Red Season Rising

by D. M. Murray

  “Of course it would,” Capriath snapped. “Do you think one can just arrive at the pissing conclusion of how to crossbreed species as I have done on a stroke of luck?”

  “Alright.” Broden puffed his cheeks and exhaled, his eyes widening in the moment. “I was just arriving at my point.”

  “Well what is your shitting point then?”

  “Well, with respect, how come you know nothing of falidweed?”

  “Oh, I know what falidweed is. Don’t be a dolt,” he muttered, his tone lightening somewhat. “I was just being careful. Some men of my science could be put in grave danger by their knowledge of falidweed. You see, the plant is a potent cleanser for the body. It acts by locating what is best described as a contamination, something foreign to the body, and it enables it to be rooted out. Only a few people know of the plant’s uses.” His face set in an ominous frown. “Knowledge of falidweed is much desired, and protected.” He looked gravely at them, his eyes settling on Kalfinar, giving him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. “These are dangerous times, and I need to be careful. As do you.”

  “Olmat gave me a letter for you. It’s inside my coat,” Kalfinar said. “Broden, could you fetch it?”

  Broden rose from his stool and retrieved the letter. The physician broke its wax seal and unrolled the envelope. He read the letter and nodded his head, muttering solemnly to himself, “It’s as I feared then.”

  “What’s as you feared, Capriath?” Kalfinar asked as the physician lit the corner of the report with the flame of a candle on his desk. It burned away to nothing in a flash of purple flame.

  Kalfinar narrowed his eyes at the sight of the rapid conflagration before him. “That’s treated paper. That was no report of my wound, was it? It’s about those creatures, isn’t it?”

  “You two are a right pair of deep thinkers, aren’t you? Well, you may not be half as smart as you think you are, or need to be. These are grave times, and in grave times, it may be better to remain ignorant. You must trust in Olmat and trust in me. Nothing more can be said to you until you reach Carte. We simply cannot take the risk. Once you reach Carte, you must visit a man named Biscon. Go to him. He will help you understand what is taking place.” Capriath moved behind his desk and opened a small cupboard, removing a velvet pouch. He tossed it onto his desk. “There’s some more falidweed in there. You’ll not need to take very much more of it. One small cup, once a day until you’re through with the bag. It should see you to Carte.” He began to scribble onto a small sheet of parchment.

  Broden and Kalfinar stared at each other with bewilderment.

  Capriath rolled up the piece of parchment and tied it. “Take these directions. They’ll lead you to Biscon’s home. When you go to find him, be discreet. Be very discreet.” He handed the parchment to Kalfinar. Looking across to Broden he spoke, “You look like a man who’s steady. Make sure you’re alert.” Capriath gathered up several pieces of parchment on his desk, some of which looked very dated. He tossed them onto the fire and watched as all of the pieces of parchment were consumed rapidly in flashes of purple flame. “It’s best that you leave for Carte as soon as you can.”

  *

  Kalfinar and Broden returned to the High Command’s keep in central Terna, avoiding the main thoroughfares. They skulked up the narrow side-streets and alleyways with Capriath’s warnings ringing in Kalfinar’s ears. They presented their papers to the guardsmen on duty by the outer gatehouse and entered the large paved outer courtyard.

  Kalfinar looked up at the inner wall of the castle as he approached the drawbridge leading to the barbican. “This truly is one of the ugliest structures I’ve ever seen.”

  “It does the job.” Broden sniffed.

  “Aye. That it does. The mason’s spared no thought for the eyes of future generations though.”

  “I guess they were in a bit too much of a hurry to consider finesse.”

  “They managed at Carte.”

  “Aye, with softer rock.”

  Kalfinar laughed at his cousin’s point. “Fair is fair. I concede.”

  They passed through the barbican and across the worn paving of the inner courtyard. Kalfinar heard the closing hymn of morning devotions as they made their way up the broad, age-smoothed steps and into the keep.

  *

  Kalfinar and Broden avoided the rush as the congregation let out from the church, and made their way to Abbonan’s council room. They took their places before the governor returned from his morning prayers.

  As Bergnon entered the room, Kalfinar regarded him. He looked exhausted.

  “I had to pray to Dajda for you in devotions this morning,” Bergnon said to Broden as he took his seat. “My friend, you’ve been afflicted! I’ve never heard snoring like it in my life.”

  Governor Abbonan entered the room and assumed his place at the head of the table. “Morning.” The lounging wolf-hounds rose from their place by the fire and padded over towards the governor. His eyes were rimmed red and dark bags hung beneath them. “I didn’t see you at morning devotions, Kalfinar. Do you still choose to refuse the welcome of Dajda’s house?”

  Dajda does not welcome me, and I do not welcome Dajda. “I had to visit the physician, my lord,” Kalfinar responded. “He needed to apply some ointments and give me a tonic he didn’t have last night.”

  “Good. What was his name again?”

  “Aslat, my lord.”

  “Aslat, I see. I assume he treated you well?” The governor stroked the long head of one the wolf-hounds as it rested on the arm of his chair.

  “Very well, though his manner is a touch abrupt.”

  “Yes, if I recall, he’s a bit rough around the edges. You’re well matched.” The governor laughed a little and poured some wine into a goblet. With trembling hands, he raised the goblet to his mouth and took a long drink. “I’ve ordered a ship to be readied. A Noehmian trader. It leaves on the evening high tide from West Jetty Twelve. Can’t quite remember the name of it. The Sea Ram, or some nonsense like that. Bergnon, you’ll be travelling with Kalfinar and Broden. They’ll be expecting you back at the High Command in Carte.”

  Bergnon nodded in approval.

  “Good to hear you’re coming along. Nothing quite like a winter voyage from Terna to Carte to liven things up,” Broden laughed. “And in any case, Kalfinar’s humour has shrivelled up these days.”

  Kalfinar’s face remained fixed. He was in no mood for laughter as his mind wandered the docks. Smoke and blood.

  “Let’s move on,” Abbonan said as he refilled his goblet with more wine. “Kalfinar, you confirmed last night that the assassin who spoke was Solansian.”

  “Aye.”

  “That ties in with the recent intelligence that Major Bergnon brought back with him. Major, would you mind filling the captains in?”

  “Certainly, sir. As you know, since I left my role with the attaché in Canna, I’ve spent the last three years with the High Command administration in Solansia. Superficially, at least, my role was to implement a marshal system in the outlying provinces. With King Grunnxe’s government all run out, we were afraid anarchy would rise, possibly even stimulated by those loyal to Grunnxe’s regime. My position enabled me to travel, and gather intelligence. Much of the last three years have been spent trying to identify any pockets of troops or individuals still loyal to the old regime.”

  Kalfinar’s eyes fixed on Bergnon as he spoke, but his mind started to wander. There you are, old king, cross-guard flush to your belly. I remember the fear in your eyes, the stink of you as you shuddered out those terrible breaths.

  Bergnon paused, causing Kalfinar to look up, noting his friend was looking at him perplexed. Kalfinar realised he had been smiling when lost in his thoughts.

  “There was nothing, barely even a whisper for the first two years. But then for the first part of the past year, I travelled the length and breadth of the country. As it turns out, chasing not much else but rumour and lie. Then things started to get interesting.
Within the last six months, there’ve been rumours that two of Grunnxe’s generals, Traxal and Altyel, were raising troops in the Eastland regions. Word came to me last spring that the pair were surfacing at villages all along the far eastern Salt Coast of Solansia. They were proclaiming the return of the King. That Grunnxe was back to reclaim the green lands of the Cullanain.”

  “Return?” Kalfinar spat out his words, “That old viper was as good as a dead man!” He slammed his fist on the table. “I should’ve taken his head when I—“

  Abbonan interrupted, placing a calming hand on Kalfinar’s forearm, “No. You got him, and then you got out alive. You did your job. Anyone could see that was a killing wound.”

  “Sorry. Carry on, please,” Kalfinar said, controlling his anger.

  “I had to be discreet. You know what Solansians are like. Utter one word to the wrong person and they’ll hang you high by your own guts.”

  “I wonder, can you actually hang someone by their own guts?” Broden mused aloud.

  “I must admit, when people started to get that look in their eyes, I never really stayed long enough to find out.” Bergnon flashed a grin. “I travelled to a village called Yadil, about fifty miles west from Jerras Port along the Salt Coast, in the Eastland regions. Bloody ugly place, full of salt marshes and barren land. Some old, wine-soaked lord worked the region about it until he fell in the last skirmish season. Seems what semblance of farming they had fell apart. The commoners were distraught, and seemed to be in mourning at Grunnxe’s loss. I couldn’t understand it. What little land that had been fertile became fallow. It was nothing more than a hand-to-mouth existence.” He shook his head. “Most of the hands were empty.”

  Kalfinar spoke up, “It’s hardly surprising.”

  Bergnon looked confused.

  Kalfinar explained his meaning, “Under Grunnxe and his forebears the people were treated like shit. Whether crop yields were rich or poor, they went on feeding the war hordes every skirmish season. But that was their system. That is what generations of Solansians were brought up on. The thought that they were doing their part to strengthen the sword arm of their people, to take back our lands was what bound them together. Misery or otherwise, it was their very bond. It’s no wonder they were lost, tyranny was as familiar to them as a mother’s love.”

  “To love one’s abuser,” Bergnon said, shaking his head.

  “And to miss them once they’ve gone,” Broden added.

  “Exactly my meaning,” Kalfinar said. That I can understand.

  Bergnon continued, “They seemed to establish some order of things in the last year. Then, in the last six months, there were reports of steady growth in patriotism amongst the outlands regions of Solansia. I didn’t think too much of it at first. I thought it just the work of small pockets of troops loyal to Grunnxe, left over from the last skirmish season. Small, but motivated, and well organised. I didn’t think they’d be able to do us more harm than perhaps mount a minor rebel campaign. Small attacks here and there to disrupt our administration. But the fervour grew. It seethed in places, and almost spilled over to bloodshed against our administrations in some towns. I knew things were getting sticky when reports filtered in from outlying provinces. It was much worse than we first feared. It appears there were many pockets of Grunnxe’s forces operating discreetly within the country. They’ve been responsible for very subtly bringing whole regions of Solansians to arms.”

  Kalfinar interrupted, “The entire will of the nation has been bent on taking back the Free Provinces, their ‘lands departed.’ The day we signed our treaties, and stood united as The Free Provinces, Solansia swore an oath to destroy us. It was in Grunnxe’s ancestors’ blood, it was in his, and it’s in the blood of the people.”

  “National bloody pastime,” Broden grumbled.

  Kalfinar nodded his agreement. “Did we really think our administration in Solansia would heal the wound? No, we closed the wound, and now it’s festered.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it myself,” Bergnon said. “I returned to Yadil a month back. Figured I’d best go quietly, so I left my horse some ways back and headed in on foot. And there they were, as clear as water, General Traxal and that weasel Altyel.”

  “It’s a wonder you even recognised them,” Broden exclaimed. “The most I’ve seen of the pair was their horses’ arses retreating back towards Solansia.”

  “True enough, but it was them alright. Same pair of bastards, sure as my shit stinks.”

  “Didn’t think your shit stank,” Broden laughed.

  “Well, it does,” grumbled Bergnon, not taking on the joke. “Traxal did most of the talking, cursing the Free Provinces for the most part. His big blood boiler was saying how we had no right to split from Solansian rule, claim freedom and unite. It really stirred up the masses when he claimed the Free Provinces’ green lands were their lands. All crops, metals and minerals within, theirs too. You know, the usual centuries-old sermon. Altyel stood behind him and he was shaking something awful. His eyes were wild, and shifted all around. I think he’s a mad one.”

  “He always was, and hard on the drink.” Kalfinar mumbled.

  “Aye, maybe so.” Bergnon paused for a moment and sipped some water. “Traxal began to talk of taking back control and mentioned how it was almost time. He was pointing through the crowd, asking each man his profession. They all shouted back that they were children of Grunnxe, and soldiers of Solansia. He whipped them up something terrible. Altyel was gibbering, spitting and thrusting his sword into the air. Traxal picked it up again and called for the village to join him on his march to greatness, and in the service of glorious King Grunnxe. He proclaimed the return of the King and that the Free Provinces would pay for the offences of the past. He was shouting that Solansian’s kingdom would take back what was rightfully theirs, take back control of all the lands of the Cullanain and make it whole again. He claimed that Grunnxe sat on the throne.” Bergnon paused, looking at the faces around him. “Traxal said that Grunnxe had been anointed by God.”

  “Blasphemy!” Broden exclaimed. “They lie in Dajda’s name! Grunnxe is a damned godless barbarian! We know he offers no devotion to Dajda.”

  “We know,” Bergnon interrupted, “but regardless, I’m telling you the entire village went wild again. There were ones crying, exclaiming God was speaking to them. Others were pulling at their hair and wailing with joy. Grown men were on their knees. It was...” Bergnon paused, searching for the correct word. “It was unreal. As if the words were honeyed and those listening intoxicated by it. I’d heard enough to convince me it was getting a little too hot in Solansia. Looked like the tide was rising and this new word needed to get back to the High Command. Have to say, the journey wasn’t pleasant. Had this nagging sensation between my shoulders all the way back. You know, that feeling,” he said as his face twisted in a grimace.

  “There’s a crossbow bolt coming.” Broden feigned a shudder. “Do you believe Grunnxe is really alive?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I saw you, Kal, with your sword up in his guts. The old man should’ve died. But then with these killings, I don’t know. He was always clever, and ruthlessness was never a problem for him. I think we need to tread carefully, not rule anything out. I’m just sorry I didn’t come sooner. Perhaps some lives could have been saved.”

  “Don’t blame yourself for that, Bergnon,” Kalfinar whispered, his voice quiet and hard. “Bottle it up and spend it where it’s due. From what we’ve all seen of late, there’s going to be a lot of blood.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The evening tide carried the ship away from Terna. The powdery black night sky gave way to rain clouds that sagged heavy and low, before unleashing an angry assault of stinging, cold rain on the ship.

  Broden had disappeared below deck immediately after boarding, eyeing the dark waters with queasy suspicion. The remainder of the party stood by the port side and watched the lights of Terna dim then disappear.

  Thaskil and Arrlun
had retreated below deck, leaving Bergnon alone with Kalfinar. “What’re you thinking?”

  Kalfinar remained silent for a long moment, staring deep into the black nothing before him before answering. “How could they plan assassinations of our most experienced soldiers at Hardalen? At Terna and Carte?”

  “You believe more death awaits us at Carte?”

  “You don’t?”

  Bergnon did not reply. He watched the inky water slide by the ship. “You’re probably right. Do you still doubt Grunnxe may be behind all of this?”

  “It'd take more than Traxal, Altyel, and an army of farmers to kill so many, so fast. But Grunnxe is dead. His lifeblood spilled out over my hands, over my feet. You were there.”

  Bergnon puffed his cheeks and heaved out a heavy sigh. “If it wasn’t for their damned counter, we’d have watched him die with our own eyes. But we didn’t, Kal.”

  “Aye.” Kalfinar’s voice scratched in his throat as he spoke. “My guts feel like a bucket of eels. Being back in Terna and now making for Carte has me all turned inside out and upside down.”

  There was a moment of silence between the men. Bergnon broke the quiet, “I received little word when in Solansia. It’s just the way it had to be.”

  Kalfinar nodded.

  “But since I returned, I sought word of you. Came close to doing harm to some with loose mouths on a couple of occasions. What happened?” Bergnon asked as he faced his old friend, the rain slapping with fat drops into the sides of their thick, oiled coats.

  “What happened? That’s stating the fucking obvious,” Kalfinar said with a bitter laugh.

  “Aye, well.” Bergnon replied.

  “When I lost her, and the baby.” Kalfinar looked to the wet deck and closed his eyes. “I just fell apart. Never felt pain like it. There was nothing anyone could do. Everyone tried, of course, but you know how it goes. Hurt, anger, blame, more hurt. Endless fucking hurt. I’d just lie on the floor at night, or day, sometimes both. It’s not like I could touch our bed.” Kalfinar turned his face to the sky and sighed as the rain splashed against it. “That feels nice.” He sighed a moment as the wetness of the rain cooled the heat from the tears that were building under his eyelids. “Every foot falling outside, to me, was her coming home. Yet every foot falling outside terrified me. Can’t remember how or when it really started to unravel fully, but at the beginning I found that wine was enough. I’d drink myself to sickness, and to sleep, at last. After a time, I couldn’t block it out anymore. I was just dying every night.” He searched Bergnon’s face for some shade of comprehension, even a flicker.