatigue began to set in as well. Bell teetered on the brink of consciousness as she rose to her bare feet.

  Stand up and keep running, Bellelar.

  She had to find Blossom, and she was not here, and likely nowhere to be found in Sortie-on-the-Hill.

  Bell finally regained her sense of smell as she put more distance between herself and the sheep. Blood, sweat, mud, smoke, ash, burning hair, fright, anger, manure.

  She spied a stable full of horses, which could be as good a distra
ction as any. Bell turned right sharply and burst through the swinging gates into a long building with a rickety roof and large windows. Saddles and tack lined the walls, and the back side of the stable was lined with stalls. Within, the mighty horses brayed and reared in their stalls as she entered. None of them recognized her, and they all must’ve smelled her fear and Bull’s Hoof’s anger following her. Bell counted four horses, none of which smelled happy to see her. She could hear their breathing tense as she arrived, covered in blood. She could feel their hooves stamp the ground with her bare feet and sense their muscles ripple with every step.

  A gray stallion in the corner lowered its ears and eyed Bell threateningly, while two chestnut nags retreated to the backs of their stalls and whinnied. A dappled black and white working mare with a long mane and thick limbs stamped its hooves on the floor and shook its head, tense and expectant; the only one in the stable who hadn’t made their mind up about Bell just yet.

  Bull’s Hoof was hot on her trail, so she decided that it was time for action. Bell lifted her sore, tired body over the gate and into the dappled mare’s stall. She looked ready to kick Bell’s head off her shoulders, but confined herself to stamping. Bell crouched out of sight and lifted her hands to the dappled mare.

  Bull’s Hoof’s hammer crashed through the doors, sending them rocketing off their hinges. The horses within became immediately more anxious, and a great deal louder.

  The dappled mare snorted at Bell before rearing as Bull’s Hoof screamed again.

  Bell couldn’t stop herself from imagining Bull’s Hoof’s hammer crushing her spine into pulp. She felt like she had melted down and then frozen back in place wrong. She extended fearful, shaky hands toward the dappled mare, and tried to calm her. She tried to shush her quietly enough that she wouldn’t be found out, but loud enough that the dappled mare could hear her.

  The dappled mare’s ear twitched; she heard her, but Bell’s feeble attempts at pacifying it did little. Bellelar knew that she had to calm her or be trampled. This interaction though was far more difficult than that with the scarred barrus, as Bell was forced to initiate, and further, had absolutely nothing to offer the dappled mare. The horse wanted nothing to do with Bell or Bull’s Hoof.

  However, Bell might be able to escape if she could mount it. Despite lacking any experience or frankly any interest in horsemanship, Bell felt confident in two things: that she could most likely communicate her desperation and befriend the dappled mare, and that she was likely rather delusional. Bull’s Hoof poked his burned, bleeding face into the stall of the gray stallion and looked around for Bell.

  Bell assumed that he would check the stalls of the two chestnut nags, and then find her in the stall of the dappled mare, and kill her promptly. She had only a few moments to befriend the dappled mare and escape, or she was dead, and so were Ranthos and Sarky.

  For them.

  Bell stood, quiet as she could, and shushed the horse a bit louder now, turning kind eyes to its face. She wished she had an apple or something—

  There was an apple in the next stall, Bell could smell it.

  Bull’s Hoof moved on to the first chestnut nag’s stall, the one immediately before the stall with the apple.

  Bell reached her arm through the grate that separated the two stalls to retrieve it. It wasn’t a whole apple. The chestnut nag must not have liked apples. She took one bite of this one and spat it back out. Hopefully, it would still do for Bell’s newest friend.

  It was just out of reach, and Bell’s hand was almost trampled by the chestnut nag’s hoof, and she could hear the dappled mare nearing her angrily. Its heavy, muscled legs hammered against the cobblestone ground. Each step nearer to Bell sent a wave of vibrations through the ground that seemed to continue like chills through Bell’s body.

  Each horse was loudly protesting the entire ordeal, none of them were interested in this conflict.

  Bull’s Hoof picked his head up and moved to the next stall, which Bell stuck her arm into. She finally reached the half-apple and snatched it away.

  She prayed that he didn’t see her, but saw no use in being too secretive anymore. She had to act. When Bell turned to the dappled mare, she felt her heart burst as heavy wafts of thick breath filtered over her face from the creature’s nostrils, inches from her. It sniffed the apple.

  Bell held it flat in her palm and offered it immediately. As the dappled mare’s thick, hairy lips brushed against Bell’s hand and her teeth crunched into the old apple, Bell fluidly continued the contact between her and the beast, stroking it underneath the chin and then with her other hand over its face.

  Bell could smell the absolute terror on her own scent, but could also smell something of bravery, and could smell the fearful scents of the dappled mare fade as she tasted the apple. Bell pressed her wounded, dirty forehead against the mare’s and breathed softly onto her face as she breathed her hot breath onto Bell’s chest. Inexplicably, Bell felt herself connect with the depths of the dappled mare’s heart and found a familiarity with her.

  Bell learned that this horse trusted someone who was similar enough in sight or disposition to herself, and from that correlation, Bell implanted into the beast’s spirit a sense of sweetness from her touch and her scents.

  Bellelar didn’t know what she did to the creature, but she felt herself within the horse, and felt the horse within herself. She felt the same with the scarred barrus, but only now could name the sensation.

  Bell shushed the horse soothingly and stroked her strong neck softly as she rose to stand beside her. The dappled mare’s shoulder was only slightly shorter than Bell’s head.

  The moment Bell stood, Bull’s Hoof spotted her, and bolted forward, smashing open the gate of the dappled mare’s stall. She reared and whinnied.

  Bull’s Hoof swung his hammer at the dappled mare and caught its shoulder with a thump.

  She whinnied, whirled around, and flung him through the air flat on his back with a leaping kick with its hind legs.

  “Good Heavens,” yelped Bell.

  The dappled mare neighed.

  Bell gave a quick kiss to the shoulder that Bull’s Hoof struck and clambered atop a bale of hay.

  The dappled mare shuffled closer so that Bell could mount her, and the second that Bell settled her bottom onto her back and wrapped her hands in her mane, the dappled mare charged out of the stable.

  Bell guided her West.

  21

  Westward

  What else had she than West?

  Despite Bell’s bright hopes, whatever lay in the West was likely only of coincidental importance to the barrus herd, was only a feeding ground, or a watering hole. But compared to the gory ruin behind her, the West was a light on the horizon brighter than the sun. She felt something tug at her heart when she imagined what could lie there, and knew that she needed to go.

  She was a foolish, naive girl dreaming she was a questing hero. As she gripped the dappled mare’s mane with all her strength and squeezed her legs against her coarse back to keep from crashing onto the ground, Bell could only imagine herself in the place of Augustine the Red Devil, Saint Penelope of Tarse, or some other hero of yore.

  On the muddy ground Bell spied a piece of Vhurgus’ armor, the banded red shell of some creature, splattered with blood, and sunken in the mud.

  She felt her heart drop.

  Bell forced herself to not think what it could mean.

  The mare whinnied as they neared the Western gate of the city, not so disgusting as the Northern—or Southern?—gate she had entered by, dressed in sheep corpses rather than barrus. As she reared fearfully onto her hind legs Bell almost fell to the ground. The dappled mare landed back onto all fours with a loud resonance that sent a shiver through Bell’s body. Bell patted her neck and whispered soothingly into the dappled mare’s ears. She kicked its sides, a gesture which she assumed meant ‘forward, brave steed.’

  Bull’s Hoof barreled out of the stable, shouting curses, his head down and his heavy ha
mmer resting over his broad shoulders. He fumbled at his belt and held a curling ram’s horn to his lips, blasting out a horrid sound that cut into Bell’s ears like knives.

  Spooked by the horn, the dappled mare begrudgingly trotted through the bloody, rot-smelling gates, and picked up speed once she could smell the grass that lay ahead of them. Bell encouraged her softly, and she drove faster into the green, a sure relief from the menacing red behind them. She felt like she could breathe again.

  The dappled mare now galloped so fast that Bell could barely hold on as she thumped against it. Bell was terrified, and exhilarated; she had never moved this fast in her life. The mare banked left off the road and into the rolling hills of the sunny grassland. Bell looked at the ground beside them and saw little more than a blur. They rushed like spirits through the sky; Bell felt like a cloud.

  The hoofbeats of the dappled mare and the heavy pounding of the beast’s excited heart actualized further in Bell’s mind the strength of the creature. Bell could feel herself grinning. Though she had seen so much death behind her, she had a firm hope set before her.

  Whatever it was.

  Bell heard something behind her.

  Bleating.

  She turned round to see an entire flock of devil-sheep chasing after them. There must have been dozens. They surrounded Bull’s Hoof, called from throughout the town by his horn blast.

  Bell and the dappled mare crested a hill and found themselves flanked by another force of sheep, the wind now carrying their coppery scent towards her. She thought that she was escaping, but she’d run into another group of the sheep that were already outside the gates, seemingly waiting for her to arrive.

  There were too many. Bell felt instantly minuscule and helpless.

  The dappled mare whinnied and bolted away from both. Bell held on with all her might; if they were caught, she was surely dead. She could hardly stand up to three sheep, much less thirty. Or forty as it seemed.

  More flockers ran far behind them, unable to match their speed. Bell counted four, but didn’t try too hard, so she assumed that there were more. They raised their weapons in the air and hollered victoriously. By the size of their spears, these must be the flockers who killed the barruses hung on the gate.