A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 17
“Vorska,” he muttered to himself, before sliding down the roof and jumping back onto the street.
He soon reunited with Russell and informed the man of his findings, all the while ushering him to move on. He also opined that the creatures were being sloppy, as the bestiary described them as meticulous killers in both provocation and discretion. Again, the pieces weren’t slotting together, adding to the ranger’s mounting irritation.
Rounding the last corner, The Jolly Rotten came into view, its white face and black beams standing out against the forest behind it. Only feet away from the front door, Asher and Russell paused to the sound of some ardent disagreement. A second later, that disagreement turned violent. Glass was smashed. Wood shattered. A blow landed true, underscored by a pained grunt. It seemed Russell had a better understanding of what was taking place inside the inn, sweeping one hand across the ranger’s chest to move him aside.
The door exploded open, preceding the man that staggered and fell into the street.
“Say it again!” came the angry growl from inside.
And there it was, that familiar voice and the last reason why the ranger had made directly for The Jolly Rotten.
Asher didn’t even realise he was smirking as he entered the establishment. The gloom felt oppressive compared to the clear winter’s day, but the ranger’s eyes quickly adjusted and discovered two other men, one of whom was crawling on all fours, blood oozing from his mouth while one hand cupped his crotch.
The other was firmly in the grip of a dwarf.
“Say it again!” Doran Heavybelly commanded, pulling the man closer by his collar so that he might feel the son of Dorain’s hot breath on his face.
Asher quietly moved around the dwarf’s field of vision and covertly removed a handful of coins from the son of Dorain’s saddle bags, left draped over one of the chairs before their argument had turned physical. He placed two of the coins flat on the counter and pushed them towards the owner, who had shrunk in demeanour, his back pressed to the wall behind the bar.
“For the door,” Asher said, his voice no more than a hush.
“Say it again!” Doran bellowed.
The man in his grasp swallowed, eyes pleading. “Bearded… Bearded gnome,” he managed.
Heavybelly’s teeth clamped together in a tight and seething hiss. “Ye’ve caught me at the back end o’ a long journey, laddy! On a good day I’d normally jus’ throw ye a spankin’ an be on me way, but me belly’s empty an’ me tongue is awfully dry, so I’m to be enjoyin’ this…”
Asher shuffled the dwarf’s coins in his hand and placed another two on the counter. “For the table,” he assured.
Right on cue, the son of Dorain dragged the man by his collar and forced the side of his head upon the nearest table, breaking two of its legs in the process and toppling it under his opponent’s weight. Three teeth were also sent skittering across the inn floor.
One table over, the man who had been crawling away had found his reserves and managed to stand. He noted his friend on the floor and took more offence, his face screwing up into a mask of rage—as if such an emotion would see him overthrow Doran Heavybelly, or any dwarf for that matter.
The son of Dorain spat on the floor and snorted. “Slow learner, eh? I’ve got somethin’ for that,” he added, and grinned.
The foolish man advanced and threw a punch from so far away he might as well have verbally declared his intentions. Doran bowed his head at the last moment, providing his opponent with a skull that had often been compared to stone. Keen ears would have heard not one, but two knuckles crack upon impact. The sharp yelp that followed seemed unavoidable, that mask of rage replaced by sheer pain. What might have been avoidable, however, was Doran’s choice to use the chair beside him.
Asher sighed as he slid another coin across the bar, his finger releasing it as the chair came down and broke into pieces around the man’s head. He dropped to the floor, there to join his friend and a handful of teeth. Flattened as he was, the ranger could now see beyond him, where a notorious Warhog lay on its side, a bottle of ale hanging out of its mouth.
“Here,” the ranger offered, placing the rest of the coins on the counter. “For your troubles.”
“Are ye next?” Doran barked, squaring up to Russell’s superior frame in the doorway.
“He’s with me,” Asher announced.
The son of Dorain whipped his head around to lay eyes on the ranger. “Asher! Is that ye, lad?” The dwarf glanced up at Maybury. “He’s with ye?” Doran chuckled. “Are ye handin’ him in for a reward or somethin’?”
Asher briefly met Russell’s eyes. The dwarf had no idea how close to the truth he was. Before he could give any kind of answer, the third man, previously thrown through the door, stumbled back inside. Maybury moved so the man might see what had become of his friends, a sight that put a touch of fear in him.
“Unless ye want to join ’em,” Heavybelly stated, “I suggest ye drag ’em into the cold an’ make yerselves scarce.”
The man wiped blood from his bottom lip and wasted no time, pulling one after the other outside. After the last, the door was closed and the gloom returned, trapping them in torch and candle light and a few shafts of pale sun.
“Apologies, Jeri!” Doran called over the bar. “I’ll take that breakfast now!”
Asher waited until Jeri, the owner, had peeled himself away from the wall before ordering a Velian tea. With Russell in tow, they joined the dwarf in his booth, where Pig still lay in a stupor.
“What animal is that?” Maybury enquired with some derision.
“That ain’ no animal,” Doran corrected, reaching for his tankard of beer. “That is a Warhog, a beast o’ Dhenaheim, the scourge o’ Grimwhal, an’ a monster bred for naught but war.”
Pig chose this moment to let loose a throaty burp and unleash a hellish gas from its other end.
“I see,” Russell muttered.
“So,” Heavybelly began, drawing the word out as he turned his attention on Asher. “Where in the hells have ye been? I came last year—second week o’ Dunfold—an’ ye never showed up! I waited a damned week! I almost didn’ come this time.”
“I got held up in Longdale,” Asher told him.
“What were it?” Doran asked, his beard dripping with alcohol.
“Wraith.”
The dwarf made a face. “Nasty buggers,” he remarked. “Ye seen Salim?”
The pivoting question turned Asher towards the rest of the tavern area, where Jeri was sweeping up debris. “No,” he answered simply. “You?”
“He was ’ere last year,” Doran reported. “Jus’ come off a job in Wood Vale. Somethin’ about a Dredlin’.”
“Dredling?” Asher echoed, a hint of concern about him.
Doran waved a hand. “Nothin’ Salim couldn’ handle. I partnered with ’im for a job in Namdhor. Ye should o’ seen ’im—cut through ’em blasted Triffids like a pro.”
Asher didn’t doubt the southerner’s skills, though he would have liked to have seen him, if only to know that he was thriving as a ranger. In fact, he would have liked Salim to be present for their current predicament. Rarely did the ex-assassin seek allies—or help of any kind—but there was something more going on here, something more than Werewolves and Vorska. He could feel it.
A seeming empire of quiet tension then settled over the trio, Doran’s eyes shifting repeatedly between Asher and Russell. “So are we goin’ to talk abou’ the Lumber Dug in the room or what?”
Mention of a Lumber Dug pulled at the ranger’s memory, casting him momentarily back to Dragorn, where such a monster had escaped the dungeons of Viktor Varga. It had taken him and Salim near on a week to slay the creature amidst the chaos and destruction it created. Such was the damage it caused that the ruling families of that wretched island had put a price on the beast’s head. Even splitting the reward in half, Asher and Salim had come away from that particular hunt very rich men, if nearly having been split in half themselves.
“The name’s Russell,” the largest of the three voiced, and confidently so. “Russell Maybury.”
The dwarf eyed him a moment longer. “Well met, Russell Russell Maybury. Ye’re talkin’ to Doran, son o’ Dorain, o’ clan Heavybelly.”
“You never said your friend was a dwarf,” Maybury commented Asher’s way. “And a funny one at that,” he added dryly.
“Friend?” Doran repeated, a broad grin spreading his blond beard. “Did he say that?”
Quite coolly, Asher replied, “I think I said ally, which might be stretching the truth, depending on the day.”
“Bah! Come on now! I only sold ye into slavery the once. That second time was yer own damned fault!”
Russell’s interest raised one of his eyebrows but Asher waved the tale away. “You just arrived?” he asked the dwarf.
“Aye, not that long before ye got ’ere. Lirian’s finest were in ’ere celebratin’ some hunt or such. As if bringin’ down a deer is worth celebratin’!” he mocked with a laugh. “Try bringin’ down a fully grown Praitora!”
Given the timing of Doran’s arrival and The Jolly Rotten sitting on the edge of the city, Asher reasoned that the dwarf hadn’t heard of the woman murdered in the alley. Which meant he had no idea he had entered a city preyed upon by the Vorska.
“Perhaps we should order you another drink,” the ranger said, considering the tale he had to tell.
By the time Asher’s recounting was concluded, bringing the son of Dorain up to date, the ranger had finished his pot of Velian tea though, quite surprisingly, Doran had consumed but half of his tankard. His focus had sharpened when informed that there was a Werewolf sharing his booth, just as his lips had parted and failed to meet again.
With nothing more to hear, the dwarf sat back against the dark green leather, his gaze routinely drifting towards the axe and sword fastened to Pig’s saddle. Asher recognised the look on his face for he had wrestled with the same thoughts.
Doran eventually cleared his throat and leant forward. “I understood everythin’ ye said—an’ I’ve got questions for, well, all o’ it! But I ’ave to know: why’s he still breathin’?”
Russell shifted uncomfortably in his seat but, credit to him, he kept his jaw clamped shut and allowed the hunters their exchange.
“He’s one of us,” Asher stated, aware that he had been vague when detailing their first meeting in the woods and, specifically, his feelings at the time.
“One o’ us?” Heavybelly spat incredulously. “I’m aware we’ve all got our own monsters,” he said knowingly, “but there’s a difference between havin’ ’em an’ actually bein’ one.”
“He’s a ranger,” Asher maintained.
“What he is is exactly what ye’re supposed to put down. He should be on the sharp end o’ yer sword.”
“He’s a ranger because I say he is.” Asher’s tone was dangerously close to threatening, a tone never taken lightly by a dwarf.
Doran sat back, chewing over his own response. “As yer ally,” he emphasised, “heed me words when I say yer judgment is clouded ’ere. Jus’ because he’s sittin’ there lookin’ like ye an’ me, doesn’ mean he is like ye an’ me. We’ve had our own trouble with Lycans beyond Illian an’ I can tell ye, the beast inside o’ ’im is always closer than ye think. An’ as yer friend,” he added, “I know yer conscience doesn’ need any more deaths on its hands, an’ that’s exactly what ye’re goin’ to get if ye let ’im live.”
Asher held back his biting response and took a calming breath, deciding he would take the shortest route to the end of the conversation. “You can either help, or move on.”
“Help? Ye’re askin’ if I fancy gettin’ in the middle o’ some monster feud over a trinket?” The dwarf blew hard through his lips, blurring them beneath his beard. “O’ course I do!” he exclaimed, reversing direction as only Doran could. “I ain’ ever put me blade to a Werewolf, or a Vorska for that matter! An’ ye know I like me a good fight. Though I’m bettin’ there ain’ no coin to be gained.”
“Probably not,” the ranger confirmed, his voice returned to its familiar even tone.
Doran mumbled something under his breath, eyes darting to Russell. “An’ ye. This is truly the life ye seek? A ranger’s life? Ye see yerself roamin’ the land in search o’ monsters an’ the like?”
The questions appeared to cut through some of Maybury’s rising ire. He swallowed once, a nervous glance cast Asher’s way. “I’m not for much else. I already have… blood on my hands. If I can put the wolf in me to good use, then I would see it done. Though, I confess,” he added, “I know little beyond swinging a pick-axe.”
The son of Dorain maintained his hard gaze. “Yer intentions are in the right place, I’ll give ye that. But they don’ change what ye are, lad. All the will in the world won’ keep the wolf at bay. An’ all this fuss will only make what’s to come all the harder,” he pointed out, looking to Asher now.
“Changes nothing,” the ranger stated. “He gets a second chance, just like the rest of us.”
The dwarf offered him a scowl. “That chip on yer shoulder’s goin’ to get ye killed, laddy.”
Asher didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, he took another breath, determined not to remind the son of Dorain that he owed him for everything that had transpired on Dragorn. At the time, he had told Doran he expected nothing from him but the promise that he would keep the Stormshields safe. Still, it was awfully tempting given the rock and the hard place they found themselves between.
“So, you will help?” he asked again, though his thoughts were already wandering back to the Stormshields, the spark of an idea at his fingertips.
“I said I would didn’ I?” the dwarf replied with a shrug. “I’ll even help ye when the time comes to… ye know…”
“Chop my head off?” Russell queried dryly.
“Aye!” Heavybelly said jovially. “Until then,” he continued, “let us see where this strange an’ twisted road may take us, eh?”
Russell shifted where he sat, fingers clasping together on the table top as if he was about to offer up a prayer to the gods. “I’m not so foolish as to believe this will work. But, for your sakes, if it doesn’t, make sure you kill me before the full moon returns. I would not take your deaths to my grave with all the others.” Maybury laid his eyes on Doran. “Yours perhaps,” he added with a wry grin.
Asher imparted a grin of his own. “It seems you’re quickly getting a measure of Master Heavybelly,” he quipped.
“He’s got a point,” Doran said bluntly. “In a couple o’ weeks ye’re goin’ to come face to face with the very monster I’ve been sittin’ ’ere tryin’ to warn ye abou’. What are ye goin’ to do? Offer it some Velian mint tea an’ put a sword in its hand? Ye’re a ranger now, wolfie!” he cried mockingly.
“That’s why we’re here, in Lirian. That abandoned building I told you about: it has ample space in the basement for… containment.”
Doran blinked, then again, one hand running through the beard about his chin. “Ye mean to lock it up in a basement? In the heart o’ Lirian?” The dwarf licked his lips. “Jus’ how many blows to the head ’ave ye taken since last we met?”
“A long-term solution is required if Russell is to make a real life of this,” Asher insisted, talking about the man as if he wasn’t there. “Having somewhere safe he can return to every month will provide that. If the moon enthrals him out there somewhere, there’s no telling what might happen.”
“It’ll reduce the distance he can travel for jobs,” Doran commented, finally returning his attention to the tankard still gripped in one hand.
“A small price to pay,” the ranger reasoned on Maybury’s behalf.
Russell cleared his throat, reminding the hunters he sat among them. “Though I hate to say it, I agree with the dwarf—”
“The dwarf,” Doran cut in, “has a name, wolf.”
Asher remained silent for the exchange, allowing the pair to navigate each other in their own way.
Maybury tilted his head, an affectation of an apologetic bow perhaps. “It is folly to allow the transformation to take place in a densely populated city. And I am not convinced that room will be anywhere near ready when the full moon returns.”
The ranger fixed his sight on the son of Dorain, his idea from earlier fully in his grasp now. “With all the time in the world, that room will never contain a Werewolf,” he finally accepted aloud. “Not if it’s prepared by human hands,” came his final and all the more leading comment.
Doran’s eyebrows—hedgerows of blond tuft—rose into his forehead. “I don’ know the first thing abou’ buildin’ a bloody dungeon!”
“That and so much more,” Asher replied rather quickly. “But,” he went on before the dwarf could argue, “we both know someone who could.”
Revelation crossed Doran’s face. “Danagarr? He’s in Darkwell!”
“You could send a raven this very day,” the ranger put to him. “Impress upon him the need for haste.”
“Who’s Danagarr?” Russell asked.
“A mutual acquaintance,” Asher explained.
“A friend,” Heavybelly specified. “An’ a dwarven one at that.”
“He will come if he knows it’s for me,” the ranger told them confidently.
“Aye, he will,” Doran agreed. “But even if he comes right away, it’s goin’ to be damned tight, lad.”
Asher kept his gaze on the son of Dorain, pressing upon him an almost real weight.
“A’right,” the dwarf conceded, “I’ll send a raven today.” He swigged another mouthful of warm beer. “Oh, an’ what exactly is a Vorska anyway?”
Asher watched Doran move further into the main room of The Ranch and waited for his predictable assessment.
“I’ve slept in worse,” the dwarf announced. “Though not by much,” he added quietly.
The ranger simply nodded along, sure that the son of Dorain—like him—was thinking about the dungeons beneath Blood and Coin. “Come on,” he bade, making for the door on the far left. Asher paused when he noticed Russell on the other side of the room, apparently lost to some daydream, hands on hips. “Maybury,” he cajoled.
