A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 12
The moment it was out of sight, Russell Maybury, as he now was, returned to the present. “It isn’t yours to keep,” he uttered, sounding exhausted.
“It’s mine until I say it’s yours. Consider it leverage to make sure you’re out there, heading east.” Again he pointed at the gap in the trees before turning to make his own way. After they had each taken a few steps in their appointed directions, the ranger paused to relay one last, but crucially important, piece of information. “Russell,” he called, waiting for the man to stop and face him. “If you’re not out there, I will hunt you down and finish what you started.” In case the point was missed, Asher gripped the hilt of his broadsword.
With a population numbering well into the thousands, re-entering Kelp Town unnoticed was easily done. For the most part, life had gone back to normal, as things must if people were to continue putting food on their table. That didn’t stop the talk that had permeated every corner of the town.
Fear had them all in its cold grip.
From the snippets of chatter that Asher overheard, no one had the full story, but everyone had heard something of the night’s grim events. It seemed word had also got out that King Gregorn was sending an inquisitor along with a contingent of soldiers, though the number of each varied from street to street, with some claiming half the army was marching to Kelp Town.
Asher kept moving. The only stops he made were to buy supplies from a handful of market stalls and a couple of shops—just enough to see them both to Lirian. Navigating the occasional watchman here and there, the ranger lastly found himself at the stables, where he settled his bill and saddled Hector, adding his fresh supplies.
Leading the horse out by the reins, Asher turned immediately right, taking the street that led to the town’s arching entrance and from there access to The Selk Road. He soon found his way blocked, however, and by a single man that stood in the middle of the street, supported there by a dark cane.
“So that’s it then?” Captain Lonan demanded, his warm breath breaking the frigid air. “Did you even try to hunt Hobbs down? Or did you just wait a while before doubling back?”
Whatever strange companionship or alliance had been struck between the two men—a bond Asher hardly recognised—it was clear to see that Lonan was taking his quiet departure as a betrayal. The captain of the watch wobbled where he stood, still unsure of his footing while his injured leg protested.
“You’ve got enough coin to see you on, is that it?” Lonan continued, his stern expression invaded by disappointment. “I thought you were…” The captain looked away, reassessing his choice of words. “I thought you were going to see this through.”
“I have,” Asher stated gruffly, eager to be on an easterly heading. The wolf was now his responsibility after all.
Confusion and revelation both pinched and illuminated Lonan’s face. “You found him? He’s dead?”
“I’ve seen the job through,” Asher reiterated, taking purposeful steps, Hector in tow.
Lonan moved to block him all the more, though his wounded leg was slower to follow him and the pain showed through. “What does that mean, Asher?” he spat. “If you have killed Hobbs then why aren’t you collecting your reward?”
Asher stopped rather than barrelling the captain over. “I’m not risking another audience with the man who threatened to put my head on the block. It’s done. Russell Hobbs is dead. The wolf won’t be bothering Kelp Town again.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“You don’t have to,” Asher retorted. “But I’m leaving all the same.”
“Something isn’t right. I know it!”
“Like you said—I’ve all the coin I need to move on.” Asher punctuated his words by nodding at the street beyond the captain.
“What have you done, Ranger?” came the question in his wake. “What have you done?”
“Finished it.”
Chapter 10
A Long Way To Go
Pixlet - Where the name came from I cannot say, for these little buggers are better known as Kilits in The Arid Lands, where they originate. Still, the name has stuck amongst us northerners.
Now, the first thing you’re going to do is underestimate a Pixlet. No taller than your knee and relatively rotund, they are seemingly harmless. Do not be fooled. Their jaws are capable of over-extending and when they do, you won’t be able to count all the fangs inside. If you come across one on its own, you might be able to cut it down before it inflicts serious harm, but seldom are they alone. Their packs number in the dozens and they will strip you to the bone.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 96.
Han Gorson, Ranger.
To Asher’s relief, Russell had been easy to find, a lone figure beyond The Selk Road and upon the frosted moorland that stretched to the horizon. If anything, he had covered more ground than the average man in the time he had had, a testament to his new stamina.
The ranger had handed over the bronze orb, just as he had said he would. Russell gave it no more than a glance before tucking it away into the satchel he had taken from one of Vouder’s men. From there, they travelled on, putting more miles between them and Kelp Town, before deciding to camp within a small patch of trees.
Seeing to the fire, Asher refrained from using whatever magic the black gem gifted him and started it with the flint he had long left in the bottom of his saddlebags. Across the growing flames, Russell sat on the cold ground, awkwardly still, gaze lost to the fire. There was unmistakable amber in those eyes.
Despite Asher’s curiosity regarding the orb, which had grown like the flames of the fire since giving it to Russell, the ranger decided to open a different dialogue. “If you’re going to make a life of hunting monsters for coin, you’re going to have to convince people you’re not the monster they should be afraid of.”
Russell frowned, the muscles in his brow the first to move in some time. “What does that mean?” Already his tone was laced with hostility.
“You don’t move enough,” Asher told him, stoking both the literal fire and the one within Maybury. “You’re so still it’s noticeable. Remember your first lesson—”
“Blend in,” Russell said, snapping the words off.
Asher didn’t react, keeping a calm aura about him. “And you hardly blink,” he added.
Russell looked at him with a hard and supernatural gaze before deliberately blinking. “Anything else?”
The ranger didn’t flinch away from those steadfast eyes, the eyes of the wolf. “We need to work on your anger.”
Maybury’s jaw tensed and he finally looked away, one hand clenched into a fist and pressing into the ground. “How am I not supposed to be angry? My whole life has been…” He looked about, as if the words to describe the horrors that had unfolded around him would be there to be found. “I’m not even Russell Hobbs anymore. Or a miner! I’ve been working mines since I could hold a pick-axe. My home’s gone. Hells, I can’t even stay in The Ice Vales! And then…” Again, he looked left and right, those amber eyes glassy now. “The people I’ve killed. The lives I’ve ruined. That watchman’s family.” That hard gaze returned, its edges sharp as it homed in on the ranger. “I’ve got plenty of reasons to be damned angry,” he fumed. “And if you could see my thoughts you’d get on your horse and flee.”
Asher maintained his posture and peaceful composure a moment longer. “You have a lot to overcome,” he admitted. “But if you are to make something of your life, you’re going to have to see more clearly the distinctions between you and the wolf.”
“What are you talking about?” Russell demanded, looking for a fight.
“Unlike most who have to deal with their monsters, yours has a physical manifestation—its own life that is. You cannot hold yourself accountable for its actions. You are, however, accountable for containing it every month and maintaining control of your impulses in-between.”
Maybury was shaking his head. “You don’t understand. I can feel it moving inside me. Even now I can feel it reaching out, through me, to get to you.” He shook his head again and threw a small stick into the ground. “This is pointless. What am I doing here? You should never have interfered! If I was swinging from that tree the wolf would be dead!” He was on his feet now, pacing up and down. “I’m just a miner, a damned miner! What am I doing?” he muttered over and over, his sight regularly going to the trees, searching for a strong branch.
“You’re surviving,” Asher announced, cutting through the chaos of Russell’s mind. “For now that will suffice, but you’ll need to learn how to live if you’re going to… well, live. That will come more easily in time—I can teach you ways to quiet the wolf’s voice, its impulses.”
Maybury advanced towards the fire. “And what of the beast itself?” he imposed. “Do you have ways to domesticate it too? A leash perhaps? Or maybe you could teach it some tricks!”
Asher looked up at him and sighed. The man had too much fire in his veins and too much noise in his head for the meditative technique he had in mind. There was only one way he was going to burn the fight out of him, rid him of the explosive energy. After that, they could get to real work.
Standing up, the ranger collected his broadsword on the way and tossed it to Russell, over the flames. Before he caught it, Asher had already drawn the silvyr blade from his shoulder and held it casually by his side.
“What’s this?” Maybury asked, his irritation increasing all the more with confusion.
“It’s a sword,” Asher pointed out, using his response as a jibe. “Take it from the scabbard,” he instructed, rounding the fire to face him.
His anticipation on the rise, Russell removed the steel with verve. The blade caught the light and flashed as his eyes did. It also looked smaller in his grip.
It was a clear and icy night, but the surrounding pines gave some shelter from the light of the moon, which perched lower to the horizon than its inevitable apex. This protected the short-sword’s secret, though Russell seemed hardly the type to care about silvyr.
“We are to fight?” Maybury enquired, and eagerly so.
“We are to spar,” Asher specified. “There’s a difference.”
Russell hefted the sword with ease. “What is the point of this?”
“Many things can be learnt from the practice of combat,” Asher went on, moving further away from the fire. “We’ll get to all of them in time. Tonight, its only purpose is to run some of that fire out of your blood.”
Maybury looked at the sword in his hand. “I think it’s going to take more than this.”
“I just need you calm enough to use your ears. You need to listen to learn the next lesson.”
Russell gripped the broadsword with both hands and braced himself into what felt to him like a natural fighting stance. It was all wrong, of course. His feet were too close together and his weight too firmly planted on his legs, rooting him to the spot. There was every chance, obviously, that his supernatural strength and speed could compensate.
“There are rules,” Asher stated, interrupting the man’s initial lunge.
“Rules?”
“You cannot loose your grip,” the ranger informed him. “You cannot draw blood. You cannot break bone. And you cannot lose your temper.”
Maybury appeared more disheartened with every edict. “Then what are we to do?”
“It ends when you yield,” Asher said pointedly.
“You mean when one of us yields,” Russell made to correct.
The ranger gave no response but to square himself against his opponent, short-sword still held low. It was an invitation that Russell gladly accepted.
The distance between them seemed like nothing at all with the speed Maybury used to close it. Asher’s own broadsword was coming down on him in no time, a heavy two-handed strike that would do far more than merely draw blood. Still, the ranger wasn’t there to greet it, his side step more than enough to see him removed from harm’s way.
Strong and fast as he was, Russell’s second attack appeared as if it was part of the first, swinging horizontally for Asher’s hip. The ranger retreated a step and brought the flat of his short-sword around to bat the steel end away. A quick and calculated backhand had the silvyr blade tap Maybury’s arm, alerting him to the wound that could have been inflicted.
“In a real fight,” Asher explained, “you would have just lost the use of that arm.”
Russell growled and came at him with three successive attacks, the broadsword sent high, low, and wide. Asher dodged the first and deflected the subsequent two, careful not to damage his own sword with the superior silvyr. It infuriated Maybury, and his rage forced him to abandon the sword and thrust out a solid boot. The ranger had seen it coming, the man’s footwork all too obvious, and pivoted on one heel while manoeuvring the flat of the short-sword to come up under Russell’s ankle. An upwards thrust was all the effort required to push his leg beyond the limits of his balance and flip him onto his back.
To his credit, those unrelenting fingers, so accustomed to wielding a pick-axe, held the broadsword firm. Even his recovery was at an enviable speed and he was swinging the blade round low as he rose to his feet. Asher lifted his right leg instinctively, evading the swipe, before pressing his own attack, and pushing Maybury into retreat.
Quite deliberately, the ranger exposed a gap in his form and baited Russell into thrusting at his chest—an opportunity to overcome his retreat. Somewhere between muscle memory and tactical strategy, Asher’s sword arm moved to roll the incoming blade towards his opponent’s centre mass before slamming the pommel into the man’s wrist. It was a jarring attack designed to flex the fingers and release the weapon.
The broadsword fell through the air, where the ranger’s waiting hand caught it.
A swift flick sent the flat of the broadsword into Russell’s face, knocking him back a step and into Asher’s sweeping kick that took his legs out from under him. Again, the man found himself on his back looking up at the ranger.
The solid blades of grass crunched as the broadsword was plunged into the ground beside Maybury’s head. “Again,” Asher commanded.
Four more times they collided in what was supposed to be simulated battle. Had any one of Russell’s blows actually landed, however, Asher would have been carved in two. There was much work to be done, but the man’s fighting techniques and self-control would only improve after mastering his own mind. That began with meditation. And it would have to begin that very night if he was to make progress in the time they had.
“Get up,” Asher said for the sixth time.
Russell did so and with notably less anger than previously. “Who taught you to fight?” he questioned, his curiosity surpassing his frustration.
“The same man who taught me to master my mind,” Asher replied, and with all the information he deigned to give on his past. “We’re done with these,” he added, one hand held out for his broadsword.
“But I didn’t yield.”
“Physically, no,” the ranger agreed. “But your head is no longer in it—and that was the point of this exercise.” He flexed his fingers in anticipation. The sword returned to him, he sheathed it and returned the silvyr blade to its place on his back before placing both on the ground beside Hector. “Sit,” he instructed, gesturing to the fire.
“I can teach you to fight,” he began, the two now seated opposite each other, the fire beside them. “But first, I would teach you to fight the wolf. Once you’ve overcome that, you can learn everything else.”
Russell appeared far more uncomfortable now than he had when the sword had been put in his hand. “How do I fight the beast?”
“Have you ever meditated before?”
Maybury made a face. “What’s… meditation?”
Asher took a breath and took a step back in his plans. Of course the miner from Snowfell had never heard of the elven technique for mindfulness—the wizened scholars of The All-Tower likely hadn’t either.
“It’s a breathing exercise that will allow you to focus your thoughts,” he explained as simply as he could. “This,” he continued, one finger pressed to his left temple, “is the only weapon you’ll ever have against the wolf. Like your sword arm, it needs training.”
Dubious as he appeared, Russell adjusted his position to mirror Asher’s, legs crossed. “How does it work?”
The question transported Asher to his earliest years in Nightfall, when he had asked the exact same question of Nasta Nal-Aket. Echoing his old mentor, the ranger said, “Close your eyes. Take deep breaths. With every new breath, you’re going to shut off your senses one by one until sound alone is all that remains of the world.”
This command took Russell some time, his heightened senses refusing to be silenced. All the while, the moon rose higher and higher and the night colder and colder. Still Asher persisted, keenly aware of the importance of the lesson. One bout of anger in a crowded tavern would end in death for those around the man.
“It’s no use,” Russell hissed.
“Quiet.” Assuming the role of the teacher, Asher couldn’t help but think of Nasta again, his master’s words returning to him with ease. “Focus your thoughts to that of a pinhead. When you arrive at that point, you realise the pinhead is the top of a well. You must fall into the well.”
“What are you talking about?” Maybury asked. “How’s this nonsense to help me?”
Asher sighed, his fatigue demanding his attention. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he announced, suddenly moving to retrieve his bed roll.
“We have to do this again?”
“Every day,” Asher replied, “until you don’t need me to help anymore.”
“I thought you were going to show me the ways of the ranger. Killing monsters and the like.”
“You have to walk before you run,” the ranger told him, repeating more of Nasta’s words from so long ago. “You’re no good to anyone if you can’t control your rage. And when it comes to killing monsters and the like, rage won’t help you. From here on out, your life is one of discipline and unwavering control.”
