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

by Robert J Power

  “I do not understand any of this, Seren,” he said, taking hold of her perfectly formed shoulders. He lost all miseries in the moment. He wanted to kiss her. She likes me, she really likes me. Why else does she say this? He’d heard that stirrings of war, stirred other things in the quiet moments after.

  “Idiot, Derian,” she said, removing his grasp from her shoulders before taking his hands and looking into his eyes.

  Say it. Say that you love me.

  “I do not love you, and you… you do not love me. You never will love me.” She sighed as though wary of revealing something he was wary of hearing, and then she went for it, anyway. “There is someone, she… pretty. Very pretty. Not Seren pretty… but pretty… with… hair... and she does not know she will love you… because…” She sighed and searched for the words in her broken and fragmented mind. “Because in world, shared souls… fated to meet.”

  He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t understand why she spoke as she did. He had a thousand questions, none of which he expected her to answer.

  “Will I know her when I see her?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Derian is idiot.” That was fair enough.

  “Will we…” he made a rude gesture with his fingers, and she shrugged a ‘possibly’ shrug. Then she made another rude gesture and it blew his mind.

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me something about her,”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “Whisht.”

  “PLEASE.”

  “I don’t know. She is girl, she is pleasing… she has good… knees?” Derian’s head spun for the umpteenth time this conversation alone. It was exhaustion on top of unsettling unnatural words. “Do not ask more,” she warned.

  He asked more. “Will we meet soon?”

  “Not in these lands. Not unless you live until night you meet. You probably die many times from here until then, in… my… Seren’s… thoughts. Wait… was right first time,” she muttered, shaking her head and tapping the area where he’d shot her.

  “When might I die?” He was desperate to know. Also, not to know.

  “You die plenty in broken mind, but next you die with me in fire. When you die, there is no coming back for Derian, no coming back for Seren… Urgh…. for me… aargh.” She picked at a loose piece of torn skin upon her seat and flicked it into the fire in annoyance. “That will be me,” she whispered watching the flesh sizzle.

  Leave now.

  “Why do you speak to me like this?” he cried, and this time he stood. As if sensing the moment, the first glimmer of light emerged from behind the horizon delivering them a full night’s survival. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight, and all fatigue struck him thoroughly. He didn’t want to talk to this goddess a moment longer. He didn’t want to die in fire with her, and he wanted to know more of this mysterious girl with the nice knees.

  “Because you are important to Se… to me.”

  “You don’t even like me,” he snarled, before turning back towards the wall. Stomping away was all he could do. He needed sleep, and he needed to hide. He needed to see Natteo, and he needed to cry. Oh, he needed to cry.

  “I like me, and I need Derian save me when fire comes,” Seren called out, but he didn’t look back. He was thoroughly confused, thoroughly exhausted, and thoroughly terrified.

  “To the fires with you so!” he shouted, and he left her to her watch.

  11

  Memories to Come

  That went much better than expected, Seren thought happily, watching her former killer storm away petulantly. He would settle that growing rage of his soon enough, she imagined.

  If he doesn’t, his heart will explode.

  She cracked her neck satisfyingly and left her demonic throne where it lay. Derian carried the weight of the battle heavily, she thought.

  He is no seasoned warrior like Lorgan.

  He is no tough little wretch like Natteo.

  He is no iron-willed witch like Kesta.

  He had darkness inside. Perhaps honed as a weapon, and this offered value, she thought.

  She wondered if they could ever be friends. She wondered if she would ever crave his friendship. She wondered if she’d said too much to him. Or worse, not enough.

  She shrugged and enjoyed the burning light of dawn a little more and decided she had said exactly the right amount of broken words, and if his heart didn’t explode, she knew he’d be at her side—if not for camaraderie then for the seed of curiosity she’d planted in his mind. He would tiptoe up to her all stupid-like and beg for a little more information on what she knew, or didn’t know. Poor stupid Derian, how could she explain what visions she saw in a way that his feeble mind could understand?

  The images now visited her more frequently, and she wondered if this was her mind recovering or dying. Some like a vivid dream with such certainty that it stung her mind, while other visions appeared like a lost memory from childhood, barely even a thought to gaze upon, and mostly inaccurate. Mostly. Perhaps this was exactly how she could explain it, she supposed.

  She rubbed the phantom injury where he’d torn her mind apart and felt an unbridled anger form for him. “Let it sleep,” she whispered of her hatred.

  “Are you enjoying the morning, little one?” a voice called, and she spun around to see the rested figure of Lorgan leaning against the broken shards of the wall. Few creatures should have been capable of sneaking up on her, yet Lorgan was special, wasn’t he?

  The labourers had dared to leave the safety of the walls and began repairing the breach, and for a moment, it felt as though this town was recovering from a harsh gale. They replaced the horror of the night with the banal duties of the day. Intending to walk both of them, Logan was no longer dressed in his battle armour, instead favouring a casual shirt of grey and trousers of brown. His face was no longer covered in blood; his eyes appeared heavy and older than before. If that was even possible.

  “Did Keralynn give payment?”

  All too swiftly, he replied, “I’m certain Keralynn will offer payment when the deed is done, when the town is safe.”

  “You get payment now, better for Lorgan… Urgh… no… better for… you.” He laughed, and she liked the art of humour. It was wonderfully human.

  His face darkened. “Did you bring the demons down upon this town?”

  This isn’t my fault.

  “I am no beast, I am no murderer, and I am no demon master,” she said.

  “I never said you were, little one. But we all saw it. The townsfolk all saw it. The monsters stopped for you. What don’t I know?”

  “Fiore watches from the dark. She angry.” Seren pointed to her naval where the demon’s mark had rested. “She whisper to beasts. Whisper them kill Seren. Whisper them kill protectors.”

  “So we must protect you?”

  She shook her head. That wasn’t what she meant. “Comrades. Crimson Hunter.” She held five fingers out and pointed one to her heart and wondered if he understood Would he value her ability? If he did, he said nothing but his eyes warmed. Few warriors ever wanted to join the Crimson Hunters. Perhaps he saw the coup in the finest warrior in the world offering her sword. Offering her allegiance. Until the war.

  “Would the monsters chase if we left? Would we save the town?”

  “No. Drawn to this place.” She tapped her navel again. She held out her left hand. “Fiore whisper them chase Seren.” She held out her right hand and waved it vigorously. “But peasant town, easy food.”

  He sighed, and she said no more. Instead, they stood watching the dawn for a little time.

  Most of the fires were nothing more than embers, and their dying glow brought memories from another life flashing before Seren’s eyes. She couldn’t decipher their meaning but she desired breakfast all of a sudden. She wasn’t sure what food she liked most, but the prospect of cooking some meat over the embers appealed to her
above anything else at the moment. Meat with honey and onion.

  “Tonight must be better,” she said.

  “I have a few ideas, little one.”

  “More flames?”

  “More flames.”

  “More stakes?”

  “More stakes.”

  “Didn’t work last night,” she muttered.

  “It’ll work tonight,” he countered.

  “Perhaps it will,” she said.

  “How was the watch?” he asked.

  “Silent. No signs, no howls, no beasts.” She eyed the forest as she had done all night with Derian at her side.

  “Good,” he said with no surprise. “And where is Derian?” he asked.

  “He stood until dawn break,” she countered quickly, lest he become irked with the young man’s disappearance. Who knew what Derian might say, explaining his absence to an angry leader?

  “You both did well tonight, little one, and I think you’ve watched long enough. Let me walk you to your lodging lest your followers ambush you.”

  As they walked through the breach, a stream of eager children flooded out carrying axes and blades. They leapt through the fire’s breach but did not mutilate the corpses like before. Instead, they charged for the treeline, ignoring any fear of demons hovering beneath the sun’s rays. A few gestured to Lorgan as they passed, as though he was their general, but none dared greet her. Perhaps word of the demons’ strange retreat had reached the rest of the town’s ears. Seren watched as the children, for a moment, attacked the branches of the trees energetically, and she left them to it. In years to come, as adulthood struck, those who survived would suffer nightmarish recurring dreams, but for now, they were unsullied heroes. Simple and incredible and fearless despite what their eyes showed them. Willing to accept things they didn’t understand. If only the town could think and behave as they did. Lorgan had been wise to call upon their efforts.

  “Your followers appear to have grown tired of adoring you already,” Lorgan said, and she searched for the right words. Careful words. She had no desire to deceive those she would call her allies; if there was no trust, there was no acceptance, and there was no survival.

  “They wait for miracles of fire.” She looked to her fingers. Nope, still no enchanted fire yet. “And resurrection too.”

  He watched them as they walked, and when he spoke, she could see the faith and love he had for humanity. “This town has unlikely known days as black as these. No matter how many times you tell them you cannot perform miracles, they know what they saw. They hoped for your miracles last night, and they’ll hope for them again tonight, I would think.”

  She caught her frustrated hiss before it left her lips. “And when nothing happens, when they see I have no power, they will turn on… Seren… me.”

  “Did we turn on you, Seren?”

  “You might!” she snapped.

  “We didn’t after your vector demon killed us.”

  “Yes, and chained.”

  He dropped his head. “When we took you from that glade, you became our responsibility. We went to war with a rival outfit for you, which will probably end up getting us all killed. There is a grand demon hunting you, and still, we haven’t run for the trees. What matters is we are with you. Until the end.”

  She shrugged and thought it was a good reply. “Then they will turn on us all.”

  He smiled and patted her on the shoulder. She didn’t know why but it was reassuring, fatherly. It felt like home. She immediately wanted another. “You think very little of these peasants, Seren. They will not turn on you or us, or anyone—even if things turn for the worst.”

  She wanted to believe him. She could see the belief in his eyes, redemption reaffirming his will. It was beautiful, and it blinded him to the good and bad in people. They’d been quick to place their unquestioning faith in her; they would be equally quick in condemning her. They thought her a god, and just as easily, they could think her a demon. Even this far from the stronghold of the Dark One, they desired something divine from the source. She had nothing to convince Lorgan otherwise, so she spat on the ground, and he seemed happy to take it as a concession.

  “If I could save them, I would,” she offered after a time, and he nodded approvingly.

  “And if we can save you from Fiore, the grand demon, we will try.”

  12

  Natteo

  “Could somebody please cease that infernal spitting racket before I lose my thurken mind!” he screamed, but as he suspected, the noise did not cease. It continued its clamour, beginning somewhere outside, carried in by invisible fingers, to rest in his head. ‘Thump’, it went, and he hated it. ‘Thump’ it went again, and the pain matched each beat as murderous thoughts filled his mind. He was frenzied, demented and exhausted. “Can you please let the dying rest in peace?” His head hammered with every word shouted. So much for being a diminishing hero.

  “You aren’t dying, sir,” a young man’s voice said. It came from a few feet away. Natteo turned in his bed. Not alone so.

  “I’m rarely wrong about these things. Give me more syrup to ease my passing.” Natteo chose his weakest-sounding voice. He knew how to play a healer.

  “You’ve had plenty.”

  “More.” Despite only darkness filling his vision, he still chanced a charming smile. He heard movement and the pop of a cork. He imagined the filling of the spoon, and he sighed as they placed it to his lips. “Thank you, my friend. You are kind to the dying,” he offered and stretched himself out waiting for the poppy syrup to take effect.

  “You are not dying. But, if you were, would she heal you?” The voice was young, male, and perfect. Natteo pulled the wet cloth from his eyes, and the room became less gloomy. He sat up and felt the cold chill of evening strike his naked chest. Why are all healing parlours so spitting cold? he wondered. His head thumped, and he realised the hammering was louder from a sitting position.

  “Do you mean Seren?”

  “Would she have healed you, if you were at the source’s door?” the young man asked, and Natteo eyed his prey. He was raven-haired and clean-shaven, with a weak, rounded chin, and dark, innocent eyes. Not entirely unattractive, but not exactly Natteo’s type. Until a few months ago, he hadn’t even known he had a type.

  “She cannot heal with weaving enchantments. She is only a mercenary like any of us!” he snapped, licking his lips, trying to discern exactly what flavours his mouth tasted of—something fetid, sweet, revolting, and delicious. He needed more to ease the thumping. He reached for the bottle in the healer’s hand and was denied the ambrosia. The young man slipped away and returned the brown bottle of goodness to a shelf above his head.

  The room was twice the size of his chosen shack and snugly furnished. A few beds sat on either side of Natteo. Various bodies of horror took them all. Most slept, their chests rising slowly with a wet wheezing or a staggered gasp. Some stared at the thatched roof above their heads waiting to die. They’d seen enough; injuries of the body healed well enough, but injuries to the soul were eternal. They might leave this place, but they would never be the same.

  “Will she help us if we pray to her?” the healer asked, and Natteo glared. How did a healer fall for her charms as others did? They flocked to her like desperate children, and in the face of horrors, when she brought nothing but misery, they still hoped her capable of marvels. She was no miracle worker, and only now—with a severe amount of blood loss, a dreadful tear in his neck, and an aching body—did Natteo realise Seren was not good for the Crimson Hunters at all.

  “Are you peasants really so stupid?” Natteo muttered and cursed his lack of control. His words were crude and unjust. The ruined and lost surrounded the healer; he was undoubtedly a better person than Natteo; what was wrong with having a little faith in greater things beyond the mundane?

  “I know what I saw,” the healer countered, taking little offence, his thicker skin prevailing.

  “And you think you see a deity?” Natteo mocked, won
dering if he was being a little unfair to Seren. Just because their entire world had spun on its head since she’d appeared in their lives, just because thousands of demonic beasts just ‘happened’ to break through the source since her appearance, just because they’d died twice since she’d introduced herself in a flaming fireball, and just because a grand demon was apparently seeking to break through and cut them all up into little pieces. Just thurken because. And another hundred reasons after.

  True, she had fought for the town and come to Derian’s aid without hesitation, but it was an unsettling thing how easily she had implanted herself into their group. What right did she have going from captive to comrade so swiftly? She claimed she was important; she claimed warmth; she claimed friendship. But unlike the rest of her new comrades, he was not so easily won over. Not yet.

  Natteo loved Lorgan like a father—as though he were his own disapproving father—but sometimes, the old fool searched for nobility in the wrong places. Natteo was all for helping the little waif with her torments, but deep in his bones, he knew it was Seren who would get them all killed. Again.

  Death should have scared him, but it really didn’t. Maybe he was just turning bitter like Kesta. Maybe he was just tired like Lorgan. Maybe he was listening to the darkness within him, just like Derian. He shook his head from these thoughts. Perhaps he had taken enough juice; perhaps one more was all he needed.

  “I believe in greater things, mercenary.”

  “Hold on to that faith, my friend. What harm can it do?” Natteo said, conceding the matter. He tested the tearing at his neck. Whoever tended to him had chosen larger stitching than needed.

  Perfect.

  Scarring brought greater interest in business. Any mercenary with impressive scarring was worth more than pretty mercenaries with flawless skin. He’d been meaning to pick up another few scars to draw greater numbers to him, and this long tear underneath his chin, all the way down past his shoulder would suffice.