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

by Robert J Power

Those sneaky monsters had been up to no good. While those who streamed over the wall met their end, the rest busied themselves tearing at the wooden stakes below. In the melee, they went to task eagerly and without interruption as their brethren climbed upon their backs and continued the distracting assault. They hacked and slashed with their vicious claws and never let such a thing as suffocation or the incessant push of a bloodthirsty horde stop them. Eventually, they breached the wall and they did it spectacularly.

  The wall split and crumbled inwards from the swell; it gave away in countless shards of splintered wood, wide enough that a marching army of canis demons could charge through, and all those standing above could do little more than collapse along with the tumbling debris, becoming impaled upon the broken, jagged edges of shattered timber.

  Derian fell among the ruin of canis and comrade. He dropped into the abyss of flooding darkness below, and with a terrible crunching crash, he landed heavily and fought unconsciousness. It called to him like the last moments of a dying man far beneath the rising tide’s surface, and the monsters poured through, battering him even further.

  Don’t sleep.

  The mass of a thousand claws dragged him along and spun him as though he was a leaf in the wind. They caught him in their hate-filled wake, and he couldn’t say how far they carried him or how many times he rolled—only that the world spun in a blur, only coming to rest when he took hold of a leathery neck and clung on tightly. The demon tried to shake him free—leaping and rearing like a prize mount unwilling to accept a rider. It fought, and among the ruin of the wall, Derian clung beneath its struggles and bested it, for were he to fall away, he knew death would follow.

  I have this.

  He felt it again; the terror gave way to calm. He felt his limbs become a stranger’s, yet they did not betray him. He savoured the fight; he savoured each breath; he savoured the story he was writing and the great telling he would deliver. His fatigue dissipated beneath the phantom power emanating from within. It was familiar, and he wondered, this close to death, had he weaved from his own soul? Had he gifted himself one titanic effort to survive? Effort which wanted to kill, tear, and destroy anything before him. For him.

  The beast stumbled and leapt away from its charging comrades, and he felt a roar form in his lungs, upon his lips. Primal and ancient.

  What is happening?

  Surviving.

  He was brutal because he craved brutality. He locked his arms around the beast’s fleshy throat and squeezed himself close, close enough to smell its vulgar stench, to feel its warm spittle upon his cheek, as it snapped at the unreachable parasite gripping on desperately for dear life. There was no desperation in his actions. He brought himself closer. So close that he could open his mouth wide and bite the demon, and this was exactly what he did.

  Polished.

  He gnawed deeply at its sagging tough flesh below the neck, and it felt like biting into undercooked steak. He dug deep with teeth controlled by another monster, just below its jaw and pulled vital entrails free, and this felt richer, like tearing delicious flesh from a chicken bone (and just as satisfying). The creature howled, and he tore again, swallowing warm blood as it sprayed into his face, and the beast stumbled and rolled itself and landed upon Derian, trapping him beneath.

  “Not like this!” he roared in the voice unlike his own, as the terrible weight crushed his chest and stole his breath.

  On both sides, canis demons surged forwards into the town, flanked by their following anculus masters roaring them onwards like vile shepherds from a demon realm. He tried to roar again, but he lost his breath, and he felt the tempting taste of unconscious panic overcome him.

  Not like this, his mind begged, challenged, and wailed from deep within, and he fought the darkness as arrows struck the attacking monsters coming through. He caught sight of his Crimson comrades at war—Lorgan, Kesta, Natteo and Seren—forming up in a line only twenty feet from where he’d fallen while those they protected fled away into the town like terrified peasants.

  “Not like this.” He felt a strange familiar power and remembered his strength from outside the town when a monster had taken him by the throat and squeezed. He’d bitten that brute as well.

  “NOT LIKE THIS!”

  Derian did not push the monster from his chest, for he felt incredible. Unstoppable. Instead of heaving the beast from him, he struck it with all his might, with a clenched fist of stone. A fine strike, fiercer than before, and it caught its jaw and snapped it cleanly in two, before sending the carcass rolling away as though descending a hill.

  He climbed to his feet beneath the ruin of the wall with the enemy flooding in all around him, and instead of leaping towards better footing or retreating towards his comrades, he clenched Rusty in his grasp, roared in defiance, and struck the nearest monster to his right. The dagger blade went deep as he broke the monster’s skin, and as it charged, he dragged his blade against the tide and spilled the innards as it passed. He never knew if he killed it for there were a hundred more charging in, but knowing the pain he inflicted was something wonderful.

  What is happening to me? he wondered again and savoured how much killing he had to do. He spun to the next monster and plunged just as fiercely, roaring primitively—for he was magnificent.

  Like spilling myself under a woman’s touch.

  He waded into the monsters, and his companions were beside him and it was glorious. Heroes all of them, and he a legend in waiting.

  Natteo offered himself as prey to the monsters, and he did so like a master. Allowing his armour to take most of the burden, he gladly accepted a few violent shakes from clenched teeth before plunging both his daggers into his attacker through each ear. As they howled and died, he found a wonderfully profane description for every beast’s demonic spirit he sent back into the darkness, and Derian’s savagery loved it.

  Kesta drove her mighty long sword into every monster that moved, like something ethereal possessed her. She no longer resembled the awkward mercenary blessed with miserable motherly traits and little else. She offered no mercy, plunging her sword down into each of their bodies lest they rise for a second snap at her or worse—escape with their lives. Her face was cold and relaxed. Apart from the killing blow. With these, she smiled, and Derian loved this too.

  Lorgan earned the right to Keralynn’s bed with his performance, for he matched Derian’s viciousness. He was ferocious with both sword and shield. Using both as devastating weapons, he charged brazenly towards each anculus demon as though their breach was an affront to him personally, and perhaps it was. Such was his savagery, the beasts that broke through scattered beneath his wrath. He performed like a lost legend whispered to return at the turn of the dark.

  Even Seren leapt into the fray fearlessly. In badly fitting armour and a dress that had no place on the battlefield, she spun and cut like a grizzled mercenary of thirty years. She moved swifter than her usual laboured march, as though this was her calling. She looked less her usual goddess self, standing upon a pedestal of divine beauty and gazing down on mortals with beautiful knowing eyes—well, she still looked like all of those things—and more a Crimson Hunter. He’d never desired her as much as at this moment. He wanted to live long enough to win her heart. Or at least thurk her until dawn.

  He shouldn’t have seen any of this; he saw through the eyes of a nameless creature. As his body contorted, plunged, stabbed, and struck, his mind wandered from his actions, yet still, he knew to trust himself. Perhaps, they’d spiked his drink? He could have thought more on this, but everything changed. As though commanded by one voice, squealing in a frequency no human could hear, the demons fell away from the defending wall. They retreated mid-bite, mid-claw, mid-kill, as though time had frozen itself as solid as ice, and Derian felt his frenzy release itself.

  The exhaustion struck his limbs again, as though the sudden silence was a poison to his charge. He began to feel the injuries he’d incurred, and the urge to fall to his knees was overwhelming. H
e wanted to collapse among the frozen monsters, and he also wanted to attack them where they stood, but the enchantment of the moment held him in place, as it did them, and he was unwilling to shatter it.

  The monsters set their gaze upon Seren and did so with a deferential hatred, and from her place among the three or four carcases at her feet, she stared right back at them with returned animosity. He looked to the gaping hole from where they’d entered, and he could see dozens of beasts as motionless, and he thought this a strange thing too.

  “Shoo little doggits,” hissed Natteo stepping beside Seren. He stood ready to counter their charge should the moment erupt into volatile violence. Only then, did Derian notice the badly taken blow he’d received, blood dripping heavily from a deep gash along his neck. It seeped out beneath his metal armour and down his favourite shirt. If the injury didn’t kill him, Derian would endure a month’s worth of complaining about his misfortune. A fine way to deal with horrors. Derian thought him a better man for it. “Silencio is calling you.”

  Perhaps the attackers understood Natteo’s meaning. Without looking from Seren, they shooed away from the battle as one regimented march, like a wave in low tide. They did not leave empty clawed, however. They took what riches they’d earned. Derian watched two of the creatures retreat through the breach clasping a one-armed carcass with them, leaving only his bronze helmet behind him. They took all felled carcasses from the ruin of the platform. Derian heard a few weak human moans fading as their vanquishers dragged them away, and he moved to follow slowly after, but Lorgan took hold of his shoulder as the last monster disappeared through the break in the flames.

  “No need to give chase, lad. There’ll be plenty more fighting to do. Those they’ve taken are already dead—or will be swift enough. Best you calm that wild heart of yours, if you don’t want it exploding before night’s end,” he said.

  “It’s no way to die,” hissed Kesta, distraught that the fighting had ended without nearly enough monsters dead at her feet. From the darkness, a few of the villagers returned with weapons and torches in hand. They were frightened, shaken, and Derian imagined some appeared a little suspicious at such a retreat, but slowly they converged upon the last five defenders. Those that hadn’t fallen along the wall, or fled from horrors, looked back out into the night with hardened experienced eyes, as the retreating monsters fled from the valley.

  “Well, that was a disaster,” muttered Natteo, and finally he collapsed in a ruined heap, seeping a dangerous amount of blood all over the ground.

  10

  Long Night

  Silence. Nothing but silence played in Derian’s ears, and that was fine with him. The rushing wind brought silence, as did the crackling of the flames only a dozen feet from his place of watch. He liked these natural things bringing quiet as they deafened his ears to everything else around him.

  He ached, and each breath felt like he’d sprinted twenty miles in blazing heat without respite. Whatever had possessed his rage and fierceness had now left him weak and vulnerable. Lorgan was gone, his arms heavy with the broken body of his unconscious friend. Too much blood had drained from him that was all, Derian told himself.

  He’ll be fine. Right?

  Natteo was stronger than most others, despite his appearance. A few stitches with a careful hand, a few cups of ale, and his strong heart would pump some fresh blood right back into him. Isn’t that how it works?

  It probably said so in his book, but the section on human anatomy was heavy in complicated words and gruesome with pictures. He thought of recovering his book to study the night away. Who knew how boredom would affect his thoughts as the night dragged? Better taking advantage of the silence.

  No, best to keep an eye on the night. Boredom or not he told himself, and he made a good argument. Somewhere out there in the dark were demons, and he wondered if they watched him as he watched for them. There was probably no place he’d rather be in this town while waiting for dawn.

  Standing upon each side of the breached wall stood archers. Twenty on each side or so. Enough to stem a sudden attack while they raised the alarm, he imagined. All of them behaving as statues would. Each lost in their own thoughts. There was no cheer; no whispered words; only watching into the night.

  Below them, anxious labourers went to work preparing for the day ahead. They were quiet in their tasks; they feared disguising another type of sneaky assault by intelligent demons. Or worse, they might draw the demons from their hiding places altogether. If Derian listened past the driving wind of the gap and the dancing flames, he could hear their mutterings, their proposals, their manoeuvring of long timber poles, and their calm repairs. He didn’t know why but it calmed him. Perhaps it reminded him of the value of civilisation.

  Certain the beasts had gone for the night, Kesta had slipped away to rest—her face grave from memories and thoughts of losing another loved one to monsters. Natteo’s blood had stained her worn fingers and she’d spent a long enough time staring at them.

  Derian wasn’t alone at the breached wall. Seren was beside him. She had been for an hour now, and Derian was grateful for the silent comfort she offered. She hadn’t spoken, but she was familiar, and familiar was as reassuring as silence. As was the breaking of silence.

  “Soon, will be light.” He nodded, taking a few steps through the breach out to the dying flames. After a time, she followed. She smelled of the march—sweat, mud, and a delicate fragrance of soap. There was probably a little demon blood thrown in there. She smelled far better than he, not that he cared. Plenty of time for bathing at sunrise. If he had the taste for it, he might invite her to join him in the river. Maybe she’d stumble and trip. Maybe he’d save her. He almost smiled at that stupid fantasy. Those unoriginal things only happened in self-indulgent tales for hopeless romantics. Still, though, nothing wrong with some romance when he thought about it.

  “Tired now.”

  “I am too. We’ll have a few hours’ sleep soon enough.” Thick, crimson blood caked his body and cracked when he moved. Better that than the warm sensation of freshly dead things clinging to him, he supposed. Better than the blood of his dead comrades. He thought of them and knew only Keri’s name. He thought of the girl with the nice smile and matching armour and felt her passing anew. He tried to remember the others, but he hadn’t known them long enough to memorise their faces.

  Is that a saving grace?

  “Natteo will live,” Seren declared, as though she was a healer in her healer’s chambers and Derian a relative waiting for word. She used the same disinterested tone most healers reserved for these moments, and despite her ignorance towards Natteo’s welfare, it reassured him greatly.

  And then she dragged a dead demon’s corpse from below the break of the wall and dropped it at the edge of the dying flames in one gliding movement before sitting down on its back. Satisfied it was a comfortable seat, she held out her hands over the warmth.

  “Sit with Seren.” She patted the head and bade him sit upon a glaring gazing monster. He considered dragging over his own demonic chair, but being closer to her was worth a little discomfort. “Need to talk,” she said, patting the beast’s head a second time. Its tongue slithered free from its mouth.

  “How do you know Natteo will recover?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Only know that he not die this day,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t know. Just know.”

  “Right, that’s polished. And me? Do you know if I will die?”

  “You… will probably die.”

  “…”

  “You should pray to not die,” she said, smiling curiously.

  Was that her first joke? Was that a joke? “I think I’ll just go and stand over here for a while,” he countered.

  “Derian might die if Derian over there.” She began tying her hair up absently. He stood to leave, and she did not stop him, so after a breath of confusion, he sat right back down. “Then again… you… might not die.” She shrug
ged, and he was confused and unsettled.

  “Do you have knowledge of things to come?” he asked—wary that she did, and wary that she would reply. He hated conversations like this. He was frightened of prophecies, and he didn’t know why. Prophecies usually meant predestined death, and that spit terrified him. She squirmed slightly with her perfectly shaped rear upon the beast’s back; a deathly gasp escaped its mouth beneath his less impressive rear, and he felt thoroughly uncomfortable.

  “Broken.” She touched her forehead suspiciously close to where he’d shot her in the head. “You broke Seren.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sometimes, Seren… Urgh… I… can’t put words, sentences, thoughts… order.” She sighed, searching her thoughts for elusive words to explain further the destruction he’d laid upon her. “Hate it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Stop saying.”

  “But I really am sorry.”

  “Stop talking, it annoys Seren… Me… Derian… Urgh… You are better with shut mouth. I see arrow when Derian… you… when you talk.” He shut his mouth and felt worse.

  This was the longest conversation he’d had with her yet, he thought. From this close, he could see her lips in the dying firelight, and he wanted to touch them with his finger. Nothing unsavoury. Just a little touch. They looked so very touchable. Perhaps that was a little unsavoury.

  “With broken mind… because broken mind, I have seen things, moments, people, different… endings to what is now?” she offered, and it thoroughly confused him. So he apologised again, and she muttered a curse. “I see moment you not put arrow through head. That was good. We even friends. You even…” She made a crude gesture with her fingers and shrugged as though sensual times were indifferent timers. “It was fine. It was first for Seren… me.”

  “Sorry, WHAT!?”

  “Broken mind see actions of what could, when actions taken different,” she said, choosing a disapproving master’s tone as her own.