A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 19
“First blood to clan Heavybelly!” Doran cheered.
Having finally lit his pipe, Asher observed from atop his barrel with the jolt of arakan spices on his tongue. Now was the moment of Russell’s true test. The taste and smell of his own blood on the air would set his veins on fire, igniting that instinctual imperative to survive, a feeling the ranger knew all too well.
“This is your fight, Russell,” he cried from the edges. “Not the wolf’s. Only you can tell it who’s in control.”
Doran sneered. “He can’ do a damned thing, Asher. Look at ’im! It takes nothin’ to strip ’im back an’ reveal the beast!”
Asher wanted desperately to silence the dwarf, if only to give Russell a moment to think, but he could see what Doran was really doing. He was trying to prove to the ranger that they had naught but a monster on their hands and that, even in human form, Maybury was a danger to everyone around him. And so Asher held back, wishing to see the truth of that for himself.
Whether Russell had heard a word of Asher’s advice remained to be seen, though it seemed he had heard everything Doran had to say. Again he charged the dwarf and leapt high to close the gap via the air. His pick-axe came down in two hands, forcing Heavybelly back a step.
In came the son of Dorain, a veteran of numerous wars, and struck the miner across the nose with the pommel of his sword. Russell didn’t so much as grunt at the blow.
Instead, he bolted forwards into his opponent and flattened the haft of his pick-axe to Doran’s chest. The assault knocked him back all the more until Maybury thrust the horizontal haft up into the dwarf’s throat, lifting him from his feet and pinning him to the pillar at his back.
The son of Dorain immediately dropped his sword in favour of holding down Russell’s wrists, lest the wood crush his windpipe. Still, it was pressed deep into him, turning his face a contrasting red to the mane of blond. A sharp hiss pushed through his bared teeth before he began to ram one foot after another into Maybury’s chest. The wolf didn’t budge.
Doran resorted to hammering the arms that held the pick-axe in place. By the look of him he needed air soon.
“Control, Russell!” Asher called, on his feet now, hand reaching for the safida spices on his belt. “Doran is not your enemy! Find your control!”
At last, dwarven strength proved its legendary worth. Doran dislodged Russell’s arms and fell back to his feet. His inevitable gulp for air was that of a drowning man breaking the water’s surface. Still, he launched a club-like fist into Maybury’s gut, then a second to the inside of his knee—dropping him down—and, finally, a third to his jaw. The wolf fell back and rolled lazily through the snow, a pained groan his close companion.
The dwarf’s arm shot out, a single finger pointed like an arrow at Russell. “He can’ be trained!” he rasped, his other hand soothing his throat. “There’s nothin’ in ’im but the beast!”
Russell was already rising, shaking off the assault, and looking a little sheepish. “Apologies,” he offered gruffly.
“Damn yer apologies! The full moon is days out, days, Asher. There ain’ time to build no cage, Danagarr or not. An’ as for trainin’ him…”
“You must be hungry,” the ranger assumed, cutting through the tirade and grabbing Doran’s attention by the stomach. “Let’s find some lunch. And a drink,” he added, sweetening the deal. “On me.”
The son of Dorain took a few breaths and straightened up, his normal colour returning. “Aye,” he said, with no more than a glance at Russell.
“Stay here,” Asher instructed the man. “I’ll bring you some food back.”
Sullen, Maybury recovered his pick-axe and nodded his understanding.
Asher hadn’t caught the name of the tavern they entered, satisfied to have walked out of The Ranch and followed his nose to the nearest source of food—Doran wasn’t fussy. The dwarf was soon tearing through a chicken leg with ale and debris mottling his beard. His cutlery remained untouched while his stubby fingers grabbed at buttery new potatoes and shovelled down mushrooms, all of which were soothing his wounded pride.
Taking his time with his leek and potato soup, the ranger watched and waited for the son of Dorain to reach a level of civility that would allow for reasonable conversation.
“Ye must see now?” Doran eventually said. “Ye must see ’im for what he is?”
“I see the need for training,” Asher countered. “You, me, Salim, we have all received training, whether we wanted to or not. We’re fighters before all else. Russell just needs to… adjust his perspective.”
“That may be so,” Heavybelly replied, bits of chicken falling out of his mouth, “but there ain’ time for that before these Vorska come for ’im. He’s goin’ to ’ave to rely on his strength an’ brutality to survive ’em. An’ then what? Ye saw ’im. The wolf takes over an’ he don’ see friend from foe.”
Asher agreed with the dwarf, preventing him from forming a counterargument. Instead, he continued to eat his soup, the weight of his decisions upon him.
“Ye know,” Doran went on, “ye can train ’im all ye like, with or without that damned pick-axe. He’s good to no one until he can keep that temper in check.”
Asher couldn’t help his groan. “I’ve already tried. I can’t count how many times he’s failed at meditation.”
Doran tutted and shook his head. “Ye an’ meditation,” he chastened. “Elf talk if ever I heard it.”
“You could do with mastering it yourself,” Asher commented. “You wear your anger on your sleeve.”
“I wear what?”
The ranger thought better of explaining the human idiom and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re not exactly a monk yourself,” he rephrased.
“Bah! I’m exactly the way the Mother an’ Father made me!” The dwarf picked the chicken bone clean and let it clatter onto his plate. “So why hasn’ he taken to this meditation babble then?”
Asher considered the question carefully before answering. “The point of it is to separate himself mind and body, to find a way to make an island of his emotions from where he cannot rise to… well, what you saw today. In truth, achieving that kind of isolation from oneself is a painful method that takes years. I had hoped he would pick up at least enough to keep the wolf’s influence at bay.” The ranger returned his spoon to the bowl before it could reach his lips. “All it did was make him angry.”
Doran harrumphed. “Don’ blame ’im. Sounds like it’d make me angry too.”
“You’re right though,” Asher said. “If he can’t control himself he can’t…” The ranger was ever the pragmatist, yet he struggled to voice the rest of that sentence.
Heavybelly sat back in his chair, quite satiated by the look of him. There was no better way to calm the dwarf and reset his emotional state than with food. “Maybe ye’re lookin’ at it all wrong,” he suggested.
The ranger narrowed his eyes. “How so?”
“Ye’re lookin’ at it—at ’im—like one o’ ’em assassins.”
Asher leant forward, eyes shifting round to take in the other patrons before finally landing on the dwarf. “If you think you’re whispering, you’re not.”
Doran held up his hands in apology. “Ye’re lookin’ at Russell like he’s an assassin o’ Nightfall,” he began again, achieving something closer to a whisper this time. “But he ain’. He ain’ even a soldier. He’s an amateur brawler at best.”
The ranger took a breath and folded his arms. “So how should I be looking at him?”
“Like a man,” Doran declared simply.
Asher chewed over that for a moment. “What does that mean?”
Sitting forward again, the son of Dorain idly picked through the bones on his plate, searching for scraps. “In me experience—which is more than yer own,” Doran felt the need to point out, “all men ’ave one thing in common.”
Asher rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“They all dream o’ bein’ somethin’ else,” the dwarf stated quite profoundly. “Or they want somethin’ else. Or they jus’ want more,” he added with his usual tone of derision. “Either way, they’re all dreamers who aren’ happy with their lot.”
“I won’t disagree,” the ranger replied, aware that he himself strived to be more than what he was, a hope, he knew, that would see the Ranger overcome the Assassin some day. “But how does that help me train him?”
Finding a green bean hiding beneath a pile of bones, slathered in gravy, Doran scooped it up—gravy and all—and stuffed it into his mouth. “Men cling to their dreams do they not? It’s what keeps ’em… well, them, I suppose. Maybe it’s folly to break his mind into pieces an’ hope he can forget who an’ what he is for a while. Maybe he needs to know exactly who he is. An’ who he is, I reckon, is whatever he dreams o’ bein’. In that moment, when the wolf’s risin’ an’ his blood’s alight with fire, he needs to hold on to that dream.” The dwarf shrugged. “It’s got to be better than some cold dark place in his mind, eh?”
Asher’s gaze fell adrift among the patrons, barmaids, and hanging decorations, just as his focus moved seemingly without purpose. It felt inherently wrong that Doran Heavybelly could speak so much sense while simultaneously pointing out the flaws in the methods used thus far; as well as the fact that they were undoubtedly dark. Asher knew of no other techniques besides those Nasta Nal-Aket had taught him. It had never occurred to him that there would be other ways and means to accomplish that same goal, or that he could change the goal itself.
“Regardless,” the ranger said, pivoting while his subconscious quietly reassessed his approach, “you have to stop antagonising him. He’s wanted to rip your head off a dozen times in the last two weeks. He needs a clear head.”
“I’ve nothin’ against the man,” Doran admitted. “It’s the wolf that’s not to me likin’. As far as I’m concerned, Russell Maybury died the moment he was bitten. He’s so cursed, Asher, he’s jus’ a walkin’ dead man. It would be a mercy to kill ’im.”
Asher shot him a warning look.
“I know,” the dwarf quickly replied, hands in the air, “he’s one o’ us. Speakin’ o’ which, when’s he goin’ to get his first beastie under his belt? He ain’ one o’ us until he’s received payment for services rendered!”
“In time,” the ranger asserted. “He has his own monster to deal with first. Once we’ve got past the next full moons we’ll have a month to continue his training, and find a contract somewhere.”
“If, Asher,” Doran emphasised gravely. “If we get past the next full moons.”
The clear day had prevailed and a twilight of pink and orange hues stretched across the sky by the time Doran and Asher found their way back to The Ranch. Both rangers came to a stop when they caught sight of a familiar donkey and cart outside.
Asher felt a warm sensation stir in his gut and move up to his chest and knew it to be hope, even if it was a fool’s hope.
“Danagarr!” the dwarf declared, clapping his hands together.
The dwarven smith was soon found inside, sitting on a crate beside Russell, who had apparently made them both a cup of tea. Danagarr’s wild eyebrows rose up so his dark eyes might take in the rangers as they entered, a broad smile stretching his dense and neglected beard.
“Asher! Doran!” He stood to greet them.
“Danagarr!” Doran cheered.
Asher maintained his calm composure but allowed himself that warm and genuine smile he could feel bursting to break free. “It is good to see you, old friend.”
Upon parting from their embraces, the smith peered up at the hilt poking over Asher’s right shoulder. “Let me see it then!” he urged with child-like giddiness.
How could the ranger refuse? The silvyr blade slipped free of its sheath, ringing in the cold gloom of the large room. Danagarr licked his lips and accepted it with delicate fingers. He turned it one way then the next, his blacksmith’s eyes examining its shape and edge.
“So fine a thing I will never make again,” he said to himself, lost in his old works. “The forests will grow an’ retreat an’ the mountains will rise ever higher an’ fall into ruin… but this will never change.” The dwarf chuckled. “It looks good on ye, fella,” he complimented, handing it back.
Asher slid the weapon away, happy to have its familiar weight strapped to his back once more. “We are in need of your fine works again, good smith. And there is no time to waste.”
Danagarr nodded along. “Doran’s note spoke of haste, though ye friend ’ere,” he added, gesturing at Russell with a friendly smile, “has been fillin’ me in a bit more. Ye need to trap a monster? In ’ere? Before the first full moon?” His incredulity was elevated with each question. “What are ye tryin’ to trap?” he asked with a short laugh. “A Lycan?” His laugh increased until he noted the expressions of all three companions. “Ye can’ be serious?”
Only minutes later, they were showing the smith the room that required so much alteration. As was natural to him, Danagarr entered the space and immediately began rapping his knuckles against the walls, pinching the bolt heads and stamping his feet into various boards. He muttered to himself as he walked around, all in his native tongue and beyond Asher’s understanding.
Instead, the ranger looked to Russell. He didn’t like the idea of lying to Danagarr but he was impressed the miner had retained his secret while imparting the necessary information to get the job done. The less people who know the truth the better, he told himself.
“So,” Doran began. “What do ye think, Danagarr? Can it be done?”
The smith contorted his mouth in consideration. “It can be done, aye. But it’s goin’ to take some work, fellas. This room wasn’t designed with what ye’ve got in mind. I’m goin’ to need to tear most o’ it down and rebuild it from scratch if it’s to contain a Lycan. The reinforcements…” he agonised. “An’ I haven’ brought nearly enough o’ what I’m goin’ to need.”
“Lirian’s a big city,” Asher told him. “It should have everything you need. And we have some coin to pay for it.” They would have nothing left, he knew, but he had never found coin hard to come by or even live without.
Danagarr nodded along, one hand repeatedly stroking his knotted beard. “Even if I had everythin’ I need,” he replied, “these hands alone can’ get it done before the first full moon. Hells, even with a team o’ smiths an’ carpenters it couldn’ be done before then. I’m sorry, fellas.”
A fool’s hope indeed, Asher thought.
“If you could,” the ranger said, “I would have you begin at once, full moon or not.”
“Asher,” Doran began, a frown forming. “Ye heard ’im. It can’ be done. Maybe we need to—”
Asher cut him off with a raised hand. “We will need it ready for all the moons that follow,” he said, his tone so confident his words might as well have been etched in stone.
Danagarr put up two rough hands. “I’m not followin’. I thought ye were jus’ trappin’ a Lycan in ’ere. Why do ye need it for all the other full moons?”
There was a pregnant pause before Russell just came out with the truth.
The next pause filled the room with considerably more tension. Danagarr swallowed, eyes wide. Then he hurried from the room, shoving his way past.
“Danagarr!” Doran yelled.
“No, no, no, no. I’m not standin’ next to a damned Lycan!” the smith shouted over his shoulder. “Me great uncle, Grarfath rest his soul, was killed by such a creature. His only mercy was that it ripped ’im into so many pieces there were nothin’ left to be cursed!”
Doran sighed. “I’ll speak to ’im.”
Asher watched the son of Dorain take off after his kin, taking what little hope he had left with him. The truth, it seemed, always found its way into the light. “He’ll come around,” he said to Russell, who stood tall, even with his shoulders stooped in dismay.
“I suppose I should get used to that reaction,” he concluded miserably.
“What you should do is keep your mouth shut,” Asher corrected, perhaps a little too firmly.
“Is it not my secret to tell?” Maybury snapped, his emotions always quick to get the better of him.
“I’m trying to find a way for you live with the secret,” the ranger argued. “The more people you tell, the harder that becomes. If this doesn’t work,” he went on, pointing at the barren room, “I don’t see any way forwards. We need Danagarr. And we might need others. So keep the truth to yourself,” he commanded, turning to leave.
“You don’t own me,” Maybury retorted.
“I never said I did,” Asher spat back, quick to turn on the man. “I’m the only one trying to find a way for you to live.”
“Aye,” Russell agreed, “so you keep saying. Yet you treat me more as the monster than the man. I might be a Werewolf and a poor miner before that, but I know a man ain’t supposed to live like you do. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for all you’ve done—for what you’re doing—but you cannot expect me to live as you do. I can’t move about, and I’m isolated from everyone and everything. I need more than that. Otherwise,” he added hopelessly, “I might as well let the wolf out. Better yet, I might as well let you put me down.”
Asher stood in the torchlight a moment longer, his gaze unable to keep with Russell’s. Then he turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” Maybury called.
Asher didn’t falter in his departure. “To find the strongest chains in Lirian.”
Chapter 16
Creatures Of The Night
Smilers - Disturbing are these monsters of shadow. In truth, they are creatures of the Shadow Realm, a land of darkness that should never have been tapped by foolish mages.
Standing like a man, they mirror many of our features—if you can imagine a man who wears his skin inside out. Worst of all our similarities, these beasts wear a permanent expression; the very same that has lent them their name.
