“If I order you to kill her, you will kill her,” Lorgan replied. “However, I don’t believe I’ll have you kill her a second time. At least, not today.” He was fierce in his quiet tones. His eyes cold and resolute.
“That’s good to know… sir.” The anger flowed through Derian unexpectedly. He took a deep breath and pledged to hold his tongue.
After a moment, Lorgan’s features softened, and he patted Derian on the back. “You did well keeping your nerve, young mercenary. You might have some use to the Crimson Hunters after all.” He looked back to his hands and clenched and opened them a few times. He smiled every time.
“What is she?” Derian asked.
“Our responsibility. Our valuable responsibility. She is worth a fine price.”
“So we traffic humans now?”
“We will find quite a few suitors for a girl who appeared from beyond the source,” Lorgan said, and he left his hands to their own devices. He looked better than usual. Healthier. There was a glimmer in his eyes. Perhaps the prospect of a fortune had refreshed the older man something fierce.
“Slavery is a shameful practice, sir.”
“Well, it’s better than killing her and leaving her in the grass, like you were happy to,” Lorgan countered.
“I was follo–”
“You were following my orders?” Lorgan interrupted. “What’s done is done. Until we know more, she is in our care.”
“You mean to say our captive.”
Lorgan shrugged, but he was thoughtful. “She is our responsibility, Derian. When we know a little more, perhaps we won’t require the chains. As it is, keep your weapons ready, for strange things are afoot.”
They watched Kesta tend to the girl as she calmed her to normality—whatever that was. Her skin was deathly pale, though that might have been the fright. She had stopped screaming, which was something.
Lorgan lowered his voice. “Do you remember what happened? I remember falling and not much else.”
Derian recited the battle as he was last to fall.
Last to die.
Lorgan raised an eyebrow at the mention of the necklace and the final strike which brought an end to the demon and the explosion thereafter. It was a strange tale, and he wasn’t certain he did it any justice in his retelling. Still, Lorgan appeared satisfied with what he learned.
“What do you know of vector demons, apprentice?”
Vector demon?
Wonderful. His ignorance would show again. “I’m not sure, sir,” he offered and found a stone to look at. He heard the disappointed sigh, but at least he was saved the disapproving glare.
“You need to learn to read fluidly, Derian. Educating yourself is a polished talent. How can you understand all tricky matters of a bounty? How can you learn what beast you hunt without the true gift of knowledge?”
“Seems to me it didn’t really matter what they wrote on this bounty, sir. We almost met our end chasing the wrong monster.”
Lorgan didn’t like that. No master liked to be questioned mid-tirade. A smarter move might have been allowing the older man to correct him. They’d had a rough day; they’d died. Lorgan was entitled to say whatever he wanted.
Still, though. “If it wasn’t for me, we’d all be dead in the mud, sir.” Derian understood the word petulance, though he could not spell it. Ungratefulness was another word he struggled with, but he couldn’t help himself. Derian had unwittingly saved them all. His first time, in fact. It had hurt more than he expected.
Truthfully, this wasn’t the first time they’d nearly died in a haze of failure. Usually, it was Lorgan who saved them all, and he did so without rubbing it in their faces. Derian knew he should have behaved similarly, but he did what all fire-blooded young mercenaries did. He attacked again to strike home the point.
“The plan with the netting was stupid, anyway.”
Lorgan’s face tightened as he clenched his teeth, and Derian focussed on the stone in the mud. It was quartz. There may have been some sandstone thrown in there. Valueless. “It wasn’t my idea to shoot the girl either.” Derian reached for the stone and cast it far into the green forest and regretted the act immediately. If he’d just held it, he could have studied it for a few moments longer and avoided the deathly stare from the grizzled old mercenary.
“Listen, hero. I appreciate you doing your job for us but know your place in the world. We keep score. You might find yourself far below the value of Natteo.” He spat his best friend’s name, and Derian understood the distance of his misstep. “I gave an order, but you were the man with the bow. If you were certain it was the wrong decision, what type of man kills without questioning? What type of man fears the wrath of an ancient mercenary like me?”
He laced every word with such disappointment that Derian dropped his head in shame. “What would you have done if I’d have refused?”
“Shot her myself and then you,” he said, and Derian believed it true. “But you would have had a few pulses to convince me otherwise, little one,” he added, and Derian believed this also true. He felt he should apologise. The moment was right to apologise, but a hot-blooded youth was disinclined to show sense. Sometimes it was easier to find another rock to gaze upon and wait for the world to settle. “If this is how you feel, perhaps you would be better leaving this outfit altogether,” Lorgan said, and Derian’s stomach churned. Kicked out of the Crimson Hunters was certain to become a tale for the ages. His leader had made his point.
“Sorry, Lorgan.”
“Study your damned reading. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Derian met the eyes of the older man. He wasn’t angry. It was a strange thing to see Lorgan not looking angry out on the march. Even on the warmest sunny days, he would frown and mutter unhappily about how the day had too much glare. He clenched his hands again, and Derian nodded sheepishly. “I don’t want to leave the Crimson Hunters. I like this outfit,” he said, and he realised that he really liked the outfit, and he didn’t want to leave. At least, not yet.
Neither spoke for a time. Across the dell, Kesta and a wary Natteo helped the girl to her feet. As they did, her cloak fell free, revealing her wonderful nakedness once again. Lorgan looked away, but Derian didn’t. He couldn’t help himself.
Kesta slung the cloak back over her swiftly, tragically returning her dignity. The girl held out her hand where the arrow had punctured right through, and she appeared perplexed why the hole had knotted itself over, leaving only a faint mark as though she’d hidden it from the sun. She brought her recovered hand to her forehead and its similar mark. She suddenly looked across the glade in both anger and horror, and he looked away in shame. How could any person apologise for that? Natteo would probably charm a smile out of her and make her believe it her own fault, but Derian would stagger over mumbled words.
The chain at Lorgan’s waist clinked gently, and he freed it from a snag in the ground. He held it for a moment, and Derian wondered whether he was considering releasing her.
“Perhaps this necklace entrapped our little naked prisoner within,” Lorgan said, dropping the chain and clenching his hands into fists once more. “Tell me this, Derian. Your mind feels wretched for what you did, but how does your entire body feel in this moment?”
“I feel polished.” He did, in fact. His sore ankle wasn’t even bothering him anymore.
“For twenty years, my fingers have suffered dreadful arthritis. I am not unique. You find me a weathered mercenary without pains from riding saddle or holding a sword, and I will show you a thurken liar. Then I’ll strike him down for being a liar, and then I’ll hit you for being so gullible.” He spat on the ground and appeared to annoy himself, and Derian smiled despite his shame. Lorgan held out his hands, and they were free from lumps and misshapen things. He clenched and released them, grinning as he did.
“They look healed,” Derian gasped.
“Perhaps the pain will return as the enchantment fades, but for now, I feel marvellous. You call yourself a quick-witted m
erc, but why haven’t you noticed the colour of the surrounding trees,” he said, and as though emerging from a river of waterlilies, Derian saw the world properly. It was stunning and green in a great arc from where she had appeared. Many surrounding trees had returned to their lustrous green and bore the fruits which had been a dour grey, and despite the rain and mud, Derian thought this a wonderful place.
“That is impossible,” Derian whispered, tearing a leaf from a tree above his head.
“I’m an old man. There’s no worse thing than an old man declaring older times were greater. I remember a world before they slaughtered all the weavers in Dellerin. I remember when things like this occurred and we gave thanks to the source.” He was wistful, and a sense of sadness fell upon him again. “I remember when the source was a thing that served us, healed us, and made us better. Before The Dark One.” He shook his head and reached for a leaf with remarkably nimble fingers. “I suspect it won’t last too long, but fresh life has been born into all of us. We were lucky, but luck is a fine ally to all mercenaries, be it good or bad.”
“So what do we do now, sir?”
“It’s time to get paid for a job well done. We have an extra mouth to feed.”
9
After the Drama
Derian loved horses. As a child, he’d believed them to be elegant, proud, and precious. Any mercenary worth his weight in gold could ride like the wind, and Derian was better than most. He would kick his beast forward and will it to great speed effortlessly, for he had a kinship to them, and all mounts he sat upon would trust him as he trusted them. Derian was happier upon a horse than anywhere else.
Though he’d never say it aloud, when he was a scrap of a thing, he’d considered earning a life in the “Mounted Legion.” They filled their ranks with the finest riders atop the greatest warhorses in all of Dellerin. That they had a rein-gripped hand in killing his mother was probably the reason he’d never enlisted. Who knew what awkward questions he’d have asked? Despite their barbarism, cruelty, and affinity to murder, they had really pretty horses, and in this rain-drenched moment, he wished he had one of them to call upon.
He wished he had any horse to call upon really, but the Crimson Hunters had suffered another bad season with derisory contracts, and they had needed to cut expenses.
Who needed two proper meals a day? A mouldy apple was a perfectly reasonable dinner—especially with a few fruitworms inside as additional protein.
Who replaced marching boots that had only three or four holes worn through? Feet didn’t smell nearly as bad with fresh air at them.
Who needed to repair armour missing a few panels of metal here and there? Had anyone ever died from a stray arrow in the shoulder?
Who needed horses to carry you through harsh regions in a fraction of the time, anyway? The Crimson Hunters didn’t, and without the beasts to carry their weight, they slung their bags upon their backs and began the long march back towards payment.
It was at least two days uphill through dense forest and Derian knew he would curse every step taken. They marched in line to disguise their numbers. Kesta took her place at the back with Natteo just a step in front, and it suited the group, for their clashing conversations were a distraction from the miserable muddy slog—Natteo with his stupid opinions of himself, the world, and everything in between, countering Kesta’s disdainful, monosyllabic retorts. It was a well-played battle of wits, spanning years and frequently ended when Natteo struck a golden jest, rich enough to break Kesta’s stern gaze, resulting in the gift of a smile or the treasure of a laugh.
Lorgan travelled lightly, but today the chain at his waist weighed him down. He allowed her a few feet of freedom and little more. The girl walked ahead of Derian with her head bowed, her shoulders slumped, and her body quivering ever so. She was a wretched sight despite her beauty, and she looked upon the world around her with the same naivety as a child upon seeing the Open Lands for the first time during the harvest season. She glanced from tree to flower to mud to grass as though these natural things were new to her, and perhaps they were. When he’d first seen her busy eyes, they’d burned with unrivalled joy and excitement, but since then, she’d lost a spark. Perhaps she lost it in the gentle pull of the thin metal leash around her shapely neck bruising her slightly every time she fell behind. Perhaps it was something else. He wanted to apologise. Oh, how he wished to form the words to make her forgive him.
The cloak wasn’t the only garment she wore. Her keepers had gifted her a few scraps to stave off the cold and rain. A thin pair of breeches here, a bland cotton vest there, and she had accepted them with a cautious smile, but as she marched, her feet splashed miserably in every puddle, and he went against mercenary instinct and pulled out his spare pair of boots. Her feet were tiny, delicate, pretty, and his boots would be awkward, uncomfortable, and unstylish. However, she would be dry. It was all he could do, for he had little skill in offering apologies. He chose his moment; he formed the words and glided up behind her.
“I’m sorry for shooting you in the head. I hope you feel better,” he said in his warmest, sorry for-killing-you voice. Startled, she leapt away from him screaming loudly and tripped on a branch and would have fallen were it not for the iron bound around her neck. This wasn’t a good thing, however.
He remembered once watching a performing show in Fayenar. It was nothing more than a curtain opening up to a dimly coloured jester standing upon a little makeshift wooden stage. He remembered the juggling was unimpressive, but the fool’s impressions of various animals were remarkably funny. He was alone in his enjoyment, however, for the audience remained mute. Perhaps had Derian laughed loudly, others might have joined in, but he was too embarrassed to stand out. Perhaps not as embarrassed as the jester who tried and failed miserably to pull a reaction from the crowd by including crude jests to his performance, which admittedly weren’t as entertaining.
It was the long holding hook swiftly emerging from the edge of the curtain which quelled the stirrings of booing before they could catch fire. He remembered the holding hook sliding around the oblivious jester’s neck like a choke chain would upon a cornered hound. Only then did the crowd began to laugh in cruel expectation. He remembered the jester’s naïve smile, believing that he’d breached the audience’s defences. Mostly he remembered the sudden look of fright as the hook looped and tightened and the jester realised his performance’s fate. Mostly. With a slight tug and a shocked gasp, they dragged him from the stage and the delighted crowd offered a standing ovation. Perhaps the jester was used to such practices and prepared himself for the violent yank; he told himself this when guilt stung at him.
The girl, however, wasn’t ready for such a thing, and for a horrible moment, Derian wondered if her neck broke in half from the force. Lorgan attempted to move with her stumble and failed. She caught her cries short in a desperate gasp, and Derian tried to help her as she fell to her knees panting.
“She doesn’t want your help, Derian!” Lorgan bellowed, and he released his hold, allowing her to crawl forward through a deep puddle as she tried to catch her breath. She lost whatever warmth she’d had from her new clothing in a blundering attempt, and it was in that exact moment that Derian understood the vast distance of grovelling he would need to traverse while attempting to charm her.
“I just wanted to give her these,” Derian muttered, and Kesta snapped the boots from him before tending to the delirious girl. Natteo patted him on the back, the knowing pat of an ill-fated man, who knew the distance of unrequited love.
“Wish I’d behaved like that when you tried to befriend me. Maybe I’d be well rid of you now, Derian.”
“Shut up, Natteo.”
Kesta helped the girl to her feet, and the tearful smile she offered in gratitude for receiving the gift of boots annoyed Derian.
“They’re not from her,” he cried, and Natteo hushed him to silence. “Fine, it’s better that she has them I suppose.” Derian continued walking with Natteo behind him.
“I know you are terrible with women, but killing them isn’t a good way to meet them.”
“Shut up, Natteo.”
“I’m not sure that’s how they tell great love stories.”
“Shut up, Natteo.”
“Maybe don’t do that again, perhaps?”
“Shut up, Natteo.”
“Unless she’s into those type of things. Do you think she’s into those type of things? What a strange girl.”
“Shut up, Natteo.”
Silence. Derian knew that silence well. His friend was creating further jests.
“What would you bet that I could bed her by the day’s end? How about your sword for my hairbrush?”
“Shut up, Natteo.”
“Perhaps I wouldn’t even need to bet. She’s attractive enough to stir something in my trousers.”
“Seriously, shut up, Natteo.”
“Or what if–”
Slap!
Kesta kept the girl company; she spoke quietly, searching for understanding behind those stunning eyes, but the girl never replied with a word. At most, she gestured, and Kesta continued on regardless, for she was persistent if nothing else. Kesta had taken a shine to the younger girl, as though enchanted in some strange way.
With Natteo nursing his cheek and waiting for the right time to retrieve the conversation, Derian amused himself by wondering about worrying things. He wondered how long they would keep the girl chained as she was. What would happen if she tried to escape? Did she have a future among them? Did Lorgan believe her price would be worth the dishonour of slavery? He wondered if he could go along with such a thing. Would Kesta? Would she have to?
Perhaps when the girl spoke, there would be proper answers.
Hours passed until Lorgan’s voice silenced the group entirely. “Ah, spit on me,” he cursed and fell to a stop between two leaning seeping oaks; he raised his hands in the air, and Derian looked out into the forest of grey to see the clustered nothingness of the deathly forest surrounding them. Kesta reached for her sword, but Lorgan shook his head and she held.
The Crimson Hunters Page 5
