Red Season Rising

by D. M. Murray

  Omree turned and clapped Thaskil on the shoulder. “It worked.”

  “Aye,” Thaskil agreed, “seems to have done. It’s just the small matter of the masses now tearing across the plain that we have to deal with.”

  “You’ve got your tactics sound. They won’t know what’s hit them.” Omree grinned and moved from the battlement to the masonry bulwark filling the breach.

  Thaskil stood and took one last look as the raiders ran towards Apula. That’s all well and good with this volley of raiders, but what do we do when the flames die down? “Archers,” he called before descending from the battlement, “at my command, fire into the kill zone. Fire!”

  *

  The explosion of light caused Grunnxe’s horse to rear, almost sending him crashing onto the ground. The horse settled and Grunnxe stared in disbelief as flames spread wide and tall in front of the breached walls of Apula, splitting the advancing troops.

  “Break the city’s back. I want Carte,” the voice of the Master God urged Grunnxe, causing his bowels to twitch and his head to pound.

  “What in the sweet, suffering fuck was that? Commanders, follow your men in. Make sure this city falls. No more tricks from them. Nothing else can be tolerated. Break this city in the name of the Master God, Balzath! Break it now!”

  His commanders made to protest, mouths working at words not yet issued.

  Grunnxe scoffed at their concerns. “We’ve no time for playing such games. The mouse can nip and run all it cares, but the cat shall have its way.”

  “Take Carte and grind it into dust. Within that city, there is a source of power than must be mine. Take Carte and bring me the heart of Dajda. My servants infest the dead and claim souls from Dajda. They make it ready.”

  The heart of Dajda? Grunnxe questioned.

  “There is one there who carries the Liar God in her heart. Take her and we shall hold dominion over all.”

  Grunnxe sensed urgency from the Master God pressing against his temples. Carte is far, Master.

  “I shall take thee in the palm of my hand and carry thee so. Go to the Valeswater.”

  As you will it, Master.

  *

  “But, Your Highness,” one of the commanders closest to him whispered, “the defenders are putting up stiff resistance. We’d be best to ensure the city falls before we split our forces.”

  Grunnxe clenched his teeth and leaned in close to the commander. “We have no time to dilly dally with Apula. It will fall. Just make sure it does. I will leave two further battalions here. The rest travel with me to Carte.”

  The commander swallowed his fear and saluted.

  Grunnxe leaned in close. “And one more thing. But for the fact no one could hear your dissent, I would’ve torn your throat out and bathed in your blood. Remember my mercy well next time you think to question your king and the voice of your master, Balzath.”

  The commander flinched in his saddle as an unseen force struck him.

  Grunnxe grinned and patted the commander’s thigh. “That’s just the warning. The real punishment would hurt a great deal more and it would last a long time.”

  Grunnxe spun in his horse, holding the attention of his remaining commanders. “Men, we march to the Valeswater. The Master God, shall spirit us to Carte, where we will crush the Free Provinces and take back the Cullanain in the name of Solansia and Balzath.” Grunnxe dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and caused it to rise up on its rear legs and paw at the air with its front hooves.

  The Priestess watched, now nothing more than a servant; the once-great Bhalur now whipped at the call of those who once served her so.

  *

  The little girl clung to Broden, though she had stopped sobbing. Exhausted, the young child had fallen asleep as he carried her up the stairs. Broden looked around in amazement while he and his platoon reached the large room within the cupola at the top of the cathedral.

  Weeks before, he had sat in this room surrounded by Tuannan chanting prayers of protection to Dajda. They were full of conviction; full of power. He looked now at pale and frightened faces as they entered the double doors. The holy men and women, the magic casters, the Tuannan, and a small number of worshippers, sat huddled in pockets across the large floor. There was no air of conviction, prayer, nor hope.

  “This man needs help. He’s hurt,” Broden’s voice boomed through the room. “Who among you can help?”

  There was silence amongst the gathered few, some heads even dipping down, cradled hopelessly in their arms.

  Broden’s face flushed and he huffed, turning to his platoon. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “I can help,” a young woman called out behind Broden and he turned, observing the Tuannan stepping her way between those seated on the floor.

  “Thank you,” Broden mumbled, bowing his head in respect to the young holy woman. “I’m Captain Broden of the High Command. One of my platoon is hurt. He’s bleeding badly.”

  “My name’s Althia,” the young woman said as she passed him and approached the injured guardsman. She hunkered down to the injured man and removed the makeshift dressing applied to the wound. “Take him to one of the quarters. I can treat him easier there. Follow me.” Althia passed through the double doors of the cupola, followed by Broden and the others.

  *

  “What happened to him?” Althia asked Broden as she pulled tight the final stitch on the guardsman’s neck.

  “One of those things bit him,” Broden whispered as he tucked the small, sleeping girl into one of the cots beside the injured guardsman. He brushed a long, red curl away from the sleeping child’s face with a thick finger and smiled. Same colour of hair as me.

  Althia tied off the stitch and bit the thread. “We were at prayer when they first came,” she almost whispered, looking down at her blood-stained fingers. “We could hear the screams from outside the cathedral. When we went to look, we saw people turning on each other. One of my fellow Tuannan went to intervene and was killed before us. He was torn to pieces by them. We panicked and shut the doors. All that were inside have remained so.”

  Broden sighed and leaned back from sitting on the end of the bed, his back resting against the stone wall. “Fear has stopped you opening your doors to others, save for when you thought the door would be broken down.”

  Althia sniffed and nodded her head. “Fear does strange things to a person,” she replied, looking up to Broden, shame in her eyes. “When tested, many of us will see the true colour of our character.” She looked back at the injured man. “Many of us who thought our souls strong and good have seen a harsh truth.”

  “You can always do more.” Broden peered out the window to see fat snowflakes flutter past, some sticking to the window pane. He looked back at Althia. “I mean, you could open your doors and receive the people. Give them succour where they can’t find it for themselves.”

  Her face was wrung with concern. “But those creatures?”

  “We have platoons of men clearing the city of them. We can rescue the people where they’re trapped and bring them here.”

  “The others,” Althia whispered, looking at the door. “They’ll not support you. Their fear’s too great.”

  “Are your people out there not worth the saving?” Broden shot his words angrily, causing the child to stir. He winced in a silent apology and rubbed the small girl’s back, hushing her. He looked back to see Althia smile. “What?” he whispered.

  “She looks like you.”

  Broden blushed and tried to fix a firm look on his face at the same time.

  “You know it is alright to be strong and caring at the same time.”

  Broden held Althia’s gaze. “Precisely my point.”

  *

  “These numbers can’t be right.” Kalfinar stood up from the ledger and rubbed his face. His eyes felt gritty and he needed to wash. He walked over to the window in Harruld’s study and peered out at the night. Fires had sprung up in several places throughout Carte. If you’re out there, B
roden, keep safe.

  He turned to face the gathered officers not yet posted throughout the city. “Have all of the garrisons and reserves come in from Ilsinuer?” Kalfinar asked, stepping back to the ledger. His finger traced the numbers presented by Merkham. “It just doesn’t seem right.” He looked at Merkham and his father.

  “It isn’t right,” Merkham replied without preamble. Dark circles rounded his eyes, causing him to look even more gaunt than usual. His mane of grey hair hung over his forehead with an almost oppressive-looking bulk. “Even if we left a skeleton force at each of the outlying garrisons, we should still have four thousand additional troops. Be it weather or a more sinister foe, something must be holding them up.”

  “Damn it,” Harruld snapped, causing his resting hounds to startle and look up at him as if chastened. “Our forces are diminished and on half-rations. Dajda lies deaf and sleeping, and our people are hiding from terror in our own city walls. Whatever else is to strike at us, it may as well do it now.” He looked out the window and choked on a rough laugh devoid of humour.

  “What is it?” Kalfinar asked, his brows furrowing.

  “It’s snowing,” Harruld grumbled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Keep firing!” Thaskil stood atop the crest of the bulwark that filled the breach. He roared to the bowmen on the battlements to either side of him. His throat was raw from shouting. He tasted blood, whether from his constant roaring of orders or from air so full of death, he wasn’t sure. “Keep those arrows coming!” The fewer swords we have to face in the breach, the better.

  He looked into the plain full of approaching raiders. The fire in the trench still burned bright and no more of the Solansian’s were coming from beyond the flames. The trench had done its job and split the army, for now at least. How long do we have before the flames die away?

  The raiders on the plain charged forward, an advancing tide of menace backlit by a wall of fire. Some were betrayed to the ground by scattered caltrops and some from the rain of flaming arrows descending from the night sky. Their high-pitched screams carried forward on the shimmering, fire-warmed air. Theirs numbers had diminished, that much was clear, but they were still outnumbered.

  Still so many. Thaskil felt his guts spasm as the Solansian forces bore down on him and the ranks by his sides. Breathe, just keep breathing. Thaskil glanced to his left.

  Sergeant Omree stood by him snarling, sword in one hand and battle-hammer in the other. Thaskil turned his head and looked at the defenders. Some bore faces of anger, and eyes filled with a fight and courage that was absent in him. Other faces did not look so brave. The majority of faces showed little but terror. Fearful eyes caught his look and flashed away, perhaps filled with shame. I share your shame, but I’ll not let it consume me.

  “Men!” Thaskil roared at the top of his voice. “I am afraid!” Eyes were drawn to him. “I’m shitting myself with the fear of it! But I will not let fear become me and neither should you. Our fear is our motivation. It is our fuel.”

  Eyes grew hard with fresh-born resilience.

  “Fuel your fire with fear and beat these fuckers back to the salt marshes they came from! Let’s send them skulking home as we have always done!”

  The roar from the defenders felt like it would lift Thaskil from his feet.

  This is a rank that won’t break. Thaskil turned and shouted down at the defenders on the city-side of the breach. Sergeant Rushnall stood at the front of the ranks, a vicious-looking, short-handled axe in one hand and a buckler on the other arm. “At my signal, Sergeant, come join the party.”

  Sergeant Rushnall grinned. “Leave me something to play with, lad!”

  Thaskil turned back and watched as the flood of armed troops hammered their way across the flat ground. His heart hammered faster than he thought possible. The tightness of his throat felt like he was being strangled. He was sure he had pissed himself, or at least was going to as soon as the blood came. He stilled his thoughts and looked at the plain. No winter poppies. A crop of corpses is all. Here they come.

  He felt like crying. He felt like laughing. Thaskil could smell them now. He could see individuals with glowing eyes approaching the bulwark. Ravenmaynes. He drew a long and steady breath through his nose. Opening his mouth, he snarled like a beast, and roared as loud as his ragged voice could manage. “Come on, you bastards!”

  The ranks roared with him, atop the masonry bulwark filling the breach in the walls.

  The first of the Solansian forces scrambled up the steep bulwark. Some stumbled amongst the uneven path and other fell as arrows, spearheads, and sharpened stakes punctured their flesh. But it was little impediment and the raiders scaled the piled masonry at speed.

  Here they come. Thaskil spun his battle-hatchet in his left hand and tightened the grip on his sword. Nearly. “Ready!” he roared, the cry echoed behind him in the ranks of the defenders. Nearly.

  The Solansians charged up the bulwark like a black tide rising to claim the sand for the sea; inevitable.

  Nothing is inevitable. “Fight!” Thaskil screamed aloud and burst forward, leading the ranks of defenders into the rushing menace.

  The first raider Thaskil dropped took a sideways slash of his sword in the face, taking half the black mask and the lower jaw on its way. The body crashed and was instantly replaced with another. Thaskil caught a sword thrust with his hatchet, pulling down and dragging the sword out of the way. He stabbed his sword point into the man’s mask, causing him to squeak.

  The backswing of another defender nearly caught Thaskil in the face as he engaged the next raider. He ducked backwards, bumping into one of his companions and setting the man off-balance. Thaskil righted himself and blocked the enemy’s sword stroke. He kicked out at the man, an unmasked Solansian, and plunged his sword into the man’s chest. As he withdrew, a fist smashed into the side of his head, causing him to stumble into the dying Solansian.

  Thaskil dragged himself to his feet. Black spots in his vision obscured his sight, but he saw enough to know the raider that had punched him was following up with a killing blow, except the enemy dropped to their knees with an arrow in the throat.

  Thaskil’s vision cleared as a huge raider cut down one of his city-folk in a bloody spray. The big bastard was fully seven feet tall. He lifted free his mask, showing the leering face of a Ravenmayne, teeth pointed and eyes blazing.

  “Come on, fucker!” Thaskil roared, closing the distance between them. He raised his sword in an overhand blow; a feint.

  The Ravenmayne met the sword stroke and leapt out of the way of Thaskil’s hatchet blow. Another Ravenmayne came at Thaskil from the left, but was cut down from a blow to the back before he engaged. Thaskil pressed on the big one, thrusting twice, causing the giant Ravenmayne to concede ground. The Ravenmayne stumbled and fell backwards onto the masonry. A stake point burst through the Ravenmayne’s chest, gore-covered.

  Keep going! Thaskil picked his next fight and stepped in, avoiding sprays of blood and flailing metal.

  Thaskil slashed, thrust, and kicked at any raiders who came his way. Hot blood splashed against his hands and face. Still, his grip held firm and he battled on. Parry, thrust, kick, slash. Thaskil screamed Dajda-knows-what in the face of the raiders as he slashed and thrust. The sound of crossbows loosening bolts sent a shiver down his spine. It was like the song of blood angels to him. The more dropped by the bolts, the better for all.

  Thaskil pushed a body off his sword and roared another order, “Rushnall, fold in!”

  The ranks of defenders on the bulwark swelled and the press of men started to form a knot around the congested raiders, making them so tightly choked that the raiders were unable to swing their weapons fully and, if they could, they slashed and stabbed at their own with backstrokes. The defenders pushed forwards, their ranks closing on the raiders like a noose looping the neck. The defenders met and tightened their hold, slashing the raiders down.

  Thaskil risked a glance behind him towards the plain; n
o further Solansian forces were charging them. His heart sprung and his pulse quickened. A flush of blood hammered from his ears all the way to his fingertips. May just do this!

  “Let’s finish them!” he roared aloud and leapt back into the fray, smashing aside a Solansian sword with his own and slapping the blade of his battle hatchet into the gap between face-guard and shoulder, showering himself in blood. He kicked the gasping raider out of his way and plunged his sword into the side of another before bringing his hatchet back down with a soppy crunch into a black-clad collarbone.

  All around him, raiders fell as disarray and panic spread. Bodies piled up as the defenders’ ranks tightened.

  No space to fight; no fight to offer. Thaskil kept swinging his weapons, sending more and more raiders to the ground while homing in on the centre of the rank.

  Other defenders following behind dispatched any wounded as they squeezed the enemy further.

  This is inevitable. Thaskil stepped back from the rank, another man taking his place and engaging the trapped raiders. He turned from the screaming, howling, ringing circle of men and looked around the bulwark.

  Bodies lay everywhere and a waterfall of blood and wasted life cascaded over the masonry of the breach. His head swam in the moment. He bent over, resting his blood-soaked hands on his blood-soaked trousers, and wretched up the contents of his stomach.