Red Season Rising

by D. M. Murray

  “Kal,” Broden’s voice half-shook him from his thoughts. “Kal!” Broden stepped up and shook Kalfinar by the shoulder. He leaned in close and whispered through his teeth, “Get your head straight. Now is not the time to lose yourself. We need you, damn it.”

  “Aye,” Kalfinar replied, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and swallowing hard. His throat was dry. “Sorry. Let’s get moving.”

  The streets were busy, although not with trade or the general hum of city life. The military presence was strong. Armed men and no few women were almost everywhere. Kalfinar recognised the streets by the docks as they passed through on their way to the High Command, but they were different. There was none of the colourful music of the city; no beggars, drunks, or whores. Trouble was in the air. The city reeked with tension.

  Kalfinar dropped back to where Evelyne rode. Her face was fixed without emotion.

  “Do you feel it is closer?” he asked, his eyes darting all around, watching the feverish activity.

  “We’re getting closer. We need to be deeper into the city. I’ll feel more as we go.”

  “When we get to the command, we’ll get our reports in and leave straight away.”

  She nodded.

  As Kalfinar rode back towards Broden at the front of the group, he glimpsed down a side street and gasped.

  “The bodies?” Broden asked.

  “Aye, the bodies.”

  “The sickness, it must have made it out of the High Command.”

  “To what extent, I wonder?” Kalfinar looked back at the building and cursed to himself. “It’s the bloody undertakers.” He shook his head in frustration. “There’s no sense in that at all. They can’t bury corpses in times of disease. Should burn them.”

  Broden looked across at his cousin’s sudden harshness.

  Kalfinar stared at the building before scoffing and turning back. He rubbed his eyes as they rode on. Kalfinar’s head pounded and he was sweating. You want it. Back to the smoke. Slip away. Go on and slip away.

  “Kal,” Broden whispered, “you alright?”

  Kalfinar looked up. “You know, I think I might just need another slap.”

  *

  As they approached the drawbridge at the front of the military High Command, a dozen troops ran urgently across their path, causing Kalfinar and his party to turn in their saddles.

  “Wonder what’s going on,” Broden said.

  “Who knows?” Kalfinar said with a tired voice. “Some madness or another. Come on, we’ve little time to linger.”

  They crossed the drawbridge and entered the High Command without trouble. Kalfinar and Broden ascended into the main building to report to Governor Harruld. Evelyne followed along with the Horn of Dajda, the two girls walking hand in hand as they went.

  They opened the door to Harruld’s study and saw him gathered with Olmat, Subath, Abbonan and Merkham. Another familiar face sat towards the far end of the table. Lucius peered up at Kalfinar from between two blackened eyes. Maps and papers were spread out wide around them, making the table was no less chaotic than the streets of Carte they had just ridden through.

  “Kal, thank Dajda.” Harruld rose from his seat and walked around the table to embrace him. “I’m so very glad to see you. To see you all.” He smiled to them each, stopping at the two strange girls. “You are most welcome.”

  The Horn of Dajda smiled back, their eyes glittering. Harruld paused a moment, captivated by them.

  “Father,” Kalfinar said, drawing Harruld’s attention. “We learned from the Cannan Daughter of the People that Major Bergnon is the one who betrayed us.”

  Harruld sighed wearily. “I know. We received word from Thaskil in Apula yesterday,” the governor said. “Bergnon has been taken prisoner.”

  Kalfinar nodded.

  “And the Daughter of the People? Where is she?” Harruld asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Evelyne said, “but she threw herself into the Yellow Sea after she confessed to us. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”

  “Damn it.” Harruld stalked back to his chair and slumped into it. “Cannan’s aren’t going to like that. The theocrats in their Council will want to press us for her loss.”

  “We’ll have to deal with their reaction another time. There’s more,” Kalfinar added. “Solansia has raided Canna and destroyed the grain shipments and the Cannan merchant fleet. They killed the Mother of the People.”

  “Hells be damned. Is there no end to the bad news?”

  “Is Apula safe?” Broden asked Harruld.

  The governor looked back towards the men gathered around the table. He sighed. “It seems Grunnxe will seek to take Apula. Thaskil’s requested reinforcements.”

  “Are you sending them?” Kalfinar asked.

  “We’ll send what we can, but we have to be mindful of an assault on Carte also.”

  “Thaskil and Arrlun aren’t equipped to lead the battalions alone. They need help,” Broden said.

  “Arrlun is dead. It seems he had suspicions of Bergnon’s betrayal, so he murdered him.”

  Kalfinar balled his fists and his jaw flexed in silent rage.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Broden growled.

  “There’s a long queue for that job,” Subath rasped.

  Olmat spoke from the end of the table, his voice sounding thin and weak, “Let this anger pass on for now. We must speak of the Horn. You have two, but you now seek the third, the Key.”

  “Yes, we found two, Uncle,” Evelyne spoke. “There’s still one more.”

  “You feel it close, don’t you?” Olmat asked.

  “Yes, it’s very close.” Evelyne smiled. “I feel it is only but a short time before the Horn’s voice is set free and the Key is found.”

  Kalfinar looked between the two of them, perplexed by their unusual exchange. “Sorry, forgive me if I’ve missed something here, but what are you talking about?”

  “Olmat.” Evelyne nodded at the old physician. “He holds the Key, the chief voice of the choir.”

  The old man smiled, his head wobbling on his weak neck.

  Kalfinar glanced back and forth between them.

  “The urge is strong, but I can feel it telling me we must wait on you, Uncle.”

  “I will not be long, child. My body is weakening. Soon the Horn will sound and they will come.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “How’re the preparations going?” Thaskil asked the sergeant he had instructed to enhance the defences of the weakened city wall.

  Sergeant Omree wiped his hands clean with a rag, or as clean as they could be.

  Thaskil still smelled the thick aroma of smouldering wood. The din in the night air paid testament to the hard work of the city guard and citizens of Apula, intent on keeping their home safe in the face of the coming conflict. Despite the tension, the industry and toil appeared to have bred togetherness. It was visible as they worked, establishing the bulwark of rubble in the breach.

  Omree had stripped off his tabard and chainmail. Sweat pooled under his throat and armpits, despite the chill of the night. The sergeant heaved a deep breath and raised his grimy arm in salute.

  “Going well, sir,” Omree responded, turning and pointing towards the dark beyond the breach. “The heavy horses have hauled most of the large stones back to the breach and we’re almost done shifting the rubble into the plain between here and the trench. Once we’re done there, the wood and naphtha will go in.”

  “Good. You’re making good time.”

  “Fear is the finest of motivators. We’ll get the caltrops laid once the trench has been filled.” The sergeant leaned in closer to Thaskil. “Just one thing, sir.”

  Thaskil noted the man stank, no doubt the legacy of his hard work over the last few hours. He was sure he smelt no better himself. “Go on.” Thaskil mirrored the sergeant’s actions.

  “It’s the trench. We don’t have the men, nor the time to create anything too wide or deep.” He wrung his hands. “It’s really not
going to be any more than a shallow trench, but I think if we fill it up, it’ll burn long and high. All being well, if we get the chance, we can always improve it later.”

  Thaskil smiled at the sergeant and clapped him across the shoulder. “The trench will be fine. As long as we can slow them down and, you know, prevent a full-on assault, we should be in a stronger position to hold out.”

  “Aye, well I think we could be.” The sergeant rubbed the back of his sweat and soot-streaked neck. “I was thinking as well, sir, if I may?”

  “Speak freely,” Thaskil prompted.

  “Well, I was thinking, why don’t we embed stakes into the outer edge of the rubble bulwark? We could make it as unwelcome an experience coming up as possible.”

  Thaskil pictured it.

  “If we fill it full of stakes, we could slow them down further,” Omree continued. “We can get the wood turners working on them right away.”

  “Bloody good idea, Sergeant. Get to it.”

  “Aye, sir,” the sergeant replied with a salute before running over to a subordinate, relaying his orders.

  Thaskil stood and watched as the denizens of his home city busied themselves supporting the defences against an army of unknown size and, from what Thaskil had seen, unknown powers. Their commitment and endeavour in the face of danger moved him. He thought of Arrlun, killed by a friend. He thought of Bergnon’s betrayal and felt anger flare in his gut. Last, he thought of his home, its people, and its place at the frontier of the Free Provinces. If their sovereignty were to survive at all, Apula must stand.

  Thaskil looked around and saw only citizens and soldiers; not an officer amongst them. If Apula were to stand, it would have to stand with Thaskil at the helm.

  *

  The Field of Storms stretched out in front of the Solansian horde. The order had gone out to narrow the ranks. The less wheat trampled underfoot, the better, for the army would need to be fed over the winter.

  Grunnxe smiled as he watched grain swaying in the cold night breeze. He had gambled on the Apulan people bowing to the greater needs of Free Province and sowing crop amongst the fertile lands. When I take this city, I will change their coat of arms from a poppy to the grain head, in honour of my victory.

  The awful grunting of the beasts of Balzath pulled Grunnxe from his thoughts.

  The creatures stalked at the front of the army, causing the Solansians and Ravenmaynes to watch with unease. Their limbs and backs appeared hard, like scaled reptiles, and their colours shimmered and changed in the moonlight.

  Grunnxe grinned as they progressed. An army of Solansia, enhanced by the creatures of their new master god. What fortune he had. The city was in sight, crippled and with a knife to its back. It would not take long to force the city on to its knees, so why wait? Why hold on in Apula for the rest of the winter months before taking Carte? It would be best to make for Carte with haste and crush the Free Provinces at its beating heart. Then Grunnxe could finally take his place back as the king of all the Cullanain. He smiled to himself.

  “Something pleases thee?”

  Grunnxe snapped his attention around towards the monotone Priestess beside him. A shiver crept down his back when he looked into the shadow of the hood. He hesitated a moment, but then felt a rush of blood; an injection of courage. “I was just thinking that perhaps we would be wise to move on the Carte once Apula looks to be in our hands. There is nothing to gain by allowing Carte time to prepare and recover from all the damage wrought on the Free Provinces. The Master God wants dominion. Well, this way he can have it all. We can take them all and Solansia can have its rightful place in the world again.”

  The Priestess laughed, an empty tinny noise.

  Grunnxe felt anger flush from his belly and up his throat. “What?”

  “And you shall be king of all.” The Priestess laughed again before falling silent.

  Grunnxe fidgeted and looked about during the prolonged silence.

  “Your thirst for blood pleases the Master. He told me himself.”

  “Huh,” Grunnxe mused. He was still not convinced about this silent link the Priestess had with the Master God.

  “But I think you greedy and feel you foolish to rush—” The Priestess was hit again with a flash to the head.

  Grunnxe looked in shock and his hands began to tremble.

  The Priestess raised her head and spoke, her voice weaker and contrite, “I forget my place and spoke out of turn. The Master has told me we must set the city of Apula to the sword. If victory is within our sights, then the Master will see that an army is placed before Carte, but we must guarantee the destruction of Carte, and the death of every Tuannan, and all that remains of the High Command.”

  Grunnxe smiled. The Priestess in conflict with the Master God; it could only be good for him. King of all and chief next to the Master God, Balzath.

  An intense heat spread from Grunnxe’s feet, rising up his legs and around his middle. The heat spread down his fingers and up his arms before swamping up over his neck and into his head. The sensation intoxicated him and he felt comfort. Then came a vicious flash and intense, hateful flames. Something snapped and clawed in his mind. There was fury and pain. So much pain. More than he could endure. And then light.

  A low voice growled in Grunnxe’s head, at first striking terror into his heart, but then he felt ease. “My child, hear thy Father’s voice.”

  I hear you, Father.

  “Thou art to sit at my side, foremost amongst my children. Carte must fall. See this done and Bhalur shall be in thrall to thee.”

  Grunnxe realised it was the once-god Bhalur, deposed, weakened, and now forced to serve one whom was once his subordinate. Grunnxe thought of being free of the yoke of the Priestess and serving Balzath by destroying Carte. He smiled.

  It will be an honour, believe me.

  *

  Thaskil leaned against the cold stone of the dungeon corridor, peering into the darkness of Bergnon’s cell. From the flickering orange glow of the few lamps along the wall, he could just make out the form of Bergnon, knees pulled up to his chest with head and arms resting motionless. Thaskil looked at the piece of parchment in his hand, deliberating whether Bergnon deserved to be told the news of his wife. His stomach reeled with anger, fear, anxiety; it didn’t matter.

  “I can hear you breathing,” Bergnon croaked without moving his head.

  Thaskil approached the bars of the cell, dropping himself into a chair with a sigh.

  “How’re the defences looking?” Bergnon asked, raising his head to reveal angry purple bruises along one side of his face. His nose had been broken.

  Thaskil snorted and looked away, shaking his head in disgust. “How’re they looking?” he shouted. “You blew a fucking hole in them. The walls had never been breached before and you blew a fucking hole in them!”

  “Forgive me, but it wasn’t me who set the fire that caused the explosion.”

  Thaskil’s face twisted in hate. You may as well have, just as you may as well have killed Arrlun, and every man, every woman, and every child that will die, be widowed, or orphaned as a result of what has been done and what is still to come.

  “I’m sorry.” Bergnon shook his head and settled it back against his knees.

  “Sorry for what.” Thaskil leaned forward, his face almost pressing on the bars, “Sorry for selling us out? Sorry for Arrlun? Sorry for the quick tongue that will soon be sticking fat out of your head?”

  Bergnon looked up, his bloated face drawing not a hint of sympathy from Thaskil. “I’m sorry for everything, lad. Whether you believe it or not, I would give it all back. I would sacrifice myself, if only she were safe. I’m sorry for it all.” He buried his head into his knees and sobbed.

  Thaskil looked at the parchment in his hand and back at Bergnon.

  The beaten major raised his head again. A long, thin string of snot stretched from his arm to his nose before breaking. “You would be doing me a kindness, lad, if you were to kill me now. This world is
just full of blackness and, without her, there will never be light again.” Bergnon stood. The coldness of the dungeon and his beatings caused him to stiffen. He walked towards the bars, close enough for Thaskil to smell the stale stink of blood and sweat, and stood half a sword’s length from Thaskil.

  All I need to do is drive my hilt home and you’re done. The urge to run the traitor through was strong, but Thaskil resisted. There would no doubt be enough blood to come and he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted Bergnon’s on his hands, despite it all.

  They stared for a long moment, holding each other’s gaze, unflinching.

  That man despairs. Thaskil stood and placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  Bergnon pressed his chest against the bars, his eyes widening, despite the swelling.

  “I’m not going to kill you today.” Thaskil handed the piece of parchment to Bergnon. “Here, you may want to read this. Came from Carte by pigeon tonight.”

  Thaskil pulled back the chair and headed into the flickering amber light of the corridor. Those words will hurt him more than anything I can do to him. Death would be a mercy he doesn’t deserve.

  *

  Bergnon unrolled the small piece of parchment and strained his eyes in the flickering light as Thaskil’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

  He read the tight script and looked up, holding the parchment in trembling fingers and tears brimming in his eyes.

  “Thaskil, come back!” he shouted. His voice shook with emotion and wild sorrow contorted his face. “Thaskil, come back. She’s gone. I have nothing. Nothing more. Let me help. I can help you. I can stop this. Please!”