Red Season Rising

by D. M. Murray

  The shock of Olmat’s joke appeared to strike them dumb, each man casting a glance between the other, before bursting into laughter.

  Olmat afforded himself a little smile before he carried on. “Realistically, gentlemen, this is one of a particularly nasty family of pathogens. It’s probably spread by contact and, if in the vicinity of bursting boils, it will be airborne for a period. Normally such pathogens are quick-acting, however, the extent of the exposure can mean a longer or shorter incubation period in those infected. The guardsmen who entered the chamber after the release would have been struck with a heavy concentration and, as a consequence, would have died in short order. From my knowledge, they would have suffered extremely exaggerated symptoms. I suspect the majority of the cases will have been contained within the lower reaches of the High Command and, within the next few days, if anyone is going to die, they will. As for those of us up here, well we need to look for weakness and pain in the chest, as the infection starts there from what I can see. I believe such pathogens then attack the skin, forming itchy and red streaks in the flesh. This is the beginning of the boil stage. Weakening of the chest with heavy coughing will also be present. If my assessment is correct, this will be followed by internal haemorrhaging caused by organ degradation, external haemorrhaging, and then, ultimately, death.”

  “Sounds delightful. Think I’d rather my prick dropped off.” Subath dropped the stick of bread and swallowed the last of his wine. “I’ll have to make sure and try to give this sickness a wide berth if it ever comes my way.”

  “Not so sure even you would be able to scare this off, Subath,” Harruld grumbled.

  “Indeed,” Olmat said. “That is what I can deduce as it stands at the moment. I’ve experienced several similar conditions in the past, however this is somewhat tainted with dark energy, so there may be yet more for us to learn. Be vigilant and if anyone feels unwell, regardless of your symptoms, let me know.”

  Olmat closed the book he had been reading and placed it beside him, before, with some effort, getting to his feet. His knees creaked as he straightened and the old familiar pains and aches rose out of their slumber, radiating through his limbs as he moved towards the door. “Goodnight, my friends,” he said as he went. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The others bid him goodnight as he left Harruld’s study, closing the door behind him. Olmat shuffled past the guardsmen, noting the helmet’s bent nose-guard and bruises on the young man’s face while carrying on towards his chambers. Pains and aches, step after step. Familiar and unfamiliar, step after step, and pains in the chest. Hurry, Kalfinar. The pillars fall. My time is coming soon.

  *

  Harruld returned to his discussion with Merkham as the door closed behind Olmat. Allocation of officers was proving to be more difficult than at first thought. Too many untested men in command, too many hasty commissions, too few veterans able and hungry to lead.

  “The cheek of Olmat, eh?” Subath scratched noisily at his stomach under his mail shirt. “To think the ladies are not crawling over each other for old Subath!”

  Harruld and Merkham looked up at the dirty grin on the scarred man’s face.

  “Wish we had more of you!” Merkham said.

  “Exactly what the ladies say!” Subath laughed, slapping Merkham’s back, almost sending him flopping over the table. “Mind you, with the itching I’m getting, I’d say it may well be the whoring that’ll be the death of me.” A look of resigned disappointment cast over Subath’s face before he shook it off and leaned his scarred hands onto the table. “Now then, show me where I can put myself to use.”

  Harruld looked to Merkham, who nodded and grinned before looking back at Subath.

  “No!” Subath said, shaking his head as he stepped back from the table.

  “Yes!”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Harruld smiled.

  “No, you can’t! I refuse it.”

  Merkham adopted a stern look. “You can’t refuse it. Not if it comes as a direct order of the chief marshal of the High Command. Isn’t that correct, sir?”

  “Why, I believe it is, Major Merkham.”

  Subath’s shoulders sagged and his face squirmed as Harruld’s gaze settled on him.

  Harruld walked over to Subath and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant, there have been few officers who’ve served with as much distinction as you have. Even fewer have ever commanded such respect as you do.”

  Subath’s eyes rimmed with moisture. “No.”

  “You should have been commissioned to general by now, but for your bloody-mindedness. A bloody-mindedness that I, amongst others, have tolerated for so long only out of our deepest respect. Unfortunately for you, our current circumstances force me to make this decision. So, as of this moment, you are being promoted to general, acting as commander of the defence of the city of Carte.”

  Subath’s eyes squirmed shut and a pair of tears slid between the wrinkles and scars of his face. “I spent my whole life in this army.” Subath’s voice cracked as he spoke. “I never had a mother. More’n likely she was an army whore. Dunno which caste of man my father was. I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it? Anyway, my point is, sirs, I had no life, no family growing up. Not until I came to service, anyhow. I felt at home with the men. I felt I had family. Felt I had fathers, and was a father in turn. Those men were, they are, my children.” Subath looked up and smiled. “I dare say a few of them actually are my children. Anyway, what I’m getting at is I never really felt like I could leave them and command from such distance. I’m too good with my men, too good with a sword in my hand. No disrespect meant, sirs, but I’m no soft-handed soldier.”

  “Subath,” Harruld spoke, “everyone will have a sword in their hand. There’ll be no danger of any of us avoiding that action. Accept this order, I implore you. Not as chief of the High Command, I implore you as your friend. Here you have the chance to stand alongside those of us who remain, as a father to the Free Provinces, to the whole Cullanain, and defend Carte.”

  Subath rubbed his hands over his head and down over his face. He looked long at their backs and palms. They were scarred on the back, nicked, rough and lumpy. His palms were notched and calloused. He looked at Harruld who held his hands up in front of him, turning them front and back: rough and scarred, notched and calloused.

  “Not so different from yours, old friend.”

  “Aye, not so different after all, sir.”

  “So you’ll accept?” Merkham asked, inspecting his own, soft palms as he spoke.

  Subath held Harruld’s gaze before responding. “Aye. I accept.”

  “Good,” Merkham replied.

  “One question though, sir.” Subath looked between the two other men. “How come Governor Harruld is not commanding the defence of Carte?”

  Harruld pulled out a chair and sat, exhaling a long and heavy sigh. “I’ll play my part, old friend.” His face seemed to turn grey, care-worn, and weary. “It seems time and tide wait for no man, regardless of rank or circumstance.”

  “What do you mean?” Subath asked, his eyes distracted by Merkham pouring a glass of water and handing it to Harruld.

  “Old friend,” Harruld said, nodding his silent thanks to Merkham for the water, “I’m afraid I’m dying.”

  *

  Grunnxe swept into the pavilion heaving with breath and wiping blood from his knuckles with a rag. He threw the rag into the face of one of his officers standing at attention, causing him to flinch.

  “Control yourself, man, or you’ll be next.” Grunnxe spat at the officer’s feet and moved onto the dais where his heavy throne sat, slumping into the seat.

  The Priestess, standing in the shadows behind Grunnxe’s throne, stepped forward and leant over the king’s shoulder. She whispered into his ear.

  Grunnxe nodded and waved a dismissive hand. The Priestess slunk back to the shadows. The old king’s face frowned and his lips pursed tightly together. A tension thickened in t
he air between the assembled officers; the king’s building rage seemed to unsettle his commanders. Finally, his fury subsided and the colour drained from his face.

  “Now, can I assume that as we plan to launch our offensive tomorrow, that there are no further fuck ups when it comes to getting your ragged-ass battalions into order?”

  There was silence from the officers.

  Grunnxe’s colour started to rise again, though his voice remained calm. “Please consider that if no one answers me, I will choose someone to make an example out of, just as I did with Altyel out there. Go ahead. Go and look if you want to see what crucifixion does for a man.”

  Grunnxe had barely finished speaking when every officer in the pavilion answered, a cacophony of voices assuring the king of the order of their troops.

  “Tell me again!” Grunnxe shouted and again a chorus of voices shouted their response. Grunnxe smiled, a hungry, violent lust in his eyes. “Again!”

  *

  The scent of damp and long-since rotted matter curled around Sarbien as he made his way deeper into the dark of Shalima mines. The constant sound of unseen droplets seemed like tapping nails counting time. Although he could not see them in the dark, the fumbling steps of the soldiers and the occasional oath uttered under their breath spoke volumes. The soldier’s eyes could not match Sarbien’s gifted sight in such dark places.

  Captain Tyrnan reached out from behind and tugged at the back of Sarbien’s coat, causing him to stop and half-turn.

  “The men are nervous,” Tyrnan whispered, his lips close by Sarbien’s ear. “Do you know what you’re looking for down here?”

  “I know enough,” Sarbien replied, his eyes capturing Tyrnan’s hard features. “We move onwards.” Sarbien turned and began stepping forward, before stopping and turning back. He leaned in close to the captain’s ear. “Tell your men that if they have run so dry on courage, that they are welcome to make their way back out of the mines. Just remind them however, that it is a labyrinth down here. Should they get lost, they may never again see the light of day.” Sarbien turned and stepped off, deeper into the mine.

  *

  Anthony shambled forward. His blistered and weeping hands slipped and slapped across rock walls as he made his way deeper into the dark belly of Shalima. His kind master’s words coaxed him onwards and guided his every step.

  “Yes, Master. I shall be with them soon.” The words slurped in his mouth, spraying spittle as he spoke.

  His teeth had been spat out or swallowed and his lips were cracked and split. He lurched forward further, then stopped, craning his rotting head to the side, listening in the stale blackness.

  “Yes, yes!” he shouted. “I hear them, Master. Take me at last into your embrace.”

  Anthony dragged himself forward, fumbling around a damp, low-ceilinged corner. He saw light up ahead. A faint orange glow and the slightest movement of rank air. It smelled of blood.

  *

  The soldiers crept in the darkness, much closer behind Sarbien than before. Sarbien could sense their anxiety rising. He did not begrudge the soldiers their nerves, for he himself had spent several days trapped in underground caves in his youthful, exploring days. He felt fear then and had learnt the value of respecting the darkness. He allowed himself an invisible smirk as he moved deeper, the ball of thin silk twine unravelling as he went.

  “What was that?” Captain Tyrnan voiced from behind.

  Sarbien stopped moving and stood still. “I heard nothing,” he replied.

  “No, there was—”

  An echo. Shouting in the blackness.

  Sarbien turned to the soldiers, their hands driven by fear to rest upon their weapons.

  “Heard that alright,” Sarbien whispered. “Stay calm. Noise travels far in the body of the mines. There’s no telling how far that sound has travelled.”

  Sarbien looked at their faces. Nervous to a one, except for the Tyrnan.

  His hard features remained fixed on Sarbien’s, before turning to his men and whispering, “I need every one of you to remember why you are here. For our families, our homes, for our people. Fear not the dark of the mines, but fear Grunnxe instead and use that fear to steel yourselves.”

  Sarbien gripped Tyrnan’s shoulder in the dark, nodding his gratitude. “Come on, we must carry on. Let’s see who was kind enough to make all of that noise.”

  *

  Anthony’s dazzled eyes stung and wept as the orange glow grew stronger. He staggered towards the light while making out blurred and shadowy forms a short distance below. They chanted together, a sound that comforted him. The master told him it was good, he had done well, and would soon be rewarded.

  “I am with you, Master. Your child, always. Into your arms, I commit myself.”

  Anthony lurched his way down the rocky slope towards the floor of a wide inner-chamber of the mines. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw before him two dozen priests robed in a mix of black and white rough-hewn habits like his own. They stood around an altar, streaked with the blackened stain of old blood and the not-so-blackened streaks of fresh blood. The whole chamber reeked of gore and sulphur. To Anthony, however, it smelt of the freshest scent. A fragrance so wonderful it threatened to intoxicate and send him to rapture.

  “Master, take me home,” he shouted, causing the priests to spin and face him.

  One priest stepped forward. A thin, nasal voice escaped from the shadows cast by the habit’s hood, “Who are you, monster? Speak!” The priest drew a dagger from within the arm of his habit and held it before him.

  Anthony began to giggle, spit flecking from his burst lips.

  “Answer me!” the priest demanded, his voice cracking with rage.

  “The master said he will reward me.”

  The priest cast back his hood, revealing a thin, sharp face, wrinkled with care and age. His eyes turned hard and he spoke, “What do you know of the master?”

  “Anything I wish for, I shall be given.” Anthony began to giggle once more.

  The priest dropped the dagger as fear contorted his face. His mouth gaped and his eyes bulged with dread.

  Anthony giggled on, his wretched face warping in dark arousal as the priest’s throat was crushed by the unseen force. “Into your embrace I send myself, Master.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thaskil’s mind raced as his horse hammered down the road from Apula’s main gate towards the encampment. He knew Sergeant Rushnall was correct in that it would mean a flogging from Bergnon for disregarding his order to remain in Apula. The fucker can flog me if he wants, but I’m damned if I sit here any longer.

  Thoughts and images had gnawed at Thaskil as he ran the militia through their drills and inspections. Where was Arrlun? Why had he run? Did he even leave of his own accord?

  The questions repeated over and over. Each thought was coupled with the image of Bergnon’s bleeding head and altered demeanour. Something was being hidden. Thaskil could feel it tugging at him. Tormenting him. He meant to find out, flogging or not.

  He slowed his pace as he approached the encampment, being careful not to draw too much attention. Dismounting, he walked his horse to the picket and tied its reins tight. Glancing over his shoulders, Thaskil pulled his hood over his head and trudged through the churned up red earth towards the tent he shared with Arrlun.

  Where are you, friend? Show me where you’ve gone.

  Thaskil trudged through the billets until he reached his tent. He untied the flap and slipped inside. Thaskil felt under the camp-bed for Arrlun’s possessions. There was nothing. He lifted the light-framed bed. There was nothing underneath, not even the leather pouches. Who’s been in here?

  It pained Thaskil to think it, but his gut told him it had not been Arrlun. He placed the bed back into place and sat. He rested his head in his hands, rubbing his weary face and feeling the dryness of his eyes. Damned dust, it gets everywhere—

  The sharp whinny of a horse sounded not far from the tent. The sound repeated, co
upled with shouts of alarm and curses from men. Thaskil snapped to his feet and strode out of the tent, his head turning from side to side to see where the commotion had come from. He saw nothing. The horse whinnied again and this time Thaskil could pinpoint it. He ran between the tents until he found the source of the noise: a riderless grey mare with a star shape branded on its flank.

  Thaskil stopped breathing. Arrlun’s horse.

  He ran as fast as he could towards the beast. It charged up on its hind legs as the soldiers around failed to get it under control. As he approached the horse, his eyes flashed about the gathered men. Thaskil could not see Arrlun amongst them.

  “Whoa there, whoa,” he spoke gently as he approached the anxious horse, his palms turned down towards the ground.

  The mare heaved a breath and hooved at the ground, its head bending down as Thaskil calmed it with his gentle words.

  “Whoa there, girl.” He reached out and grabbed the bridle with one hand, and stroked its cheek with the other. As he soothed the beast, he looked along its neck and side. It was still saddled, but there was no sign of a rider. No sign of Arrlun. Thaskil stroked the horse’s cheek once more and ducked under its head, moving towards the other side. He looked down its flank. Blood. There were streaks and smears of blood down the horse’s side, but no wounds upon the horse itself. Thaskil’s heart raced and fury burned his face. Someone was laid out across you, weren’t they?

  “Take this horse and corral it alone,” Thaskil ordered the soldier nearest to him. “Make sure the saddle and the bloodstains stay as they are. Understood?”