The Crimson Hunters

by Robert J Power

  From the three years he’d known her, he knew little more than her love for the sky, books, and ensuring the rest of them were being the best little mercenaries they could be. She had moments when she’d fall silent listening to the wind or watching the dawn. Whenever they came upon a steep ridge on a march, she would stand at its edge and take in what sights she could. Frequently, she would stare at birds in flight while standing there whispering delicate prayers to herself. Thinking of it now, he wondered if she wasn’t just contemplating leaping to silence.

  Well, she hasn’t jumped yet, and she shows little desire to leave Lorgan’s side either. She had a cold stare that would settle a venandi night hunter, and when needed, she had a certain tone of voice so cutting that The Dark One himself might offer an apology and return the honey cake he’d stolen. Lorgan valued her more than Derian and Natteo put together. Probably because she was the first mercenary that didn’t leave him or die under his leadership.

  “Shut your mouth, Natteo. You and Derian will do what he asks, or I’ll knock you both out,” she had said, and Derian had heard a flock of birds above them fall deathly silent. Lorgan had walked away muttering under his breath, annoyed that she had settled the argument without a little battering to get the blood pumping.

  “Knock me out? I could take a woman no problem,” Natteo had countered.

  “Could you really take a woman?”

  “Shut up.”

  When Lorgan had returned with the netting, his pale face had been serious, and even Natteo had not dared to mock him any further. There was only so much abuse you could give the warrior before he retorted and delivered tenfold the pain. “Chase the little beastie down the forest; it’s like drawing out a flock of pheasants. We’ll line the net across whichever path it chooses.”

  “Yes, sir,” they had both replied.

  Derian slid the bow from his back slowly, and the monster watched him from the dell’s far side—thirty or forty feet across. It tilted its head and looked beyond the diminutive mercenary. Like before, Derian could almost understand what confused thoughts ran through its apple-sized brain.

  It looked left of Derian; Nope, no hunting pack on that side. It looked to the right; Nope, no hunting pack on that side either. It looked straight at Derian; Little human, make noise.

  Perhaps had the beast moved with urgency, it may have been less unnerving, but as it was, it reached behind its muscular back and plucked the limp arrow free slowly. It eyed the bow in Derian’s hands accusingly. At least, he wasn’t alone facing this nightmare.

  “Whoa, he looks bigger when he’s got you in his sights,” Natteo said, preparing himself for the inevitable charge. “Where’s the net?”

  Derian had the perfect reply. A thorough and expletive-laden outburst—all about why Lorgan’s plan had fallen to waste—but he never uttered a word because the monster charged them.

  Natteo was quick. He’d always been quick. Such quickness was hardly born from practice or from running around. His was a quickness of the mind with reflexes to boot. He fired two small bolts from each wristbow before the lecherous beast could take a second step. By the time the bolts struck and their hunter had taken a further step, the mercenary was reloading for the next shots.

  Derian’s mind flashed to the pictures in his book, and he realised that there just weren’t any illustrations to teach him what to do in this precarious moment—beyond dropping the offending bow and unsheathing his sword in leathery silence.

  What to do? What to do?

  Lorgan would fume that his mind remained a panicked blank. Another argument in favour of him learning to study more, he imagined. Perfect. This was turning into a fantastic day altogether.

  “Keep moving!” cried Natteo, and Derian roused himself from his stupor. He ducked as the monster fell upon him with wild lunging strikes, gnashing teeth, and its oversized and unwelcomed, appendages. He met the attack with shaking hands upon the tightly wrapped grip of his trusty sword “Rusty.” It wasn’t the name he’d have given it. He’d have preferred “Lightbringer” or “Deathwalker” or something splendid like that. Instead, his comrades had called it Rusty because when he’d found it, its previous owner, a low-life bandit with thin leather armour, had left it to fall into ruin. Yes, even now in the hazy light of a rainstorm, the echoes of its disrepair were clearly visible on its guard and pommel, but the blade itself was oiled and sharp.

  “For the love of the seven gods, keep shooting it, Natteo.”

  “I’m doing my best, Derian. Why don’t you stab it better?”

  The beast swung its claws like duel wielding weapons, and Derian met each razor-sharp strike with Rusty in a loud clink. Without the monster able to put its full momentum behind the attack, Derian could meet each strike without being felled like an unfortunate tree. To any incompetent swordsman, this blocking appeared impressive, however, any mercenary worth his weight in silver would suggest his guard was a little high, his feet were spread too far apart, and his counterattack was non-existent. They would be critical; they would be right.

  He wished Lorgan and Kesta were here with him now, bringing the fight to the beast, but at least for all his mutterings, Natteo was a fine comrade of war. Despite his reluctance to sprint through forests in the rain, the mercenary ran around the dell firing bolt after bolt from his spring-loaded wristbows, shouting loudly every time. Uncommon and favoured by grander men of leisure, the wristbow was a slick weapon, easily folded upon itself when enduring peaceful times and spring-loaded for swift violence in a pulse of time when they needed smooth murder. They were expensive and favoured by the sneakier mercenaries. Naturally, Natteo favoured one on each wrist. The smaller bolts were less effective than any traditional arrow or crossbow bolt, but he looked polished firing them—and looking polished was as important as efficiency. That he broke skin less than half the time wasn’t too important either.

  “We have this!” he kept shouting, as though they did.

  Derian slipped back and readjusted his footing as the pictures in “The Successful Mercenary’s Compendium,” suggested, and despite his better judgment, he brought his arms closer to his chest. The book suggested the beast would have less chance to strike him, but still, it felt unnatural. The demon swung, and he blocked much easier than before, but with his arms tucked in, there was nothing to cushion what power the beast had. He took the winding blow and fell to his knees. Stupid book.

  The other claw connected cleanly across his chest. There was pain. Dreadful pain. All the pain in the world. There was also a strange sensation of floating as the world spun his vision asunder. He heard a triumphant monstrous roar, a best friend’s cry of profanity, and the whistling of wind and rain as it flung him through the air.

  Flying.

  He landed painfully in a heap on the far side of the dell. For a few breaths he lay on his back in the dampened wild grass as his vision settled, and he reached down to his torn chest armour.

  Far away he heard the trampling of undergrowth, and farther from that, the aggressive roars of battling opponents. His chest plate was wet—but only from the rain and mud. His father had assured him it was reinforced bronze, despite his misgivings that such a delicate piece would be effective.

  “It is my only heirloom, Son. Battered by a rodenerack smith for ten long years. Thin, sturdy, and worthy of you.” His father had placed the chest piece in his hands on the morning he’d departed, and a life of disagreements was lost in one moment of kindness.

  There were three long gashes down its centre that hadn’t been there this morning. Bronze shouldn’t break that easily, he thought, and then thought how much of a dodgy cur his father had been. Why should a farewell gift in front of their small watching village be any different? He’d probably had a dozen similar pieces in his traders’ lockaway, ready to sell to those moved by his gesture.

  Thanks, Dad.

  Derian stripped the tin piece free and left it in the grass. It might stop an arrow from a hundred feet against the wind, but in
its current state, it was little more than a hindrance and a gentle reminder of his spitting father. His chest stung as though he’d taken a dull lance to it, but he took a breath, and without a wet heave warning of precarious hidden traumas, he was certain he would live.

  “Get up, idiot! It only knocked you thirty feet!” Lorgan shouted from behind him, as the tall mercenary emerged from the grey, carrying half the heavy steel net with him. He offered a cursory glance at the fallen mercenary but didn’t break stride. Behind him, Kesta carried the other half and they dropped it beside him. So much for the net plan.

  “Up you get,” Kesta said, as though he was a little pup with a dislocated ankle and running it off was the only way to pop it back in. When she used that motherly tone, it was impossible not to agree. She held him for a moment in a sturdy grip until he steadied himself. “Come on, little one. Let’s go earn our crust.”

  3

  The Vector

  The three mercenaries fanned out around the dell at each corner and drew the monster’s attention. They shouted and hissed, and Natteo slipped away from the creature’s sight through the grass and took his place in the mercenaries’ formation.

  The demon sensed danger and waited for them to attack. Its head snapped from mercenary to mercenary awaiting the first strike. This was not a charging mob of humans as it thought, nor two idiots attempting to fell it with nasty intentions and blind luck. This was a fairer fight.

  “That’s not a lecherous demon,” hissed Lorgan, holding his sword in one hand and shield in the other. If he ever looked the force of nature his experience suggested, it was when his plans turned on their head and he resorted to straight out battle. He glided towards the bolt-ridden monster. “It’s something far fiercer.”

  “What is it?” muttered Derian, gripping Rusty.

  “At least thrice the price that they promised us,” the old mercenary suggested.

  “Wonderful news, boss. You go attack him, and I’ll wait right here,” Natteo hissed and disarmed his wristbows in a flash and pulled out two short swords. He’d tired of stinging the beast, now came the cutting.

  They formed up around the demon as was typical in the slaying of any monster according to his annoying book. Derian had had a bad feeling all morning. Maybe it wasn’t just the rain. Maybe it was knowing today was to be the day he died.

  He hated being right.

  The monster stood like a statue in an archaic cathedral of Venistra. Only its wide, hairless chest gave any suggestion it was a living thing at all. It took slow methodical breaths, and for a strange moment, Derian wondered if it wasn’t reconsidering its inevitable attack. Something in the eyes. Something in the way the shoulders sagged. As though in its weary state it had lost the will to fight, ruin, and devour. Did demonic creatures like this have feelings? Did it experience fear? Regret? Did it feel that today was the day it would die?

  Did it hate being right?

  The capitulation of his best-laid plan hadn’t disheartened Lorgan. He remained poised and controlled. Most mercenaries wore no headdress and he was no different—for good vision was more essential than avoiding a good headshot. He moved more smoothly than the rest of his comrades because he carried less armour than the rest of his comrades. A few leather pieces with sparing shards of light steel plating. Not to mention, easy release strapping. Derian had always wondered how he’d lasted so long without heavier armour covering the rest of him; he’d asked him once, and Lorgan had merely smiled sadly and he’d never asked again.

  The monster snarled and bloody spittle dripped down its chin, and for no reason at all, Derian lost his will to fight—until he caught sight of something hanging along its neck, standing out from the grey of its skin.

  It was a golden necklace with a sapphire amulet. He thought it a strange thing that the demon could carry such a piece through from the other realm, but he didn’t fret on the matter, thinking how much more value such a journey added. The contract would earn them a fine little pouch of gold as it was, but a jewel like that would fill their pockets for months.

  Greed was a wonderful thing, and Derian’s fear ebbed away in the glimmer of that shiny polished jewel, along with his mercy and wariness.

  A whimper echoed out across the dale. It had come from the monster, and Natteo eyed Derian curiously. Since when do monsters show emotion?

  Kesta was unmoved, however. Without warning, she leapt forward, drawing first blood from their prey. Instinctively, Lorgan followed her attack and both mercenaries met the beast with blade, hate, and violence. The air was alive with the clanging of claw on steel, healthy amounts of growling, and a Natteo’s amount of cursing.

  “Die at my wrath!” roared Lorgan, as though he was a hero of the old tales and his pompousness was heartening. Derian gripped his sword and awaited the moment for heroism, or failing that, a little stabbing. Preferably in its back.

  Even Natteo roared eagerly and leapt into battle. He spun his blades in both hands impressively and looked as much a hero as Lorgan. Perhaps he’d noticed the jewel?

  They came at it, not as one collective attack, but rather in four lesser, swift sequences. Each warrior allowed a moment to strike, and as they cleared the swinging claws, another would follow and take the beast’s attention with it. It was an archetypal tactic when bringing down any monster of great size and strength. One little mercenary running around firing bolts while one idiot stood toe-to-toe was not a tactic Derian was keen to attempt again—and one that Lorgan wouldn’t even consider.

  If Lorgan was fierce and loud with magnificent bravado, Kesta was disturbingly quiet. Her face was a grim veneer of hate as she attacked with all the skill her body would allow. She tore a blade across the monster’s side and slid beneath its hulking laboured strike, but then she foolishly dared a second stab before it could take hold of her. The beast swung its talons a pulse too slow and she leapt away, stumbling as she did. The beast could have had her, but Lorgan cracked his shield fiercely against its nose before rolling away from its grasp.

  It was almost routine. And as Natteo glided behind the monster’s back and dug both his small swords into the monster's spine, Derian had already begun imagining what shiny new armour he could purchase with his share of gold.

  However, both Natteo’s swords held tight, trapped within muscle, bone and organ. “Ah no,” he groaned, as the demon spun towards him, striking him from his feet with a fist as it did. It threw Natteo far back into the grass, where he disappeared beneath the cover of the long ashen stalks, and the sight of deep claret stains on the monster’s claws drew any routine imaginations from Derian with a dreadful shock.

  “Help Natteo!” shouted Lorgan, and he stepped between the fallen man and the demon. Anyone who knew the Crimson Hunters, knew that Lorgan never left comrades behind, and he never sacrificed innocents for a mission’s success. These were honourable traits to peasants and even soldiers, but to mercenaries, they were flaws.

  It required a certain nastiness to succeed. Lorgan was a good man, and as the demon fell on him with a flurry of swift combinations, Derian wondered how successful his leader might have become if he hadn’t spent thirty years looking after his mercenaries instead of wielding them as the weapons they were. He would have lost many more friends than he had. However, a rich man could buy all the friends he’d ever need. The Crimson Hunters were unspectacular in their undertakings, and the blame fell upon their leader.

  Derian was still young, but he had no intention of staying a pauper in this outfit for the rest of his career. Or his life. He had big plans beyond the little town of Treystone’s contract for a lecherous demon. Natteo felt the same. Who knew? Maybe in another year, they would leave to form their own outfit together, march the world, and become legends.

  “We should have brought a net,” moaned Natteo weakly, and Derian raced through the grass to reach him. When he did, he found a ruined man with a bitter grin on his face. His chest was punctured wide open, and both his legs were ripped unnaturally to either side. An
ocean of red accompanied the many shards of bone protruding bloodily through his clothing. The fallen log he’d landed on was jagged, and it matched the ruined grass around his friend.

  “I like sunny days,” Natteo said dreamily, trying to rise, but the task bested him with the breaths he had left. A terrible river of red flowed from his mouth, and Derian’s heart dropped as Natteo’s heart slowed. He could have stayed with his friend as he slipped into darkness, but he clasped his weak hand once and left him to die. His companions were still fighting for their lives, and they needed him. It’s what Natteo would have wanted, but he’d never have said it aloud.

  Withstanding the onslaught from the demon long enough, Lorgan took the fight to it with flurries of his own. Sword and shield hammering loudly from each side—striking, cutting, and hurting—and despite the demon towering over him, he forced it to retreat a few steps. Perhaps he knew Natteo’s fate and became enraged, for the bearded warrior roared with every strike and appeared as any legendary warrior could.

  “Let me strike!” screamed Kesta, eager to relieve him and continue the assault, but Lorgan was deaf to anything but the battle; he charged upon the beast.

  “To the fires with you, cur,” he growled, and he stabbed the demon in the heart and it fell away taking the sword with it. Lorgan didn’t stop. With two hands he swung his shield like a farmer scything wheatcorn. Each dull teeth-shattering blow echoing loudly in the air matched each curse the grizzled warrior spat out. But a shield was only half a weapon, and suddenly, the monster grabbed the half weapon in its mighty grip and held fast. So Lorgan kicked it in the groin for all men will fight desperately for their life in the last moments. A fine kick that did little damage to such an impressive appendage.