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

by Jasper B. Hammer

  Ranthos’ breaths became sharp and irregular, and he felt a freezing-cold sweat run down his back. As his eyes welled with tears, Remy’s claws dug into his shoulder painfully, and almost set loose the torrent of Ranthos’ weeping fear.

  He felt crushed. His own scent of fear poured off his body like a thick, pungent aura, and soon he could hardly smell anything else, save the beast’s sulfuric breath, a scent which blended all too well with fear, quickly doubling his dread.

  Ranthos tried to reassure himself that this was only a dream, and that—if needed—Remy could alter the very reality of the world. But then the creature took another breath, and melted the frost that clung to Ranthos’ clothes.

  He needed to act—but hadn’t a clue what to do. He couldn’t hurt a creature of this size with an arrow; that was certain. There were no plants anywhere nearby that he could control with blossom. He supposed that Remy could conjure a magical monster-slaying arrow, but Ranthos didn’t want to know what the Lamb’s Head could do if Ranthos gave him any more power.

  Two monsters?

  Not appealing.

  Remy was completely silent, and Ranthos stood petrified as the creature breathed again on him, that scent of brimstone invading Ranthos’ senses. The air before the beast’s nostrils was humid, but as it wheeled its head around to put its eye closer to Ranthos, the rush of the cold returned to him. He could feel his damp clothes harden with frost almost immediately.

  The creature blinked, and Ranthos saw himself shivering in the reflection of its eye, looming nearer. Each of its scales were the size of a palm, and each of its feathers as long as Ranthos’ shin. It could fit half of Ranthos’ whole body into its mouth with one bite.

  Ranthos heard the creature coo softly in its throat as it lifted its head up straight. Its thick neck curled like a crane, and it ruffled its chest feathers for a moment as nestled its wings cozily into its sides, while its feet found better grip on the rock.

  Ranthos saw leather straps and buckles across the creatures’ belly. It sat proudly like a massive raptor. It was a terrifying cross between a lizard and a bird, with long legs that ended in huge talons, clawed wings, a toothy maw, and a patterned coat of white and brown feathers. Sitting like it was, it was perhaps the height of two men, not as large as a barrus, and much thinner, but an obvious apex predator.

  A man dressed in black climbed ov er the dragon’s shoulder and slid gracefully down the breast of the beast. “Greetings, cub,” he said in a strange voice. It was old and hoarse, but obviously intelligent, with a crisp, if slightly accented dialect. “I think that my friend Benhazael likes you.”

  Ranthos' heart jumped at the sound of the voice. He wrenched his eyes away from the creature’s face—which made him feel a hundred times more vulnerable—to look at the man.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said the man, who was slender and long-bodied, with short gray hair and a wrinkled face. He wore a long cloak made from the wool of a black sheep. “I am the Lamb’s Head.”

  Ranthos drew his bow and set his sights upon him immediately.

  The creature hissed in response, baring its teeth as its head drew nearer to Ranthos again.

  The Lamb’s Head pushed its head away, easing its concerns with a soft cooing sound, which the creature repeated back to him, and suddenly smelled a deal more calm.

  The Lamb’s Head took a step closer to Ranthos. “Tell me your name, cub.”

  “Ranthos,” he said through a fearful shiver. He shouldn’t have said that.

  “Sorry?” the Lamb’s Head cupped his pointed ear and stepped closer. He had golden ink on his hand. Atvyyrk.

  “Ranthos,” Ranthos forced. “My name is Ranthos.” He didn’t lower his bow.

  The Lamb’s Head was unbothered, and stepped closer. He took graceful steps like the long-legged blue-faced vultures. His thin legs poked out from underneath his cloak like the arms of a spider carrying him gracefully forward.

  He had a long face, and thin, cracked lips. A grisly scar ran down the center of his forehead, along the side of a broken nose, and then down over his mouth, disappearing underneath his thick woolly wrappings. His ears were long and pointed, like Ranthos’ own. He was either an alfar or a hodge, Ranthos had never seen an alfar, so he wouldn’t know the difference. “So good to meet you, Ranthos,” said the Lamb’s Head, pulling a smile over perfect white teeth.

  Ranthos didn’t speak.

  Lamb’s Head held a finger in the air, “I propose a deal!”

  “What is it?” asked Ranthos.

  “Well,” he said, “This is my dream—you-you know this is a dream, yes?”

  “I do,” said Ranthos quickly, his hands beginning to tremble as his muscles grew sore from holding the bowstring.

  Lamb’s Head pointed to the creature. He had red ink on his other hand. “This is Benhazael,” he said proudly, like a father introducing his son. “Have you ever seen a dragon?”

  A dragon?! “No,” said Ranthos through tight, fearful lips.

  “Many haven’t,” said Lamb’s Head. “Where do you come from?”

  “Tell me your deal,” said Ranthos. His arms were aching like Hell; beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.

  Lamb’s Head threw up his hands, “Benhazael is a manifestation of my inmost self. If you kill him with that bow…” he shook his head, “I would lose a great deal of control over this dream which we share, and that could prove disastrous for the both of us.”

  Ranthos wondered why Lamb’s Head thought that an arrow could kill a dragon. The hint of a smile on Lamb’s Head’s face revealed that Ranthos was being toyed with.

  “You put down the bow,” said the Lamb’s Head, pretending to fear it. “And I will not tell my friend to incinerate you and your friend.”

  “It’s a good deal,” said Remy, before ducking away fearfully.

  “He speaks!” exclaimed Lamb’s Head. “That,” Lamb’s Head smiled to Benhazael, “That is special. Ranthos here is a special one.”

  The dragon cooed and nodded his head awkwardly.

  Lamb’s Head beamed, “I taught him to do that. Isn’t it adorable?”

  Ranthos creased his brows. Adorable wasn’t a word he thought he would ever use to describe a dragon.

  “What do you say, cub?” asked Lamb’s Head, sniffing his scent.

  Ranthos didn’t have much of a choice—Lamb’s Head could kill him at any time.

  “We best hear him out,” whispered Remy.

  Ranthos eased his aching arms and lowered his bow.

  Lamb’s Head heaved in a relaxed breath and held up his hands, “Heavens,” he said, “That was close.”

  Ranthos sneered at him, and could feel his lip curling over his teeth.

  Lamb’s Head’s face dropped, “I apologize, cub. It’s just that…”

  Ranthos waited expectantly.

  “I like to tease,” he said, “I’m sorry. I see that you are on grave business. I will not waste your time.” He took a step closer to Ranthos and bowed low to the ground, keeping his legs straight and almost doubling himself over completely. He flung his arms out to his sides, revealing more of his atvyyrk. His shirt didn’t cover his skeletal arms at all, leaving them exposed to the frigid air. Strange choice; perhaps it was warmer astride a dragon. One arm bore the swirling clouds of a golden thunderstorm, and the other images of small dancing creatures. Perhaps mice.

  “You haven’t met me yet… I am the Lamb’s Head—but I told you that already,” he laughed as he straightened himself and his arms disappeared beneath his cloak. “I am the dreamer behind the White Cult, progenitor of the immortal, bridge of realms. I am a sorcerer, an alchemist, and an atvyyrker. A hodge like you.” He smiled, “I like gardening, and I am not a good painter—but I never let that stop me!” He suddenly burst out laughing.

  Ranthos chuckled back fearfully.

  Lamb’s Head faced his palms to Ranthos, “I want to apologize again… I’m a little nervous myself. I’m trying to make a good first impression
.”

  Ranthos could hear that he was telling the truth, and smelled a hint of anxiety on him. Strange.

  “Would you mind,” Lamb’s Head took another step closer, “I can hardly hear you behind that scarf.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Ranthos coldly.

  “Sorry. I didn’t catch that,” Lamb’s Head’s ears flushed. He rubbed his forehead awkwardly, “If you would prefer to wear it, I completely understand.” He looked away, “I probably shouldn’t have led with the dragon, should I… I wanted to impress you.”

  Ranthos pulled down the scarf and revealed his face, drawing back his hood as well, Ranthos’ curly red hair blew against his cold face.

  “By the One!” beamed Lamb’s Head, “Look at you!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lamb’s Head, “I simply—It’s only that…” he sighed, “It is incredible to see a young hodge.” His voice caught on a lump in his throat for the briefest moment. “It is good to meet you, Ranthos.”

  Ranthos was silent.

  “Introduce yourself!” said the Lamb’s Head encouragingly, “I listed off my titles to you, and not all of them,” he whispered cheekily, “I want to know you!”

  Ranthos’ brows creased. “I am a hunter. I killed your tatzelbuck,” he said, “and my sister about sixty of your sheep at Sortie-on-the-Hill.”

  “Sixty?!” said Lamb’s Head, his eyebrows raised.

  Ranthos nodded.

  “And I must say,” said the Lamb’s Head, shaking his head, “That buck was rather intimidating. If I knew how effective it would have been I would have made more than one!” He laughed.

  Ranthos tried to laugh along, but used most of his willpower to keep the idea of two bucks from entering his mind too thoroughly.

  “A hunter?” said Lamb’s Head, “What do you hunt?”

  “Deer,” said Ranthos, “Now flockers.”

  Lamb’s Head grinned, “Flockers… I always thought that name was cute. I assume you met my friends on the way up the mountain.”

  “I did.”

  “I hope you understand,” said Lamb’s Head, “There are many others in this dream—everyone infected with the rot from one of my creatures. But few of them would escape their personal dream to reach this place, fewer would have the power to awaken their inmost self like you did,” he waved kindly to Remy, who ducked away behind Ranthos’ leg. “Fewer still! Who upon arrival in Bzo, would think to go up the mountain. And among those who would march up, only one who could best my warriors.” He touched a hard finger to Ranthos’ chest and smiled.

  Ranthos looked down at it fearfully—he half thought that he would disintegrate immediately after being touched by him. Or that he would spontaneously combust.

  But nothing happened.

  “It was very impressive—” said the Lamb’s Head. “I had suspected it was you when I first spotted you, but once you emerged from the wood with what? Fifteen flockers,” he chuckled at the word. “I decided that I ought to speak with you first thing in the morning.”

  “Twenty-four flockers,” corrected Remy.

  Lamb’s Head’s jaw dropped. “Remind me to never send my actual flockers after you! Good Heavens! A hunter indeed.”

  “Thank you,” said Ranthos.

  Lamb’s Head smiled.

  “How did you know I would go up the mountain?” Ranthos asked, “How did you know I could kill the flockers?”

  Lamb’s Head stepped closer to Ranthos and placed a bony golden hand on his shoulder, “Walk with me, would you?”

  Ranthos’ heart began to beat faster and faster as the gentle hand on his shoulder tightened. He nodded, and followed Lamb’s Head down the slope.

  “Truthfully, I’ve had my eye on you since you killed my buck,” said the Lamb’s Head. “That was an awesome feat, cub.”

  “Don’t call me cub,” said Ranthos. He hated him using the word Alrys used.

  “Ranthos, then?”

  Ranthos nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” he touched his chest softly and continued walking down the mountain. His dragon rested its head in the snow above them, adjusting its wings to be more comfortable, while Remy followed close at Ranthos’ heel.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked Ranthos.

  “In a way,” said Lamb’s Head. “Who brought you here to me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lamb’s Head thought hard for a moment, scratching his long scar.

  “Alrys?” Ranthos offered.

  “Yes!” said Lamb’s Head, suddenly remembering it for himself. “He is a treasured friend of mine.”

  “Not the way he tells it,” said Ranthos. And if Alrys was so treasured, then why didn’t Lamb’s Head know his name?

  “Perhaps ‘friend’ undercuts the complexity of our relationship. We speak often,” said the Lamb’s Head. “We are dialectically opposed in our views of Death, and enjoy our discourse.”

  Ranthos nodded, “You make immortal things, and he doesn’t think that’s right,” said Ranthos.

  “Immortal,” laughed Lamb’s Head, “Not the best word. You yourself have proven it to be incorrect. My process of creating the Eternal being is still rough, crude. I am on the verge of a breakthrough—but our friend Alrys has taken to calling my creatures ‘cursed,’ rather than immortal.” He rolled his eyes, “I suspect so to insult me. Flaunt my failures.”

  Ranthos smirked.

  Lamb’s Head must have smelled that he was amused and snapped his face to him and laughed, “That is a little funny isn’t it?!”

  Ranthos shrugged.

  “Hah! Yes… You may call them whatever you so please.”

  “Cursed,” decided Ranthos.

  Lamb’s Head groaned, and then chuckled, “I am so close! I only require a little more time. If Alrys could only see the merits of my quest—the end of Death! Eternity!” Lamb’s Head held his hands out in front of him, frustrated. “He has no vision. Trapped in his traditions.”

  “Traditions?” asked Ranthos incredulously, “Such as?”

  “An antique morality.”

  Ranthos felt his heart swell and his ears flush, “He’s a good man.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Lamb’s Head, “Though he lacks the stomach to do what must be done for the betterment of existence. Sortie-on-the-Hill was a small price to pay for the propagation of the truth. I don't want to hurt people…” he spoke softly, “I want to save them. It is possible,” he said with a fire in the back of his voice, “It’s possible to end Death. I know it. And I will give the gift of Eternity to everyone who will accept it.”

  Ranthos shook his head and frowned. He could hardly breathe, and his eyes began to sting, “I saw what you did in the Labyrinth,” said Ranthos.

  Lamb’s Head dropped his eyes, “Meaningless in the face of Eternity.”

  “I saw what you did at Sortie-on-the-Hill.”

  Lamb’s Head raised his voice at Ranthos and snarled out the words, “Worth every drop of blood. Those who oppose it are the true murderers. Best they be discarded.”

  “Nothing is worth that much blood,” Ranthos paused; he felt he couldn’t breathe, but forced his waning voice to speak, “I could give my sister medicine when she’s sick,” said Ranthos, a passion building in his heart, “but it isn’t worth scut if I stole it.” He didn’t feel brave enough to say that to the Lamb’s Head. He didn’t feel those were his words. But they must have been—they came from his lips; they betrayed his heart.

  Ranthos found himself looking at Lamb's Head with huge, stinging eyes, and preparing himself to be killed on the spot. He panted for breath as he awaited the sorcerer’s reaction.

  The Lamb’s Head nodded slowly.

  Ranthos felt sick to his stomach.

  “Tell me, Ranthos,” spoke the Lamb’s Head, a pain in his voice. He smelled hurt. “Why have you come?”

  “Alrys sent me to learn.”

  “Hmm…” the Lamb’s Head forced a smile, “Learn what? If
I can help you, I will.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ranthos. Was he not angry with him? Why was Ranthos still breathing?

  “Shame,” said the Lamb’s Head defeatedly.

  “He thought it valuable for me to see inside your head,” said Ranthos.

  “What would you like to know?”

  Ranthos’ brows creased.

  “I’ll tell you anything,” offered the Lamb’s Head honestly, “Troop movements… the locations of my cursed creatures… my plans for Sortie-on-the-Hill. Anything, Ranthos.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a hodge deserves a chance,” said Lamb’s Head, “to stand for what he believes. I’ll tell you anything.” His heartbeat remained perfectly steady.

  Ranthos was in awe—did the Lamb’s Head believe in a principle so strongly that he would hurt himself for it? Perhaps that wasn’t a strange idea, for Ranthos believed it too, but he would never betray any valuable secrets to an enemy by merit of a similar bloodline.

  “Well?” asked Lamb’s Head.

  “Where are you now?” asked Ranthos.

  “Shoketerne,” said Lamb’s Head, “On my way to Sortie-on-the-Hill.”

  Ranthos tried to memorize the name, muttering, “Shokerterne.”

  “By the sea,” said Lamb’s Head, “Alrys can find it on his map.”

  “Why are you going to Sortie-on-the-Hill?”

  “It’s the most defensible fort in the Warlett Plains. I bring troops with me to fortify it. I will capture as many barruses as I can, and ‘curse’ them. From then, I will conquer.”

  “Barruses?”

  Lamb’s Head nodded.

  “How many troops are coming to Sortie-on-the-Hill?”

  “Three hundred with me,” said Lamb’s Head, “along with one hundred cursed horses. My wife is bringing another hundred flockers with her from the East, and with them a number of bears—which I will curse.”

  Ranthos’ heart stopped. “Four hundred flockers…”

  “One hundred horses. Perhaps a score of bears. As many barruses as I can find.”

  He wanted to be rid of this man. He wanted to wake up. The dream had worsened to a degree he was not prepared for. Ranthos had never spoken to someone who could utter such despicable things without a care. He imagined the ruin that he could cause with an army of such size. He imagined the corpses of the entire world on display before their homes. “Are there other animals out there? Like the buck,” Ranthos asked quickly.