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

by Jasper B. Hammer

  The cabin was cozy, if destroyed. There were cushions on the floor, and hammocks hanging limply sideways. Ranthos found three packs on the floor, and began filling them with things they might need: a small tin chest which seemed to have coins inside, it was locked, and Ranthos couldn’t find a key; two bags of flour; an ornate knife; and some spare clothes, colorful and obviously expensive; and as many blankets and pillows as he could find. Ranthos opened a closet and found a number of tools, a hammer and nails, spare wood, and a shovel, which he took, assuming Alrys would want it for the burial.

  When Ranthos emerged from the wagon, the smell of rot was gone, and Alrys knelt over one of them, his hands covered in blood and—well, Ranthos didn’t want to know what. The bodies looked the same, but they no longer smelled. The flies still buzzed over them, but there was no stench.

  “Why doesn’t—“

  “I have removed the rot,” said Alrys, “I thought it might make our lives easier.”

  Ranthos nodded, keeping his eyes off the bodies, “I found some things,” he said, gesturing to the three packs he filled. “And a shovel.”

  Alrys smiled at him, “Good.”

  Ranthos dug four holes in the ground, each as deep as half the shovel. His rotting side started to ache as he worked. That side of his body felt fragile, and his muscles felt weak and soft.

  The grave digging took him a few hours, and he wondered what any of this had to do with theromancy if Alrys was just going to purify them himself. But Alrys busied himself with the spare wood and nails to make headstones with names.

  “What do they say?” asked Ranthos as he and Alrys dragged a body into the first hole.

  “This was Poter,” said Alrys, “and the other three were Hilde, Bengo, and Clemence.”

  Ranthos nodded, and helped move all their parts to their graves. Alrys was able to tell whose hands were whose, or at least able to guess well enough, “Actually, Ranthos cub, that is Hilde’s hand, Clemence’s are both in there.”

  Ranthos felt sick that he had gotten it wrong, and realized that Alrys could probably tell by now that he had trouble looking at the bodies.

  Once it was finished, and they were buried, Ranthos and Alrys were both covered in dirt and blood. It was not pleasant. Though, Alrys’ hair oil was a welcome scent. Hanging heavy in the air to cover the coppery blood.

  It was dark by then, and Ranthos hadn’t even seen theriac—whatever it was. But Alrys stood over the graves and called Ranthos to his side, who was taking a rest against the wagon. “Have you ever prayed, cub?”

  “Yes,” but not since he was living in the orphanage.

  “Good,” said Alrys, kissing his knuckle, “Pray that these now find peace in Heaven.”

  Ranthos kissed his own, and prayed that these now found peace in Heaven. He didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t imagine the point of any of this.

  Alrys spent a few more moments solemnly over the graves, seemingly in prayer. Ranthos stood beside him respectfully, hoping Alrys thought he was praying too.

  Alrys kissed his knuckle and Ranthos did the same on his cue, and they gathered up the packs. Alrys attached his weapons to his pack, and carried the shovel, while Ranthos carried two packs, tied together over his back. He looked like a snail, and certainly could not shoot his bow without having to wiggle out of the straps if they were ambushed.

  They walked NorthWest, back toward the rest of the company, but stopped to camp once it became too late. They would sleep well in the blankets and pillows that they found in the cart, but Ranthos was still terribly hungry, so they gathered wood for a fire and a large flat stone to make flatbread from the flour.

  Ranthos still had learned nothing of magic. “What did all this have to do with theromancy?” he asked, trying to be as respectful of the process as he could. He didn’t doubt it was relevant, but wanted to know why.

  “Well, cub,” said Alrys, mixing a circle of flour on the hot stone with a twig. “Theromancy is intricately tied with death. It shouldn’t be—it’s not what the magic was intended for, but nonetheless, in these days, the theromancer must understand that all things die. The end is never averted. We can undo rot, but we cannot undo death.”

  “Why not just tell me that?”

  “Would you remember?”

  “Probably,” lied Ranthos.

  Alrys smiled, and so did Ranthos.

  “The Lamb’s Head—you’ve heard his name, yes?”

  “I have,” said Ranthos, “Leader of the flockers?”

  “Precisely,” said Alrys, “He is a theromancer—among other things—and he has delved deep into the forbidden arts to create his monsters. For a while, it staves off the rot, it heartens their endurance and their strength. They live when they should die. But theriac was not given to man to make man immortal. The purifying magic only lasts so long, and soon the rot sets in. It poisons their ever-living bodies with scathing pain and unending torment. They are twisted and wicked creatures, filled with a Weird intelligence, unable to die naturally. They serve their master the Lamb’s Head until their bodies are too broken that they cannot live any longer, or until the theriac within them is destroyed.”

  “I still don’t understand what theriac is,” said Ranthos.

  “You will,” said Alrys, handing him a small stack of flatbreads.

  Ranthos reached over the fire for them, but winced as he strained his side. Ranthos pulled his shirt up to inspect himself. Black tendrils filled his veins like worms—he looked bruised, or like he had frostbite. “Why haven’t you taken the rot from my side? Theriac can do that, can’t it?”

  “It can…” said Alrys, “And I would have removed it, cub, and I still can if you wish…”

  “But?”

  “I want you to do it,” said Alrys grimly, “Your nightmares will continue, but look at where your dreams have gotten you thus far. You’ve found a new purpose. I believe, for the sake of our quest, you must delve deeper into your nightmares.”

  Ranthos was speechless. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand why Alrys wanted him to brave his nightmares again pointlessly. Also, Ranthos never told Alrys that he was inspired to learn magic by a dream. He didn’t tell anyone.

  “What is your quest, Alrys?” asked Ranthos, not really knowing where to start.

  Alrys smiled, “To put to the rest the Lamb’s Head’s cursed beasts, to prove to the Lamb’s Head that his pursuit of immortality is futile.”

  “How long have you…” Ranthos took a breath, “Have you been fighting him long?”

  “For all the time that has mattered in my life,” said Alrys, “It’s my purpose. The reason I was born. My quest is to destroy the White Cult.”

  “Am I part of that quest now?" asked Ranthos, unsure of what he wanted the answer to be.

  “You entered this life,” said Alrys, “You may stay as long as you like, or leave whenever you wish.”

  “I want to stay,” said Ranthos instinctually. He wanted there to be a reason that he was born, he wanted a purpose like Alrys had. “I want to be here, on your quest.”

  Alrys grinned a crooked smile, “Then I think it premature to remove that rot in your side right now. Your nightmares are not natural, birthed from those of the Lamb’s Head. He is within your dream as well. Find him, learn what you can from his mind. Return to this dream until you are strong enough to remove the rot yourself. You may learn something vital to the quest, and the survival of our friends.”

  “The Lamb’s Head is inside my dreams?” Ranthos didn’t know what to think of it. He was afraid, and unsure. In his mind, the Lamb’s Head was a shadow that was more terrifying than any flocker or beast they had encountered. He must have been—if he were their leader.

  Alrys nodded, and took a bite of flatbread.

  Ranthos did the same. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Shall I cure your rot?”

  “No,” said Ranthos immediately. He wasn’t ready to face the buck again, but he was ready to do everything he
could to become the protector Bell and Nosgrim needed. If to keep them safe he must delve into a nightmare, then he would delve headfirst.

  Alrys smiled, his pride obvious on his face, “Then you best get to sleep, cub.”

  30

  Into the Dark

  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 returned.

  “I killed you,” said Ranthos. Moss draped all over his body. He immediately freed his limbs from the mossy wall behind him. His right hand was marked with the colorful ink of the blossom atvyyrk.

  “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 thinking about his words. He seemed to just spout these same things without control. The lines between what Ranthos could and couldn’t choose in this realm were blurred and hazy. Was he even choosing what he thought he was?

  “Death has died,” spat the buck, shaking its broken head.

  Ranthos tried to shake his hand wildly, attempting to prove to himself that he had some control, but was unsure of the results. His hand shook, but was that still part of the dream?

  “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. Could he choose to escape? These carcasses were part of his dream, why could he not control them?

  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 it into the magical variety that Blossom had used to heal 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 Remy’s corpse.

  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 and grasped at his fur with his tattooed hand as the moss slowly began dragging the two halves of his little body back towards each other stitching them together before Ranthos’ eyes.

  Remy inhaled a tiny breath, looked up at him, “Hello there,” said he in a startlingly nonchalant tone.

  This was a strange dream (but not the first Ranthos had where Remy could speak). “Do you know a way out of here?” asked Ranthos, hoping that Remy’s newfound intelligence would be of use.

  “Of course I do,” said Remy with perfect diction. “Why else would I be here, dear cub?”

  “Symbolism?” asked Ranthos.

  “Perhaps!” said Remy, bounding out of Ranthos’ hands and scurrying away under a thick curtain of moss.

  Ranthos followed, his feet crushing the bodies of soft carcasses beneath him. The buck tried to pursue, but was entangled in the curtain of magical moss, seeking its blood. The buck shrieked, but Ranthos didn’t look back, following Remy through a dark tunnel. They rounded a corner and Ranthos was blinded by the light outside.

  Ranthos woke with the sun in his eyes. He moaned and rolled out of his blanket to pull his boots on over his torn socks. Ranthos didn’t have any spare clothes since he'd moved in with Nosgrim, and also hadn’t any time to gather kea leaves. He smelled—bad.

  Ranthos pulled on his torn, bloodstained shirt and buttoned his suspenders as he stood. He felt naked without his cloak. Alrys forbade him from wearing it any longer when he was around, giving him the familiar ‘you’ve got nothing to hide’ lecture.

  Ranthos didn’t feel right to be outside without it.

  “How’d you sleep, cub?” asked Alrys, obviously inquiring about his dream.

  “Hard to remember,” said Ranthos, “I don’t think I got much further than I usually do—“ Ranthos buried his tired face in his hand, “Oh! Actually Remy—Nevermind. I haven’t got much further.” Don’t embarrass yourself, Ranthos.

  Alrys smiled, “I can remove the rot whenever you like, cub.”

  “I’ll keep at it,” said Ranthos, “Where are we headed today? Back to the others?”

  “Eventually, yes,” said Alrys, “But first we ought to head to the barrus corpse.”

  “Why?” asked Ranthos.

  “The flockers will have more supplies, maybe some shoes and better clothes for your poor sister.”

  “What about their bodies? And the barrus’? And the sheep’s?”

  “You will bury the people,” said Alrys, “and you will cleanse the animals of rot. We’ll send Nosgrim over to carve some meat off the fresher corpses.”

  “Won’t it all be spoiled by then?”

  “Not with the right magic,” said Alrys with a smirk. “We don’t have many seasonings, but I’m sure everyone would prefer fresh meat to the jerky.”

  “It’s awful,” said Ranthos.

  “Get used to it, cub,” said Alrys, “Unless you want to go through the hassle of hunting, cleaning, and cooking an animal every night.”

  “I’d only have to do one step of that process,” said Ranthos, “I’ve a useful family.”

  “I didn’t realize Remy could clean an animal,” said Alrys with a smile, packing up Ranthos’ bedding.

  Ranthos rolled his blanket for Alrys, “His claws can really cut up a buck, let me tell you. And, really, Sir Remy Cattenpoof is essential to every step of the process.”

  Alrys raised an eyebrow, “He’s been knighted?!”

  “Of course,” said Ranthos, “By the tatzelworm itself.”

  “The tatzelworm!” repeated Alrys excitedly. He beckoned Ranthos to follow him and started off in the direction of the barrus corpse.

  “A monster folk like to pretend lives in the Tatzelwood. Part cat, part serpent. Details vary, but it’s deadly by all accounts.” That was a short explanation. There was much more to it. Ranthos knew all about the tatzelworm, but Nosgrim and Bell never argued about it, so he couldn’t prove his one area of supernatural knowledge.

  “I know,” said Alrys, “My Order is named for the tatzelworm.”

  “What?” asked Ranthos, “Why? Are you from Tatzelton?”

  “Our founder was.”

  “The Tatzelhunter?” He was a legendary hero of Tatzelton’s past who left one of his arrows in the Tatzelgate for good luck.

  “Maybe,” shrugged Alrys.

  “What is your Order?”

  Alrys knit his brows and took a sigh. “A band of warriors…” he said, “Who oppose the White Cult. Folk from across the known world have rallied under our banner, those hurt by the Cult, those who fear it, and those who wish it destroyed. We exist for one purpose,” Alrys inhale
d a breath, “The promulgation of the doctrine of Death.”

  “Doctrine of Death?” asked Ranthos. It sounded rather ominous.

  “It states that all that was made must be unmade,” said Alrys gravely, “The White Cult opposes the doctrine. Their leader thinks he will cure mortals of their mortality, and his cult spreads their faith in him through slaughter and fear. Sortie-on-the-Hill, for example. We oppose them, who oppose life.”

  “I thought you opposed Death?” asked Ranthos.

  “One and the same,” said Alrys, “This life would be nothing without an end. And nothing can die without once having lived.”

  “What’s so bad about living forever?" asked Ranthos.

  “Nothing,” said Alrys, “But the doctrine is truth, and the doctrine dictates it is impossible to be made without being unmade. He is wrong, and wages a war that he thinks will prove him right. When no one opposes him, he thinks that he will have the resources he requires to complete his work. To kill Death.”

  “How?” asked Ranthos.

  “He cannot,” said Alrys, “It’s impossible.”

  “Who else opposes him besides your Order?” asked Ranthos.

  Alrys smiled, “No one. Many have embraced him with open arms, and many more cower in fear upon his arrival, allow him to pass in peace. And even within my Order,” explained Alrys with difficulty, “many have fled our ranks, and many more were massacred at Sortie-on-the-Hill.”

  “How many?” asked Ranthos.

  “Most,” said Alrys, a sad scent creeping past his pungent hair oil. His face was hardened, but Ranthos saw in his eyes that he was torn to shreds inside, “Most of the Order is dead. Fifteen years at least,” said Alrys, “Fifteen years of this quest. And it comes to this.”

  Ranthos didn’t know what to say. He had never experienced something so tragic, and he had never even met anyone who had.