A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 11
“Sixteen days ago?” he questioned, doubt in his voice. “You weren’t bitten by a… It wasn’t a wolf?”
Russell shook his head. “It wasn’t a full moon. He was human. At least, he looked human.”
The ranger suddenly felt like throwing the bestiary away—it made no mention of Werewolves being able to pass on their curse while in human form.
Putting that aside for the moment, Asher began anew. “It isn’t an easy thing to do,” he said, looking to the noose still tied around Russell’s neck.
“It’s harder when someone breaks the rope,” Hobbs snapped, his anger now subsided a notch.
“You took to it without hesitation,” the ranger continued.
“What of it?”
“Easy,” the ranger bade, his fingers flexed and clearly away from any of his weapons. “That you would take to it so easily speaks of your character. The monster may dwell within but it does not rule you. There are not many who can boast of such a thing.”
Russell took a threatening step forward. “What is your point, Ranger?”
Asher called on all his discipline to keep his hands away from the hilts of his blades. “I was like you once. I tried to end it to keep my own monster from killing again. I failed,” he added, arms outstretched to acknowledge the obvious. “But I use that monster now,” he went on, exaggerating the extent of his control. “I use it for good.”
Russell’s nose crinkled. “Whatever your monster, Ranger, it is not the same that claws under my skin. Nothing good can come from what I am. Nothing.”
“My monster,” Asher countered, inflating the truth to get his point across, “could fill Kelp Town with the dead that already lie at its feet.”
Hobbs didn’t respond for a breath, his gaze running over the ranger from head to toe. “What are you?” he queried, his senses evidently informing him that Asher was no more than a man.
“A ranger.”
The answer didn’t satisfy Russell, his jaw moving beneath his unkempt beard. “And you… You tried to take your own life?”
“I tried,” Asher reiterated. “But in failing I have come to save lives and… avenge those I could not. I see that in you,” he avowed. “That potential.”
“Then you are blind,” Hobbs asserted.
“Sometimes,” the ranger admitted humbly. “But there are very few in this world who would take their own life to save others, to save strangers.”
Something about the man-made-wolf softened then, his surging rage dampened to a whisper. “Good for you,” he replied. “And good for those you have helped. But the monster cannot be stopped. For three nights, every month, it will tear its way out of me and kill again. It would already be a safer world if you had left me to swing.”
“I stopped the monster,” Asher stated, referring to poor Elias. “I could stop it again if I had to.”
“There is no if, Ranger.” Frustration ruled the miner’s tone. “The wolf will come as surely as the moon itself.”
“The next full moon is a month off—we can cross that bridge when we get to it. Between now and then, you could put the wolf to work: do real good.”
Russell shuffled where he stood. It was only then that Asher realised how incredibly still the man could stand, his every muscle under impeccable control. “Real good?” he repeated, as if the words were a fiction. “Even I don’t know what real good is, never mind the wolf. For whatever your reasons, Ranger, you’re trying to save the wrong man. The wolf cannot be put to work, only unleashed.”
“That’s not what I saw,” Asher commented, sparing the unconscious bodies a glance. “You’re stronger than the average man. Faster too. I bet you can smell and taste things even now that you couldn’t before. Those are all skills any ranger would kill for. They can be used against the monsters of the world.”
Hobbs was shaking his head. “You are suggesting what? That I hunt monsters as you do?”
“Well I’m not suggesting you use that strength of yours to mine for Demetrium,” the ranger quipped. “If there is a way,” he continued, seeing the doubt in Russell’s eyes, “then we will find it.”
“And if there isn’t?”
Asher took a breath and slowly lowered his left hand onto the hilt of his broadsword. “I give you my word the wolf will not kill again.”
Russell turned away, chewing over the branching decisions that would determine his future—one of which was no future at all. Asher thought he could see it in him though, that spark of life that lived in everyone. The ranger had seen and experienced enough of life to know that everyone wanted to live, no matter how dire things had become. To some, however, the thread was simply more tenuous and harder to grasp. Perhaps, Asher hoped, he had offered Russell something more substantial to hold on to, as Geron had once done for him.
“I’ve had my fair share of fights in the pits,” Hobbs said, “but I know nothing of monsters.”
There it was—the spark.
A crooked smile cut Asher’s bristled jaw. “You will.”
Chapter 9
Russell Hobbs is Dead
Ice Troll - I am aware that the bestiary has an archive regarding Trolls and their various breeds, but I feel it prudent to give the Ice Troll its own piece of parchment.
Unlike its kin, the Ice Troll possesses a unique exterior that makes them much harder to kill. Most would describe it as jagged ice but, on closer inspection, it is something more akin to crystal. This strange armour seems to grow quite naturally from their skin and is entirely random, creating a distinct appearance for each Troll.
With most believing it to be ice, the majority of hunters have brought fire to tackle the beasts. Do not rely on fire. Their crystal-like hide will not melt to flame.
They have but one universal weak spot: their face. No Ice Troll has ever been seen with the natural armour on their face. A well-placed arrow, if you have the skill, could put the monster down in a single shot.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 39.
Leah Norst, Ranger.
Seated quite casually atop a smooth boulder, its top dusted with snow, Asher tasted the arakan spices on his tongue before blowing out a cloud of smoke. The ranger thought of Doran Heavybelly every time he lit his long pipe, the habit instilled in him by the surly dwarf. It wasn’t often he felt the need for a second opinion, if ever, but the son of Dorain had a way of cutting through the fog with his blunt opinions.
Asher wondered if Doran might have made a different choice. His wonder was soon replaced by the utmost confidence that the dwarf would have slain Russell Hobbs. In fact, he would likely be drunk already, his every coin spent on the finest ales.
Such thoughts led the ranger’s attention to his broadsword, resting upright against the rock. From there he found Russell himself, up to his waist in the stream. Big and strong were the two words that came to mind, the muscles in his back akin to the boulders dispersed amidst the stream. His grey-white hair was plastered back and, like his skin, now free of blood.
Damned if it wasn’t cold in there. Yet Hobbs had taken to it without any indication that he had even felt the temperature. If they truly could find a way to make this work, the ranger thought, then Russell Hobbs had the potential to be the greatest monster hunter to ever live.
If they could find a way…
Something occurred to Asher then, turning his gaze to the midday sky in contemplation. Despite the ever-lasting chill of The Ice Vales, a clear ocean of pleasant blue had settled over the world. Vouder Stould and his men were some miles away, left to their slumber and inevitable waking pain. But when they awoke, and they would, they would return to town and fan the flames. No one would rest until Russell Hobbs was captured and beheaded.
It all tied in to Asher’s musings, leading him back to the behemoth in the glacial stream. “You’re going to have to leave your name behind!” he called, turning the man back to him. “Russell is common enough in The Ice Vales, but anyone with the name Hobbs will be investigated by the king’s men when they arrive.”
Russell shrugged. “It’s the only name I have.”
Asher drew on his pipe and exhaled again before replying. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”
The big man looked away. “I barely knew her,” he uttered, his words just audible over the rushing water. “Maybury,” he eventually announced.
The ranger took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at him. “Russell Maybury. That’ll do.”
There was a distant look in Russell’s eyes, a sadness behind them. He had already lost so much about himself and now he had lost something else, a crucial part of his identity.
“Russell Hobbs was a miner from Kelp Town,” Asher began. “A poor man from poor beginnings who was unfortunate enough to be bitten by a Werewolf. Russell Maybury was the man who defeated the wolf and walked into the future on his own two feet. Be the latter. Let the past die.” It was blunt, but it was all the advice the ranger had for him. It wasn’t that long ago, he contemplated, that he wouldn’t have said anything at all.
“Russell Maybury,” the big man repeated to himself, testing the name in his mouth. “The man who defeated the wolf…”
Asher left him to his thoughts for a moment before adding, “And we’re going to have to do something about…” The ranger hesitated before simply waving a hand over his own face and hair. Russell ran a hand through his beard as if he was just noticing it for the first time. “If you’re going to be someone else, best to look like someone else.”
Russell was nodding slowly. “As you say.”
The water splashed about him as he made his way back to the southern bank of the stream, there to collect the clothes and boots he had taken from the tallest of Vouder’s men, though no item fitted him too well. Asher looked away, just as his thoughts wandered away, drifting to his past. The morning’s events had played out in a similar fashion to those that took place after his own attempted suicide, six years previously. Only then he had been Russell and Geron Thorbear had been the one to show him a different path.
After dressing himself, Russell sat as still as the dead while Asher took a small blade to his hair and beard. It wasn’t perfect but, when he was done, the man behind the mane was revealed, and how different he looked. His jaw was just as strong as the rest of him, and dusted with white bristles. His hair had been cropped almost to the scalp, giving his head more definition and, again, lending to his chiselled features. Besides his stature, there was nothing left of the man he had been.
Asher retrieved the cloak taken from Vouder’s man and tossed it to his new companion. “Put this on.”
Russell stopped stroking his jaw to catch the cloak. “I don’t need it,” he said, perhaps unimpressed with its length.
“Yes you do,” the ranger insisted. “It’s winter in The Ice Vales,” he pointed out, his every word bringing forth more vapour. “Consider this your first lesson in living with the wolf—you need to blend in. Anyone walking about these parts with naught but trousers and a cotton shirt is going to arouse suspicion.”
Russell made a face but he didn’t argue. Having tied the cloak about him, a grey and muddied thing, it came to a stop just below his knees. Still, it was better than no cloak at all.
“So, what now?”
Asher met that question with his usual stoical expression. In truth, he was feeling like he had bitten off more than he could chew. The man before him was no man at all. And what a monster he was! Werewolves were creatures of pure devastation, capable of spreading their curse with a simple bite. And when he wasn’t the beast he was a damned strong man prone to surges of violence.
Had Geron Thorbear known as much about him all those years ago, he might have left him beside that dead Skalagat. Then, what potential would have been wasted. How many lives had Asher impacted since donning his green cloak? With the right guidance, Russell had the potential to do just the same, if not more.
There was an argument to be had, however, that the right guidance would be better coming from someone else. Asher considered his own demons, dark things he hadn’t exactly got under control. Why was he qualified to guide Russell?
The simple answer—he wasn’t.
Asher looked to the sky again, his mind calculating the date. There was time, he concluded, if they made tracks that very day. Perhaps that second opinion wouldn’t hurt after all.
“Now,” he said, answering Russell’s question, “we go to Lirian.”
Russell looked to the east. “Lirian? In Felgarn?”
“Do you know another Lirian?” Asher asked sarcastically, strapping his broadsword back to his belt.
“It’s just… I’ve never been beyond The Ice Vales.”
To a man who had been everywhere and seen everything, that seemed an inconceivable statement. It was, of course, the norm for most of Illian’s inhabitants, the merchants of the world being the few known for travelling the furthest.
“There’s a lot out there,” Asher reported, nodding his chin to the east. “But most of it’s just… the same. Stay north of The Arid Lands and you won’t need to concern yourself with languages. Take a care in the northern kingdom—they think they don’t have to pay as much for our line of work. And never go to Dragorn. There’s nothing there for good men. Or bad men for that matter. Only the worst of the worst thrive on that island.”
Russell was nodding along, taking it all in. “Why Lirian?”
“Because it’s not Kelp Town,” Asher replied bluntly. “Or anywhere in The Ice Vales. We need to leave this region and before the king’s men arrive.” The ranger started for the tree line, beyond the stream. “Besides, Lirian’s winter is better than summer here. You’ll love it,” he added dryly.
When Russell made to follow him, the ranger stopped and turned to face him. “Your path is that way,” he instructed, pointing to an opening in the trees that went further east than the more southern route before them.
“My path? We are not to travel together?”
“I have to return to Kelp Town first. My horse is stabled there. Make for the east. When you break the tree line, keep east and make sure The Selk Road stays on your right. Kelp Town should be behind you. Keep it there. I’ll catch up on horseback.”
A flash of panic crossed Russell’s face. “I must return,” he uttered, his eyes drawn over the ranger’s shoulder. “There’s something… I need to go home.”
Asher’s gaze narrowed on the man. “There’s nothing in that house worth your life.”
Honest as he was, the lie Russell’s mind was formulating was all too easy to see on his face. “I have savings in there, years’ worth! I can’t abandon it. I had plans…”
“Not anymore,” Asher told him. “Those were Russell Hobbs’ plans. Hobbs is dead. If you’re to make a future for yourself, you have to leave everything behind.”
“No.” The word was expelled from Russell as a mighty wind might herald a brewing storm. “I must return.”
“Is it truly coin you seek?” Asher asked him outright, sure that he knew the truth. “Or is it something else?” he pressed, one hand retrieving the bronze orb from his belt.
There was recognition in Russell’s eyes, a yearning even. “That belongs to me,” he said immediately.
“The creature that tried to kill me for it didn’t seem to think so.”
Now there was confusion in the man’s eyes. “Creature?”
“It might have looked like a man,” Asher said, “but it was not one. Something besides me has been hunting you. And I get the feeling this,” he emphasised, raising the sphere, “is the real reason for Kelp Town’s recent troubles. The creatures I speak of are the same that chased the wolf away and ransacked your home.”
“I have no memory of them.”
“But you know what they’re after,” Asher stated, twisting the metal ball with his fingers. Indeed he must, for the man was transfixed by the sphere, as if its bronze exterior held him under some spell. “What is this?”
Russell swallowed, still unable to look away from it. “I don’t know,” he said flatly.
The ranger took a breath, using the time to analyse the response. He wasn’t lying to him, but he hadn’t said the whole truth either. “I don’t believe you,” he replied, testing the limits of Russell’s patience.
“I don’t know,” he repeated, frustration overruling his even tone now. “I’m telling you the truth. I have no idea what it is. I only know…” his words shuddered to a stop in his mouth, his jaw clamped by some unseen force.
“You only know what?” Asher probed.
Russell’s jaw tensed and relaxed and tensed again before he finally managed, “I only know it’s important.”
“How can you know that?”
Again, Russell fought something Asher couldn’t see or hear. “It’s important to… him.”
Asher paused, absorbing the word and the emphasis Russell had given it. “Him,” he echoed, almost reverently. “You mean the one who…”
“Yes,” Russell blurted, sweating for the first time.
Seeing how much effort only a few words had on him, the ranger decided to leave the subject of the sphere there. For now. “And the creatures that were looking for it?”
A sigh not dissimilar to a bull’s forced its way out of Russell’s nose. “I told you, I don’t—”
“Know them,” Asher finished, hoping to get in front of Russell’s anger. “But they know you. And besides the mob waiting to pull you limb from limb, those creatures are likely still in town, waiting for you to be so foolish as to return.” The ranger pointed at the gap in the trees. “So go that way and keep walking. Don’t look back. I’ll find you. You get this back after we meet up,” he added, before concealing it within the pouch on his belt.
