A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 10
“Let him consider,” Asher quipped, more than confident that the lord of Kelp Town lacked the necessary resources to not only bind him, but capture him first.
“You tried, Ranger,” the captain offered, his voice strained. “Hells, you might even have finished the beast had Vouder and his boys not interfered.”
“I don’t think Lord Kernat cares for those who try,” Asher opined.
“In truth,” the captain responded, and quietly so, “I’m not sure there’s much his lordship cares about anymore. He was all wrath on those steps because he hadn’t had a drink…” Lonan eyed the healer beside him and let his speculation trail off.
Asher stood there for a moment, unsure what to say. It felt as if the captain had made himself vulnerable, creating an opening for some level of emotional interaction, but the ranger couldn’t muster the appropriate response. He considered him a good man—not a title he accorded everyone he met—but a night of violence and intrigue had a way of preventing his mind from translating his feelings into words.
Instead, he opted for, “There can be no punishment for anyone if the wolf is hunted down before the army arrives.”
Lonan frowned up at him and not because of his pain. “We tried that,” he said, taking in the gruesome scene around them. “Lord Kernat will not give either of us permission to try again—too many have died.”
“I wasn’t looking for permission,” Asher remarked, turning away from the captain of the watch.
“Where are you going?” he called after him.
The ranger paused and looked back. “To catch the man.”
“The man…” Lonan uttered. “You said it would be impossible to find him out there.” The captain eyed him. “Why are you still here? Your pockets have been lined with enough coin already to see you from here to Velia. Why would you stay and face this terror?”
Asher glanced at the healer, who was busying herself with preparing a new balm, before meeting Lonan’s eyes and the anticipation that sat behind them. “It’s the job,” he said, combining the truth with a lie.
The captain hadn’t been convinced but he appeared content to leave it there. “You seem to have a habit of ignoring your own advice, Ranger,” he commented, looking off to the northern tree line.
Asher shrugged, with nothing to add, though he did look back to offer the captain one last piece of advice. “Burn the bodies.”
Banishing the horrors of the night, a clear dawn pushed through the trees that blanketed the base of the mountains. Rays of clarity filled the forest with an atmosphere of serenity, and all to the call of birdsong.
Yet, earlier, a Werewolf slathered in the blood of its victims had sped through this same place, and pursued by violent thugs. How quickly nature forgave such intrusion.
But it did not forget.
Asher crouched low to the forest floor and rifled through fallen leaves spotted with blood. Further on were boot prints in the disturbed snow and broken branches where the thicket closed the gaps between trees. Moving on, he soon discovered the wolf’s prints—two large hands and hind paws. For the first mile he covered it seemed the creature was struggling with its gait, no doubt feeling the sting of Asher’s blade. Its struggles, however, appeared to have abated by the second mile.
“It heals quickly,” he mused, checking the distance between hand and paw prints. “You’re not the only one,” he added under his breath, rising from his crouch.
The ranger made to take his next step but his mounting frustration gave him pause. He could likely follow the clumsy tracks of Vouder’s men until he came across them and, perhaps, even the wolf, who would now have returned to his human form, but it was taking too long. Here and there, where the snow fall had been lighter or the forest opened up, the tracks were harder to find, slowing him down. He needed to know where to go and he needed to get there now.
Be it a growl or a sigh, it forced its way out of Asher’s mouth. He knew what he needed to do. His hand was already on his belt, one finger touching the red cloth that hung there. It was an advantage, he knew, a tool to be utilised. Was it not a waste to ignore it, shun it even? Already it had proven useful. Useful to the Ranger. Was it not a twist of fate that the greatest weapon of the Arakesh could be used for good? Perhaps, Asher considered, if he believed in fate.
And yet…
He could feel his heart picking up speed at just the feel of it. Tuning into the environment, mastering it, was near divine. It energised the Assassin within, urging him to press the hunt and kill Russell Hobbs. And if Vouder and his men got in the way, they could join the cursed miner. No one would ever know—they would say it had been the wolf. At least that’s what it would look like by the time he was finished with them.
Asher recalled the words of Arnathor from the bestiary. While the old ranger advised hunting and killing the person cursed by the bite of the Werewolf, he also warned of the toll killing a person would take on one’s conscience if not one’s soul. Arnathor had never met a man like Asher though.
With the blindfold free of his belt, Asher had to wonder if this wasn’t the perfect time to rely on the Assassin. Let the monster shoulder the burden.
Unsure of himself, the ranger focused on the task—finding and killing the Werewolf plaguing Kelp Town. And so he bound his eyes behind that strip of red cloth and absorbed the world. The natural world, beyond the discord and clutter of civilisation, had just as much to say for itself as any one of those cities. There seemed an order to the bugs and critters scurrying about their lives, and all between the droplets of ice water that ran down the pines and splashed against the forest floor. Branches creaked in the breeze and woodland animals, far from sight, darted and snuffled their way through the morning.
His nose pinched to the scent of blood on the air. It wasn’t human. Tuning in to the sounds from that same direction, he discerned an adolescent fox making a meal of an old rabbit.
Turning his focus elsewhere, he couldn’t help but detect the dried blood left in the wolf’s trail. Using that trail as a general direction, the ranger homed his senses in and waited for the feedback. There was certainly more blood in that direction, though it veered to the west.
Then he heard it, the telltale sound of humanity’s mark on the world. Violence.
He first heard the swing of steel before feeling it between his fingers. Laboured breathing from multiple sources. Sweat permeated the clean air.
“Kill him, Vouder!” one of the men shouted.
Asher broke into a sprint no man could manage in a forest of hazards. He flowed through it, skipping over awkward boulders, hopping over jutting stones, slipping effortlessly between the reaching trees, and avoiding the hidden roots. The ranger could feel it all, as if the world itself was telling him where to plant each boot.
At great speed he covered the land that lay between him and the fight, and with barely a sound to accompany him. Before revealing himself, the ranger came to rest behind a tree and removed his blindfold. The image before him matched perfectly with what his senses had perceived, though it was his first laying of eyes on Russell Hobbs in the light.
Standing naked, the miner was half a foot taller than Vouder and his men—though who could speak of the two already laid flat to the ground? So too were his shoulders broader than any of the remaining thugs, his thick arms chiselled by years of handling a pick-axe. At a glance, Asher deduced the man had a decade on him, though his grizzled face was well masked by a thick beard and long draping hair.
Vouder lunged forward, his axe curling through the air and missing Russell by a whole foot. The thug was anxious, fearful even, to get too close. Hobbs must have put his men down with some brutality. The other three began to circle the naked man they had construed as prey. How wrong they were.
Proving himself braver than Vouder Stould, one of the three thugs charged Russell with a short-sword and axe, one following the other. Hobbs stood his ground and simply snatched a wrist in each hand, holding the weapons at bay with ease. This immediately gave Asher some indication as to the man’s supernatural strength.
Russell squeezed the wrists he had locked in his vice-like grips and the thug yelped as he dropped the blade and axe. A solid push kick to the man’s chest sent him from his feet and flying into a tree. He didn’t get back up.
Vouder took his chance again and chopped his axe down, intending to drive his blade deep in Russell’s back. The steel of his weapon cut through no more than air, missing its target by inches. Asher blinked, unsure how he had missed Hobbs’ movements. But moved he had. One strong hand grabbed Vouder by the collar and twisted him round, where a closed fist was waiting for his face. The lead thug went down and with a mouthful of blood.
The last two came as one, hoping to use their boss’s distraction to their advantage. Like those before them, their efforts were futile. Hobbs evaded the swings of their blades with such ease the ranger might have assumed he had received training. It was unlikely given his job and background. It was more likely that the curse of the wolf had heightened his reflexes, making the thugs appear sluggish.
A swift backhand sent one down, his head driven to collide with the trunk of the nearest tree. The final among Russell’s pursuers was lifted to his toes by a gut punch so fierce it forced vomit from his mouth. The next fist caught him about the eye and laid him out flat, there to join his companions.
Asher remained where he was, concealed for now. Damned if he wasn’t impressed.
Continuing to watch him, he was intrigued as Russell turned one of the men over and tugged free the length of rope that had been bound over his shoulder. The ranger frowned at the event unfolding before him. What was the miner doing? It soon became clear, however, as a noose was formed from the loose rope. After making sure his head fitted through the loop, Hobbs tossed the end of the rope high and over a thick branch that extended from the nearest trunk.
How curious, Asher thought, that he would again meet a man in the throes of suicide. He naturally thought back to meeting Salim Al-Annan on Dragorn, a true man of honour. And, of course, he himself who had once attempted to end his own life, and not far from this very spot.
He looked again at Russell Hobbs, sure that he knew what was going through the man’s mind. He had seen the monster within, could feel it writhing under the surface, a threat to all. With the noose he hoped to end it, to end the killing and bloodshed. More than that, to end the thrill of it. In that moment, Asher had never felt more connected to another soul.
“They’re going to feel it when they wake up,” he announced without preamble, departing his hiding place. He couldn’t say why he did such a thing, not when the man he intended to kill was about to save him the trouble.
Still working to secure the rope, Russell didn’t so much as flinch, casting Asher no more than half a glance through the wild strands of his grey hair. “I thought you were just going to watch,” he replied gruffly. “Take my body back to town and get your reward.”
“My reward?” Asher enquired, using their reasonable conversation to close the gap.
“I know what you are,” Hobbs said. “Ranger. You’re here to hunt down the beast.” He looked up at the hanging rope. “Give me a moment.”
Asher opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it again. He knew he shouldn’t interfere. Unlike Salim, Russell Hobbs was a monster. The fact that he, the man, knew that about himself and wished to do something about it afforded him the kind of honour Salim was always striving for. He should be allowed to see it through.
After Russell had piled three of Vouder’s men atop each other—carrying each as if they were naught but a sack of potatoes—using them as a makeshift stool, he secured his neck within the noose and prepared to kick the bodies from under him. Again, Asher made to speak, to stop what he was beginning to feel was a waste of life. But Russell didn’t show the same hesitation that he had, so long ago, when the point of his dagger had been pressed to his chest.
The bodies displaced, the cursed man dropped until his throat took the brunt of his weight. How many times had the ranger observed death? How many times had he looked a man in the eyes from no more than inches and watched his life fade like the dying flame of a candle? Yet he turned away from the hanging, his gaze left to roam over Vouder and his men.
Asher knew what he wanted to do, could feel his body fighting his mind to make it so. Don’t do it, he told himself.
As he had moved away from the tree without thought, so too did his hand retrieve the folded bow from his back. Muscle memory did the rest, launching an arrow at the taut rope. The sharp tip sliced through half of the rope, uncoiling the strands and its overall integrity. Unable to take Russell’s weight for another second, the rope split and the miner fell to his feet, face flushed red.
“What are you doing?” Hobbs demanded, his voice unnaturally strong following the recent strain.
The ranger returned his bow to its folded state and clipped it to his quiver. “You’re a good fighter,” he remarked, taking in the unconscious forms about them.
“You wish to test your mettle?” Russell questioned in disbelief. “You should have let me finish it.”
Asher didn’t miss the man’s fists knotting into clubs by his side. He wondered if the monster in him had similar instincts to his own, demanding that he survive any and all threats. Suicide was likely his only way to beat the monster after all.
“My name is Asher,” he began again, hoping to dispel some of Russell’s unease. “You’re right, I am a ranger.”
“That doesn’t explain why we’re talking,” Hobbs retorted.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” Asher agreed, confused by his own actions. “How long have you been a… a Werewolf?”
Somewhere beneath the mess of hair, Russell’s brow pinched. “You want to know if there are more like me.”
“That’s not—”
“I am alone,” Hobbs declared. “The one who bit me didn’t stick around. There was only that poor soul in town, the man of the watch.”
“Elias,” Asher named.
Russell’s features softened. “I didn’t mean for… I have no control when the beast emerges.”
Deciding he had found a line of dialogue, Asher pulled on the thread. “You remember biting him?”
Hobbs looked away, his attempted suicide put aside for the moment. “I can see pieces,” he confessed. “It’s like looking in a broken mirror.” His eyes flashed amber in the light as he found Asher again. “You killed him.”
“Yes,” the ranger admitted.
“Then why do I still live?” With his question, Russell indicated the dried blood plastered to his bare skin. “I am twice the monster he was. I deserve your sword more than he did.”
“I had no choice but to kill him,” Asher replied honestly. “He was under the thrall of the moon. He would have killed me and the captain of the watch had I not acted first.”
Hobbs raised one human hand. “Do not think my lack of claws ensures your safety, Ranger.”
His anger was easy to see, as if a molten wave of rage overcame him without warning. When it flared, when the wolf bared its teeth in Russell’s mind, it brought out the fight in him.
How akin they were.
“You say you remember pieces,” Asher continued, using his words to distract rather than provoke. “Do you recall the men from the swamp, from the night I killed Elias?” It was all too clear that the man had no idea what he was talking about. “They chased you from the area. There isn’t much that can give flight to an uninjured Werewolf.”
“I don’t know of these men,” Hobbs breathed, seemingly pained by any effort to recall the wolf’s memories.
“They know you,” Asher went on, being so bold as to take a step closer.
“I said I don’t know!” Russell fumed, his rage boiling over again.
The ranger held out his hands, palms up to beseech calm. He considered revealing the bronze sphere but the subject felt like a rabbit hole he couldn’t afford to go down while the man was so obviously on edge.
Russell shook his head. “What business is any of this to the likes of a ranger?”
“My job is to root out the monsters terrorising Kelp Town, but I can’t do my job if I don’t know what all the pieces on the board are.”
“Monsters…” Russell echoed, examining his own blood-soaked hand. “The word doesn’t seem real. None of it does. Like it’s someone else’s life.”
The ranger tilted his head, scrutinising the man before him. “You’re new to this, aren’t you? These were your first moons.”
Hobbs could only nod his head.
“And the wolf that bit you,” the ranger probed, “you’re sure he’s gone?”
Russell swallowed, somewhat dazed by his own introspection. “Yes.”
Asher wanted to explore his new origins further but he could feel the precipice upon which they stood. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he stated softly.
“Of course not!” the miner was quick to reply. “I didn’t want any of this to happen!” His anger was spilling out again. “It isn’t right! I was just walking home…” He trailed off as his breathing increased and his chest rose and fell with the steady hammering of a dwarven smith.
“When were you bitten?” Asher asked, hoping a specific question would focus the man.
Russell’s eyes darted left and right. “Sixteen days ago,” he replied, his voice ragged now.
Asher shifted his position so the man couldn’t see the hand he had slipped to the dagger at the base of his back. The ranger managed to hide his irritation when he discovered no such weapon, the blade lost to the monster he had slain with it. There were other knives about his person but none that he could comfortably grip without being noticed. If the wolf inside Russell Hobbs decided to rear its head, he would have to reach for the silvyr short-sword and hope he retrieved it before it was too late.
