Red Season Rising (Red Season Series Book 1)

by D. M. Murray

  He led Thaskil out of the tent and into the pouring rain, using every ounce of control to numb his mind to the pain that shot through his leg as he moved.

  *

  Thaskil swallowed the last of his coffee as Sergeant Rushnall came storming into the mess tent, snapping to sodden attention before Bergnon.

  “Major, we’ve some militia reporting from the surrounds. What you wantin’ me to do with ’em?” The old sergeant cast his eye across Thaskil as he sat beside Bergnon, the greying warrior no doubt questioning the merit in placing one so young in such a position of authority.

  If Thaskil was being honest, he doubted the wisdom in it himself with almost every decision he made. His doubt had redoubled, now that he was without Arrlun. Where are you, friend. Come on back, I’m foundering here. Thaskil’s mind wandered back to their last exchanges. Bergnon’s behaviour had made Thaskil think again, there was something odd. I’m sorry, Arrlun. I should have at least listened to you, I should have at least. His mind then wandered to the book he had found. To the words Arrlun had written. Why did you write of the poppy fields? Did you mean me?

  “Lieutenant,” Bergnon’s voice said, snapping Thaskil from his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, sir, what was that?” Thaskil stammered.

  “Mind somewhere else, lad?” Bergnon gave him the narrow eye. “Were you listening?”

  “No, Major Bergnon. I missed that, sorry,” Thaskil apologised, fumbling his words like he’d been caught dozing by the schoolmaster.

  “Get yourself together, lad,” Bergnon scolded, his tone firm in front of the other troops. “There’s a damned war coming. Get your head in the right place before I drag it back to reality kicking and screaming. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Good. Now come with Sergeant Rushnall and me. We’re to review that troop of militia and assign men to supplement the city guard. You’ll take the men for the city with you when you return.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thaskil pushed the bench back and stood, allowing Bergnon to get out before following after the sergeant. Bergnon winced at the sudden movement.

  “Sir, are you ok?” Thaskil asked.

  “Fine, lad, just a sore leg is all,” Bergnon replied, clenching his jaw and standing before stiffly following into the driving rain.

  *

  Thaskil approached the militia standing at ease in haphazard ranks. Dozens of men sported grim faces. They wore mismatched uniforms of old alliance army, city guard, chainmail and boiled leather armour, procured from careers and battlefields of old. The weapons, however, winked in the morning gloom, their edges kept keen, no matter what years had added to their owners. Thaskil observed those assembled as Bergnon barked at them. Their faces were hard-bitten, eyes low and dark.

  Exactly the men we need. Men with appetite.

  *

  Bergnon reviewed the newly arrived militia as he stood before them. “My name is Major Bergnon.”

  Four men in the back rank, in filthy and tattered city guard uniforms, stared hard as he shouted his name. There you are. Evil-looking bastards, aren’t you? S’pose it takes one to know one.

  “I have assumed full control of the defensive command here at Apula, under the orders of the acting chief marshal of the High Command.” Sold my countrymen and my soul.

  “I am your commander. You will place your trust in me, above all else, as I will place my trust in you.” Don’t be so foolish as to trust me. I barely even trust myself.

  “Together, we will be able to hold back the tide of Grunnxe. We will break the enemy as it comes forth and we will keep our people safe.” Together, you bastards back there, you assassins and I, will rip these walls apart and send our people to the ravenous teeth of that evil old fuck.

  “I’ll be splitting you up. Some of you will remain here as part of the front line. The others will be sent to augment the city guard. Now, I ordered food supplies to be brought in this morning. Which of you lot brought them?”

  One of the men from the back rank raised his hand and called out to Bergnon. “T’was my men and I ‘at brought the supplies. They’re over there in ‘at wagon, Major.”

  Of course it was you. I could tell what kind of men you were when I saw you. Exactly the men I need. Men with black appetites.

  *

  Thaskil looked at the men along the back rank as they outlined their food supplies brought in from their township. Hard-looking men. Look like they’ve seen their share of action. Men well placed to face the horde on the front line.

  “You lot will head into the city and augment the guard,” Bergnon commanded. “Place your supplies by the armoury along the western wall. The quartermaster there will take charge of them. Make your way back to your rank at that point.”

  Thaskil felt uncertain for a moment, glancing between the militia and Bergnon. Would’ve thought the strong veterans should stay at the front. They’ve got the nerve.

  “Lieutenant!” Bergnon roared, his voice as loud and rough as Thaskil had ever heard it. It tore him from his musings with a cold snap that ran from his arse to the nape of his skull.

  “Major,” Thaskil said, jolting to reality.

  “Take the back five ranks into the city with you once we have their names. I want them to begin their training with the city guard immediately.”

  “Yes, Major, sir.” He snapped to attention.

  “I want these supplies left with the quartermaster at the western armoury. Allow these men to do so before they commit to their training. Best allow them the opportunity to take part in one of the later training drills. Understood?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.” As clear as if my head was up my arse.

  “Good,” Bergnon mumbled, his eyes scanning the militia. “Sergeant Rushnall.”

  The old soldier snapped to attention.

  “Get the men’s names in.”

  “Sir.” Rushnall stepped towards the ranks and began scratching names onto a large recruit book.

  Bergnon stepped towards Thaskil and leant in close.

  “Thaskil, I want you to make sure the men are able to deposit their supplies to the quartermaster at the western armoury. These men have served as city guard here before, they know the way. Make sure they are able to do so, understood?”

  “I’ll make sure it’s done,” Thaskil responded, his eyes focussing on a small red then pink stain spreading on the exposed edge of the quilted undershirt of Bergnon’s chain mail. A reddish drop ran down his neck and joined the growing stain.

  “Bergnon,” Thaskil muttered.

  “What, lad?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  *

  Thaskil didn’t notice the rain slapping against his face in thick, cold sheets as he rode back to Apula at the head of the new ranks of militia. He couldn’t even recall entering the city, or the militia splitting off for the western gate armoury. No, Thaskil’s thoughts were entirely elsewhere. Bergnon’s reaction to his bleeding head was a puzzle for sure. He ignored Thaskil’s question; paid no heed whatsoever to his wound and simply walked off with an obvious limp in his stride. What could have happened to him? Had he been in a fight? A weight grew in Thaskil’s stomach with every tangled, brooding thought.

  Something’s wrong, Arrlun. Something’s very badly wrong.

  *

  The afternoon sky turned from lead grey to black as the storm rolled in. Peals of thunder crashed as the rain hammered down into flash floods that gushed in the drains at the sides of Apula’s streets. A rank, dismal-looking hound stood in the middle of the cobbled street, levelling an aggressive challenge as the militia bore down on it with their cart.

  “Get outta here, dirty mutt.” The brute beside the cart horse swung a heavy boot, narrowly missing the miserable cur as it tucked its rear end in and bolted away with a yelp.

  The man looked ahead as lightning flashed above, casting the streets in momentary greasy white light.

  “Reckon that’ll be our place over by th
at wall, eh?” the man leading the cart asked his companion.

  The brute beside grunted something, but did not move.

  “Well,” the man leading the cart snapped, “go and fuckin’ check!”

  The brute grunted again and spat, half of which fell in snotty beads down his own filthy tabard, before setting off towards the building. He reached the door and hammered on it.

  Silence. There was light coming from the building, no doubt, but no answer.

  The brute turned his heavy-browed head towards his companions and shrugged his massive shoulders. The man with the cart horse urged another knock from the brute, who shrugged, dribbled yet more spit, and pounded again. One knock, two knocks, three—

  “What the fuck do you want?” An equally large and ape-faced city guard opened the door, his features knotted into a mask of aggression before easing and splitting in a wicked grin of tabac-stained teeth. “Eck,” the city guard barked with a smile, “reckon you’re lucky I didn’t gone and have you run through, eh!”

  “Brostoff,” the brute called Eck muttered, “got stuff.” He nodded over his shoulder towards the cart.

  “Bring the cart down here. To the front.” Brostoff waved his hand towards the rest of his men, who shambled the cart towards the building.

  The man leading the horse aimed a kick at the shivering mutt as he passed. The cur barked half-hearted defiance before slinking off into a dark alleyway.

  “Glad to see you arseholes made it.” Brostoff clapped the man on the shoulder as he stopped the cart outside the armoury. “So that bloody Bergnon didn’t get you all killed then? S’pose that’s something, at least.”

  “He’s cold, I reckon,” the brute grumbled as he stepped into the armoury.

  The rest of his companions followed in after him, nodding to their comrades dressed in fresh city guard uniforms.

  “Psst,” Brostoff spat. “He’s wetter than a fish that’s gone pissed itself.” He laughed at his own joke and led the men towards the back wall of the armoury. “Come here.” He guided the brute by the shoulder. “Take a look and see what we’ve been busy with.” He smiled and nodded his head to one of the men who stood by the wall, one hand holding onto the corner of a huge sheet that hung against it. “Go on.”

  The sheet fell down in a flap.

  “Aye,” the brute muttered, “nice big hole you’ve made.”

  “Right into the western wall. She’s keyed right in.” Brostoff grinned.

  “Guess we’d best get the stuff then, eh?”

  “Aye, guess you should and all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “You’ll simply have to wait a moment!” the bandy-legged officer snapped.

  Sarbien looked at the six soldiers with exasperation. “Captain Tyrnan, not that you’d know, lad, but time is somewhat precious.” Sarbien pressed, leaning over the horn of his saddle. “Perhaps you’re not fully aware, but there is a war coming!” Sarbien almost screamed the last words, such was his frustration at the rest breaks.

  Captain Tyrnan turned away from Sarbien, who sat astride his horse, surrounded by the party of Tuannan. He plugged the cork on his waterskin and fastened it to the skirt of his saddle, tying off the loose tongs of leather. When Tyrnan spoke, his voice was calm and steady. “For a man reputed to have travelled far and wide, you’ve a distinct lack of appreciation for the levels of endurance of your beasts.” Tyrnan turned and faced Sarbien. “We could keep pressing the horses, as you wish, and we would reach Shalima before long, but you would soon find yourself walking home.”

  Sarbien held Tyrnan’s cool gaze. It had been a long time since anyone but Evelyne had chastised him so.

  “You’d hardly be much use to the war effort if you walked all the way back to Carte.”

  Sarbien’s face didn’t flinch.

  “I’ve worked with horses my whole life, as did my old man, and his father before him. Now, we’ve been pressing them too hard, and made good pace for that price, but rest assured, there will be a price.”

  Sarbien grumbled and leaned back from the horn of his saddle, his shoulders dropping. He turned and looked at his companions. Several shrugged their shoulders in supplication as he caught their eyes.

  “How long will they need?” Sarbien conceded.

  “Allow them to drink and feed,” Tyrnan replied, his tone showing no sign of irritation. “They should be fine after an hour, but we should stop again after supper and rest for the night. If we run them through the night again, it would be foolish.”

  Sarbien grumbled and winced like he smelled something foul. “I suppose we can rest up in that case. We should still make Shalima by mid-morning tomorrow, shouldn’t we?”

  Tyrnan nodded. “By my reckoning, if we leave at sunrise we should be there by mid-morning, yes.” He offered a smile to Sarbien. “It beats arriving in that place at night,” the bandy-legged man added with his smile widening on his thin face. “I hear spirits reside in the dark reaches of that place.”

  Sarbien tried to return a smile, but felt the cringe corrupting it. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  *

  Hot, foetid air wafted upwards into Anthony’s path as his feet fumbled in the dark of the abandoned mine shaft. His ragged whispers slithered out ahead of him and into the black, leading the way for him into the bowels of the place. The Master’s words of encouragement were his only companions, blackened whispers sustaining his dark desires. Soon enough, he would at last be gifted the enormous strength his former god, Dajda, the liar, refused him. Soon enough, Anthony would serve the great and kind Master God, and drive the disbelievers into a sea of blood. Soon enough. Soon enough.

  *

  “What’s that?” Sarbien asked Captain Tyrnan.

  They sat on their horses looking down the track ahead of them.

  “Dead horse,” Tyrnan replied, his hand fishing in his satchel for his eyeglass.

  “Is there a rider?” Sarbien’s eyes strained towards the distant carcass.

  “Don’t think so,” Sarbien muttered.

  Tyrnan found his eyeglass and snapped it to full length, the brass polished and glinting in the sun. He shifted the end around the area of the horse and then snapped it shut with an efficient click. “No one about. Can’t see any obvious wound on the beast. Reckon I’ll go take a look. You all stay here.” Tyrnan nodded to his second and drove his heels into his horse’s flanks, trotting off down the track towards the dead animal.

  A few minutes later Tyrnan returned to the group of Tuannan and soldiers.

  “Looks like it died from exhaustion,” he grumbled. “Bled out of the nose and mouth. Would say its lungs went, alright.”

  Sarbien frowned.

  “Can we speak a moment?” Tyrnan asked.

  He nodded his head to the side of the track and moved his horse away from the rest of the group. Sarbien directed his horse to follow suit.

  Once out of earshot of their companions, Tyrnan leaned in towards Sarbien from his saddle. “I know my men and I have been assigned to your group to afford you some form of protection given the current circumstance, however it’s not yet been made clear to me the exact nature of your mission. Now, what is nagging at me is this: why would there be a horse lying here dead from exhaustion on the road to Shalima unless someone was trying to get there before us?” Tyrnan didn’t even blink, his voice steady and calm.

  Sarbien’s eyes flashed over Tyrnan’s shoulder and settled on the dead horse lying up the track. A carrion crow flapped and hopped on its neck and began pecking at flesh. He blinked back at Tyrnan. “We think that some dark arts are being performed in Shalima. We mean to put an end to this, for it appears that whoever has been practising them has sided with a terrible enemy of Dajda.”

  Tyrnan’s face was a mask. “Those jars that were brought in from around the country, the ones that folk were saying were cursed, is that what this is all about?”

  “Aye, seems they have a role in this. We think that someone within the order has betrayed
us. Perhaps it was they who exhausted the beast in order to return to sanctuary.”

  Tyrnan nodded. “Well, at least it’s only the one horse.” He glanced over Sarbien’s shoulder at the five other soldiers and the group of Tuannan. “I just hope whatever is in those mines doesn’t outnumber us too cruelly.”

  *

  A commotion was taking place outside Harruld’s study as he gazed over Carte, his focus locked on the harbour-front in the distance, the lead-grey sea blending into the bleakness of the cold horizon. Harruld turned his attention to the voices outside his door. Although muffled, it was not difficult to make out the gist of the dialogue.

  “But Lord Harruld insisted he must not be disturbed.” A wobble in the voice. Weakening resolve, no doubt.

  “Boy,” the other voice said, bristling with veiled warning, “I’ll hurt you.” Clear warning. “A lot.” Explicit warning.

  “Don’t doubt him, lad,” another voice spoke, softer this time. More reasoned.

  “No, Sergeant.” The guard’s voice was a strangled squeak. “I must insist—”

  There was a loud thump against the study’s oak door and a clanking of metal on stone. The study door swung open and an old warrior stepped inside over the guardsman’s unconscious body, whose helmet was still rocking around its conical point on the stone floor. A thinner man of equal years to the first stepped into the room. Another young guardsman stood open-mouthed by the door, staring at his formerly conscious colleague.

  Harruld grimaced towards the injured guard on the floor outside his study. “Sergeant Subath, did you really have to?”

  “Yes, My Lord. I believe I did,” the grizzled sergeant said, his eye twitching with irritation. “I warned him.”