A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 2
By the time the Hell Hag realised what its prey was doing, Asher’s momentum was enough to bring him and the creature together. The ranger slammed into its smooth eyeless head and rolled over the top, silvyr blade angled to stab down. It would be done in a single stroke. He could already taste the air that awaited him.
Be that as it may, the final blow proved beyond his abilities as the Hell Hag flexed its bent legs and pushed its body up. The force of it was enough to flatten Asher, plastering him across the top of its body. It was also enough to rob him of the poisoned blade, the hilt snatched from his grasp.
There came a rush of water when the Hag’s rounded back broke the sable top and Asher was returned to the world above. He gulped the air, quenching the fire that had started in his lungs. The sky above had yet to succumb to true darkness and the meagre light that existed banished the effects of the Nightseye elixir. The transition was distracting at best and threatened to stupefy the Assassin’s sharp focus. But it was not to last.
The creature beneath him was already descending, preparing to leave him on the surface. Death would surely follow, for the beast had only to reach up with one of its claws and end it all.
The instinct to not only survive but slay the monster moved his hand to the back of his belt, where a curved dagger awaited it. Before the Hag disappeared into the ink, Asher stabbed its back and twisted the blade so that he might be pulled down with it. A moment later and he was submerged into the world of the Assassin once more.
The silvyr’s pureness was as bright to his senses as the flame of a candle in a dark room. Using the dagger to find purchase along the Hell Hag’s cumbersome body, the ranger pulled himself to its edge. The short-sword was standing proud amidst the bones, not two feet from one of the monster’s pointed legs. As soon as he swam for it, however, he would be at the mercy of those savage claws. But what choice did he have?
Kicking off and down, he dived for the blade and its promise of victory.
The Hell Hag shifted, scattering bones and kicking up mud. One of its legs knocked into Asher ribs, its sharp ridges cutting through the leather of his cuirass and sawing through skin and bone. The ranger’s cry of pain was stymied by the engulfing water, but human blood was flowing now, exciting the Hag. It shifted all the more, trying to find the right angle to ensnare its wounded prey. In doing so, it dislodged the silvyr blade and cast it further away.
In pain, dismayed, and feeling the loss of blood, Asher fell out of tune with his heightened senses and missed the incoming claw. Swatted by the hard appendage, the ranger struck another of the fiend’s armoured legs and had his back lacerated by the razored protrusions. Bolts of agony ran through him, pressing upon him the need to get out of the swamp and abandon the contract.
Survive, his instincts hissed, and always using the voice of Nasta Nal-Aket, his old mentor, would-be father, captor.
Asher gritted his teeth until it hurt. He was sick of hearing the old man’s voice in his head. Pushing off from the leg, he swam down, homing in on the metallic taste of silvyr. Towering over him, the behemoth moved one way then the next, its bulk proving too troublesome to tackle prey that dwelled beneath it. Using the advantage while he had it, the ranger closed the gap and finally reclaimed the short-sword.
There came no hesitation from the Assassin—it meant to destroy, as it had been bred to do.
Rooted as the Hag’s legs were, their rigidness only aided Asher’s attacks. Slowed by the water, two strikes were required to sever a portion of the hard limb and unbalance the beast. Its pain reverberated from somewhere deep in its chest, sending waves of vibrations through the murky water.
The ranger wasn’t nearly done.
Pushing up from the bottom, he launched himself by the point of his blade into the crevice where the damaged leg joined the bulbous body. He stabbed again and again before hacking at the top of the barbed limb. Inevitably, it fell free of the main body and the Hag reeled, reduced now to five legs. Still the ranger attacked, plunging the Luxun venom into its dark hide.
Only when it succeeded in turning did he have to swim to evade the legs. But he was soon faced by the monster’s claws again, and behind them its ravening jaws. The right claw came for him first. Fighting against the water, Asher was only able to avoid it snapping closed, the sharp edge still slicing a line across his hip and adding more blood to the swamp.
Then came the next claw. It snapped once, twice, a third time: the last attack clamping around his leg. That should have been it, the mortal blow that saw him bleed out profusely and die before the Hag could even consume him. But he did not die. He did not bleed out. He didn’t lose the leg.
Wracked by spasms, the Hell Hag did no more than break the bones and lacerate the skin. The claw opened, leaving Asher with the leg still intact but with new depths of crippling pain.
Marred and mangled as he was, the ranger tasted blood in the water, though it wasn’t his own. The Hag was spewing its insides out, vomiting internal organs into the swamp.
Some distant part of Asher’s mind, untroubled by the pain and broken leg, conjured a sense of relief. Finally, the quiet voice thought. The Luxun venom was slow, but it could not be denied, even by a Hell Hag.
Soon, the creature’s remaining legs failed to support it and the bottom rose up to meet it. More spasms rippled through its muscles and its mouth sat ajar, twitching in death.
His lungs desperate for air, Asher swam up, his left leg no more than a useless weight. He broke the surface and inhaled life, his hair and face coated with the Hag’s oils. Night had finally come to the world and a clouded one at that, carrying a threat of snow about it. Asher couldn’t care less about the weather. Everything hurt, his blood was adding to the Hag’s, and he could barely organise his thoughts.
When, at last, the swamp shallowed and he was able to crawl on his good leg, the ranger made his way back to his sword and gear, where he might sit back against one of the petrified trees. A long groan escaped his wet lips.
“I should have charged more,” he grumbled, glancing over the canvas of wounds he had amassed.
None was so bad as his leg. Splinted by his hands, the injured limb was raised from the water where he could better examine it. There was a bone protruding through his skin and trousers, just above the boot. Were he to present to any healer in the land, even a king’s physician, they would recommend amputating the leg as quickly as possible, before the blood could be spoiled.
Asher had no intention of losing his leg.
Leaving the limb to rest in the water, the ranger peeled off the fingerless glove on his right hand. Sitting quiet but proud on his index finger was a ring of simple iron and within its claws a black gem. Where it had come from, or how it had become his, lay so far in his past that Nightfall’s brutal training had scrubbed the truth from memory.
All he knew was the power it granted him.
Clenching his fist, Asher willed the magic therein to bathe him, to renew his body. Pain always came first, but it was fleeting and bearable for its time. The bone in his leg retracted back into place, eliciting a clipped yell from the ranger. The gashes to his torso and back knitted together, revealing healthy skin through the tears in his leathers. Lastly, his energy returned with the replenishing of his blood.
Rising from the swamp, the ranger stood—a man made whole again.
Looking back at the deeper swamp, all was calm, the smooth surface imparting no hint of the battle that had just taken place. Asher reached for his cloak and gear when a thought occurred to him, giving him pause. He looked back at the water again, reluctant to grant his thought any credence. Yet, he knew the people of Kelp Town would demand proof of the monster’s demise before coin left their purse.
The ranger sighed and left his gear where it was. With the silvyr short-sword in hand, he waded back into the swamp and dived into the watery graveyard.
Chapter 2
Ranger Business
Hell Spores - If you’ve got this far into the bestiary, you’re probably expecting another monster with claws or talons and a hide of scales or spines. Not all monsters are so easily identified, nor do they hunt as you would expect.
Hell Spores are often found near damp caves (See A Charter of Monsters, Page 86, for known locations). They also like to grow around tasty mushrooms. Some poor soul comes across the mushrooms, picks them, and ends up breathing in the Hell Spores. What follows ain’t pretty.
It might take seconds or hours but the end is the same: death. In death, the spores really get to work. They appear to take control of the body and violently attack anyone and anything to spread more spores. Don’t worry, you’ll know an infected person when you see one. They’re wild and covered in what can only be described as fungi.
Burn them. Burn them all.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 91.
Cal Vornan, Ranger.
Both light and sound broke through the trees, guiding the ranger back to civilisation, if Kelp Town had ever been called such a thing. Hector breached the outer edge of the marshland that surrounded the Hag’s swamp and trotted onto the road of slush and mud.
Asher brought the animal to a stop, giving way to the horses and carts that ferried dozens of miners in and out of the large town. Some were being taken west, towards the Demetrium mines for the night shift, while others—begrimed and dishevelled—were being brought back to rest.
Some of the miners took note of the ranger, whose appearance was equally unkempt and fouled after his encounter with the Hell Hag, though, in addition, the swamp had lent him a loathsome odour. Of course, most were drawn to the monstrous limb being dragged behind Hector, bound to the horse by a length of rope. It was only a portion of the Hag’s already severed leg, but it was big enough to convince the town’s watch that he had, indeed, slain the beast.
The way clear, Asher guided Hector onwards. Coming in behind the last wagon of miners, the ranger entered Kelp Town under the arched framework of dark wood, upon which its name had been carved. Old wind chimes and tired bunting showed where they had, sporadically, been hung from it, and now blew in the light breeze that cast the falling snow at a slanted angle.
For the most part, the townspeople had retired for the night. Only here and there came the ruckus of merriment, drifting through the streets on the wind. Asher considered the town’s central square, where so many taverns and inns were situated. His stomach growled at the thought of a hot meal and he dared to dream of a cold cider to go with it. Catching his own scent, the ranger had to wonder which, if any, establishment would grant him entry.
Steering Hector away from the central square for now, Asher made his way through the north-east district. He caught glimpses of people inside their homes, warmed by fires and comforted by family. Stray dogs and lone cats cut through it all, stalking in alleyways and sniffing out scraps along the edge of the street. More than one of them approached the Hag’s leg to investigate the separated limb’s unusual smell. None so much as licked it.
Arriving at the largest building in the neighbourhood, its third floor rising above the rooftops around it, Asher dismounted and secured Hector to the post outside, pausing only to offer the horse an apple from his saddlebag. “I’ll find you somewhere for the night soon enough,” he promised.
Untethering the rope from the back of the saddle, Asher proceeded to drag the Hag’s leg up the short steps. Beyond the small porch, the door remained closed and resisted the ranger’s attempt to enter. Stepping back, he read the sign nailed to the wall: Town Watch, established under the reign of King Jard of house Orvish. The date was no longer legible, though Asher imagined it was likely centuries ago. More importantly, it said nothing about being closed.
Three times the ranger’s fist hammered the door.
Forgettable was the best description of the watchman who answered his knock, though he did open the door wide rather than peer out through a crack as most would do after sunset. It was a testament, no doubt, to the confidence his title instilled in him. “We’re closed,” he stated gruffly, turning his nose away from Asher.
The ranger did little to conceal his indignation. “You’re the watch,” he pointed out.
The watchman’s nose twitched and he furrowed his brow. “All the same; we’re closed. Off with you now.” Without waiting for a response, he ended their brief interaction by closing the door.
The door, however, failed to shut.
The watchman jumped back and with an undignified yelp at that. “What in the gods…”
Asher used the Hag’s leg, the same leg he had jammed into the closing gap, to push the door open again. “I don’t think the gods had anything to do with this,” he said dryly. “Captain Lonan,” he added expectantly.
His large eyes fixed on the monstrous leg, the lawman’s naturally blank expression was pinched by something close to disgust.
Asher kicked the leg, stealing his attention. “Captain Lonan,” he repeated.
The watchman licked his lips. “Captain’s in the… in the back,” he managed. The ranger grunted and moved past the young man. “Oi! You can’t go back there!” came his trailing call, a sense of urgency about him.
“Ranger business,” Asher replied, moving through a narrow corridor and into a small foyer with a surprisingly high ceiling. Activity sounded from the adjacent room, where shadows danced across the visible wall, and voices collided in quiet argument. Then there was the smell emanating from within, so odorous that it overpowered the filth plastered to the ranger.
How familiar it was, the scent of blood and death.
Intrigued and forgetting where he was, Asher made to investigate before the young watchman caught up with him and blocked his path. “I told you, fella, we’re closed. I could have you bound in irons for the intrusion.”
Asher looked the man in the eyes, and with enough steel in their blue to put a lump in the watchman’s throat. “What is it you boys are always saying in the vales? The watch never blinks,” he recalled, thinking little of the inflated motto.
The lawman swallowed the knot in his throat and shrugged his shoulders in an effort to straighten his back without notice. “That’s right,” he said, voice breaking.
“How can the watch be watching if you’re closed?” Asher asked him bluntly.
“What in the hells is going on out there?” The demand came from the adjacent room, from a voice many years older than the man standing in Asher’s way, and too old to be Captain Lonan. It carried true authority, though the ranger knew well that had nothing to do with experience.
Joining them in the foyer, a man smaller than them both planted himself before Asher, narrowed eyes scrutinising him. It wasn’t long, of course, before he detected the swamp clinging to the ranger and, like the younger watchman, he steered his nose in a different direction. Unlike those of the town’s watch, he wore civilian clothes and fine they were too. Indeed, his plum cloak and dyed furs were likely worth more than any man of the watch earned in a year.
His greying beard and slicked back hair were immaculately trimmed, a standard of grooming favoured by the wealthier class who could afford such attention to detail in their appearance. Given the authority being exuded by the older man, Asher was leaning more towards the ruling class than mere wealth.
It was then that the torchlight kissed the bronze brooch pinned to his right lapel, the metal forged into a bloody hand gripping a rose. The sigil pierced Asher’s memory, dredging up distant lessons in Nightfall. He failed, however, to recall the name behind the plucked rose before the man spoke again.
“Why is there a beggar dripping all over my boots?” he fumed, his articulation and fervent sense of drama confirming, beyond doubt, that he was connected to the lord of these lands. Of course, he wasn’t nearly dripping in enough gold to be the lord of Kelp Town. He was also an unobservant fool if he thought common beggars wore two-handed broadswords on their hip.
“Apologies, Secretary Royce,” the young watchman proffered with a short bow. “I did try to—”
“I don’t care what you tried to do, boy!” the secretary interrupted. “Just get him out of here! And quick about it before the smell of him strips the paint!” Before he could return to the room from which he came, Captain Lonan filled the doorway, his cool eyes locking with Asher’s.
“Apologies, Secretary,” the captain offered, stepping fully into the foyer. “This man has business with me.”
Secretary Royce briefly glanced back at the ranger, as if his eyes could not stand the sight of him for too long. “You have business tonight?” he questioned, subtly gesturing at the adjacent room. “And with the likes of this… vagabond? What business is it then?”
“Watch business, Secretary,” Lonan replied vaguely.
“Ranger business,” Asher corrected, pushing the Hag’s leg at the captain’s feet.
The secretary deigned to lay eyes on Asher again, though his derision remained all too clear. “Ranger?” he echoed, suspicion in his tone.
Beside him, Captain Lonan had crouched down to examine the limb. “You killed it,” he said, incredulous. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered, one finger running over the barbed ridges.
A strain of revelation crossed Royce’s face. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with that mess in the marshlands, Captain.” When Lonan failed to respond, the lord’s secretary cursed. “Atilan save me! The watch was to take care of that…” He waved a hand at the severed leg. “Whatever it was! Who gave you permission to use watch coin, good coin, on a blasted hunter? I know I didn’t! Lord Kernat certainly didn’t!”
Kernat… The name probed the depths of Asher’s mind all the more and he finally recalled Lord Aren Kernat—if, indeed, he was still the sitting lord. The Kernats had lorded over Kelp Town for all of human memory, granted nobility by one of The Ice Vale’s earliest kings. The word insignificant felt appropriate to the ranger.
