Red Season Rising (Red Season Series Book 1)

by D. M. Murray

  The young man darted off on his errand.

  Harruld continued pacing. “Canna has no blight, for we’ve imported much of our grain over the last years. Which means, to our knowledge, the blight is restricted to the Free Provinces. Enulin and the other southern regions have reported extensive failures in all but the immediate lands surrounding the cities. The same can’t be said for Apula. The blight has ruined all the lands, but the poppy bloom was strong again last winter, so I believe the decision was to make use of the good ground for crop. If it’s taken as well as they hoped, it will save us some heartache, and gold to boot.”

  The young guard entered the room once more, breathing heavily as he handed the map and quill to the governor, saluting before returning to his post outside the door.

  “Now, gentlemen, let us puzzle this out as best we can,” Harruld said as he spread the map out on the table. “Now, where did this one come from?” he asked, pointing the quill to one of the many urns.

  *

  “Have we got them all?” Harruld asked as he regarded his map. It was covered in crosses and notes, marking out the known or estimated location of each of the recovered urns.

  His companions leant over the table, reviewing the annotated document.

  “There have been none in from the east,” Olmat muttered.

  “None, indeed.” Harruld rubbed at his chin as he thought. “We can assume the western lands of Apula have been poisoned too. The blight there is consistent with everywhere else we’ve seen it, but with the surrounding plain cleared of the bloom and the good soil put to use, I think we can expect trouble. I think we can say with certainty now that Grunnxe’s aim is to take Apula. Why else would we find our croplands blighted in the west, but not entirely in the east? Grunnxe means to use the grain resource as provisions for his own troops. He has then a stronghold in the east of the Free Provinces and a springboard from which to strike west.” Harruld heaved out a shuddering breath. “Bergnon will see to it that the city doesn’t fall easily.”

  “But if it does, Grunnxe will strike us here.” Brother Anthony said. “Where he will find us hungry and weakened,”

  “We have grain shipments due from Canna, Brother,” Harruld said.

  “But if the shipments don’t make it,” Brother Anthony added quietly, “then Grunnxe has the capital, and he has the command.”

  “I’ve already dispatched ten of our Carte fleet to Nabruuk. Ten more will join them from Terna. The grain should be secured.”

  “My lord.” Anthony bowed subtlety. “Forgive me. I spoke with haste. Fear is my weakness.”

  The four older men looked up at the young holy man.

  “Fear is not weakness,” Sarbien corrected his son. “To have fear is to have wisdom. Know that we have Dajda on our side and we will face this coming storm and weather it.”

  “Yes, father,” Brother Anthony conceded, his eyes dropping to the floor.

  Capriath bent over and looked closely at the map on the table. “It doesn’t make sense to me.” He regarded the crosses marked on the map of the Free Provinces. “I would judge the equal distance between each of these crosses to be somewhere east of Carte.” He pursed his lips a moment and waggled a finger in front of his face. “But it’s not exact, not quite right in my mind yet. There are a few of these locations where crosses seem to throw me somewhat. There must be more of these urns towards the north, north-east, and south-east.” The old physician rubbed his watery blue eyes.

  “Can we extrapolate these onto the map by marking down known areas where crops have failed with signs of blight? Once we do that, we can mark the point at the core, surely?”

  Capriath nodded. “Aye, it’s worth a go.”

  “Here.” Harruld offered the quill.

  Capriath took the quill. His hand hovered above the map as he puzzled out locations in his head. Carefully, he marked small circles in the assumed locations of the urns, as well as the known sites of large-scale crop failures. He placed the quill on to the table beside the map and looked towards his colleagues. “There you are.” Capriath took a step back from the table to allow his companions to look at his work. “Now, in that circled area, where would you think would offer a sound place to sustain something best kept secret?”

  Harruld leant in to the map, and, after a moment, he let out a weary sign. “Shalima,” he muttered.

  “Shalima mines, indeed,” Capriath sighed.

  Harruld sighed. “Under our fucking noses.”

  *

  “We must understand their nature before we move too fast,” Capriath urged Governor Harruld in his study. “Give me some time to study the urns. We’ll be better equipped to face whatever is sustaining them if you spare me two days and nights with them.”

  “Capriath, time is not a luxury we can afford at the moment. We must move now.” Harruld cast a glance to Olmat, who shook his head subtly in disagreement. Harruld regarded the old physician for a moment and deferred to him. “You may have your two days and nights, but on the third morning, we’ll ride out to Shalima. I’ll have a unit of troops readied. Brother Anthony, return to your order and send me your abbot. We must have a company of your Tuannan.”

  “At once, my lord.” Brother Anthony swiftly left the room, his sandaled feet slapping on the stone floor as he hurried off.

  “You’d best get to work, Capriath,” Governor Harruld added before he too set off to make firm his arrangements.

  *

  Anthony slept uneasily. His mind flashed with images of the urns, of rotting matter and barren fields. He saw starving children, ragged and filthy. He saw children begging in the streets, and at the feet of invading troops. The troops laughed and kicked at the unfortunates. He saw sorrow and pain.

  Anthony screamed silently in his dream. He tried to lash out at the savage men, but he had no power there.

  His eyes flashed open and he sat up straight in his bed. The plain nightshirt clung to his thin frame such was the sweat that streamed from his body. The chill of the winter met the wetness of his skin in a treacherous union. He lay down within his cot, and drew his blanket tight. Anthony fell back into sleep, and fell deep. An intense heat spread from his feet, and rose up his legs and around his middle. The heat spread down his fingers and up his arms before swamping up over his neck and onto his head. Although at first the sensation intimidated him, it coaxed a sensation of comfort. It intoxicated him. Anthony fell deeper within sleep, and he gave himself up to the warmth. He drifted into a dream of heat, of light, and of celestial music.

  Then came a vicious flash, and intense, hateful flames. Something snapped and clawed in his mind. Then there was fury, and pain. So much pain. More than he could endure. Anthony felt his dry throat scream, but it was useless. His cry fell silent. The warmth that had intoxicated him now burned at his limbs and scorched his mind. He fought to waken, but it was no use. He was trapped. Surely he would die, he thought. Anthony’s mind turned to God.

  I give myself to you, Dajda. No sooner had he formed the thought than a burst of violent flame and savage, guttural screams crashed over him. The ferocity redoubled. His mind reeled after the most dreadful of assaults. But then calm, and light. Ease of breath and looseness of limb.

  “Anthony, my child,” a voice spoke to him. Although it soothed, he felt his skin prickle as the voice spoke. “Thou art safe here in the embrace of my love. I will not judge thou or cast dim light upon thine face for thy failings, for I am God, thy Father.”

  “Dajda, Mother,” Anthony spoke in his mind.

  Flames collided over him. He felt the vicious rebuke of the presence in his mind.

  “Curse this name, child, and utter it not. Do not thou durst to utter that name as thy Mother God. Dajda does not love thou, child. Dajda thinks of thou a wretch, naught but a rank cur. Why else hath thou been cursed? Why else hath thou been denied the gift? Dajda, does not love thou! Thy father and sister are held in a fulsome embrace by the betrayer Dajda. They hath been granted the gift and can call themselve
s amongst the Tuannan. Aye, child of mine, Dajda loves thy weak father and whore sister, but she does not love thou.”

  Anthony felt his mind break and emotion flood over him. Fear and sorrow. Betrayal and uncertainty.

  The voice continued to woo him; a sweet seduction of honeyed words arousing Anthony. “But I love thou. I love thou fully enough my child to protect thou. I love thou fully enough to bless thou for all thine days in this world. I wilt bless thou for all eternity. I love thou enough to bestow unto thou my gift. Thou wilt sit by me as one of my most holy and powerful Tuannan, and receive all of my love and my gifts.” Anthony felt a flush of warmth. “Set thy spirit unto the palm of mine hand, child. Come live with love in my house. Thy Father’s house.”

  *

  Anthony’s eyes flashed open. His nightshirt was dry and warm. His body felt strong and his mind alert. He swung his legs from the cot and placed his feet onto the stone floor. He pulled on his habit and kicked aside his sandals. An urge to go to the urns washed over him and he made his way out from his bedchamber and into the dull, flickering glow of the oil lamp-lit corridor.

  He quietly navigated his way through the corridors of the High Command, slipping into shadows when the sounds of movement drifted nearby. Carefully, he made his way to the basement, to where the urns were stored. Anthony felt his heart begin to race, only for a flush of warmth before calm washed over him, his Father’s encouragement.

  He descended the final steps toward the basement and carefully stole a glance towards the room from around the corner of the hall. There were no guards. Anthony strode forward towards the room in a dozen purposeful steps. Without breaking his stride, he reached for the handle and turned, his momentum causing him to slam his head into the rough grain of the locked door.

  In that brief moment, Brother Anthony remembered himself, and a flush of terror washed over him. “Dajda, help me!” He burned.

  “Dajda cannot hear thou! There is nought love but that of the Father. Abandon thy false betrayer. Use thy power, child. Use the gift I grant unto thou.”

  Anthony was aroused by the urge to use it, to realise at last the power gifted to Tuannan. All his life he had dreamt of mastering the power. All his life he had dreamt of being in such favour to receive the gift, and to follow his father and sister as one of the Tuannan. His breath heaved with lust.

  Anthony held his palm open before the lock of the door and concentrated. He asked his new God for the power. In that instant, the lock fizzed away in a puff of noxious gas and was no more. Anthony’s eyes rolled up in his head and he indulged in the spasm that ran down his body from his skull. This gift was great indeed.

  Still panting, he shoved the door open and beheld the urns that sat before him. The faintest whispers rose from them through the air towards him, and asked him to set them free. Anthony knew what he was to do next, and he walked steadily towards them.

  “Anthony, what are you doing, lad?” a voice called from behind.

  He turned toward the door and looked upon his uncle, Capriath.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” the old physician said.

  *

  Anthony stood panting heavily, his head bowed towards the floor.

  “Is there something wrong? Speak to me, lad.” Capriath urged as he stepped forward, stopping suddenly as his nephew lifted his head.

  Anthony’s ice-blue eyes were bloodshot and his mouth gaped. His lips hung like the hungry maw of a great moloser and dripped pink saliva.

  “By Dajda, child. What is wrong?” Capriath asked, edging back a step.

  Anthony began to rock from side to side. He fidgeted with himself and muttered as if he spoke to someone in the shadows.

  “My lad, who do you speak with?”

  “I speak with the Father.” Anthony leered. “The Father says you are a betrayer; nothing more. He says you mean to take my power from me and send me back to the feet of the Mother of Curs. He tells me to set forth my brothers and sisters, and purge you all of your weakness and sin. If I do this for the Father, I shall feel the strength of his love for me.”

  “No, Anthony, you are betrayed,” Capriath said as he backed away up the hallway. “These are words of deceit.”

  “Yes, Father. I will see thy command done.”

  “Anthony? Dajda!”

  “Say not that name!” Anthony shrieked.

  “Anthony, no!” Capriath cried. He quickly wove what power of protection he could, though it was no use. Dajda could not answer.

  Anthony bounded the few steps between them in an instant and shoved the old man, sending him crashing into the wall of the corridor with an explosion of breath from his lungs.

  Capriath slid down the wall onto the stone floor. He looked up to the form of Anthony panting above him, his face a mask of violent lust. Before Capriath could find any words, blows began to rain down upon him and the world for Capriath turned to blackness.

  *

  Anthony turned from the bloodied and battered body of Capriath and entered the room. The urns sung to him and his ecstasy peaked. He approached the clay vessels and rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing sticky blood onto his face. He reached down and picked up the nearest urn to him.

  Holding it tight under his left arm, his began steadily trying to dislodge the plug holding the urn shut. He requested the power of his new God to open the urn, but his plea was unanswered. As he struggled, light flooded the corridor, and sent shadows stretching along the wall in front of the door.

  “Child, the strength of man must set thine siblings free. Dost thou not love me?” the voice questioned.

  Anthony redoubled his efforts in time to see a party of command guards rush to the bloodied body of Capriath before casting the light of their lamps into the room with the urns, revealing Anthony.

  “Stop right there,” cried the first guard into the room, his sword levelled to the blood-spattered Anthony.

  As the guard’s colleagues joined him in the room, Anthony freed the plug. A hiss of pressurised gas filled the room with a thick, smoky mist. Next to fill the room was the choking and retching of the guards as they fell to their knees, eyes bulging and faces distorted in agony and terror.

  Anthony did not see a mist. Instead he saw only the beautiful fae beings that danced around the room, singing their heavenly songs. He had set his brothers and sisters free and was wrapped in the love of his new God. The children of the betrayer, Dajda, would pay for their sins.

  The eyes of the guards bulged in their blackening faces. Their tongues protruded purple and swollen from their mouths. Their skin burst with blood and dark, lumpy vomit flowed from their mouths.

  As the final guard choked out his last breath, Anthony hurriedly opened the rest of the urns, setting free the children of his new God. Such was the delight that enraptured him, he did not care that the corpses that surrounded him developed black and bulbous boils, some bursting and sending plumes of spores into the air. Nor did he care for their flesh rotting in places and sliding from the bones.

  Anthony’s rapture was so great, and his praise so rich that he did not even care as patches of flesh sloughed and fell from his own face and hands.

  *

  “Have you seen Capriath or Anthony this morning?” Harruld asked of Olmat as he shuffled into the governor’s chambers. Sarbien was already sat by the table.

  “I’ve not seen either,” Olmat said as he lowered himself into the seat with a groan.

  “I was just saying it’s unlike either of them to be late,” Sarbien said as he patted his older brother’s hand in a greeting of the morning. “How are you brother?” he asked.

  Olmat smiled and, in turn, placed his hand on that of his brother. “I’m well enough to come and speak. Well enough to tend the sick and injured, but I came this morning to tell you honestly I am not well enough to travel to Shalima with you. As much as the heart is willing, my body is failing me. The last transport from Hardalen to here took much from me, brother. To travel now, across land,
well, that, I fear, is a journey I cannot make. My time comes.” The older man’s startling blue eyes misted over as the wetness of tears formed on the lids.

  “I didn’t want to be the one to say, brother.” Sarbien smiled. “Not that you would have listened to me anyway.”

  Olmat laughed, a dry and wheezing noise. “Of course I wouldn’t have. I wiped your backside as a child. I’ll not take orders from you.”

  A knock thundered on Harruld’s door. Before Harruld had the chance to answer, a young guardsman burst in, such was his urgency.

  “I’m sorry for my intrusion, my lord, but I have grave news.”

  “Speak man!” Harruld barked.

  The guard snapped his eyes forward and relayed his report, “My lord, someone broke into the room you ordered the urns be stored in.”

  Olmat glanced towards his brother, and then towards the guard.

  The guard paused, his lips shook, as if the words trembled in his mouth. “I’m sorry, my lords,” the guard answered, keeping his eyes fixed on Harruld. “Lord Capriath’s body—“

  Olmat and Sarbien emitted strangled moans, halting the guard.

  The young guardsman continued, “Lord Capriath’s body was found in the basement, by the storeroom. Within the storeroom, there were four more bodies.”

  “My son?” Sarbien looked up as he fiercely wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “No, my lord. Brother Anthony was not amongst the dead.”

  “Thank Dajda,” Sarbien said as he placed his arm around his older brother.

  Harruld got up from behind his desk and moved towards the door of his chamber, opening and calling in the nearest guardsmen.