The Crimson Hunters Page 6

  “You have us. We offer no fight!” he shouted.

  10

  Ambush

  “Ah, spit on me,” Lorgan hissed, as the forest came to life around them. No, not alive, something else more unsettling. Kesta drew her sword regardless, and he heard the gentle click of bolt upon wristbow as Natteo stood poised and ready. Nobody could see Derian’s fingers quivering as he reached for Rusty. They felt numb and awkward. Twice he tried to pull the weapon free, but fear denied him a grip. Catching sight of walking shrubs as tall as men was the most unsettling thing he’d seen since a vector demon blew him up.

  There were only three unnerving monsters, but they scared the spit from his mouth. It was as though every fallen leaf from the surrounding trees had gathered together on the mossy ground, and through some evilness, they had knotted themselves into unnatural grey abominations. They rustled gently in the wind; they stood watching like guards of the forest, and Derian’s heart hammered in terror. Terror mixed with the will to grab his sword and go out swinging—or else take hold of a rake and deliver the terror right back onto them. However, he had no rake. That was just another thing the Crimson Hunters couldn’t afford.

  Nothing happened for a moment, and Derian dared to dream that they were harmless. Or perhaps they were intending a little barter and nothing more sinister. Perhaps all they desired was a tax for walking these parts? Then he remembered their usual luck and imagined the embarrassment of falling to a few bushes. Stabbed in the heart by a twig would be a terrible engraving on the guild’s tunnel of remembrance, he thought.

  “Lower your weapons, mercenaries,” a deep voice cried, and the largest monster stepped forward. His outline was that of a human having submitted to a forest’s will. He pulled at his head for a moment, and Derian thought it an unsettling thing to watch a shrub pull its head free from its body, revealing a human face beneath. Only then did he understand the illusion of the forest suit. It was no trick of weaving or a monster of bushes, it was, in fact, an intricate design of camouflage, and though there were three strangely dressed men standing before them, the forest became an altogether scarier place; for if one couldn’t trust one’s own eyes, who or what could one trust?

  On second glance though, there were obvious differences between each man. All wore the same deathly grey colour, but each had chosen different patches of leaves to cover them. Someone had gone to great trouble to make these outfits, and if they were bandits, they were bandits of wealth. If they were mercenaries, they were in real trouble.

  “You heard the man,” Lorgan hissed when none of the Crimson lowered their weapons. Though his decision making and leadership could face scrutiny, his ability to smell any ambush could not. Derian wondered if perhaps in dying, he had lost some of his wilier skills.

  The girl didn’t appear fussed by events at all. As they all fell to a ready position, she continued walking; her eyes were transfixed by the three figures. She squeaked in joy when the first man revealed himself, and she walked closer until the chain held her in place, so she reached out to touch his beard, and for a moment, Derian saw a small smile appear across her lips.

  “Is this a mugging?” Lorgan asked, tugging on the chain. The girl hissed as though denied the taste of a sweet cake by a fatter little child and fell back behind the older mercenary. If looks could kill, hers would, at least, have scarred. She gripped the chain at her neck and muttered some incomprehensible mumbles and spat in the muddy ground.

  “This is no mugging at all, my friend. Might you be the Crimson Hunters perchance?”

  Though Lorgan didn’t draw his sword, he gripped his sword’s handle. “Might be. Why would a few leaves be enquiring?” Bad thing getting stopped by walking bushes in a forest. Worse for them to know your name. Derian finally took hold of his sword’s grip, but he did not draw it.

  “We are the Army of the Dead. You might have heard of us.”

  Natteo cursed under his breath. He drew his fingers through his hair nervously before running his hands down his grubby cheek. Derian knew that name too. Most mercenary groups did. There was one thing worse than a mercenary outfit knowing your name, and that was a mercenary outfit you knew the name of, knowing your name.

  The Army of the Dead was renowned through the seven isles of Dellerin. They got their tasks done, through necessity, through heroism, and through blood. Derian had always thought their name stupid. Mightn’t be the best time to say it, though.

  Lorgan bowed, and the other two mercenaries removed their headdresses of grey so they might get an unobstructed view of those they planned to mug.

  “I am Mowg of the day, the tall one is Blood Red, and the sturdy one at the back is… the Assassin of Death,” Mowg said, and he held a steely glare, as though he hadn’t said the three stupidest names ever.

  “So, does the assassin work for death or does he actually kill death?” Natteo whispered.

  “I am Lorgan of the Crimson, and yes, we are the Crimson Hunters. What business do you have with us this fine evening?”

  Mowg was their leader it appeared. While the other two mercenaries took fine delight in Lorgan’s admission, Mowg stepped forward and offered his hand. For a swift delirious moment, Derian believed these dangerous curs might not have bad intentions at all. They might just be out walking. They might not even know of the bounty on their collective heads in Dellerin. Still, though, they weren’t in Dellerin were they? Did a bounty in Luistra even count? It would also be a big job getting four dead bodies all the way across the world for a measly few bags of gold.

  Derian watched both men shake hands and realised Mowg was far too confident. Lorgan was twice the size of him, yet he never flinched in his grasp. Four against three was a fair fight, and if the Crimson Hunters took out the Army of the Dead, it could serve them well in future employment, but still, Derian wondered if they were all in attendance. What pathetic outfit only had three members, anyway?

  Blood Red stepped forward. His movements were awkward and restrained as though he was concentrating all his efforts on not striking someone in anger.

  “It appears the town of Treystone didn’t believe you capable of your task.”

  “Is that so?” Lorgan replied.

  “How long are you hunting the monster? A week? More? It appears their needs were so pressing, they desired a second outfit with the task.” His gritted teeth hid behind a thick bushy beard of black with tinges of grey. His hair was similar in colour. There wasn’t any red to him at all.

  “Now, now, Red. We are all friends here. Less of the mockery.” Mowg laughed and shot a glare to his companion. A “let’s-kill-them-later” glare, which Derian didn’t like at all, and if Lorgan caught it or took any offence, he showed nothing. In fact, their fearless leader was remarkably calm despite the rising threat.

  “Typical peasants, wasting your time. We did the deed,” Lorgan muttered, and upon hearing this, Mowg suddenly found interest in the girl, and Derian’s face flushed. He wanted to tell him to find other interesting things to gaze upon. Maybe that tasty shrub over there with the deathly berries? He wanted to be brave and step forward as the mercenary gazed upon her with murderous eyes. However, Derian said nothing and did less, and Lorgan allowed the mercenary to slip past him.

  “What’s this?” He took hold of the chain and tugged her to him, and she answered warily. He opened her cloak and caught sight of the bottom half of her navel tattoo. The top half was obscured by a ludicrously cut short shirt that Natteo had pledged had served him “during the promiscuous parts of his youth.” Mowg lifted the cotton shirt of faded white, to reveal the rest of the tattoo and again Derian fumed, but he said nothing. The girl must have sensed the threat for she allowed him to look upon her, but her eyes were cold and unforgiving. Derian recognised that look.

  Mowg appeared to think about touching the mark, his finger almost reached out, but as if wary of scalding himself upon a hot plate, he drew away from her. “A terrible shame. Easy contracts are a rare thing, and a lecherous would have b
een a fine bounty to fill our time.”

  “That’s true.” Lorgan sighed as though conversing was beneath him.

  “Tell me, Lorgan. Do you have the beast’s pelt as proof?”

  “No pelt. It went up in smoke and fire. It’s my word and nothing else.”

  Click. Natteo loaded a second bolt and one of the opposing mercenaries eyed him. Derian felt his clawing fearfulness rise and threaten to take over in the volatile air.

  Practices such as assassinating an entire outfit were rarer now than a few decades ago, but still, there were many instances every year wherein groups took out other groups. Usually over a botched bounty, an egregious grievance, or just plain old envious extermination. Sometimes in quiet forests with no one around. There might be a guild’s inquest after, but all was fair in money and blood. Especially if the victorious outfit discovered there was a bounty on those already slain.

  “Now that is a shame, for we might have offered a satchel of silver for the piece,” the Assassin of Death muttered from behind and stretched his arms as though preparing for sudden violent actions. He rested his fingers on his sword’s grip peering out from beneath stitchings of twig and leaves and a few flowers.

  Lorgan nodded in agreement. “That would have been a fair offer.” It wasn’t a fair offer at all. The contract was for fifteen gold, and a satchel of silver was worth a satchel of silver. A satchel of silver wouldn’t even feed them and get them a barge off this miserable wet island. Well, maybe it would get a small barge with a drunken captain, but it wouldn’t get them a lift back home in an airbarge like Lorgan had promised. Even Kesta had shown interest in such extravagance. Perhaps she’d never had the pleasure of journeying in an airbarge. He’d only seen them up among the clouds. Little specks of black against eternal blue.

  “The girl has nice eyes,” Blood Red said, and Mowg nodded in agreement as Lorgan allowed the man to inspect the girl’s teeth and nails. Kesta stared at them, and Lorgan was careful to keep himself between her and the girl. Her sword had silently returned to its scabbard, but she was itching to retrieve it.

  “She’ll cost a little more than a satchel of silver.” Lorgan spoke as though dealing with cattle at a fair looking to get the best deal. Derian wanted to hiss loudly that she was no deal to be struck. Instead, he said nothing and felt wretched. This was a mugging. Blood was in the air.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s just a bandit we caught rummaging through our packs, and we weren’t sure what to do with her. I’m not keen on bartering a human life, but if you offer the right amount, I’m sure a deal could happen,” Lorgan offered, and Mowg seemed happy.

  “You speak my language, Lorgan of the Crimson,” Mowg said, taking their leader’s hand again and shaking it, though this time in genuine respect. “Come, sit with us at our camp,” and with that, four more mercenaries in similar attire emerged from the grey cover. Each of them sheathed their crossbows and longbows.

  Natteo cursed again, looking uneasily from each man to the next. He unloaded his wristbows as he did.

  “Ha-ha. There were far more of us than you realised,” Mowg said, pleased with the great reveal.

  Lorgan laughed with him as though he’d had no idea there were more curs watching them. “It’s a fine thing we spoke as friends so,” he jested, and he signalled the rest to follow their potential captors from the path and into the deathly grey forest.

  11

  The Army of the Dead

  It was an unsettling thing to walk in silence through a forest at the best of times, but walking with this quiet outfit was so much worse. Even Natteo was unusually frugal with his words. There was tension in the air, and Derian considered slipping into a cluster of trees and fleeing his comrades. He doubted he’d make it more than a dozen steps before they caught him. They were surrounded, and it was unlikely their positioning was accidental. If he was a captive, it was very polite captivity, though. They never asked for his weapon, and he never produced it; there were no chains, no shoving or mocking, just a forced march through the undergrowth.

  Along the way, Lorgan and Mowg loudly discussed the girl’s price, and each counter offer sickened Derian to the core. Still, he said nothing, convincing himself that it was Lorgan’s prerogative to deal with her any way he desired. If Kesta was angry, she showed nothing in her face and marched beside the girl. She watched the men, and Derian wondered about their intentions for the girl. Murder, a little thievery, and even slave trading were acceptable mercenary practices; however, rape was never tolerated in the guild. Whispers of rape could lead to a unit’s removal from the guild. To lose the mercenary guild’s perks was something no group could afford. Nor could they pay the thousand gold bounty immediately placed upon each of their heads. Disqualified mercenary outfits were usually snuffed out quicker than an assassin’s wick.

  Derian should have felt reassured. However, who knew the depths of depravity of despicable men in forests? His stomach turned, his eyes filled, and his disappointment in Lorgan grew. Still, he said nothing and gripped that shame tightly for if he were in Lorgan’s large boots, he would do the same thing.

  Eventually, they came upon a wall of shrub and branch—as tall as a man upon a mount and spreading thirty feet across. Mowg grinned and pulled at a concealed rope. As if enchanted, it fell away like canvas upon a drying line, revealing a large camp within. More expensive and entirely impressive camouflage.

  It was also a rather impressive camp. Derian noticed the hobbled warhorses in the far corner first. Fayenar war mounts—expensive, rare, and fiercely aggressive in battle. Skins of freshly slain beasts were stretched out upon tanning racks, and expensive weapons were set upon stands for swift use at a moment’s notice. A large cart filled with deep supplies stood in the centre, and Derian’s face went flush with jealousy. It would take his own outfit a year of hard successes to earn such riches, and they left it unattended in an abandoned camp. What treasures did they keep in their stronghold?

  As impressive as they were with ambushing and displaying their riches, it was their hosting which was most remarkable. Like a well-oiled cog in a machine of demons, they set a large slab of boar meat to cook across a long metal spit over their campfire. From somewhere within the riches of the cart, they rolled a barrel of ale out and let it sit at the centre of the gathering for all to use. As though rubbing the wealth in their grubby resurrected faces, they distributed silk cushions to all, and despite himself, Derian took one and found it a divine resting place for his rear.

  They wrapped the girl’s chain around a nearby tree and offered her a blanket and cushion to improve her imprisonment ever so. But as much as they were hospitable, they never cracked the barrel nor sliced the meat. There weren’t even jests thrown into the wind. Conversation between both leaders intensified as they came closer to striking a bargain. As easy as it would be to slay the Crimson, if they struck a deal, there’d be no bloodshed, no awkward discussions with the guild.

  “Don’t be talking any more about silver, my friend. She’s worth more than that,” Lorgan said for the third time. This time with steel in his voice.

  “Twenty gold and a hundred pieces of silver,” Mowg of the day countered, and it was a weak bet. Precarious position or not, Lorgan wasn’t selling the girl for anything less than a decent price.

  “Fifty gold.”

  “That’s no price. She is a beauty, but that’s hardly a reason for exorbitant requests,” Mowg snapped, but his eyes were willing. Derian wondered what else was willing, and he shook that thought away. Better to believe the deal would benefit the girl.

  Truthfully, he’d had foolish thoughts of her beyond simple desire. He wondered whether she might have talked her way into earning her freedom in the Crimson. If she couldn’t fight, she might have learned like Kesta. If she couldn’t learn, perhaps she might have a flair for cooking. A master bowman was just as welcomed as a chef. Unfortunately, it was a foolish thought from a foolish love-struck boy; he knew her fate, and it was not with them.


  “Forty gold and a bag of silver so,” Lorgan said, playing the defeated merchant perfectly. The food, the ale, and the cheer all waited; the moment had not yet arrived. Derian could see a clear drop of fat from the meat drip into the fire, and he licked his lips as it caused a delicious spark in the flames. So close, he could feel it, they all could, but there was no deal struck yet, and all of it could end in tears. Derian caught sight of Blood Red staring intently at the girl, and his appetite waned. They couldn’t do this. Could they? He wanted to throw up. And straight after, he wanted to leap upon Blood Red and kick his head in. That mightn’t help negotiations though.

  “Strike the deal, Mowg, so we may eat,” Blood Red said, and eleven mercenaries licked their lips in reply. Reward was in the air, and it smelled like sizzling meat.

  “You strike a fine deal, friend,” Mowg declared and produced a large bag of gold and a larger bag of silver. With the swiftness of a rodenerack, the mercenary tipped forty gold pieces into a little pouch and another thirty silver into a second, and Derian cursed how paltry the girl’s price appeared when compared to their fortune. Lorgan could have pushed for more, he thought in disgust.

  He wasn’t alone in his disappointment. Kesta stabbed the earth with a small dagger and dropped her head, unable to face the group of men around her, and Natteo’s pale face became hard, for he knew well her future did he not? If they didn’t rape her, her life might still take a terrible turn. Men would pay quite a price for her attention in the pleasure houses of Castra. Oh, she might leave the employment after she cleared her price, but not before her keepers had drenched her in the wonders of the dream medicine called snow. She’d lose her mind and will. What a thurken waste.