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

by Robert J Power

  “It’s so you remember me when I’m dead.”

  Derian suddenly felt compelled to embrace his friend. Perhaps not in front of the crowd. “If you die, I won’t be far behind, brother.” Derian examined the cut. It wasn’t too bad, but it would sting something awful.

  “No, you will survive this. I feel that in my bones, too,” he said, and he spun away from Derian to return his charming gaze back upon the crowd—to play the part of heroic mercenary like the rest of them.

  Kesta took the news of their employment as though she was a rodenerack gifted a delicious wheel of cheese curd. She offered nothing as extravagant as a smile, but her eyes burned with more vigour than usual. Upon hearing Lorgan’s quiet affirmation that death, destruction, and disastrous defending were in their near future, she’d swiftly fallen into duty. As Keralynn addressed the crowd, she stared at the town’s banner hanging out over the wall and mumbled a prayer of the dead under her breath. Derian wondered if she would have stayed in this town, regardless.

  What does she have to live for?

  They said all mercenaries hid desires of their death, and perhaps Kesta was no different. He thought about her painful words the previous night, and he wondered if she hadn’t always been waiting for something like this. Perhaps she was satisfied to die with her Crimson family.

  Seren was indifferent on the matter, and she had fine reason to be, for the peasants distracted her, staring at her in worshipping gaze. Somewhere along the way, they had learned her name and sang chants of her greatness. It was unnervingly catchy, and she appeared unhappy with the matter. At least she didn’t cast him venomous glances every few breaths.

  Keralynn finished her words, and beside her, Blair did not speak. The crowd were interested in one voice, and as she had little words to use, Lorgan began to speak, and he did so as if he’d spent a lifetime in the hazards of political strife.

  “Cut that chanting crap. My name is Lorgan, and we are the Crimson Hunters. If you want to live these next few nights you will listen, you will obey any word I say, and any spitting word that any of my mercenaries say.” He took a moment to wipe a little spit from the side of his mouth and eyed the watching faces. Derian thought he was impressive. “There will be no hesitation, no challenge, and no whining like cantuses, lest you meet my sword.” He tapped his sword and continued on threatening the crowd for a while, and Derian imagined that if Lorgan ran for office, he was the type of politician to stand at the ballot with a weapon in hand and earn whatever votes he needed.

  Who’d argue such a tactic?

  As it was, Lorgan’s first speech stirred confidence, and he led them to believe that his mercenaries were an elite outfit. Derian couldn’t help standing with his chest puffed as though this praise was routine. It felt like a hundred pats on the back. When Lorgan finished, the crowd had depthless faith in them. He ushered them away with orders to eat heartily and rest for a few hours, and to their chanting credit, they fell silent and left the mercenaries to their peace.

  “This is all going to end in blood and tears—and a mushed Natteo,” Natteo muttered unhappily.

  “We are mercenaries, young one. It won’t be the first time you face unenviable odds,” Lorgan replied.

  “It’ll be the last.”

  Lorgan slowly took in the town and its shabby barricades. Any fool could improve the obvious weaknesses in their defences, but to survive a focussed attack for any amount of time was likely to take some wilier skills. Skills only learned in great conflicts. However, none of them had ever tasted war, for as reviled as The Dark One was, no collection of lands had ever gone up against him. At least, not since the beginning of his reign. He had brought nightmares, misery, and segregation between races, but he’d also brought a delicate kind of peace. It was a bad time to be a soldier waiting patiently in a barracks for any word of conflict. The world had not known open warfare since the fall of the last king, Lemier the Wise.

  “We will probably die, but we will die well, Natteo. Isn’t that a worthy cause?” Kesta asked quietly.

  “No, that’s just stupid. I’d prefer to live and get drunk, get married, get a better haircut, and maybe get a cat while I’m at it.”

  Lorgan countered and sounded as deluded as he did. “This town is sacred. We will defend it. We just need to rouse these people into a little warmongering. We have a wall, and we have warriors willing to fight atop it. What else do we need?”

  Natteo knew the answer. “We have peasants with pitchforks. That’s what we have. It’s pathetic and pitiful.”

  Lorgan smacked the back of his head.

  “Look beyond your terror. A few hard days and we’ll earn enough money to live well, we’ll earn a name of great renown, and we’ll even get entitled status in the guild.” He placed his hand upon Natteo’s shoulder and held it like a father would. “We’ll do enough to look ourselves in the mirror.”

  “I already enjoy looking at myself in the mirror,” muttered Natteo, but he didn’t pull away from their leader’s grasp. It was worth at least two pats on the back.

  He’s catching up.

  Kesta continued to stare at the banner waving delicately in the wind. “I’m proud of what we are doing, Lorgan,” she whispered with such warmth that Lorgan smiled.

  “This is idiocy,” Derian hissed.

  “The idiot is right. We will die in this place,” Natteo agreed, standing with his friend.

  “No, this is an opportunity. You complain about wealth, about grandness, and you pledge to yourselves about what fantastic mercenaries you are both going to be when you’ve learned to grow hair on your chest,” Lorgan growled.

  “Wait, you can learn to grow chest hair?” Derian asked and received a slap of his own.

  “I feel something destined us to do this,” Lorgan said.

  “Not everyone will die,” Seren said. “Only some.”

  “See, the strange girl from the demon realm agrees,” Kesta said.

  Natteo folded his arms as petulantly as he could. He only saved this for precarious times, when he’d lost the argument but hadn’t yet had his fill. “Pledge to me I will definitely not die in this place, Lorgan, and I will offer no further argument,” he said.

  “On my honour, I promise that you won’t die in this place,” Lorgan said, and he spun away towards the nearest ladder reaching up to the small walkway along the wall. Seren strolled along after him, no doubt eager to see the world from a different perspective. Kesta followed, and Derian did a step after that. Discussion complete, it was time to move on.

  “You know, I’m not sure he meant that,” Natteo muttered, following them.

  By the time the sun had moved another arm length, disbelief and disappointment turned to focus and fortitude. In fact, it was Natteo who first pointed out that there weren’t enough ladders spread out along the wall for swift ascendency, and Lorgan scribbled a few words into the little leather journal he planned most failing plans on.

  Derian pointed out that all beasts of the source feared the touch of fire, and Lorgan approved of the little knowledge he had, while Kesta suggested raising morale as a keen ally in battle. Lorgan scribbled this down and drew a few lines beneath one of the chosen words. Seren pointed out that the blood spilled from the demons would ‘make land very fertile’, and Lorgan didn’t appear to know what to do with this knowledge but nodded appreciatively, anyway.

  They walked the town wall twice in a few breaths short of an hour, and Derian watched with curiosity as the villagers went to their regular tasks as though this was just an ordinary day. Some, but not all. For every man or woman who fished from the river or picked vegetables from small patches outside the walls, there were two others tasked with mending damage along the wall or replacing the blood-splattered doorways and windows of recently vacated homesteads.

  A tragic few sat or stood at the tavern doorways, staring blankly into nothing as they recalled miseries and tragedies. Lorgan left them to their memories and took no note.

  Eventually, wh
en the sun had moved an arm’s length across the sky, Lorgan took a hammer to the iron sheeting upon the gate and began to strike a terrible clanging sound across the town.

  “Look impressive,” he said and nothing else as the crowd gathered again. He struck the gate longer than needed, and after a while, Derian felt naked beneath their gaze. So he did what Lorgan asked, and he tried to appear as impressive as he could. Standing erect, he placed his arms behind his back and kept his face stern. Beside him, he noticed even Natteo had forgone his usual disinterested pose in favour of a brooding glare to those in attendance. He looked impossibly attractive to a few of the younger peasants glancing his way.

  Lorgan ceased the assault, and the crowd fell deathly still. There wasn’t even chanting; Keralynn stood in front of the loudest worshippers. She looked upon Seren with awestruck poise, only allowing a trickle of a smile to appear upon freshly painted lips. Lorgan offered her a bow, and Derian could see her face flush—smitten with the man. Derian wondered if Lorgan had chosen this deathly deal to impress her. Perhaps that was his only way of courting her. Perhaps a man his age had such little faith in his charms that he needed to kill himself—and his companions—just to spend a night with her. Derian thought it tragic and beautiful, and he felt better about his own inadequacies with women. He took a step closer to Seren, but she watched Lorgan as he addressed the doomed townsfolk.

  “Look around you, my friends. Fate has dealt you a cruel blow. We stand here at the edge of the flame with no water pail to call upon. Only the cups of our gathered hands.” He glanced back at Kesta, and she nodded subtly.

  ‘A fine start, Lorgan. A very fine start. Maybe hold off on the symbolism though,’ she seemed to silently say with her dark eyes, and, in turn, it seemed to reassure him.

  “We have work to do. We chased them away, but they will be back… and in greater numbers too.” A strange feeling of calm had fallen upon Derian listening to these words, and he wondered if he was moved by the terror in their faces or a desire to show them how skilled he was in killing. Deeper still he felt the stirrings of contained fury. There were insurmountable odds cast against them, and though he couldn’t be sure why, part of him desired this challenge. The angry part. He gripped his sheathed makeshift dagger and wanted very much to stick Rusty into something snarling and demonesque.

  “From behind these walls, we can kill any nasties that scale them, and we can do it for long enough that when reinforcements arrive, we will still have some fight in us.” As before, they hung on Lorgan’s words. They were terrified, but there was a spark of hope in the form of the five figures standing with them.

  Lorgan pulled out his ledger and ran his fingers along a few scribbled words. “I need the children first. They are in this fight too. Any five years or more, come forward,” he demanded. There were immediate whispers of dissent.

  What does the man want the children for?

  Never in the world's history had the answer to such a question been in any way acceptable.

  “I will not ask again,” he called, and the whispers fell to an anxious silence until a young girl stepped through the crowd and walked before him. There was a strength to her, hidden beneath her quivering face. Her garments still carried the blood of loved ones. Her eyes betrayed her sorrow; clear streaks wiped away the grime all the way down her cheeks. She could only have been around eleven. A few more followed behind her, and Lorgan tapped his notes absently. “Good girl. What is your name?”

  “Eveklyn.”

  “A fine name. Are you alone in this world?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can this town count on you, Eveklyn?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lorgan bent down on his haunches and spoke loudly enough that only those closest could hear. “You are a first general, and you will command the rest of the young ones in this battle.”

  “Will we get to fight?”

  Derian’s heart broke at her tone. Only she knew what terrible things she’d seen. The same things which drew her to foolish questions. She was a child, and no, she would not fight.

  She will not fight.

  Right, Lorgan?

  RIGHT, LORGAN?

  “No, little one, you will not spill their monstrous blood, but there are tasks needed to be done—unsavoury and important.”

  “I will do it, sir,” she said, and Lorgan was pleased.

  He spoke louder this time so the crowd would understand his brutality. “Lead the rest to the field. Bring what axes you can carry. Fall upon each of the monsters and hack every limb free of the torso. Scatter their ruins all across the valley so they will smell their dead.” The crowd were appalled, Eveklyn less so. Perhaps hacking apart those who had taken everything from her was a favourable task.

  Lorgan continued. “Take their heads and hang them from the top of each wall. Do these things merrily, little ones,” he said, and the crowd gasped aloud. A few mothers and fathers clutched their younglings close. Others began to cry, and Derian tried to remain unemotional despite his revulsion. “I will leave the oldest parent out at the front gate this evening if they deny their child this task.” Lorgan pulled his sword free as though in that moment the town might spit on his leadership.

  As it was, they were simply terrified villagers. If the children hacking up a few body parts was all they would face, it was a task worth enduring. No man or woman argued loudly as their children slipped from their grasp and raced home to find their tools for the grisly deeds. All but Eveklyn.

  “I still want to fight, sir,” she said, and Derian wondered what strength the girl must have to accept leadership despite such grief. Lorgan patted her shoulder.

  “Not tonight. Ask me tomorrow,” he said and sent her on her way.

  “I need twenty of the best tree fellers this town can call upon,” he declared, before barking out further orders for the rest of the town. He read from his notes for a time, and they set to task under his bidding. The crowd petered away to nothing until the Crimson Hunters were alone with only Blair and Keralynn.

  “Using children for such tasteless tasks is rather savage,” Blair said, and Lorgan turned to him.

  “If you had a problem, you could have voiced your objections. We need all the hands we can get. Children are stronger than most people think. There’s nothing wrong in pushing them that little further. Soon, they will see things there can be no protection from. Better they see the monsters, better they stomach brutality, and better their parents see them do it.”

  “And what scars will you give them for life?”

  “Better they have scars to learn from. Better a scarred life than none.”

  “You are lucky you didn’t lose the people with your first order,” Blair countered, his small stature tense. His face was flushed a rich cherry, and he fought his anger. Derian wondered if Lorgan hadn’t lost the man’s confidence. Lorgan must have thought so too, for he stood over the man and placed his hand upon his shoulder.

  “They know leadership, they understand nastiness, and they were the first to blink and turn away. They have accepted me and mine, just as you did, my friend. Things will become terrible soon. Better they know they have a vile fiend willing to do tasteless things to save them. Tell me, Blair, do I have your confidence?”

  Blair took a moment—a full breath or two—and Lorgan did nothing but breathe. A moment more and the man nodded.

  “With you to reassure them, how can we possibly fail?” Lorgan said and squeezed the man’s shoulder before pushing him away with a rough shove as only a comrade could in wartime.

  “Will we survive tonight?” Blair asked.

  “Course, we will. With no great losses as well. It’s whether we survive the night after. Or the one after that. These creatures are not mindless. They will pick, scratch, and find some way in we haven’t noticed,” Lorgan replied cheerily.

  “And when they do?”

  “We’ll have thought of something else by then,” Natteo said, and Lorgan nodded in agreement.

/>   “It’s what we do,” Kesta said, and deep down, that stirring unnerving sensation to kill began to fester at Derian once more.

  5

  The Quiet Before

  Derian didn’t like this room, not one bit. How could a man sleep in a place like this? How could he relax his beating heart for a solitary hour, before the true terrors of the world engulfed him?

  “I hate this rotting place,” he mumbled to no one.

  Speaking aloud in this room was easier than thinking in complete silence. Darkness brought nothing more than desolate thinking, he’d always thought, and perhaps, had the room been blessed with any light, he might warm to it.

  Yet, there were no candles at hand to counter this dreariness, no oil lantern hanging above his tired head, or even some tinder to set alight in the little stove in the corner. It was dark, musty, and he couldn’t brew a cup of tea to prepare himself for the cold night ahead.

  His predecessors hadn’t bothered to prepare the place for him, the inconsiderate curs. He suppressed a bitter snort at his tasteless humour and sat back in his chair and placed his hands on its oaken rest. It was a fine enough chair, with a plump cushion beneath his rear and a sturdy arch supporting his back.

  What else could a tired mercenary need?

  He reached over and removed his pack from where he’d discarded it on the bed. Thankfully, his bag was unblemished. He hadn’t noticed when he’d first come in, but now he saw a stain of blood had soaked beneath the layers of blanket and sheeting where it spilled. The rest of the blood had seeped right through onto the ground below, and despite the room’s warmth, it still hadn’t dried.

  Just sleep on the floor and have words with management tomorrow.

  “If they are still alive,” he jested to the room.

  “If I’m still alive.” He closed his eyes and silenced a forming whimper.

  His mouth was dry, his body ached, and all he desired was a hard floor, dry pillows, and perhaps a few blankets against the growing chill. “I could find those things with light,” he hissed and hated this room a little more.