The Crimson Hunters

by Robert J Power

  With a gracefulness he’d never called upon, and an impressive spring to his step, Derian leapt clear, and somehow, he took hold of a nasty branch a few feet above his head and swung away.

  Don’t snap. Don’t snap. Don’t snap.

  “Get off the ground!” roared Lorgan as he leapt over the fire himself to face the following horde with shield raised out in front, as Kesta, Natteo, and the girl, scrambled up onto the parked cart. Within a breath, and possibly against his will, three sets of hands took hold and pulled him up to higher ground. It wasn’t very high ground, but it was higher than the level of the monsters. They drew what weapons they could to meet the attack, but the monsters kept charging by. Not even the herd of hobbled horses at the edge of the treeline drew the monsters’ attention.

  What makes them run like this?

  Derian’s feet weren’t as high up as the cart, and they dangled above the first invading beast. He’d always cursed Lorgan’s insistence that he should build his strength by hanging from nasty branches and pulling himself up a dozen times every morning. He wished he’d listened, and he truly wished he’d attempted at least two or three pulls a week, for his arms were thin and unimpressive, and their burning as he struggled was agonizing.

  Snap!

  A set of teeth almost took his ankle as the first monster leapt and missed and continued charging onwards down the path as another behind it attempted the same attack.

  “HELP ME!” Derian cried, swinging back and forth above the charging beasts. He tried to pull himself up again, but he did nothing more than tuck his legs closer to his chest and swing like a munket at a fairground. With his life precariously close to ending, his mind wandered to thoughts of a recurring dream he’d suffered frequently throughout his life.

  It usually started after he’d been thrown overboard, and he swam in a stormy ocean watching the rise and fall of surf while everyone he’d ever cared for was sailing away into the darkness on a barge. They always begged him to swim after them, promising ‘nice honey and cream cakes that needed eating,’ but as hard as he swam towards the barge, the farther it would slip away. Eventually, he lost their calls beneath larger waves, and he felt as though he was swimming through honey syrup. It was usually then that his feet would become entangled in sea vines, tentacle monsters, or something slithery like that. He hated that dream more than any other dream he’d ever had; the loneliness, the desolation, and the uneaten cakes.

  Until that moment, he’d never felt as tragically left behind as he did in the dream, but now, with a plethora of snapping monsters below him, and his comrades near, yet still so very far away, he found it curiously familiar. So familiar, in fact, that he wondered if this was a dream.

  You can fly in dreams.

  “DERIAN!” Natteo screamed from across the camp, standing on the top of the cart in relative safety. From Derian’s swinging view, it looked like a barge he stood upon.

  “No cakes,” Derian whimpered, and his body shook uncontrollably. The tree shook as well. The air was sticky and warm with panted breaths, and each monster came near enough that if Derian wanted a fight, he’d need only drop and take hold of one as it passed. For a strange moment, his heart began to beat out of time and a terrible fury overcame him. Maybe he should drop below and kill.

  Kill them all.

  Rusty was swinging from his waist whispering for release. It was that or the pulsing blood in his body making him delirious. His cowardice took hold and calmed his cascading mind.

  Who was he to attack a perfectly reasonable stampede of demonic beasts charging through the forest in the middle of the night, anyway? They made no genuine effort to attack, so why show prejudice? They might be good little doggy demons out for a midnight run, he argued.

  He caught sight of Seren’s glowing tattoo against her open cloak. She stood beside his comrades watching the monsters pass beneath them, and her hand rubbed at her belly like a woman carrying a child, as a strange sense of doom engulfed him.

  “Who are you?” he whispered, and shivers ran down his spine. Did the beasts sense and fear her? Were they fleeing what hunted her?

  Ooh, I don’t like that thought.

  The beasts thinned out, and then as swiftly as they had appeared to ruin their night, the last monster passed by and they were alone again. The only hint of their charge was the stench of rancid meat and raw faeces in the evening air and deep clefts in the soft ground.

  “I will not complain about nasty branches out to get me anymore,” Derian said, dropping to the ground. To his dismay, he discovered a patch of dampness at the front of his pants, and he gave thanks to the gods of the source he’d favoured black this morning.

  “They could have torn us all apart,” Kesta said, watching the route they’d taken. Her eyes were heavy and filling with hate.

  “They must have caught the smell of Treystone in the wind,” Lorgan said, sheathing his sword, and clipping his shield to his back. He followed the demons’ dust cloud into the dark for a few steps but stopped before leaving the security of the campfire. The ground at their feet began to fall silent as the hooves charged off into the eternal darkness, and Derian took a breath.

  “So what do we do?” he asked, recovering his book from the mud. Its crumpled pages were wet, but he wiped them clean and held them to dry over the fire. To the others, they saw a scholar finding love in study, but really, he was disguising how close he wanted his trousers to the fire’s warmth.

  “They have no right to my flesh,” Seren said and caught Derian looking at her. She hissed at him as though she was part demon herself.

  Natteo must have thought the same as he slipped away from her like she’d sprouted a horn upon her shapely head. “They are running down upon Treystone; their walls won’t hold that horde for very long.”

  “There are children there,” Kesta called out to Lorgan, who stood watching the darkness.

  “Children are not defenceless. They can fight horrors too,” Lorgan muttered.

  “What could we do, anyway?” Derian asked, shuddering at the thought of those monsters turning tail and coming back at them. “Maybe we should get our horses and run away?” It sounded far more pathetic than it had in his mind. Still, though, what could they do?

  Kesta tended to the shaken horses. She whispered calming sounds and began strapping four of the beasts back on to the cart. The horses were wild and raring to run. She did the task with the skill of a woman used to controlling precarious things, and then she ordered Natteo and Derian to follow suit, and Derian agreed with a heavy heart.

  “Is this not Lorgan’s decision?” he muttered and held the catalight lantern out over the fire until the phosphorous dust ignited brightly in a spitting buzz.

  “Lorgan will get there in a moment,” she whispered, and Natteo cursed before slipping away to don his armour.

  “We need kill them,” Seren whispered, but her voice was fierce. She had a general’s tone. A legend’s tone.

  Kill them? Okay, pretty girl.

  Lorgan continued to stare into the darkness, and Derian could almost hear the swinging pendulum in his head easing him towards wretched nobility. “If they tear that town apart, I’m not sure they’ll be willing to pay what they owe us.”

  Derian shook his head in despair. Stupid Kesta knowing him better.

  “Might be that we can earn a bonus to the bounty outstanding,” Lorgan added, and Derian climbed atop his mount. “We are the Crimson Hunters. It’s time to do what we must.” He spun around to see his mercenaries already a couple steps ahead.

  “Oh, this is just polished,” Natteo cried, and he kicked his horse forward.

  “Spit ’n’ polished,” Derian added, and he took the lead, lighting the path ahead. He felt a chill akin to the one he felt before the vector demon tore them apart, and he willed his nerve to hold. It wasn’t fear chipping away at his courage, it was just knowing that this was the end. A thousand foolish warriors might argue differently, but the truth was definite. When these monsters
stopped running, whoever was around them would not see the dawn.

  To ride towards doom was foolish and was destined to end in tears. It wasn’t gold or renown for Lorgan or Kesta in this group of mercenaries. It probably never had been. The crux of the Crimson’s misfortune was always doing the right thing. And that was bad business in Derian’s eyes.

  “I need out of this thurken outfit already,” Derian spat.

  “I’m with you on that, brother,” Natteo called.

  15

  End of the Line

  What are you doing, Derian?

  Saving peasants, that’s what I’m doing.

  This is not your fight.

  It isn’t theirs either.

  The catalight rocked wildly to the beat of Derian’s mount as he led the chase, though he didn’t have a great desire to catch his quarry. Riding alongside, Natteo cursed and complained, and Derian could see the fear in his friend’s face—and it matched his own. No matter how fast the wind rushed or the booming thunder roared from hooves on the ground, they could hear the death in the cool night air, and it came from the distant chorus of evil things racing along the path ahead.

  Death never comes in silence.

  He had regrets. He had so many unsaid words. Where could he even start? He might start by telling Natteo that he was the best damned friend a mercenary could ever have, but what type of fool said meaningful things like that, anyway? Besides, Natteo knew he loved him, and he loved him right back. He regretted following Kesta’s orders without proper argument—and Lorgan’s after that. He also regretted that he agreed with them.

  So, I’m an honourable man now, am I?

  The loud rattle of the cart kept pace behind them, and Derian imagined most of their ill-gotten supplies lost in the desperate charge. What use were bags of apples or loaves of bread to the dead, anyway? Kesta drove the horses fiercely, and he could see Seren clinging to each edge of its sides squealing in neither delight nor terror, but somewhere in between.

  This will end in tears.

  He was no skilled watcher of the sky. He couldn’t tell how long after midnight it was. Perhaps it was a skill he really should have learned. As it was, by the time they reached Treystone, dawn would still be far out.

  As inadequate a mercenary outfit as they were, a town of peasants would need their help in fighting them off. A hundred demonic beasts were a terrifying prospect, but with the Crimson Hunters assisting, a town of peasants might have a chance.

  It didn’t take Lorgan too long to catch up. His powerful mount came alongside Derian’s, and though he was just one more person, Derian felt fiercer with him present. Lorgan’s gnarled hands gripped the reins, and he roared all of them onwards. It would likely be his second doomed mission in as many days, but who was counting?

  As the miles passed beneath him, Derian’s mind began to wander, and it wandered to a terrible place. He thought of himself and realised he wasn’t kind in spirit or heart; he wasn’t caring in soul or mind; he had no faith in anything or anyone. He was a waste of a man and not even brave enough to stop silent tears streaming down his cheeks. He began to despair, and he began to cower. And then something strange happened. Though his rational whispered the inevitable truth in his mind, and his better senses suggested doom was upon them, something else began to influence him. Something which had kept his fingers firm upon the reins without him knowing. Something which now stirred him towards belief. Belief in his companions and in himself. They chased a hundred demons through the darkness, yet he knew they could survive this.

  Idiot.

  He could not enjoy this feeling of hope for long. With no warning, the forest whittled away; the path opened up wider, and the claustrophobic hold of the night disappeared altogether. They charged from a grey forest out into the openness of a valley he recognised immediately.

  The valley of Treystone was quite an impressive valley as far as valleys went. A half-mile-wide expanse of fertile openness with a gathering of structures nestled deep within its centre. Derian shouldn’t have been able to make out the town, but it was alive with fire.

  They stopped as one at the lip of the valley to steel themselves for what was to come, to take in what horrors they saw below, and to concoct worthless plans, hoping to convince themselves they were not about to endure a suicidal last charge. Derian patted his horse’s mane, and the exhausted beast took the respite gladly and chewed upon a clump of grass at its feet.

  Brave nameless horse, you’ve no idea what’s about to happen, he thought, looking out at the vast numbers.

  “Doomed,” Natteo said.

  “There will be much bloodshed tonight,” Lorgan said, and something within Derian moved with fierce anger. This anger was rousing itself more and more these days. He thought of a child taken in the night, and the anger fuelled a desire to kill the beasts. All of them.

  “The town has spread itself out too much,” muttered Lorgan, and he was right. It was a perfectly adequate settlement nestled around the valley’s slow bubbling river. There were many wooden and brick structures peeking over one wall of long timber spikes. One thurken wall. Not even a killing ground to focus upon. They must have believed the walls would have been high enough to hold fast a wandering pack of threats, and they might have been, had they manned them adequately.

  Treystone was a growing town, fuelled by the wealth of a healthy mine. It was no surprise it was larger than most settlements in this region, and while the structures and wealth within grew impressively under such fortuitous times, a wiser mayor may have recognised the need for recruiting more able-bodied soldiers to keep the town safe.

  This wasn’t the first time Derian had seen peasants behave with narrow vision. Why feed and pay for a battalion of soldiers a season at a time, when they could send out word for any hapless passing mercenary outfit, wanting to earn a small fortune eradicating a pesky monster seen in the area.

  “Peasants,” Lorgan muttered.

  “They don’t have a clue how to defend a town,” Natteo added.

  “They should have a general at arms,” Kesta hissed.

  “The monsters need to die,” Seren said, and nothing in the world sounded sweeter in Derian’s ear.

  They stood side by side, watching the growing melee, unsure of what to do. The monsters had reached the town far swifter than they had. They hadn’t been the only pack of charging monsters either.

  “Can you name the beasts which attack this town?” Lorgan said aloud. Strange time for a lesson, thought Derian.

  “Canis demons and anculus demons,” Natteo replied.

  “How many are attacking?”

  “Too many.”

  At least a dozen tall monsters stood in the thin grass outside the small gates of Treystone. They were over seven feet in height and stood upright as though human. Their spikey bodies were covered in tufts of fur, with long sweeping blades of sharp bone jutting out from each arm. Some said anculus demons were born in the likeness of the grand demon Silencio himself.

  “They are masters to the little ones,” Lorgan said, and Derian’s stomach dropped watching the monsters fan out tactically, each with a ferocious pack of canis demons under their command. They hissed, and the smaller brutes howled in return—like a herder whistling his swine in for the night.

  “They didn’t attack us on their charge,” Lorgan said as though reciting a line from his book.

  Why couldn’t it just be simple? Why couldn’t it be primal monsters attacking mindlessly? Derian thought miserably.

  “They’re still coming,” Kesta said, and Derian’s eyes were drawn to the edges of the valley on the other side where more were emerging from the treeline. Three? Four hundred? Probably more.

  “What evilness it this?” Natteo asked, and beside him, Derian heard Seren gasp. Was this somehow her doing? Had she broken a wall between both worlds? No one answered, and no one dared to move, for they watched an army. An army of demons upon the battlefield of Treystone.

  “The peasants are brave,�
� Derian said, and his comrades nodded in agreement. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Along the top of the wall stood dozens of villagers, each with bows and torches, and they combined the two as best they could. They could hear the panicked roar of the defenders as they fired volley after volley down at the demons, but it was a strange thing to see humans outmanoeuvred by monsters. A smarter general might have sent a dozen archers after one or two targets, striking them down and moving to the next, but as it was, each man upon the wall chose his own target and they filled the valley with hopeless fireflies dying in the wet grass.

  The beasts must have understood this as they fanned out along the outskirts of the wall screeching, hissing, and barking. Treystone’s defenders answered this taunting with volley after volley of wasted ammunition, while smaller groups slipped between the fiery projectiles and took ground beneath the bottom of the wall. With massive paws, they tore at the wood, eager to make a hole before an arrow did finally strike them down, but by then, another would have taken its place and another after that.

  Kesta pulled them from their stupor with her cold, cutting tones. She stood atop her cart and stared down upon the melee. Her voice was a whisper, fragile like a waif. Her hands shook, but after a moment, Derian realised that it was her entire body that shook.

  “This town will not fall tonight. These beasts don’t want to waste the warm-blooded meat.” Silent tears streamed down her brown skin and she let them flow. “They want to eat while the heart pumps it fresh. They will take what they want; husbands; children; friends; but not all of them tonight. They will take their time and come dawn, with squirming prey in their jaws, they will disappear.” She wiped her eyes and spat into the ground. The world was motionless, and even Natteo stared at the ground.

  “They come at night because they like to sleep with full bellies through the day, and as they do, the youngest and fiercest human warriors will track them with shiny swords and spitting fire. They will probably find them and find themselves overcome for they will never return,” she said, and her voice broke, and Derian reached out and placed his hand upon her shoulder. He didn’t know why some pain was contagious when passed by words.