The Crimson Hunters

by Robert J Power

  He tried again. “Excuse me, miss. Why are you naked in the forest?” The girl flitted closer into existence, and she glided across the dell back towards his leering eyes. He could have been a gentleman, but Derian had never seen a girl in such blatant undress before. Well, he had, but that was a different story altogether. He hoped this story ended in a more rewarding way with far less bruising.

  It was Lorgan who snapped from her glamour first. “She’s an alleerier servant.” A pulse of fear ran down Derian’s spine like an ice-tipped blade. He recognised that monster all right. They were wilier than most. They could transform their body to almost anything, but they favoured the appearance of a human, for human meat was tastiest above anything else. To get this difficult delicacy, they deceived prey with desire and allurement and other such salacious things. Derian couldn’t keep his eyes from her body, and now he realised exactly why.

  He recovered his bow and then looked at her a little more.

  “Brought into this world by a vector demon and now she is free,” Lorgan hissed, and Derian still didn’t know what a vector demon was, though he had an idea.

  “She’s no alleerier,” cried Kesta, stepping in front of Lorgan, doing what all would-be mothers did by protecting defenceless prey. Derian wanted to agree with her, for all passionate young men would happily be friends with a girl who was naked, but he knew the truth, and the nasty witch had to die.

  “What’s an alle… allllereeer… erier?”

  Natteo roused himself and did so with the misery of a man whose cherished trousers were forever stained in blood. “Whoa,” he added, when he got to his feet and set eyes upon the beautiful girl with no clothes on. “Hey, Derian, there’s a naked girl attacking us. Or saving us. Or, you know, whatever.”

  “Kill her!” screamed Lorgan.

  “Who are you?” Derian demanded as the girl with no clothes on spun around and faced him, eyeing him with sharp, clear eyes. Blue like the ocean. Immediately, like a crack of lightning, he felt a connection to her. He also felt like connecting to her, and strangely enough, he believed she reciprocated his passion. She looked lovingly upon him as he notched an arrow, and she smiled, and she was naked, and a vector demon had blown him up, and none of this made any sense.

  “Don’t kill her!” Kesta cried.

  “Strike that lewd witch down this instant,” Lorgan ordered.

  “How about we all just calm down and find out if she has any male friends?” Natteo argued.

  Derian tried again. “Are you from the source?” She looked right through him as though he wasn’t there until, without warning, she reached for her stomach and moaned loudly and the moment became lost. She was an alleerier. She had to be. Such an attractive female would never look at him twice. He wasn’t a troll to look upon; more she was a goddess. Or more accurately, she was a demoness.

  “She stepped across worlds. Carried by a vile beast powerful enough to break through,” Lorgan cried, and he recovered his sword. “Kill her, Derian. Kill her.”

  The air was volatile, like the hidden brewery of a sine distillery. Any moment, someone would ignite a torch and blow them all up. Derian held the bow and arrow and wondered whether it would it be him.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Leave the girl alone,” hissed Kesta. She pulled at Lorgan and held him in place.

  “It is no girl. She’ll kill us all.”

  “We should take a moment to breathe. She might be worth something.”

  Derian drew back his bow. What a waste of a perfectly naked young lady, he thought, and the girl roared aloud like a demon of mercenary tales. Her stomach glowed like fire, and only then did Derian notice the tattoo upon her stomach.

  “Kill her. Kill her now. DO IT!”

  He didn’t want to—deep down he knew this female was no threat. He knew it like a child instinctively knows its mother’s touch from birth. Lorgan charged from Kesta’s grip, barking orders to kill “before she regained her powers,” and if nothing else in his ability as a mercenary, Derian obeyed orders and attended to repercussions after. Lorgan knew monsters better than most. The moment became eternal, and Derian felt his heart skip. He felt surging anger deep down open its eyes and desire murder. Murder for the witch claiming to be this pure vision of a girl.

  She looked at him once more with beautiful deep-blue eyes that he could sail upon. He released the arrow and sent the projectile through her head, killing the beautiful naked girl immediately and saving them all, like the hero he was.

  6

  Lasting Impressions

  Murderer.

  Derian didn’t have a great deal of skill with a bow; but he had enough to hit a demon and flush it from its cave, sending it on a rampage down a valley. He also had enough to send an arrow through a naked girl’s hand as it attempted a block, through her forehead and into her brain, killing her instantly. Almost instantly.

  She managed one solitary noise before she died. Nothing spectacular, just a whimpered squeak of such sorrow and surprise that even Lorgan grimaced. He’d have thought alleerier witches would have gone out with more grandeur and probably more fight.

  Instead of thrashing and calling upon ancient monsters of the dark, she remained motionless at first as her final ever cry echoed and disappeared beyond the glade. The arrow pinned her hand to her head in an undignified pose, and for a breath there was no blood. Then it began to flow as her heart beat its last few efforts.

  She stood as though betrayed by the world; gone, yet too surprised to collapse. He could see her stunning eyes locked evermore in heartbreak, but there was no glimmer behind them, and he no longer desired to sail upon them as a lover would.

  Eventually, she fell backwards in a dreadful wet splash, and Derian dropped the bow in knowing horror. He’d killed before; it was never easy. To his pathetic name, he had a few bandits, a dozen source beasties, but never a monster pretending to be a naked girl. He doubted a kill like that would earn him a title. As she collapsed, the glade seemed to silence itself. Perhaps it was just his imagination that the world recognised he had just committed a terrible crime.

  It was an order, he told himself.

  Kesta fell down beside the dead girl as though she might help, but death was forever. He’d seen his mother slaughtered as swiftly. They never came back. “What have you done, you little idiot?” She dropped her head, and he dropped his own for something at the back of his thoughts began to sting. Some veiled truth, he wasn’t ready to accept.

  Kesta pulled the hand-pinned arrow free from the girl’s head with a dull thud and left her punctured hand lying in the grass, staked like a demonic witch would have been. “Oh, what a waste,” she cried, and Derian stared upon the dead girl’s face and felt disgusted with himself. She was stunning, even in death.

  The terrible hole spilled blood all over her face and ruined it, and Derian wanted to throw up. So he did. He’d had eggs and ryebread for breakfast. He wouldn’t be eating either again for a while.

  “I might have changed my predilection for a witch like that,” said Natteo, stepping to Derian and leaning over to hold his brown hair from the mess erupting from his mouth. He tied Derian’s hair with a little strip of cord. He performed the task with the delicate skill of a man, who might have had another career in Castra under different circumstances. Sometimes, Natteo did the exact right thing at the exact right moment. “Are you okay?”

  Derian sniffed away the bitter warm tears coming down his face. “She was a demon. It had to be done.” He spat some strange pieces of carrot from his mouth. After a moment, he realised that they weren’t carrots at all. His stomach stung as though a beastly creature had reached a jagged claw down his throat and wrenched it out.

  Kesta was far from finished. “We could have captured her alive, you idiot, but oh no, the boys have to shoot a treasure, right in the face before we can do anything.” Even Lorgan appeared contrite. He shrugged. It was the best defence he could summon.

  “Is she definitely dead?” Natteo a
sked, patting Derian’s back. Kesta checked her neck pulse a second time.

  “It’s a strange thing that there was no reaction to the arrow in the head,” Lorgan said and knelt over the body examining her as though she was a hunted beast slain for devouring during the Festival of the Boar. “They’re supposed to be a little louder at the end.” He dug his finger into the little hole and felt around nodding approvingly at the damage the arrow had done. Derian threw up a few more carrots and allowed the beast to wreak havoc with his insides once more. “She didn’t even soil herself either?” he added, as though he’d chosen strawberry bread over cucumber soup for the first course in his evening meal.

  This horrified Natteo. “Why would you notice something like that?”

  Lorgan knelt in close to the girl. He pressed hard on the strange golden pattern at her navel and muttered under his breath. He checked her teeth, sniffed her skin, and grimaced before shaking his head.

  “What is it?” Derian asked.

  “It’s nothing. Best we bury her and leave it.”

  “Tell me!”

  “It won’t take long,” he added.

  “TELL ME.”

  He took a breath. May have been a sigh. “I think she might have been partly human, maybe all human. If you hadn’t killed her, we might well have known,” he said as though the strawberry bread was stale and bitter.

  “Oh, please no.”

  Murderer.

  “Please tell me this isn’t true.”

  Murderer.

  “Please, Lorgan.” Derian gasped and backed away from the murdered girl. “By the gods of the source. What have I done?”

  “You killed a girl,” Kesta snapped.

  “It was an order.” Derian fell away from his handiwork. His mind was a turmoil of sorrow and remorse. His thoughts flashed like lightning beneath a storm. She was beautiful. She was defenceless, and he had killed her. “I didn’t mean to,” he wailed, but he had meant to. He had meant to shoot that thurken witch down, for that was his job. He would hang for it. He should hang for it. Perhaps not, he thought. Who would know? Who might tell on him? No one would tell, would they?

  No one needs to know.

  He would know. Could he live with that? Such beautiful eyes, and he’d extinguished the light behind them. He was a thurken murderer, and he deserved punishment.

  Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

  Derian suddenly gasped for air. Something took hold of his chest and squeezed furiously. He knew what it was, for it was an ailment he’d successfully concealed the three years he’d marched with this outfit. It came at the worst of times. Usually, anger followed and pulled him from the precipice.

  You deserve this.

  Who wanted to hire a mercenary who struggled with bouts of panic, anyway? He fell to his knees, and the world began to darken. And Natteo was beside him to comfort him. He was a murderer, and she didn’t deserve this, and he started to cry. Would they bury her here and say a few words? Should he give the eulogy? He only knew the mercenary’s prayer to the night. The grip tightened.

  Slap!

  The loud crack woke him from his fit.

  Slap! again.

  His friend eyed him warily and held his hand up to slap him a third time. He didn’t need to, and instead, he accepted Derian’s counterpunch and rolled with it as he did. They spoke no words, but Derian nodded what gratitude he could. He felt a little better. He caught his breath; it hid beneath his panic and misery.

  And then the dead girl opened her eyes and started screaming.

  7

  Everlasting Repercussions

  “I’m not shooting her again!” screamed Derian, backing away from the wailing girl in the grass. He stumbled and tripped on the offending bow. Stupid weapon causing all this mess.

  “Whoa!” cried Natteo, joining Derian in his retreat. His feet squelched in a carrot-like substance, and if he noticed it ruin his boots, he said nothing. Instead, he turned his backwards retreat into a full stumble. His wristbows already reloaded.

  Lorgan’s voice cut through the panic as it always did. “Form up.” He raised his sword, his shield hung out in front of him waiting to protect, and Derian pulled his own sword free.

  None of this made sense at all. His mind recalled pictures and a few jotted notes in terrible handwriting from his mercenary guide, but all explanations eluded him.

  Kesta remained calm despite the resurrection. She remained at the girl’s side as she howled like a trapped lurcher in a spring cage. She spun and contorted, and Derian felt the suppressing grip of fear upon his chest, but he fought it off this time. One fit per day was enough. Even if a dead girl he’d murdered was not dead at all.

  Was he still technically a murderer though?

  “Shush, little one,” Kesta said, gently enough to sooth, but forceful enough to rise above the cries. The girl didn’t respond. She rolled in the grass and caught sight of the arrow still protruding from her hand. This brought fresh mania, and Derian felt his stomach turn. Was she a demoness after all?

  “Aaaaaagh.”

  “It’s okay, little one.”

  “Aaaaaaaaagh.”

  “Shush, shush, you are safe. No one will hurt you.” Kesta took hold of the girl in her strong arms. For a moment, this seemed to help until she caught her breath, sobbed a little, and resumed her braying. In the demoness’s defence, dying and coming back could be a jarring experience.

  Kesta released her and did what any kind mothering female would do—and perhaps this was where Natteo had picked up his healing hands. She struck the female fiercely across the chin. A strange enough strike which left no wound but scored a clean point, if it was a contest of pugilism.

  There was a dull satisfying thunk as jawbone met rock-hard mercenary fist, and it dazed the girl. In a flash, Kesta pinned her down and slid across to sit upon her arms and chest. In the same movement, the old mercenary snapped the arrow and wrenched the piece from the girl’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered as the girl’s temporary stupor shattered.

  “AAAAAAGH!”

  “See… look… better now,” she said, displaying the broken arrow to the girl, who despite the frenzy, focussed upon the arrow. The screaming died away to sobs. A flood of tears followed, and Derian hated this melancholic outburst more than anything else.

  Actually, he hated the death yelp more.

  “What in Silencio’s thurken name is she?” Natteo demanded from somewhere behind the tree he’d used for cover. Kesta smiled and stroked the terrified girl’s cheek; she spoke the language of the comforting mother with a little one’s scuffed knee, and she spoke it just right. The girl’s frantic (wonderful) chest resumed a more regular wave of breathing, and were it not for the sobbing, Derian might have smiled. Not a murderer. Her forehead’s wound was already sealing up as though knitted together by unnatural things, just like his own body before. Was there something about this place?

  “She is human.” Kesta hushed the girl a little more.

  Lorgan knelt down beside her, and Kesta glared a warning. He shrugged in defence, and she sighed. He grunted, and after a moment, she nodded. After a few breaths, Lorgan nodded. It wasn’t the first time such a silent argument occurred between them, and even if Lorgan had won out, Kesta seemed satisfied with the outcome. He passed the iron bind across to her and stepped away.

  “It’s okay, little one. This is for your own good,” Kesta whispered, and she slipped the iron bind around her neck and locked it with a click. Lorgan took hold of the thin chain at the other end, and he completed the capture in less than a breath.

  “Human, but she came from within the source,” Lorgan said, and he wrapped the chain to his waist. “Worth her weight, no doubt.”

  Natteo dared a few steps closer. “I’m glad she’s not dead and all, but humans don’t heal like that.”

  “You seem to have,” Kesta whispered. Her eyes never left the stunning girl lying in the grass all covered in mud and nakedness.

  “It�
�s because I’m special.”

  “We all healed quick enough,” she said, and the girl became transfixed by the larger woman with brown skin and great hair. She stared as though she’d never seen a woman of her race before.

  Natteo grew braver and removed his tattered cloak draping it over the naked girl’s stunning shivering naked body, and she became less naked. Derian supposed it was an honourable gesture, and it disappointed him he hadn’t thought of it first.

  The girl gripped the clothing as if the freezing breeze of the day had suddenly struck her like a friend might, during a panic attack, and she looked at Natteo in careful gratitude and then her eyes caught sight of Derian.

  Derian offered his warmest smile. He didn’t know where he had learned such a thing, but people thought his smile was one of his finest features. Perhaps it was his teeth. He chewed enough eucal-twigs to keep them unspoiled. So when he smiled with his wonderful teeth, he’d expected a better reaction. “Hello, my name is–”

  She began to scream again. A melody of primal terror and terrible panic, and he instinctively took a step forward eager to ease her distress. This brought about further shrieking, and Lorgan sent him away with one glare.

  So much for being a hero.

  8

  Polished

  Derian sat in the grass on the far side of the gathering as they tended to her. He replayed the battle and its explosive outcome, over and over, until Lorgan sat down beside him. “How do you feel?” He looked at his hands again as though they’d grown a different colour this past hour.

  “I feel wretched for what I did. If she is to die again, it won’t be by my hand. I will not strike her down a second time,” Derian argued. Never again would he obey an order unquestioningly. It was no way to behave, he told himself.