He imagined this shack might have some charm with the sun at its zenith, but the sun had moved on him; the demons were on the run, and he wasn’t ready for the responsibilities placed upon him by his master.
“Hold the left, lead their strikes, and make each kill and hold,” he whispered, thinking of Lorgan’s commands.
Hold, hold, if nothing else, hold.
“When the demons come, hold the left side—no matter what’s happening anywhere else.”
Thurken hold.
“Hold the left side, lead their strikes… make each kill… and hope.”
He also wanted to weep. Not only for fear but exhaustion too. His mind blurred like an image on a spinning coin, his bones ached as if dragged through a vice, and his soul was as empty as his stomach.
Two days and their nights without sleep now. He’d endured exhaustion as bitter as this, but only out on the march. Among the trees of green and the ground of mud, in rain and cold, he’d endured three days and kept walking, but somehow sitting around was worse.
He thought about locking himself away; the bolt was only an arm’s reach behind him. The door was new and sturdy, unsullied by beast or human blood. He could still smell the freshly cut cedar wood, and there was no dab of varnish applied, but that was fine. It was still a fine door. The heavy bolt was attached at the centre, and though it wouldn’t stop monsters charging through, it might be enough to give them a moment to find another taste of prey.
“Maybe a child?” No. The children would be safe tonight, locked away in the warehouse with Eveklyn keeping watch. In her hand a battle scythe or long-sword, but not for holding back the monsters. Lorgan had chosen her to care for the littler ones—those too young to chop a few demonic beasts apart; old enough to know horrors in their last terrifying moments.
“It won’t come to that. Not tonight, at least,” Derian whispered, and he wondered if anyone could hear his mutterings, or were they sleeping where they could before the great battle? He shook his head. There would be no battle tonight, just a slaughter, and the soldiers of this town would believe, and their faith would be misguided.
Tonight, Lorgan had resorted to what tactics he knew. Predictable tactics to anyone who had read a book before. Any greater or lesser siege was built upon the same few notions, and this town was no different.
A barricade here; some fire there; a shack load of arrows along the way.
These reliable tactics would only work so long. The town of Gold Haven was too far away.
“We’re so dead.” He kicked at the unlit furnace as though it was Lorgan’s shin. The metal clinked loudly, and the kettle atop bounced precariously towards a fall but it settled.
“Sorry,” he said to the ghosts of this abandoned place. To the poor unfortunate wretches who’d settled down to sleep some night and never arisen. Although, they may well have made it to their feet with the dreadful thunder of their door shattering all over them. Two beds. One large and one fit for a newly born. Both ruined now. He allowed his anger to simmer in his stomach.
“I hate this place,” he muttered and wondered about Natteo. They had accepted the offer of the empty shack, with Natteo taking a similar structure across the path. Derian smiled thinking of his friend convincing some foolish damsel, or impressionable young man, into turning his hovel into a palace. They would scrub and clean, and he would sit and regale them with tales of magnificence and bad poetry involving trolls and roses. Natteo should have been a fine bard with the golden waste that spilled from his silver tongue. Even when morbid terror was consuming him.
“Be safe, brother,” he whispered and realised it was a prayer to gods he had no belief in. He reached for his clothing and thought of Seren. They also gave her a shack of her own, and Derian thought this most disappointing of all. Perhaps if Lorgan had insisted she share with Derian, he might have wooed her, earned her favour, or maybe just lessened the hate she had for him. She was about five shacks down, give or take. He knew this because the chanting had started, and he’d heard an irate young female (who looked incredible without the burden of clothing upon her) shout colourful, broken abuse at them in an adorably strange accent before slamming the door. They had fallen silent then, until one brave acolyte in the “Church of Seren” began the chant again. Soon after, the singing returned.
“I love you,” he whispered and mocked his childishness. He didn’t love her at all. He just wanted to know her body better than anybody else. He closed his eyes and thought of her nakedness and how alone he was in this room and smiled. Later. Best he keep his strength for the battle if needed.
As for Kesta and their fearless leader—it was good to be the king wasn’t it? he thought. They had each taken one of the larger and finer houses farther up towards the wall. Perhaps to be closer to the action for when it happened, or perhaps to send the right message to those they were to protect; they deserved the finest. He didn’t begrudge Kesta or Lorgan a moment’s wealth. Derian was merely jealous that the apprentices were put in their place in plain view of the villagers.
“DONG!”
Without warning, his silence shattered in the form of the bell—a proper bell gifted to Lorgan by an accommodating blonde citizen. The clanging echoed, and Derian took a few breaths and remembered what little he knew, summoned what misty memories he had, and checked each of his clasps were tight before opening the door to the growing night.
“It’s time to go to war, general,” he heard Natteo mutter, emerging from his shack across the path.
“See you on the other side, brother.” Derian clanked his new sword against his newer leather chest plate.
“Let’s give these thurken curs the warmest of welcomes.”
6
Gelded
Seren listened to the manic clanging and thought it a pretty melody, for it brought excitement to the world. It was terrifying, daunting, and miserable excitement, but it was excitement nonetheless. She liked the room, despite the darkness. It was her first ever room. And she liked darkness.
Easier to remain hidden in the night. Easier to strike.
“Burn.” She looked at her fingers in the dim light and wondered what she needed to bring a little fire to her fingertips. She was a weaver.
Weaver.
Yes, I know that word.
She knew it like she knew her name and little else. She knew of untapped abilities, but attempting to take hold of them felt like plunging her mind into a vat of black charring oil searching for gold.
Thurken Derian cur.
Spitting arrow.
Her words were forming in her mind easier now. Slower from her mouth though. Perhaps in another day or two, she might be capable of holding an entire conversation.
“Unfinished.”
She knew she was a warrior but also nothing. Lifeless, gelded. She thought more about this and smiled. If nothing else, confusing things made her smile. She knew her master approved of conviction; a lesser person like Derian might crumble under a perfect lack of understanding. If nothing else, she would rise higher despite it.
“Idiot Derian.” Her voice rose above the clanging darkness as footsteps thundered past her door, fleeing towards death.
“Death. Deeeeath.” She did not enjoy pronouncing this word. There were no pretty letters to wrap her tongue around. “Tongue.” She didn’t like that word either.
People would die tonight; she didn’t know how or why, only that they would. She felt sorrow at the innocent lives lost, but this was the way of things, she supposed. When the monsters came, humans bled.
“May death find Derian.”
She felt guilt condemning the foolish mercenary with careless wishing. She thought crushing his head to a mush would make her feel better, but no, she still hated him. At least they were even now. She tapped her forehead unconsciously and flinched at a bitter, swift memory. No, they were far from even, he’d stunted her recovery, and she would never apologise. Besides, it had been his stupid fault for standing in front of her.
Birth Boom.
“Booooooom.”
She hadn’t meant to return his soul to his body. She hadn’t meant to save all of them, but it had happened, and she was thankful. She wished she knew how to perform enchantments like that on demand; some things were impossible after the arrow. She wished those who chanted to her didn’t keep staring at the wall where the dead lay. If she had the words, she would offer them instead.
“No healer,” she whispered, and a dreadful sorrow overcame her. It was as though the entire world’s grief touched her mind for a pulse of blood, and she almost collapsed to the floor. It wasn’t until a screaming child from somewhere out in the night pulled her from her thoughts. The manic screech faded as a panicked parent brought the child to storage, a cupped hand silencing the wailing.
Lorgan’s plan was sound, even if everything would go wrong tonight. She very much liked the Crimson Hunters. There was something about them she couldn’t place her finger on. They were fiercer than they and the world realised. She had need of fierceness and their delicious… Delicious? Was that the right word?
She licked her lips. “Delicious.” She allowed the last letter to ring out like a serpent’s hiss.
Their delicious souls were strong, and their hearts were unshakable. They would go to some dark places; she couldn’t think of better companions to call upon. She would have a place among them if the world turned as she’d seen. In glimpses.
It didn’t really matter that they were terrible mercenaries because she was a terrible servant of war. She could be so much better.
Delicious war. Ooh.
“Many will die.” She reached for her blue dress. It was too tight a fit, it grabbed her in places she didn’t expect, and it restricted her movement to dainty little manoeuvres. She despised this generous gift from Keralynn, but Kesta assured her that fighting without clothing might only earn further followers. Her chanting entourage was irritating enough, so she bit her lip and lifted the dress over her head, letting it fall upon her smoothly. She caught sight of herself in a small mirror hanging beside the bed. In the dimness, she looked like a wraith, lost and scared.
Maybe that’s what they all see?
She lifted the mirror and looked upon her face. Was she beautiful? Was her hair an appealing style? Did her smile fell suitors like a tree? Is that a saying? She couldn’t tell, but she thought her teeth shimmered a vibrant white. Maybe her teeth drew Derian to her like an immoral mongrel. If he continued to chase after her, she’d show him how strong her bite was.
“Better,” she said, reaching for her armour, and upon tying the last of the clasps, she took the mirror again and approved of how warrior-like the wraith appeared. With Lorgan’s call echoing through the cold night, she opened the door and never felt happier.
All around her was a swarming mass of panic, but she could not be fearful with them. She believed herself destined for other things. Bloody and horrendous things. Fiore was nearing now, and she had her vindictive sights upon her. Seren could no longer feel her presence, but she could sense the hunt. Closer now, slithering like a serpent. Undelicious. Was undelicious a word?
“Burn,” she demanded, holding her hand out in front of her. A fine hand with no burns and it displeased her. If she had fire, she could burn the beasts where they stood. Or lift them to the sky with invisible godly hands.
If.
No flame erupted, and no pulsing force of invisible power left her soul.
“Burn.” She willed a stunning blue flame to emerge—fierce, brutal, and uncontrolled—but nothing came.
“Burn.” She willed a flame of most divine black, but her heart was not twisted by sadness and tragedy. At least, not yet.
“Burn,” she hissed louder than before and willed the burning force of magenta fire to escape, for this flame was bright enough to give a grand demon concern.
“BURN!”
Nothing happened, and this time she lamented. People would die, and buried deep beneath the memory of a jagged projectile were the skills to save them. She couldn’t even release a yellow spark to light the path ahead. Though she celebrated her mind’s growing cohesion, incredible things still escaped her. She needed her master more than ever. Wherever he was.
Whoever you are.
She marched towards the front gate, trying to distract herself from inadequacies, and found distraction in something else entirely. She felt the warm glow of a fire and allowed herself a moment’s hesitation. She stood just beyond the light of the blacksmith’s shack, watching the owner and his two young apprentices sitting in a frantic circle, whittling timber into arrows. The blacksmith held little strips of thin wood over the flames and desperately moulded them straighter, while one apprentice slit, cut, and shaped candle flights from hard leaves while the last moulded them into place. They were careless and swift in their efforts; their hands endured rough labour for they were bloody, blistered and bubbling, from singeing, scalding, and scraping, and she thought them incredible. Not every arrow would fly true, but they only needed most of them to. At least a thousand lay in neat piles around the workspace, and villagers grabbed pouch after pouch of them as they passed, yet still, they worked. Who knew how long these men had crafted? They didn’t appear to notice their stocks swiftly deplete. They simply continued with their craft. Their heroism was not of war but equally impressive. A good leader notices these things. She bowed to each, but they were lost in their work, so silently she grabbed a few arrows of her own to hang loosely upon the quiver at her waist.
“Good… leader.”
Lorgan did not trust her to lead, but he trusted her to fight, and she vowed to earn her place among the Crimson—and if not tonight then the night after. She looked at her fingers once more and felt no stirring of energy within, and she cursed loudly and felt better about it.
Archers stood along all four walls. To be more precise, farmers, miners, and labourers stood along the walls. All had the freedom to fire upon any enemy they chose, while each of her Crimson comrades commanded a dozen archers of their own to focus upon the individual targets they selected.
“Death by numbers,” Lorgan had suggested, and Derian had taken the left side of the wall. She watched him now, and the vision of the arrow in her mind was fading. Trauma. He walked along the battlements looking nervous and idiotic. In another world without arrows, she could have lain with him. He would have grunted in her ear. Her stomach churned, and she tasted bile.
Natteo’s responsibility was the opposite side across, while Kesta and Lorgan stood atop the enticing front of the town, barking out orders to their respective units on either side of the gate.
No mercenary commanded the rear as the wall was highest here, four foot or more higher, with foundations secured in brick and a small river running alongside. It was a tragedy that the town rulers hadn’t secured all the walls similarly. The back was the easiest position to hold, and so Lorgan had stationed the oldest, weariest, and most decrepit along its side, and Seren agreed. A risk if the enemy knew this, but all battles needed gambles. With waving lit torches, and bows in hands, they stood proudly, and Seren thought it a strange, wonderful sight. If the monsters attacked, they would fight hardest and fewest would run.
Seren would never run from a battle. In fact, tonight her responsibility was running into battle. She had no wall to stand guard upon. Instead, she was among the reinforcements. She stood in a reserve of twenty archers in the centre of the town only a quick sprint towards any side. For if the monsters spilled over, Lorgan charged her with stemming the tide.
She wondered how well her surrounding comrades would fare? It was one thing to stand upon a wall firing arrows down at nasties and slowly growing into battle; it was another, coldly rushing into death. She wasn’t capable of retreat. Perhaps that was why her master had found her.
Saved me from Fiore.
A terrified young man looked over at her, drawing her attention. His face was pale, his lips quivered, and he looked at her with desperation. ‘Save us’ his eye
s cried, and she had no words for him because she was gelded. For now. He held her gaze, and it was an uncomfortable thing to be a drowning man’s driftwood; she could see him desperate to cry out, to release his bladder all over his ill-fitted armour; to beg the dead gods of fate to let him live his quiet farmer life.
“Don’t,” she countered with her own eyes. Panic was temporary, but panic was infectious, and when he could no longer help himself, he cried out and it was so much worse.
“Ave… emmmmm….Seeeeerrreeeeen.”
Oh, spit on me.
“Shut up!” she cried, and he dropped his bow and reached for her.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“Silen… ceeeeh eeeeooooom ava Seeeeerrreeeeen…” he wailed, and a few of his brethren joined him, and she hated this rotting mess as they chanted the song.
“Pick up bow, then chant,” she said, spitting in the dirt in disgust. This town was a town of idiots. He nodded as though it was gospel and recovered his bow.
“Long night,” she warned as the first wall of fire was lit, and the valley’s darkness suddenly erupted into unnatural waking dawn.
7
Breaking the Seal
“What is your name, friend?”
The nervous man’s bow shook, and the crude arrow could barely rest in place. Derian took hold of the jagged projectile and pulled it from his grip carefully.
“My name is Keri.” His eyes were wide and crazed and they darted from growing flame to forest to wall and back again.
They stood ten feet high, but Derian would have preferred to watch from double the height with a wider walkway. It was a peasant’s wall in its purest definition. Adequate for discouraging human bandits, less so for snarling, scrambling demons.
The wall was a hand’s length between in width, but they’d put fine work into the attaching platform. That was something, at least. The foothold was two feet wide with supports every dozen steps; a satisfactory platform upon a flimsy barricade. Skill and attentiveness, mixed with a little ignorance of practicality. Peasants.
The Crimson Hunted: A Dellerin Tale (The Crimson Collection Book 2) Page 5
