The Crimson Hunted: A Dellerin Tale (The Crimson Collection Book 2)

by Robert J Power

  “We have some business that you must honour,” Lorgan said upon reaching an official-looking office in the shade of a mill’s sails at the far end of the town. Derian remembered it from their first visit. Happier times accepting a generous contract.

  “We will give you whatever you need,” she said to Lorgan, and Lorgan alone, as she opened her office door and bade him enter the dark room within. Keralynn had the lure for their fearless leader something terrible, and Natteo sniggered loudly.

  “Enjoy yourself.” His eyes mocked in delight, and Derian could see that holding his tongue was near killing him. With practised waving hips, she glided through the doorway leaving the mercenaries behind.

  “You, with me,” Lorgan muttered to Derian. “Everyone else, keep a watch,” he added, keeping his eyes away from Kesta’s murderous glare. She was always his second when conducting and concluding business. When a deal was struck, the most precarious moment of the mission was collecting payment. As was avoiding the payment being placed upon a long finger with the promise of further riches for further exploits.

  “If you speak, then speak wisely, Derian. Best you learn this part of our art,” he said, patting the younger man’s shoulder. Derian suspected that Lorgan would prefer his self-serving thoughts instead of Kesta’s honourable ways.

  No problem. Also, leading by three pats again.

  “Keep your dagger handy. Nothing more precarious than a little bartering,” he said.

  “Don’t sell us a weak bidding,” Natteo warned, taking hold of Derian’s shirt. He pointed to the sky and the growing sun, his meaning clear. The sands of time were slipping.

  “Trust me. I’m no idiot,” Derian promised.

  3

  Deals between Doomed Men

  “We have the gold. Oh, don’t worry about your payment. We keep our word just fine,” Blair said. No, that wasn’t accurate at all. He didn’t just say it, he sneered it.

  It was painful doing business with a man like Blair, thought Derian. Thin face, clean-shaven—despite the two-day death watch—and black greasy hair—slicked back with cooking fat no doubt. Cold, politically minded eyes and all. Derian did not trust this man. Not one bit.

  Lorgan didn’t seem to mind doing business with the recently promoted town’s leadership in the form of a slithering snake ruling policy from behind a desk and an attractive blonde-in-arms caring for the town’s defences. It seemed about right with most governances.

  “A word is a fine thing,” the old merc offered. He sat in a leather chair facing the greasy mayor and the ever-enthusiastic Keralynn. With welcomes secured, business took over. Worryingly, new deals were in the air.

  Derian stood behind Lorgan, keeping an eye on the window of the little official office and the rising sun shining through. Plenty of hours left, he told himself. However, the sun seemed brighter looking through the glass. After brighter came the day. Soon after, evening would sneak right up.

  A man could go mad sitting in an office counting the hours, Derian thought absently.

  “In fact, how about a little honey for the… miracle at the front gate,” Blair said, and he slid a second pouch across the desk which separated them. He let it rest by the first pouch, and Derian smiled. There was nothing prettier than golden coins and the demonic flying dragon upon their shimmering surface.

  Lovely.

  “How did it feel to know death? And to rise above it like an angel of the source?” Keralynn asked quietly.

  Lorgan took the pouch. “Can’t really remember what happened after I fell, except that I got back up.” He began counting their fortune.

  Derian remembered some of it. His mind flickered back to the vast emptiness and the strange presence. A presence that watched him. It knew his name. Something fierce and vengeful.

  Waiting.

  After a swift shudder of the soul, Derian looked around the office searching for a distraction. It was a fine office, he supposed. There were a few shelves of files and ledgers running the length of the wall, and he imagined any mining town needing books to keep themselves in order. He shuddered a second time, thinking of living a life with nothing but words. Writing and reading and spelling. Not to mention the suffocating evils of grammar. He thought it a wasted life, and he counted his ignorance towards scholarly things as a blessing in a place like this.

  The only real object of interest was a picture hanging high above the window, away from the sun’s glimmering rays. It was old and sloppily finished, but it was a striking image of the last real hero in Dellerin, the lost leader of the Hounds. The legend who would return when the world had fallen to ruin.

  How much worse can the world get?

  The figure stood magnificently in shiny silver armour, radiant despite countless weak strokes, surrounded by his comrades, epic and undefeated. Stories of The Seven were a nice tale for children, but Derian thought it strange to hang such a piece in the place traditionally reserved for a town’s coat of arms.

  “The female is no deity. She is a weaver,” Blair muttered to Keralynn, as though he was a bitter wretch of an instructor speaking to a dunce.

  To Lorgan he spoke coldly. “We do not welcome weavers in this town, and sieged ruin or not, we wish to have Treystone remain as it is. We will do anything to ensure this,” he warned.

  “So best we conclude our business swiftly,” Lorgan said, and Derian liked this talk.

  “Hush, Blair, let go of superstitious prejudice. The girl is welcome. I pledged for her,” Keralynn said, and Blair turned to argue, but after a moment’s pause, he fell silent. Perhaps threatening the mercenary they were attempting to coerce into employment wasn’t the right move.

  She continued, leaning back in her chair, allowing her impressive breastplate to look its best. “We are nothing but a humble town of farmers and miners. A fine company like yours could earn enough gold to swim in, should you come to our aid,” she said. Lorgan shrugged in indifference, and she was crestfallen.

  Not the hero you were hoping for, is he?

  She touched her lips with quivering fingers. Her bright demeanour hung by a thread. Derian was learning the art of deals first-hand from his master, and he thought it an interesting thing. Saying nothing of value, Lorgan had easily pulled the rug from their boots and swiftly doubled the cost of whatever they dared offer. Not that they’d take the offer.

  “What do you offer?” Derian asked, and Lorgan approved of his daring. He wasn’t there to listen. Better they know two men needed impressing.

  Blair leaned forward in his chair. “We need you to fight for us. We need you to set up defences that can withstand a horde. We are no fools; the demon’s stone caused this. We are no strangers to a few nasties making their way to our gates, but this swarm is too much, and–”

  Lorgan cut him off. “Whoa there, my friend. What demon stone?”

  “The one in the forest?”

  Oh, spit on this. A hidden monolith.

  “Are you telling me, there is a source monolith stone standing somewhere near this town?”

  “I assumed you knew. I assumed Olmin told you before you took the contract.”

  Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.

  “I think Olmin forgot.”

  The air in the room thinned.

  Blair went pale. “As a law in this town, we don’t speak of the vile, jagged rock. The last thing we desire are acolytes of the dark, or weavers of the condemned, making their pilgrimages to this place, searching for enchantments that no longer exist.”

  Lorgan was furious. “You want the town to remain as it is,” he hissed, and Derian could see his knuckles turn white.

  “We stay silent, and the world remains undisturbed. We want nothing of the demons. To step foot upon the glade with the rock, follows a penalty of death in this town. Tell me, does it really matter?”

  “Where is it?” Derian demanded.

  “A day or so ride south, where the forest is greyest,” Blair replied quietly, as though revealing the location would make matters worse.


  “I think I know the place,” Lorgan muttered, and he eyed Derian. Sounded like a fine place for a hidden monolith to stand. Also sounded like a fine place to find a vector demon and a naked girl.

  Derian shook his head.

  Idiot peasants.

  “You brought a weaver to our gates, so let us call our misstep as making it even, my friend,” Blair hissed, and this time Derian’s knuckles whitened.

  “We could have located the lecherous demon far quicker had we known of this rock sooner,” Lorgan said, and his voice had returned its calm. He’d concealed what anger he’d had. Derian was incensed, however.

  “Typical peasants,” he growled, and Lorgan hissed him to silence. Being called a peasant meant little to any land labourer, but to a mercenary, it was the difference between those that could survive this world and those that hid behind walls hoping for miracles. There was no greater criticism. Derian had more to say. “Maybe that’s why–”

  “You could have told us,” said Lorgan, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “Does it matter anyway?” Blair asked. He hid his irritation behind a false apologetic smile. He was nearly as skilled as Lorgan.

  Derian almost declared that the monsters were attacking because an event had shaken the stone’s ability to keep both worlds locked from each other. He almost suggested the severity of this event happening so close to the stone.

  Oh, right.

  Derian suddenly realised why Lorgan gave nothing away. If Blair learned of Seren’s ‘birth’ there might be a few more questions. There might be resentment from the peasants if they added up all the factors and counted their dead. Perhaps they might truly despair to learn a grand demon was just itching to get through. Perhaps it was wise to stay silent and give nothing away. They thought her a weaver, and that was fine for now.

  “You are right; it doesn’t matter. We will not speak of the stone beyond these walls, my friends,” Lorgan said, passing both pouches to Derian, who gladly received their healthy clinking weight. “You have my condolences, and you have my hopes for fortunes, but the Crimson Hunters are not interested in earning anything more.”

  Fantastic, thought Derian. It was a fine plan to get Seren far from the stone. Things might settle down with her gone.

  “Help us,” Keralynn cried. She took his hands and squeezed them warmly. A few days earlier and Lorgan might have grimaced. As it was, he allowed her touch. She had a nice smile and a nice touch of desperation to her.

  “You suggest we will swim in gold? I think we’ll all drown in blood,” he whispered, but he held her grasp.

  “Take a moment, Lorgan,” Blair said, his previous arrogance lost in a moment’s despair. Lorgan was no gold-blinded mercenary, and the man had now discovered it.

  “I don’t have many moments to spare.”

  “We have walls and willing defenders, we have weapons, and yes, we have wealth—more than anything you’ve ever dreamt upon. But for everything we have, we are not wise in the ways of warfare. We are the body, we will respond to your will. Please, we have sent willing riders out for reinforcements. Our town is too important to be ignored. A few days is all we need before a battalion from Gold Haven reach us.”

  “You know this for certain?” Derian asked, and Blair squirmed. Perhaps a week, more likely.

  “That’s a fine offer, but we will not stay behind these walls to die. If any of you want to ride out with us this day, you are welcome,” he offered, and Derian knew that tone. Nothing would change his mind. Not even Kesta.

  “We have old, infirm, and injured. We are not mercenaries! We would never leave others willingly to their doom!” Blair shouted, and Keralynn hissed him to silence. A spitting argument of venom would hardly turn the deal.

  “Do not beg us to die with you,” Derian said, and once more Lorgan nodded in agreement. Derian wondered if he had a natural gift for this game.

  “I trust you will allow us safe passage to leave?” Lorgan asked, and Blair nodded in defeat. He gestured offhandedly to the freedom of the doorway and the doomed world outside, and despite his earlier disdain, Derian felt sorry for the man, seeing the turning blood of his complexion fade to pale.

  However, if Blair had admitted defeat, Keralynn was resolute.

  “Mercenaries have no gods but the weight of their pouch,” she whispered. “Surely in honour of the greatest of your kind, your brave Crimson Hunters might lead us to survival.”

  She pointed to the picture of Heygar and his Hounds, and Derian almost laughed at the attempted con. As though a legendary mercenary was likely to sway any of them. As if things like lost heroes returning at the darkest hour to save them all could really happen.

  Oh, hush yourself, pretty lady. At least double the bounty before playing upon sentimentality.

  “He was our chosen son,” she whispered, with unrestrained awe, and Derian sighed loudly in reply. “And he was my kin,” she also whispered in that tone, and Derian admired her commitment.

  “Is that so?” Derian mocked.

  “This is my mother’s painting. A gift she painted from memory of her only brother so that all who do business in this town would know its legacy. His legacy…” she said trailing off as she touched the painting, and Lorgan laughed bitterly.

  “I’m sure every man, woman, or child would claim as much to get their way. Or else they might just as swiftly claim to know his fate, should they have need of it.” Lorgan stood up to look at the painting more closely. His eyes burned with sadness as most mercenaries did when talking of heroic legends. All mercenaries wanted to be Heygar of the Hounds or Erroh of the Outcasts. Who didn’t want to be a legend? Who didn’t want to walk their path?

  “It is an unusually accurate representation compared with most other pieces I’ve seen,” he noted, and Derian could see the glimmer of resemblance between painting and woman.

  Hey, maybe it is true. Heroes had to be born someplace.

  Even Blair softened looking upon the picture. “What Keralynn says is true enough, and though you might forsake us in our darkest time, a better man might resist mocking our history in the same breath as the one condemning us to doom.”

  “All apologies,” Derian offered, and he bade Lorgan leave with their fine pouches of wealth. A few hours in the saddle was calling and with it a nice taste of escape from death.

  Lorgan, however, touched the painting as Keralynn had. He did it like a man who believed in prophecies. He looked like a man wanting to honour a legend. He looked broken, and Derian thought this worrying.

  “So, you suggest we might swim in gold?” Lorgan asked.

  4

  It’s What We Do

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t difficult speaking freely outside the office, as the crowd were positively delirious upon hearing Keralynn’s address. She must have been born for public speaking as she controlled them with ease, and they loved her for it.

  And why wouldn’t they? She was delivering them from death.

  Natteo spoke in hushed tones, but there was no disguising his dismay at hearing the news—nor avoiding whose blame he believed it fell upon.

  Still, though, Derian tried to stand his ground. “I don’t know what happened. We were out the door with gold upon our waists, and he just turned his thoughts with no warning,” Derian whispered, meeting Natteo’s killing stare. He could see it in his friend’s face; Natteo would get him back when he least expected it, and Derian wouldn’t begrudge him a little vengeance either. Derian felt just as aggrieved.

  “We’d already be out the gates with bellies full of wine and the wind at our backs, if I’d been in the room,” Natteo hissed.

  “I know.”

  “I can’t stay in this town.” He dropped his head in despair and pulled one of his daggers free, eyeing it in the sun before spinning it a few times until it was nothing but a blur.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You can smell the looming death!” he snapped and caught himself before saying anything more, lest he warn the crowd. He l
eant back against the stone wall and shaded his eyes from the sun, all the while concentrating on spinning his dagger. He’d once told Derian that he only felt alive when he held his blades. They were his only treasured possession. Derian had asked, but he’d never given the reason. Most likely he used them on his first kill or something like that. “Maybe if I cut you a few times that would make me feel better,” he muttered like a child denied his first glass of sine.

  “Not the face.”

  “Then what’s the point? No one will notice ‘I love Natteo’ branded on your rear.”

  Derian leant beside him to allow the adults to address the crowd. He could feel a hundred sets of eyes upon him, and a trickle of sweat ran down his forehead. He hadn’t stopped revisiting the conversation. Even now, he didn’t think he could have done anything differently. “I’m as angry as you, but if it’ll make you feel better, my skin is your canvas,” he joked, and Natteo smiled hopelessly.

  “I’m scared, Derian. I’m really scared.”

  “I am too.”

  “Actually, I’m always scared, but this is worse. This is something I feel deep in my bones. I’ve died more times than most people I know. I really don’t understand why martyrs are into it so passionately. Death is spitting awful.”

  “We might not die,” Derian argued, and positivity tasted like ash on his tongue.

  “I’ve far too much love to give this world. Also, I think I’m in love,” he said grinning, as though humour could carry him from dread. He spun the blade once more before returning it to its scabbard, but not before swiping it at Derian’s forearm, drawing a thin line of blood. Subtle enough that no one saw. “You had it coming, and I aim to get my revenge before I die,” he hissed.

  “I didn’t think you’d cut me. I expected a slap. At most, a punch in the face,” Derian muttered.