Red Season Rising

by D. M. Murray

  “Ahoy, neighbour!” Bergnon called to the nauseated guardsman. “What happens in Carte?”

  The sickened guard looked up as he wiped his vomit-covered chin. A mindless look was firmly set over his pale face.

  Bergnon turned to his companions and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he puked up his tongue—”

  “Hold your peace, gentlemen,” a high-pitched voice cried across from the trade vessel alongside the gig, breaking Bergnon off mid-sentence. “It won’t do you any good to question him. The man’s a mute. My guardsmen and I shall be across to you in but a moment. Pray thee have some patience.” The owner of the voice was a small man who had surfaced at the stern of the Cannan trader. He was surrounded by a large group of marine guardsmen wearing light leather armour and armed with boarding pikes, short swords and naval axes.

  “Since when do the harbour masters of Carte travel so heavily guarded?” Bergnon mumbled his question to no one in particular. “Aye, neighbour! You’re welcome aboard at your leisure,” he shouted across to the harbour master before thumping his gloved fist onto the railing.

  *

  A troop of the marine guards boarded the ship, followed by the smaller man. He arrived puffing and red faced after his climb up the rope ladder.

  Kalfinar studied the short man, noting several different shades of fading bruises about his face and amidst his short-cropped silver hair. A busy, and bruising week for a harbour master can mean only trouble within Carte. Damn these days.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m the harbour master. Fergin’s my name.” He flashed a happy smile and took out a small notebook and quill pen. He uncorked a small horn of ink which hung around his neck and dipped the quill before plugging it once more. “Now, let’s get to business, shall we? May I ask who you are, and what of your purpose in Carte?”

  “What’s the hold up?” Broden called out as he made it to the deck, rubbing his eyes to adjust them to the flood of evening light above deck.

  The guard nearest Broden lowered his boarding pike. Recoiling on sight of the levelled weapon, Broden drew his sword. As quickly as Broden’s sword appeared, the remaining marine guardsmen had their own weapons readied. Multiple sharp points hovered in front of each member of the party.

  “What’s going on here?” Broden asked.

  “Lower your sword,” Kalfinar responded calmly as he rubbed between his eyes. “Let’s not escalate things any further. I’d say this has gone quite far enough. Don’t you?”

  “Aye,” Broden said lightly. “I’d say this is about as close to sharp metal as I’d like to get tonight.”

  “Good,” Kalfinar sighed.

  Broden shrugged his shoulders and sheathed his sword. He smiled at the nervous marine guardsmen, whose own weapons were still levelled toward the group.

  “Harbour Master Fergin,” Kalfinar said with a gravelly hint of exasperation in his voice. “You must have spotted our military banners flying from each mast. If you or your men had half the wit of a wet turd, you’d know that it is standard practice to display banners when any military party enters an Alliance port. Surely your men ought to approach their comrades with a little mutual respect and a lot more decorum. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “In ordinary times, yes, indeed,” Fergin agreed. “Your banners were seen, however one cannot allow for the city to relax her stand. Should any enemy wish entrance to our capital, then they could simply hang out a banner of the forces. As I said, in ordinary times, we would not be having such a pleasant debate on such a fine evening.” Fergin’s thin brow knitted and his jaw set firm. “However, things are a quite a bit more tense than usual, and as such, no one can enter or leave the city without approval from the High Command.” The harbour master’s face eased and he waggled the tip of his quill pen at Kalfinar. “Now, if you would be so kind as to take a seat for a few moments, my good men here will search your ship. Standard behaviour, you understand.”

  “Of course.” Kalfinar said, indicating to his colleagues and crew that they should comply.

  “Thank you.” Fergin smiled, seeming to relax somewhat. “Now, may I have your names and business?”

  *

  An hour passed before the gig returned. As she ran alongside the Cannan trader, the high voice of the harbour master could be heard in the failing light.

  “I’m sorry, friend, but the High Command has refused you entry to Carte. You shall have to port elsewhere and make arrangements for your goods to be shipped overland. It would be wise not to linger here for much longer or you will forfeit your ship. Good day.” The silent form of the harbour master could be seen hurrying the rowing marine guards. Moments later obscenities flew over the side of the trade ship.

  Rowing the gig with all their might, the marine guardsmen narrowly missed being struck by an arching spray of excrement, and latterly, the bucket that had until recently been its home.

  Some moments later, Fergin boarded the ship again and smiled, as he caught his breath. “I’m getting too old, and too heavy, to be hauling myself up and down rope ladders all day.” He wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his trembling hand. “Those bloody Cannan traders. They think because they’ve so much gold and grain they should be admitted without question. Ghastly folk, throwing their muck at me like that.”

  “Just beastly,” Bergnon muttered.

  Kalfinar noted the faint smiles rising on his companion’s faces, and the corners of his own mouth tilted somewhat.

  The harbour master cleared his throat. “I am sorry for the delay, gentlemen. As I said, times are tense. There is much trouble afoot in the city and we really must be vigilant.”

  “We understand,” Kalfinar responded to Fergin. “We’ve not been short of it ourselves. May we pass?”

  “Indeed, you may pass, gentlemen. The governor has arranged for some horses to transport you to the High Command once you land. You are to head directly to his study, at his command.”

  Once we land. The docks. The governor. What merry hell do I present myself before?

  Kalfinar chased the thought of the docks away, but the hunger gnawed at him. “Thank you. I’m sorry for my lack of courtesy earlier. There’s much we need to speak with the High Command about. You understand, I’m sure.” Kalfinar grasped the small man’s hand as he apologised.

  “Tis of no moment to me, Captain Kalfinar. I am but Carte’s humble servant.” He smiled to the group. “I’ve heard of you before, sir. You and your companions. I remember hearing of you lads giving Grunnxe and those Solansian dogs a fierce few poundings during the last few skirmish seasons. You boys are all heroes in my book.”

  No hero here. Just a bag of blood and waste is all. Kalfinar brushed the comment off with a wave of his hand. “Many men who live can be called heroes, but it is those men who gave up their lives and litter our borders with graves that we should truly honour. It is those boys that never made it home who are heroes.” But I made sure I got home alright, and to do what? Piss and fuck it all away. Smoke it all to oblivion. A true hero. Smoke and blood, whores and mud.

  “My thanks for your help.”

  The harbour master bade them good evening and returned to the gig that bobbed on the evening tide below. The boom slowly parted and, after the anchor was raised, the ship ponderously approached the deserted docks of Carte.

  *

  They trotted through western gate and into the fish and rot reeking dock area of the city. The neat and even cobbled streets of the city centre had long since given way to pot-holed tracks of mud, interspersed with occasional stretches of poorly repaired cobblestones. The buildings were largely of a similar nature. Stone walls rose a foot back from the clogged drains, and were pock-marked with small windows peering out to the street like watchful eyes. After the first ten feet of stone wall, the buildings stretched another two stories, walls comprising of wood and dilapidated balconies. Flaky painted trade signs swung from groaning metal arms, stretching out from the buildings like the tips of ribs sprung from a corpse. Not a
soul, ragged or otherwise, walked the dark and dirty streets. Kalfinar could feel the frightened eyes watching them nonetheless.

  “There’s been some misfortune here.” Kalfinar’s words were so quiet they were but ghosts under his breath, fleeting and unnoticed.

  “Familiar scene, don’t you think?” Broden grunted beside Kalfinar, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  I know it’s near, I can feel it. Kalfinar stared as they passed a small run-down tavern with a faded sign above its door. He tried to make out the words in the flickering light from the street. The paint was faded and long past its best, but still he felt acquainted with it somehow. As they carried onward a hazy memory washed over him. The Rooster’s Goblet. Fine Ales and Wines. Receding further into foggy memory, Kalfinar saw himself as he staggered from the tavern and fall into a torrent of mud and waste streaming down the street. Wasted on drink and jalsinum, he stumbled towards drunks, lashing out at them unprovoked, but missing widely. He then watched as he was surrounded by the men and the mud, being kicked and pounded, his blood mingling with the filth and his decaying life. Blood and mud. Hero indeed. He bitterly shook the painful fragment of memory from his throbbing head.

  They rode on towards the centre of the city and found the streets broadening out, with fine paving of cobblestones well-lit with more frequent oil lamps. The buildings walls were universally plastered smooth, where the docklands were of bare stone and wood. Ornate wooden carvings of angels and vines clung to balconies, themselves bedecked with boxes of blooms and lit warmly by small lamps.

  Kalfinar’s eye was drawn to a puncture of light in the darkness of an upper floor window. He saw the face, before it retreated, curtains snapping shut again. For all the feeling of grandeur, the sense of discomforting atmosphere persisted from the docks. It wasn’t helped by the imposing castle of the High Command, looming over the surrounding centre of Carte. While passing several streets, they saw city guards forcing their way into houses and shops, barging into doors and searching for someone, or something.

  *

  The High Command castle dominated the centre of the city. Its outer walls were built of black stone. They stood tall and broad, shining like obsidian, with one blocky tower enforcing its authority at each corner. The main keep of the High Command stood taller still, its bleak structure staring down on the streets and courtyards of the city that surrounded it.

  They rode through the opulent Cathedral sector, one mile from the High Command. Kalfinar could hear Broden mumble a prayer as they passed the shining copper cupola of the Cathedral. Empty words offered to an empty house.

  The streets widened out as they approached the outer walls of the High Command, giving way to unbuilt ground before the moat. After a quick exchange between Bergnon and the officer of the Night Command stationed by the drawbridge they gained access inside the outer walls. Once inside, they unsaddled by the stables, and made their way into the main keep, and towards Governor Harruld’s private study as instructed.

  Kalfinar ascended the stairs and entered the hallway on which the Governor’s study was situated. The broad door to the study was flanked by two guardsmen in dress armour. At his appearance the two guardsmen snapped into a salute.

  “Nice to see they haven’t forgotten us.” Broden quipped from behind.

  Kalfinar nodded at the guardsmen and knocked once on the door.

  “Who is it?” a shout came from the other side of the iron wrought oak door.

  “It’s Kal.”

  There was a sound of movement behind the door followed by the sound of heavy bolts. The door swung open with a hefty groan, revealing a tall man, roughly Kalfinar’s height. A neat silver beard framed the man’s face, and darker grey waves of hair hung on once-broad shoulders. Kalfinar stared at the older man’s eyes. They were the same deep green as his own, however the older man’s left eyelid drooped low over the eye, and was surrounded by puckered scar tissue.

  Kalfinar’s breath held for a moment, as he recalled how he had caused the injury. He gathered himself, and broke the silence, “Hello, father.”

  “Come in, come in,” Harruld said, stepping aside and waving Broden, Bergnon and the two young lieutenants into his study after Kalfinar.

  Governor Harruld’s private study was by no means a small room. Thick wall hangings depicting woodland hunts, blazing with deep red and rich amber, lined the stone walls. Sumptuous green drapes were drawn across the windows and an array of rugs carpeted the wooden floor. The dark staining of the bookshelves reflected the dancing glow of the two roaring fires, which, at opposite ends of the room, spread the much-needed heat well. The focal point of the room, however, was a large and broad table surrounded by a score of chairs. Like Governor Abbonan, Harruld had several large wolfhounds lounging on the rugs before the fire. Their pink tongues curled as they yawned.

  “You’re well?” Governor Harruld asked Kalfinar as he made his way to the table.

  “Well enough. All things considered.” Kalfinar stared at the scarring around his father’s eye. “Father, I should have written. I wish you to accept my ap—”

  “No need,” Governor Harruld said, cutting him short. “I have never, nor will I ever, bare you any ill will.”

  His father’s smile, forgotten to him in his lost times, filled him with an enormous ease he had not expected.

  “Tell me, Bergnon, how fares Abbonan?” Governor Harruld pulled his chair in at the head of the sturdy table.

  “Well enough, my lord. The governor’s marriage appears to have injected some fresh life into him. She cannot be all bad, it seems.” Bergnon poured himself a goblet of wine and tucked his chair in.

  Harruld patted the head of the hound that nuzzled onto his lap. “All bad, no. I would never think that. It’s Abbonan who’s the scoundrel in this act.” The smiles on the faces were feeble, strained attempts at good humour unable to break the cloud that hung over all. “Anyway, gentlemen, let us get to business, lest the hour grow too late. I can feel it off you like a heat.”

  “Lord, what has happened in my absence?” Bergnon asked, although, like all in the study, the answer was already apparent.

  Harruld’s jaws tightened, flexing the sides of his beard. “Thirty-seven veterans of merit have been slain.”

  The sheer number thumped like a hammer blow.

  “It’s as I feared.” Kalfinar’s gaze was lost in the fire as he broke the stillness in the room.

  “How many?” A look of grave concern fell upon the governor’s face.

  Bergnon asked, “My lord, have you not received the dispatches from Terna? A ship has long since been due in Carte.”

  Harruld sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m afraid the seas have been very cruel this last week or so. It appears the ship, and the dispatches, have been lost at sea.” The governor slammed his fist into the table. “Damn these days!” He looked up and asked Kalfinar, “Have we lost men at both Terna and Hardalen?”

  “There have been synchronised attacks at Hardalen, Terna, and now Carte, also. No man was lost at Hardalen. Both Broden and I killed those sent to murder us. We were dispatched to deliver word to both the High Command at Terna and Carte. At Terna, we found that twenty-three had been lost.”

  A shadow of massive strain seemed to pass over the governor’s face. “I have dispatches for you from Commander Lucius, Governor Abbonan and one from Olmat.” Kalfinar handed them to his father.

  “Sixty men lost. Dajda, help us.”

  “Make that sixty-two of this whole sorry mess,” Broden added. “We lost two soldiers on the road to Terna. A mountain wolf attacked us. Lucius granted us only four men.”

  “And these two statues, are they the remainder of your troop?” Harruld asked of Thaskil and Arrlun, who stood silently by the doors of the study.

  “Lieutenants Thaskil and Arrlun,” Broden replied as the two young men snapped to crisp salutes before the governor. “Freshly commissioned by Governor Abbonan.”

  Harruld nodded at the news. “Good, that saves m
e some paperwork at least. At ease, men. Well met.” Harruld reached for the dispatches. He opened Commander Lucius’s first, snorted, balled it up and tossed it over his shoulder into the fire.

  “Funny, Governor Abbonan did exactly the same thing,” Bergnon mused.

  “He’s always prized his own neck above all others. He should never hold rank.” Harruld then picked up Governor Abbonan’s dispatch and read through it, emitting a pinched sound of loss.

  “Solskaen?” Kalfinar asked.

  “Aye,” replied the governor. “I’ll present a list of the dead shortly, but with Solskaen lost, it appears I am to assume rank of chief marshal to command the Free Provinces, at least until an election can be held.” Harruld’s head rested in his hands for several moments as the enormity of his new burden settled upon him. He rubbed his face briskly, chasing away fatigue, and continued with his update, “Several of those targeted managed to avoid the assassins, myself included. Three other assassins fell upon their own blades before we could disarm them, and several more escaped into the city. One of them managed to climb from my window when my guardsmen entered, and somehow make good an escape. That’s why you found the city shut to all without high command approval. The escaped assassins may well still be in Carte somewhere. Curse them.”

  “Did you learn anything of the dead assassins?” Kalfinar asked his father eagerly.

  “There’s nothing distinguishing about those who died. Of those which escaped, I know not. I’ve been told they were dressed in all in black and masked, that’s all.”

  “What of the men you killed?”

  Kalfinar said, “The men that attacked Broden and I were not of the Cullanain. They were different.”