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

by Robert J Power

  “We survived this, brother,” Derian said, and Natteo nodded in agreement. They had better get paid for this.

  “Fine work, hunters!” Lorgan called from across the field. He limped over, dragging his sword along the grass to remove what demonic blood and discarded intestine he could. He looked both exhausted and exhilarated. It was the same look any mercenary offered whenever payment was in the air. The terrible deed was done, and money was on all their minds. He beckoned them over to stand with him at the front gate.

  “Try to look the part,” he muttered through clenched teeth, as a gore-covered Kesta and a pristine-looking Seren joined them.

  “Now that we dealt with this, I have a genuine worry,” Natteo whispered, as daylight appeared between both swinging gates. “Do you think the Army of the Dead will hold a grudge? Better than killing them, right?” he added, convincing himself that using a bout of food poisoning was fair game.

  Derian smiled and welcomed his friend’s levity. “I’d say they’ve already placed a hefty death bounty on our heads from their chamber pots in the woods.” Natteo was distraught. He got upset about the strangest things.

  “Shut up, you idiots,” Lorgan hissed.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The figure standing between both gates was unmistakably feminine—shapely despite the heavy garments. In the morning light, her hair shone a radiant blonde, and if she was ten years younger, Derian might have formed charming courting words to offer. She was attractive, and she looked upon them with kind, striking eyes. Her smile was welcoming, and she swept gracefully from the entrance down through the debris of war as though walking upon a glade of marigolds and spring flowers.

  “Thank you, brave heroes,” she called out in an endearingly pleasant voice. Her boots were awkward in the terrain, her dress dragged out behind her and stained in the blood, and her leather chest armour bounced loudly with every step. She looked like a peasant before battle. Prepared, but not well enough. She allowed excitement to get the better of her, and she greeted them as kin she had not seen in an age.

  She reached Natteo first, took his hand, and fell to one knee, holding his grimy palm to her forehead. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered, and Natteo was delighted. She then slipped away from him and took Derian’s hands, repeated the greeting.

  “You are welcome… madam?” he replied, searching for the right term.

  She nodded in delight before turning to Kesta who received the same. However, instead of dropping to a knee, she stroked her thick curly hair closely and muttered something like, “Brave, brave warrior goddess.”

  Kesta merely nodded and tugged her hair away as politely as she could.

  She offered Seren a careful smile and took both her hands in her own. “You are one of them, aren’t you?” the welcoming girl whispered, and Seren raised a curious eyebrow.

  “I am Seren.” Derian thought it such a pretty name.

  “I am Keralynn, the watcher of Treystone. It is good to meet you, Seren,” she offered, and then she slid away from her to greet Lorgan, where her smile become magnificent. Lorgan stood as straight as he could, though, as usual, he betrayed himself as a man worried. He had business to conduct.

  “Where is Olmin?” he began.

  “Olmin died the first night,” Keralynn replied. Olmin had been the man who set the bounty for the lecherous demon (which wasn’t actually a lecherous demon beast at all, but, in fact, a vector beast carrying Seren from the source—but that was an entirely different story altogether). “He was one of the first taken back over the wall by a clawed grip,” she offered as she placed her hand upon Lorgan’s chest. “There were two dozen fiends the first night; they tore us apart.”

  “I had business with him,” Lorgan countered, unmoved by his death. Money was money, and death complicated matters. Out here in the mud lands, the guild was unlikely to influence matters if they denied the payment.

  “Any business you had with him is now with me,” she said carefully. She kept her hands upon his chest, and Derian realised how close their age was. Without warning, she took a breath, gazed into his eyes, and kissed him upon the cheek before moving to the other. She finished by lightly kissing him upon the lips. She did not break the kiss immediately. It lingered a fraction longer than usual for a traditional greeting kiss.

  “She’s using her tongue,” whispered Natteo.

  “So is he,” Derian countered.

  “I think Lorgan will like the new leadership,” whispered Natteo as she withdrew, blushing, before leading them back to the town. Lorgan’s face was stern with worry, but there was a crack of a smile trying desperately to free itself.

  “Shut up, you idiots,” Kesta hissed, though she too was fighting a smile.

  2

  Wipe Your Boots

  Keralynn hid her awkwardness beneath a hasty retreat towards the gate and the growing procession within. She bade them follow, and the Crimson Hunters obeyed her wishes as a pack. The sound of the crowd, which had fallen silent in her wake, began to grow once more.

  “I think you might have a potential suitress there,” Kesta said, shoving her commander lightly as they walked side by side.

  “I’m not sure we can trust her,” he replied, allowing the shove to unsettle his march, and Kesta’s sigh was loud enough for the rest to hear. Even a spectacular victory in view of an appreciative audience wasn’t enough to lessen his apprehension for the world. “Besides, she might look to undercut us with our deal or offer further employment,” he added, and suddenly Natteo and Derian’s smiles faltered.

  The town wouldn’t survive the next attack—the walk up towards its entrance had told them that much. The walls were cheap timber, and they were neither sturdy nor tall enough to keep out a large horde for the hours of night. They had not even treated the front gates with the craftsmanship deserving of a town as big as this. No reinforced timber beams to hold against an unruly mob’s crush, no ironed spike atop its crown, and there wasn’t even a proper guard post to stare suspiciously at them as they marched through.

  Forget additional work. Let’s get the money and get out of this town before noon.

  A few feet above the gate was a long platform, and there he saw heads peeking over. Some were children, but others were nervous adults. All were keen to see the heroes who’d appeared at their lowest ebb and saved them all from certain death with some boom.

  “We’re not staying long, are we, boss?” Natteo asked.

  “Don’t you worry, little one. We’ll stay as needed,” Kesta interrupted, before Lorgan could commit himself to anything, and Derian felt a sinking feeling.

  Please, let there be no madness again.

  The night before, a wave of insanity had fallen upon them. They had waged war on an undefeatable enemy, and though nobody spoke it aloud, they had died, and they had died brutally. Seren suggested the tattoo had been the link to resurrection, and as appealing as her navel was without the gold design marring it, he’d prefer her with the rebirth boom enchantment any season of the year. There would be no third resurrection. In the light of day, with no rash thoughts of heroism to a failing town, things changed, and they made better decisions. A job was a job. Only a fool took payment for suicide.

  “They have come two nights now, and it has taken its toll. They took many and left as many dead behind,” Keralynn called as she led them through the waiting crowd. Grateful eyes fell upon him from the wretched inhabitants, and Derian avoided their gaze lest they see how desperate he was to flee as soon as possible. He felt pats upon his back, whispered thank-yous, and source blessings, and he tried to ignore them all.

  Derian could see scattered signs of invasion throughout. The first clue was the splotches of blood along the inner wall, where monsters had scaled and slipped over. The other clue was the dead. Broken, unmoving, and plentiful. He counted at least two dozen bodies laid out, all neat and formal at the corner of the entrance. Carrion birds watched in stony silence from the wall, now a
nd then dropping silently, hoping to peck at bloodied staring faces, but they were quickly scattered by those sitting vigil.

  Some towns had their own traditions for sending the dead into the darkness; through fire, burial, and he knew of one where a river ran through the town, so maybe they’d float them on down the valley with a garland of flowers resting upon their chest. As it was, this town appeared to favour the act of lighting a pyre, and so he offered a delicate, respectful bow to those gathering the layers of kindling. He had no time for the passing of bodies himself—dead was dead.

  As for his own kin, well, he’d placed the ruined body of his mother upon the passing cart and watched it trundle away slowly with the rest of the murdered and that was that. His father had allowed him to get drunk for the first time that night. He’d then started a fight with an older girl he’d always had a fancy for, and she’d knocked out one of his teeth. She’d still kissed him later that night—and delivered other naughty things the hour after that—so overall, he’d decided it was a good day. He’d really liked that girl until she’d knocked out his oldest friend’s two teeth a week later, and well, things had occurred as they did. He ran his tongue through the gap in the back of his mouth and decided he didn’t really miss his youth at all.

  They continued through the town’s small square, and his feet squelched on the typical muddy substance found on the ground of all small towns lacking stone pathways. He hated towns, always had. Nothing good ever came from collecting humans together and forcing civility upon each other.

  He looked to the sky and the rising sun and began counting the hours until it set. When he wasn’t having nightmares about monsters dragging him down to the darkness below, he’d frequently suffered uncomfortable dreams of being dreadfully late. Walking this town reminded him of that feeling.

  “Thank the gods of the source you came to us,” Keralynn said, finding her voice and distracting him from his worry.

  “There are no gods in the source,” countered Lorgan. “If there ever were, they’re absent now. All that’re left are demons.”

  “Oh, find some faith. All things happen for a reason, Lorgan of The Crimson Hunters,” she countered, before delivering a smile that could fell trees. A cynical man might think she was playing a part, and a believer might believe she was quite taken with the older man with marriage in mind, but a mercenary might suspect she was one of those females who got allured by the work of mercenaries. A life spent without adventure bred desires for excitement. It caused strange attractions for one who walked close to death. Derian wouldn’t mind one of those reserved females—he’d heard that desperate ones even had an eye for apprentices. Raw and wriggling and all that. He’d happily play, as long as there was time before sunset.

  The farther in they walked, more and more of the crowd gathered around them, marched with them, and called out to them until Keralynn, keen to keep Lorgan and his mercenaries all to herself, took charge.

  “Leave them be. There is no rush to meet and wish good things upon the heroes,” she called out to the flock, and Derian didn’t like those words. No rush. Neither did Natteo, who raised the most suspicious eyebrow he could muster. The crowd parted but continued their cheering. To be more accurate, they filled the morning air with grateful, desperate pleading cries of gratitude.

  Derian tried to offer no smile, for fear that they take it as confirmation that salvation marched in an off-red tint, but it was a difficult task as his every step received a round of applause. Natteo received the same treatment and took it all in his stride. He accepted each pat on the back as though he was a war general observing a pleasing parade of arms. Even Lorgan allowed a few eager grubby hands to take hold of his own. He grunted a few appreciative words and eased past the gathering crowd who, despite their enthusiasm, parted in the tall man’s wake.

  Only Kesta appeared uncomfortable with the praise. She hung back a few steps and muttered a few blessings under her breath for the fallen, and the crowd must have appreciated her gesture, for they allowed her a moment’s quiet before she caught up and accepted a few healthy and hearty embraces that she had little intention of enjoying. A few stray hands grasped at her impressive braided hair, and she hissed them away easily enough.

  Trailing a few steps behind, Seren’s eyes appeared to be alive with delight at seeing the calamity placed upon the town—the signs of claw and hoof on the wall, the mud, and the shattered doorways of the small buildings they passed. “Hello, friends,” she said with wonderment as a portion of the crowd fell upon her with unrestrained reverence. They did not embrace her as a friend, hero, or anything in between. Instead, they fell to a muddy knee and whispered in prayer, and she, their deity, came alive. There were a few dozen, and Seren stared as their whispers grew to muttering; after that, came humming. Whatever the melody was, Seren smiled and bade them rise, but her followers would not be silenced nor moved. They liked it in the mud, apparently. They continued their humming, and Derian wondered again if they saw what had happened on the battlefield. Perhaps they desired returned life to those already fallen? She’d suggested it was not of her doing, but the crowd might argue differently.

  “Pretty,” she whispered as though hearing a tune for the first time, and bolstered by her engagements, the humming turned to nonsensical singing. After a moment, Kesta tugged her gently to follow. Treystone’s reaction differed from the usual suspicious glares they suffered when entering settlements. Settlements treated mercenaries with derision—for the blood on their hands, and for the tasks they were hired for. It wasn’t always heroic demon-slaying. Sometimes it was a little dirty assassination which brought them over a town’s threshold, and any group appearing at a town’s gates was watched with unease, especially the folk with things to hide.

  It didn’t matter that Lorgan would never accept a murder contract. He’d always said ‘those contracts could change the world,’ and he ‘wanted none of that’. Derian thought it was foolish. Some people just needed killing. As long as they were bad; if the pay was good, what was the problem? He’d argued as much to Lorgan, who’d sighed and walked away without offering his own thoughts on the matter, and Derian had taken the win.

  “We’ve never needed a night watch along the walls, so when it happened, we weren’t ready,” Keralynn said, pointing to a few buildings where the splattering was thicker. She led them towards the far end of the town, following a path between two lines of small hovels, all made from light brick with yellow pinewood walls supporting thinly spared thatch roofs. He counted twenty on either side, all the way along. Some had little fires burning outside and some looked abandoned. Some had life and others did not. Derian wondered how many former occupants were lying cold in the mud at the gates.

  “Different land, yet same spitting life,” he muttered to himself on seeing the small familiar beds, side by side, where a young couple might have cared for a young child. No space for more than a few cupboards and shelves for food and a few bottles of sine to drink the frustrating life away. Give him a bed beneath the stars with the trees as his privacy any day over such luxuries. Give him a sword over a shovel for the land, or a shield over a pick-axe in a mine.

  “What did you say?” Natteo asked, and Derian shook his head. No point discussing miserable childhoods in a little hovel with unloving parents in a town that worshipped seeva beasts. He wondered if this town had any such beliefs. Probably, considering their swiftness to look upon Seren with wide-open eyes.

  He watched the sun again and reassured himself they would be free of this place soon enough. Keralynn led them through the town, past the smaller hovels to the larger structures reserved for those of a wealthier disposition. For what town could ever share and share alike? There were far fewer of these, but they were four times larger and stood two floors up. All of them were closer to the outer walls. They were hit harder than the hovels.

  “They ravaged the elder’s quarters most,” their blonde host whispered. “It’s why I greet you now and not Olmin.”

 
They passed a long building with a delicately painted few letters above its front door, and Derian surmised it was a tavern from the appearance within. Beyond, they passed a few wooden stalls that counted for a fledgling unattended market, before crossing a bridge over a swift-flowing river at the town’s far corner. Unlike the gate, they’d had the good sense to ensure the hole was secured with iron bars covering the breaks where it entered and exited. On the other side of the dark muddy water stood a large warehouse, housed no doubt with a cold season’s storage of food and such. Derian licked his lips at the prospect of raiding the stores during a quieter moment. Maybe not him, but Natteo could slip in through one of the upper windows, no problem at all. He felt a little ashamed at his wandering mind. These people were going through bad times as it was. Why add to their misery by stealing some sweet cakes? However, when the town was overrun, it would go to waste, anyway. Better someone enjoys the rewards within.

  “This town is an open gate to those beasts,” Kesta muttered.

  “We tried to man the walls, but were it not for your appearance last night, we would have suffered even greater losses.” Keralynn bowed to Seren. “That light was brighter than the day… and when the glare had faded away, night had vanished completely.”

  Boom.

  “It was a godly thing,” she whispered and finally caught Seren’s eyes.

  Rebirth boom.

  “A miracle from the source,” she said, and Seren shrugged—for her interest was drawn to a gathering of children who were bolder than the adults. They gazed upon the heroes who brought daylight to night. Dressed in muddy clothes, like most children in dirty little towns, some wore the wares of injury. Marks of a dark reddish splatter decorated their dreary garments. They watched and whispered, and their daring encouraged some adults. Seren’s admirers most of all. From a safe distance, they began chanting her greatness, and Derian thought it ridiculous and then worried that they might have been right. What if she was a god from the source? And he’d shot her with an arrow?