The Crimson Hunters

by Robert J Power

  Kesta never left his side, and Seren clapped each time the older woman ducked a weak strike and countered with a brutal head butt or a kick to the groin. Seren didn’t recognise every sound of this world yet, but the retching squeals Kesta’s strikes caused on her victims fascinated her.

  Natteo was the smallest at the gathering, but that didn’t stop him throwing around what weight he could. He settled upon battering his blond companion to the edge of the camp where he left his quarry to his semi-conscious vomiting misery.

  Even stupid Derian was nearly impressive. She could see how inept he was in his attacks, but he was relentless. He made straight for the one they called Blood Red and swung at his opponent delivering feeble strike after feeble strike. On an even day, and refusing to call upon his more violent abilities, Derian would have fallen, but focussing upon the larger man’s unsettled stomach, each punch was a winding blow. Within a half-dozen strikes, he’d felled the mighty man completely, and because he was Derian, and he was an idiot, he raised his hands in triumph as though he’d single-handedly saved an entire town from a swarm of monsters.

  It was a wonderful spectacle of violent things, but tragically it was all too fleeting. Fleeting. Within a few breaths of foul stanching air, the battle was waged, fought, and won. It was a hollow victory bound to breed long-lasting repercussions, but for the day, the Crimson had won out, leaving seven of the most elite mercenaries unconscious.

  “Lay them out on their sides,” Lorgan said, and they placed each beaten warrior as so, and Seren thought it humorous to watch unconscious men throwing up through split bloody mouths as they slept. It was Lorgan who released her from the tree while the others began raiding what treasures they needed. She caught sight of blood trickling down Lorgan’s nose from where Mowg had struck a blow between dry heaves. She placed her finger into his nostril and he flinched. After a moment, she took it out and a quick gush of blood streamed down his thoroughly amused face. Her fingertip was crimson, and she wondered what blood tasted like, but he caught her wrist and shook his head.

  “Thurken idiot,” he said, and she smiled happily at his choice of words. He led her to the waiting cart, and Kesta helped her aboard. She sat down as the rest of the Crimson Hunters formed up on mounts of their own, and she thought this far better than traipsing through muddy ground. She watched Derian whisper sweet nothings to his horse, and she thought him conversing with such a wild creature to be a natural thing.

  “Let’s ride!” roared Lorgan, and Seren sat back in the cart rubbing her tattoo. She was exactly where she needed to be. Her stomach burned, and she felt the call of the dark closer now. She felt the clawing upon the door.

  Not too long now.

  13

  The Rocky Road to Treystone

  “Just do it, Lorgan,”

  “I will not.”

  “You are a better man than this.”

  “Stop asking and know your place.”

  “My place is at your side, making sure you don’t make stupid decisions.”

  “I will not repeat myself.”

  “Just… Do… It… Lorgan.”

  “I… Will… NOT!”

  “…”

  “…”

  “You are a better man than this.”

  Between the roar of the wind, thundering hooves, and the hissing of the rain, Derian could barely hear the argument growing between the group. Instead of taking joy in an unlikely victory, the wealth of supplies, and the swift open road, Kesta had decided Lorgan had taken long enough to do the right thing. It was time for her to intervene. They were not slavers; they were not jailers. The girl was no demon or witch. They would release her from her chains. More than that, Kesta inferred she would stay as a comrade to them longer. Considering they’d likely signed their own death bounties with the Army of the Dead, perhaps keeping her as one of their own was a worthier reason to die than a little fortune. Still, though, allowing her to join after a day seemed peculiar. Even if he secretly thought it was a great idea.

  He considered entering the argument, but landing on Lorgan’s wrong side for a second time that day seemed like a bad idea. Besides, Kesta had this.

  Perhaps she saw something in the girl similar to what he saw (without desire muddying everything up). Perhaps she thought another girl would add a little grandness to their troop. Or maybe she just needed someone else to care for, but he doubted it. The Crimson Hunters were enough for any mother’s care. Whatever her well-intentioned reasons, she countered Lorgan’s every argument on the matter. It was a rare thing to see them bicker so openly, but after the events with the Army of the Dead, having a girl in chains was probably only asking for further trouble, if not precarious questions. Who knew how the peasants of Treystone would react if they discovered her origin?

  They would act like spitting peasants.

  Natteo assisted Kesta, even though she didn’t ask. Perhaps because he did not suggest keeping the girl. He argued for her freedom. Perhaps he was afraid of the girl who’d arrived in the middle of a fiery explosion. Perhaps he didn’t trust her piercing eyes. Perhaps he just found her silence unsettling. Perhaps he has a point. Regardless, he offered his own informed and well-constructed thoughts on slavery. This was no surprise, as Castra was rife with the slave trade. Derian had long suspected that his best friend came from a wealthy family, whose sins were many. Slave running was likely to be one of them. Perhaps that was why he hated his family so much. Perhaps walking as a mercenary was Natteo’s way of forsaking his lineage completely. He could have asked him about it, but Natteo had his reasons for not speaking of such painful things. Derian would be happy to talk about himself, but there really wasn’t much to him, admittedly. Also, nobody ever really asked.

  Lorgan argued as to her value, to her mystery, and her potential threat, but as much as he fought his side, Kesta met his arguments with short cutting retorts. Eventually, he began to give ground. Perhaps he wanted to agree with her, Derian wondered, for he’d offered sterner responses in arguments past.

  The girl sat behind Kesta in near delight as she moved with each thundering roll of the wagon’s wheel through the deep forest, as though it were a game. She didn’t speak, but she broke her silence by humming a few irritating notes of music under her breath every now and again. He hummed the same tune and cursed its annoyance.

  They raced the rain across the sky, resting sparingly for no longer than needed to let the horses recover their breath. The vile potion of rotted swine juice would take a few hours to run its course, and though they had taken all the horses, the mercenaries would track them. Once the bouts of explosive diarrhoea dried up, there wasn’t a rock big enough nor a cave dark enough to conceal them. Best to get ahead; get to Treystone and get out of there all nicely polished, he thought.

  They made good time, and as night drew in, Lorgan brought them to a stop. Without saying a word, he unlocked the metal hold around her neck and left it sitting in a clinking bundle at the back of the cart. She immediately took the chain and tossed it to the muddy ground below. Lorgan laughed and bowed; she had offered her own thoughts on the matter. She would not be chained again.

  “You want to march with the Crimson Hunters until you find your way?” he asked, and she smiled.

  For a few hours more they travelled, the Crimson and their new companion, and though he didn’t have any confidence in his gut feelings, Derian felt happy with this new arrangement. With the low light of the moon above their heads and the clear glimmer of a thousand stars setting their course, Lorgan brought his horse alongside Derian.

  “You’ve taken the lead for long enough. Let me take the catalight,” he said.

  Glad to be free of the burning flame and the frequent sparks, Derian unhooked the six-foot-long pole of light from his horse’s saddle and passed it across. The forest’s shadows danced menacingly around them as Lorgan attached the marching light to his own horse and patted the beast forward.

  “I’m glad you freed her, sir.”

  “I�
��m certain enough that she won’t burn us as we sleep,” Lorgan replied, adjusting the catalight to give off as much light ahead as possible. A spark fell down into his grey and black beard, and he wiped it away absently.

  “What’ll we do with her?”

  “We’ll likely put her on an airbarge and send her to the guild in Dellerin. Let them decide.” He smiled in the light, and Derian could see the worry. All jests aside, the Crimson Hunters would spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulder waiting for a vengeful pack of rabid mercenaries to come knocking at the door. The smarter move would have been killing all seven and taking everything they had, but that just wasn’t the Crimson way, was it?

  “What is the tattoo?”

  “If you studied your book, you’d have all the answers you’d need, Derian,” Lorgan muttered.

  “Idiot,” Natteo muttered, from somewhere behind.

  “Do you even know what the tattoo is, Natteo?” Derian countered.

  “Course, I do.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He took a breath. A cynical man might believe he was forming a lie. “It’s a piece of golden art that defines her as a person. She need not speak to let us know who she is. And why should she? That tattoo tells us everything we need to know of her soul, her heart, her life. If you can’t see that, Derian, there’s no point in me ever trying to explain it. The body is a canvas, Derian, and tattoos are the masterpiece scrawled upon–”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, will both of you shut up and I’ll tell you!” Lorgan snapped. “It is no tattoo. It is a grand demon’s mark. It wasn’t until it started to glow that I knew for certain.”

  “What’s a demon’s mark?”

  Lorgan sighed in defeat. “Most fools know that a grand demon can only breach our world through a shattered monolith. However, that is only half the task. The way through is a difficult path. That mark is a shining beacon to light a demon’s way.”

  “So, we should keep her away from any monoliths then?” Natteo asked.

  “Well, yes, that would be a fine start.”

  “And if we accidentally come upon one?” Derian asked.

  “There are none in Luistra. How do neither of you know this?”

  “It wasn’t in the book.”

  Natteo asked what Derian was thinking. “What if she is a servant to the grand demon? What if she knows the whereabouts of a hidden monolith?”

  “A big jutting unnatural rock of onyx is hard to miss. There’s no hidden monolith,” Lorgan said, ensuring both young mercenaries knew what a monolith was. He needn’t have bothered. Derian knew as much about monolith as most. Which was, in fact, very little—except it was believed they were the locks that held the two realms apart from each other. Some people believed the seven gods gave up their life in their creation. Before they were wiped out, weavers were known to flock to them as if they gave power. Perhaps they did. Five stood throughout the Seven Isles of Dellerin. All of them shattered and cracked. Some people believed there were more.

  “Maybe it’s hidden somewhere clever,” Derian suggested.

  “Like in a cave?” Natteo added and appeared rather worried at such a thought.

  “It’s not in a cave. If you two just studied, I wouldn’t have to deal with idiocy,” Lorgan muttered, and he kicked his horse forward away from irritating questions and ignorant apprentices.

  “Do you really think she’s bad?” Derian asked Natteo.

  “I think there is more to her. Anyone that pretty usually has something to hide.”

  “She is beautiful,” Derian said in agreement.

  “You have no chance, brother.”

  “Course, I do.”

  Natteo mimicked Lorgan’s sigh. “You will end up with a nice swamp troll. Although for your sake, I hope it’s one of those Addakkas trolls. The ones with the lowest standards,” he mocked.

  “Love is blind,” countered Derian.

  “Like I said, Troll.”

  “Naked girl or troll, at least I’ll be in love,” muttered Derian.

  “I could fall in love too, if I wanted to.”

  “You’ll never find someone stupid enough to fall in love with you. And even if you do, you’ll swiftly find a way to ruin it,” Derian mocked.

  “That might be true,” Natteo said, falling quiet.

  Near midnight, they set down an hour’s ride from the town. Derian suspected Lorgan didn’t want to spend a few silver pieces on a night in the tavern, and he didn’t begrudge the old mercenary a little miserliness. Despite the huge treasure on offer, they had only stolen her price, but it was still more money than usual; Lorgan wasn’t too eager to spend it on civilised luxuries, so instead of fresh straw, clean sheeting, and the mutterings of a tavern, there were worn blankets, damp ground, and the whistle of hissects, and it was good enough for Derian.

  They nestled in by the fire beneath the clustered grey trees, and Derian did what he’d never once done in his life, he took out his book, his parchment of lettering, and began to study with no prompting.

  The girl watched him as he struggled with the trickier words, and he dared an embarrassed smile, and she hissed at him from her gaze. Kesta lay on her back staring at the open night’s sky above while Lorgan was quieter than normal at the edge of the light, allowing Derian’s mutterings to fill the air.

  Natteo referred to him as ‘the goodest little studious munket’, but when Derian turned to retort, he spotted Natteo’s notes in his hands. As usual, his best friend was thinking similar thoughts. The Crimson Hunters were a doomed outfit. Going to war with the Army of the Dead had guaranteed that. Best they learn what they could now before slipping away from a terrible fate. Maybe when Mowg and the boys caught up with them in a few seasons, they might have their own skilled unit. Or else perfected their apologies.

  Maybe they’d be hiring if Lorgan and Kesta hadn’t gone out quietly?

  “Turn to page twenty-seven,” Natteo said after a time. The chosen page had several images similar to the five-pronged tattoo covering the girl’s wonderful navel region. There were other pictures involving mirrors between two worlds and demonic horned beasts stepping through and other nasty foreshadowings. It was wonderfully unsettling.

  He tried to understand and memorise, but his feeble mind was slow. He could never comprehend how some scholars could read so naturally that it appeared as easy as breathing. Each line would take an eternity to master, and its meaning even longer. He didn’t like to think himself stupid, but when reading, it was impossible not to. He preferred ignorance.

  Lorgan stood up from the fire to tend to things, and as he walked past, he patted Derian gently on the shoulder. There was no finer compliment than ‘the pat’ after a deed accomplished. Natteo called it ‘Lorgan’s Love stroke,’ and they had a competition of how many each had received. This pat put him three ahead. He smiled triumphantly toward the irritated Natteo, but as Lorgan walked by him, he also received a gentle pat, and Natteo gestured the difference between them. Derian gestured in silent reply, but his friend was already back studying.

  After the tough marching, Derian felt himself relax. The fire was warm, his stomach was full, and he suspected Lorgan might let them sleep until after dawn.

  And why wouldn’t he?

  It had been a busy day. They had slain a demon, fallen, died, been resurrected, met a naked girl, survived an ambush from a renowned (if a little trusting) group of mercenaries, ‘earned’ a small fortune, and now stood to increase their wealth with a bounty fulfilled. For a pulse of blood, Derian felt good. He looked up into the trees and wondered when exactly it had stopped raining? It didn’t matter, he took it as a fine omen.

  “My name is Seren. I think I’m important,” the girl said, and she looked very bemused by her own voice.

  “I believe I’m good girl, but I think I need…kill,” she added, and her tone was terrifying. It sounded like hanging from a cliff, and the person cutting the rope argued that you would reach the ground faster this w
ay.

  Before anyone could speak with the girl, they lost the moment with the appearance of a hundred monsters emerging from deep within the forest. They came straight towards their campsite, screeching, howling, and snapping frantically as they did.

  14

  The Crimson Hunters

  Derian had seen them before. Not in the real world but in the scribblings in his book, and he really, really wished he’d learned more about them. He tried to remember their given title, but most rational thought beyond a hundred demonic beasts charging straight towards them eluded him completely.

  Their fierce howling pierced the serenity of the night, and Derian fell back away from the light of the fire, tripping on a tree root as the first beast upon all fours reached the camp.

  Someone screamed, “Canis demon!” and a flicker of a memory touched his mind. Canis, the doglike creature, though far larger. Closer to a furless lion, but without a tail. What happened to their tails? Also, their backs were covered in jagged horns all the way down.

  The canis beast leapt over the cooking fire and veered away from the light as though burnt by its brightness. The ground rumbled under its massive charge, for though it was far smaller than a horse, its weight of muscle was remarkable. Why did all demonic beasts have to be robust doom bringers? Just once couldn’t the monsters be slow-moving fat blobs of killable evilness? he thought miserably. The world of the source did not allow monsters of weakness though, and it snapped hand-sized teeth at Derian, who stood directly in their route. Without thinking, he did what all legendary warriors did when faced with mean, nasty monsters. He leapt for the nearest tree.

  To an athlete of the Drydern Games, reaching a tree and its life-saving branches only a horse’s length away in less than a pulse of blood was no great accomplishment, but to Derian, it was a feat of impossible effort.