“Meow.”
Ranthos tried to pet him, but the moss had seemed to take root in the soil, and he didn’t want to disturb his healing process.
“What do you think of magic now, Ranthos?” asked Bell, poking his shoulder.
“Mhmhrm,” said Ranthos. He had a feeling his stubbornness was unfounded since the Oakstop, when the faces seemingly rescued him from Yannick. And he didn’t have a suitable answer for the buck thing.
“I can do magic,” said Bell proudly, a smirk clear in her tone.
“Oh please,” said Nosgrim.
“It’s true!” she said excitedly, “And I can talk to barruses.”
“You’re delusional. Typical of a woman,” said Nosgrim.
Bell was offended and slapped his arm, reaching over Ranthos.
Nosgrim snickered. Ranthos would have as well, but was unable.
“What magic did you do?” asked Nosgrim reluctantly, opening the floodgates of Bell’s gushing storytelling. She was certainly better than Ranthos at telling a story, but he wished that he wasn’t immobilized so that he could heckle her a little more. Nosgrim’s comments were hardly half as good as what Ranthos was able to think up.
Bell started her story from the very beginning, from Tatzelton. Nosgrim was furious that she wouldn’t just get to the point, but Bell insisted that she needed to tell the backstory. She didn’t; not only did Ranthos and Nosgrim already know everything she had to say, but they were present for all of it.
Nosgrim and Bell were sure to include Ranthos in the conversation as much as possible, asking him if he agreed or disagreed. He would nod the best he could, and they seemed to understand him. It was nice of them.
Bell finally got to the point where she and Vhurgus split up from the group, and spared no detail in explaining her and Vhurgus’ antagonistic interactions. Eventually, she reached the point where the scarred barrus told her to go West, and despite Ranthos’—and presumably Nosgrim’s—disbelief, they didn’t doubt a word she said. She didn’t spare a single detail of any other interaction, and so they couldn’t disagree with this account.
Little did either of them know that this was only the beginning of an entire disaster of even more far-fetched happenings. Magical green crystal blades—like Sarky had used—and devil-sheep, a pointless interaction with two shepherds, and a horse that was likely still lost in the plains. She even shed some light on the tragic death of the barrus bull—or king, as Bell called him.
After what could have been an hour or two, Bell reached the part of the story where she used magic at the standing stone. Nosgrim protested it up and down and left and right, but Bell had an answer for everything. He begrudgingly ceded. Ranthos wanted to hug her, but couldn’t move, and they had concluded that he had fallen asleep.
He had not, but was so covered by the thick moss that they couldn’t interpret his nods anymore. Too scared to ruin his healing process, he didn’t bother trying to make contact, and just enjoyed the story—until Bell asked how they had found her.
Nosgrim was about the worst storyteller he had ever met. He got half the story wrong, skipped all the funny parts, and glossed over the whole scene of the mourning barruses like it didn’t happen. He didn’t even mention Toot Toot, the barrus child. He didn’t see him, but Ranthos certainly told him that it happened, and brought it up again in conversation at least twice afterwards. Ranthos fell asleep before Nosgrim reached the part about the lilies.
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 had this dream before. He knew he was dreaming, but couldn’t shake the fear of standing before the buck again. His body was wreathed in moss, binding his limbs to the wall behind him.
“I killed you,” said Ranthos, like he always did.
“You broke my body,” hissed the dangling lips of the buck with a raspy voice, “But I live.”
“No, no, you’re dead,” said Ranthos, hardly able to control his own words.
“Death has died,” spat the buck, shaking its broken head.
Ranthos was silent, lifting his hands to his face, tearing the moss from the wall behind him. Ranthos peeled it away, ripping small tendrils out from his skin painlessly to reveal his scarred but unharmed hands.
His right was covered in ink—atvyyrk like Blossom’s.
“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.
As Ranthos, unable to wake, weathered the storm that rushed over him, his bones grinding against each other in the wake of the beast’s cry, he felt a surge of strength in his right arm. He couldn’t move it, but could feel a power within. The atvyyrk began to glow and tremble in the wake of the buck’s scream.
The motes of light wafted off his skin and out of the unidentifiable carcass that held him, swirling through the air with the buck’s breath until they reached the moss that hung about him. It landed on the draping curtains and began to transform into the magical variety that healed him.
The buck stopped, surprised, and turned his face toward the moss, which began to light with its sprouts of magical energy, seeking out the blood of the carcasses, growing faster and faster.
Ranthos watched it grow further and further, over the body of a hare, and up the buck’s leg, down across the forest floor to the corpse of a cat.
Remy.
Torn into two pieces and smashed by hooves.
Ranthos almost wept, feeling himself slowly torn away from the dream as the fright built in him.
The moss grew further and further over the corpses, now also growing out from Ranthos’ body and covering the beasts which held him hostage. He broke free of their grasp and knelt before Remy’s body. He doubled over it, eyes brimming with tears and grasped at his fur with his tattooed hand as the moss slowly began dragging the two halves of his little body next to each other, stitching them back together before Ranthos’ eyes.
Remy inhaled a tiny breath.
Ranthos woke and bolted upright, tearing the moss all about him. He clawed at his face to remove his mask.
As the blinding sunlight entered his eyes, Bell sprang up and put a hand on his shoulder—saying something he wasn’t listening to. Nosgrim too, he was down the hill with Alrys. He turned to face him and barreled up to Ranthos while Alrys was mid-sentence.
“By the One!” said Nosgrim, “You look good as new!”
Ranthos moaned, his vision almost white and his ears ringing.
“Are you alright, Ranthos?” asked Bell sweetly.
He nodded.
“Another nightmare?” asked Nosgrim grimly.
Ranthos nodded his head and found himself embraced suddenly by Bell.
He wrapped his arms around her as well, his skin licked clean of all blood, and his wounds were patched to faint scars. Flakes of withered brown moss fell off his body.
Bell released him and fixed his hair. She smelled overjoyed to see him in health again. Ranthos couldn’t help but match her scent.
“Can I get you anything?” asked Nosgrim.
“No,” said Ranthos, “Actually…”
“Yes?” said Nosgrim eagerly.
; “Can you fetch Blossom for me?” His dream was different this time because of her.
Remy, alive and well, walked up beside him, rubbing his back against Ranthos’ healed—but still blackened side. Alrys said that it was the rot from the buck’s antlers and that he could heal it once they were closer to a leyline fount. Ranthos expected him to do it today. Alrys had also said that the nightmares had something to do with the rot inside him.
Bell sat down beside him and put her hand on his knee comfortingly, before turning her attention to Remy, picking him up and nuzzling her face against his, telling him how much she missed him.
Nosgrim was on his way back with Blossom behind him.
Ranthos called down to Alrys.
He turned his head towards him and started up with them.
Once they had all arrived, Ranthos took a deep breath and tried to sort through all the thoughts in his mind to construct a question that he could ask. Or should he tell them the dream first? Ranthos didn’t know.
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t—
The light adjusted in Ranthos’ eyes finally, and he opened them wide to look up at Alrys and Blossom’s expectant faces. He took a deep breath and told them, “I need you both to teach me magic.”
28
Maple Seed
Ranthos tore through Alrys’ bag to find his shirt—and found it in sorry condition, bloody, torn, and wrinkled. It smelled terrible, too. He had nothing else though, so he pulled it on. He pulled the scut that he wore around his neck over it, displaying his trophy proudly.
Healing magic felt right to Ranthos. Not only was it absolutely miraculous, but it could keep Bell and Nosgrim safe, and that was more important than anything else.
It was like that medicine he stole back in Tatzelton, except that he had earned it, and it didn’t hurt a soul. He could keep Bell alive, and he could sleep at night.
Ranthos asked Blossom and Alrys if he could start the training early, before breakfast, but they were both hungry, so they declined.
They had a small fire at the base of the hill in an area which Vhurgus made Ranthos, Bell, and Nosgrim clear of dead grasses. Ranthos was happy to be included finally in the training, but certainly didn’t enjoy running up and down the hill fifteen times—which, naturally, was the next task.
Ranthos’ rotting side had begun to smell, but he didn’t think that anyone else could tell besides him. It hurt too; he wondered when Alrys would fix it, and why he hadn’t already. It made him nervous, but he had yet no reason to mistrust Alrys, so decided not to bother him about it.
The group sat down together to eat only jerky and stale biscuits. Blossom had fetched water for them and they passed around skins to drink, though she herself didn’t eat in front of anyone. Ranthos felt too timid to ask why she wore the mask.
Sarky, awake but barely, still lay almost motionless at Alrys’ side. She took water though, which was a relief to everyone. She laughed at some of the jokes they told, but she was still very tired. Blossom had no doubt that she would be back in battling shape soon. The moss only had to mend the damage done to her head.
As Ranthos, Nosgrim, and Bell rested, still panting from their run, they finally saw Sarky stand up from where she had been resting. Her face was still wrapped in healing moss. Only one eye and her mouth were visible, and her hair flew out of her head wildly as it tangled with the growing moss. She smiled dizzily at the rest of the party and staggered over. Alrys kissed her good morning, but approached from her blind side and surprised her.
Bell almost died. “How cute,” she whispered to Vhurgus, who sat beside her.
He smiled and whispered something to her that made her jaw drop, “Is that true?”
They continued their furtive gossip, but Ranthos stopped listening, disinterested.
Sarky sat around the fire with everyone else, beside Alrys and directly across from Ranthos. She waved a weary hand at Blossom, who stood to sit beside her, and they began talking of their travels apart from each other. They too seemed to be old friends, about the same age—though Ranthos could hardly tell behind Blossom’s mask.
Blossom giggled with a silly little laugh as Sarky teased Alrys for something. Alrys rolled his eyes and looked to Vhurgus for support. None was given.
“If I had a fishing pole,” said Nosgrim, obviously not enjoying the jerky and biscuits, “I could catch us some fish down by the river, I’m sure of it.”
Ranthos rolled his eyes, “Sure, by next Winter.”
“You talk down on fishing, but you’ve never tried it.”
“I’ve tried it.”
“Have you?”
“Absolutely,” Ranthos didn’t remember, but didn’t think Nosgrim could sense his uncertainty.
“Mhm,” said Nosgrim skeptically.
Remy crawled into Ranthos’ lap, gifted him a dead field mouse, stretched, and curled up nicely. Ranthos removed the mouse, tossing it behind him, and began stroking Remy’s black and white fur.
“Blossom,” said Ranthos, “What is your atvyyrk? Is it the same on both of your legs?”
Blossom turned her head to him, “Yes, they are the same. The marks are called…” she shrugged her shoulders bashfully, “Blossom.”
“What?” said Nosgrim, squinting at her, “You named the atvyyrk after yourself?”
“Other way around,” said Sarky.
Ranthos would’ve done the same if he had it. Well. Perhaps not if he had ‘Blossom.’ It was a bit effeminate. “Do you need it on both legs? How do you get the marks? Can you get it anywhere?”
Blossom shook her head, and said, “Patience, cub. I will teach you, I promise.”
Ranthos took a deep breath. Not the answer he had hoped for, but he accepted, “Thank you.”
“What’s your favorite flower?” asked Blossom.
“Uhm…” Ranthos didn’t know.
“Red roses,” said Nosgrim. She was certainly not asking him, but he sat between them, so must’ve felt included. Ranthos hid a smile.
“Red roses?!” said Blossom, “A surprising choice!”
Nosgrim, obviously, was romantically minded in his choice, “It’s my favorite flower because it evokes the passion I wish to inspire in the maiden of my dreams.”
Blossom gave him some encouraging words, and asked, “Do you have a woman in mind?”
Nosgrim blushed and shook his head. Ranthos wasn’t listening closely enough to tell if he was lying and didn’t feel it was right for him to know if Nosgrim didn’t want him to.
After a few moments of chewing through bark—jerky—Ranthos dumped out his satchel between himself and Nosgrim, and began sorting through its contents. Nosgrim quickly began organizing it—exactly as planned. Ranthos felt devious and proudly gnawed through a strip of that Oneawful jerky.
Nosgrim busied himself separating out the rocks from the rest of the mess.
Ranthos recoiled his length of rope, only about six feet long now, and he quickly disposed of dead kea leaves and more than a couple shriveled worms. It had been a long time since he had gone through his bag. There were three arrowheads too, but they were dulled by the rocks.
Idiot.
Should’ve used those. He found that small glass vial of hair oil that Alrys gave him when they first met—he had forgotten about it completely. There was a sock which wouldn’t fit anymore, a broken bowstring, his worm stob, and little saw.
“This is all rubbish,” said Nosgrim.
“Not all of it,” said Ranthos defensively. “The rocks are…” He could hardly remember any of them, and they all reeked of Tatzelton. “Perhaps it is all rubbish.”
“The rope’s good,” said Nosgrim, “and so is the worm thing.”
“Stob,” corrected Ranthos.
“And what’s this?” Nosgrim held up the saw. It was bent back on itself and smelted back to make it thicker. A real piece of garbage.
“A saw that helps with the stob.”
Nosgrim obviously didn’t understa
nd how Ranthos got the worms, but placed the saw neatly with the stob.
Ranthos looked through his rocks and found one which he vaguely remembered belonging to the orphanage wall. “This is from the orphanage,” he said, showing it to Nosgrim.
“Why would you keep that?”
Ranthos shrugged. “I enjoy having it around.”
“How come?” asked Nosgrim. “The orphanage was a cesspool.”
“Wasn’t so bad—not for me and Bell anyway,” said Ranthos plainly, “We didn’t know much else. It was certainly easier there than fending for ourselves.”
“Maybe,” said Nosgrim, lost somewhere in the back of his head. He smelled like he was revisiting some poorly remembered times. His thick eyebrows knit, and he scratched his stubbly chin absentmindedly.
“How’d you end up there?” asked Ranthos. Maybe he shouldn’t ask a question like that around so many people, but they were busying themselves with each other, so he didn’t think anyone was listening too closely.
Nosgrim’s eyes darted back to Ranthos as he pulled himself back to the present, “Father went away to fight the alfar, and dropsy took Mother.”
Ranthos nodded. He couldn’t remember when Nosgrim had been put up in the orphanage; he assumed that Nosgrim’s family was taken in the Hacking, like Ranthos’ mother.
Though, Ranthos didn’t know how he and Bell could have been born of the Hacking if they were two Winters apart.
“Do you have a family name?” Ranthos asked with a curious smile.
Nosgrim nodded his head proudly, “Yagis.”
“Yagis?” said Ranthos, “Never heard that one.”
“I am an orphan.”
Ranthos realized this. “… Naturally.”
“Nosgrim Yagis,” repeated Mister Yagis.
“Nosgrim Yagis,” repeated Mister Podge. He was glad that Nosgrim had a family name, and he was glad to know it. Ranthos gave him a professional nod, and they began repacking his bag. Ranthos kept only two of his rocks: the one from the orphanage where he met Mister Yagis, and one from the Tatzelwood, which he was sure to remember fondly. The rest he was happy to forget—he needed to make room for future additions.
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 28
