Книга - Darksoul

Darksoul
Anna Stephens


The thrilling sequel to GODBLIND, the biggest fantasy debut of 2017.The Wolves lie dead beside Rilpor’s soldiers, slaughtered at the hands of the Mireces and their fanatical army.The veil that once kept the Red Gods at bay has been left in tatters as the Dark Lady’s plans for the world come to fruition. Where the gods walk, blood is spilled on the earth.All that stands between the Mireces army and complete control of the Kingdom of Rilpor are the walls of its capital, Rilporin, and those besieged inside.But hope might yet bloom in the unlikeliest of places: in the heart of a former slave, in the mind of a soldier with the eyes of a fox, and in the hands of a general destined to be king.






















Copyright (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)


HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Anna Smith 2018

Map copyright © Sophie E. Tallis 2017

Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Anna Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008215941

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008215965

Version: 2018-07-12




Dedication (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)


For Mum, Dad, and Sam.

Thanks for letting me grow up weird.


Table of Contents

Cover (#ufe16d133-45c0-5311-b045-57af98ebf520)

Title Page (#ueffb613b-c02d-5a60-a79f-38167a65c69d)

Copyright (#u83476bd9-5ec4-5a51-bd2b-9249033b5e57)

Dedication (#u4ed15d96-5bc2-5394-96d3-3a79a9dde87d)

Map (#u7e83a2ad-11db-5baf-b00a-ba6539523ad7)

Durdil (#u2044f14f-e710-5004-921a-a44bbdf722ed)

Galtas (#uec5bbad2-78aa-5b46-b879-645e7867c1e4)

The Blessed One (#u59857956-7166-5e6b-b3d0-942c68f7511e)

Durdil (#u9023e0bd-55f7-50d2-93f4-6f87676eb7ac)

Galtas (#ufc0c0555-e487-5bff-acf4-53c83940400e)

Gilda (#ub4e69445-92e2-5919-b72a-d32e965ec616)

Dom (#u49f6661c-7704-5e74-b72a-7e40363d82df)



Durdil (#u3b088cfd-91ba-5c9f-a9b4-32cf81251735)



Corvus (#u16d9a79c-ab97-5533-a501-b44c517adada)



Mace (#uec90d223-aca7-5c5a-9976-007d310a5818)



Durdil (#u6f207ae9-6309-55e9-b893-31bdc562ceff)



Corvus (#ue350b67f-0e0a-5a90-b513-5b9ebde4766f)



Tara (#ued52d597-aa50-5ac8-947d-6bb8279ca7d3)



Gilda (#u82186cff-69c5-53bc-94e6-60e8f999822a)



Crys (#u3183a25a-5f01-54da-b258-6865baeeac79)



Rillirin (#ubf40ce90-a256-5084-9fdc-2dec24d391c3)



Mace (#u5f60d00f-5542-52f5-8fa6-855e85034ad5)



Rillirin (#u81fad2cc-2038-522e-a118-3ddd716225fc)



Galtas (#u6a9b77ea-d063-5eb6-90cd-b4cc947e7f96)



Crys (#u7e2ba33d-1b54-5d15-95d5-244923d7dc74)



Galtas (#ue7d89698-2feb-50d2-a9af-249dea7e49f0)



The Blessed One (#u4e8b90c6-65c1-5c0e-943c-5d33e391344b)



Durdil (#u5367e4e9-628a-5f5a-a74b-f0b1c7165b73)



Crys (#u5b5c4795-418b-5557-ad57-f370de4db243)



Durdil (#u9dfd765d-ce45-59e7-9979-b48135502f0e)



Corvus (#u53a279a7-4c6e-5ffb-bcb9-8c81262f03ac)



Tara (#u01ffc74c-bfb1-5bea-a322-a7ef881a5571)



Crys (#udbe2b1de-ad68-5426-990f-a892e96205c5)



Mace (#u758af6e6-3572-5f74-9b89-5a56b4a5d19e)



Rillirin (#ue9ff3ae1-5889-5316-a600-c6b1b38ac760)



Corvus (#u1b72e6e5-8b62-5ea6-8970-4f9fb9b19873)



Dom (#ua8efe985-3a8c-5d51-aadc-5d0be27fddbc)



Crys (#u3439920b-8195-582e-ae00-1b0b825cc73b)



The Blessed One (#ucaf7915c-8434-51de-ae6b-3f547f56cfa4)



Tara (#u1fb1f9d0-45d0-5172-afb8-18adcb58168d)



Corvus (#uff367073-4693-54f9-90af-2e68488c2676)



Tara (#u5b426b8f-e8cc-5b71-be5f-444ad887a9d9)



Galtas (#u95fa55d8-cbe7-5960-a523-644b87f664e6)



Corvus (#u5489ff9f-ddba-5d49-9e4f-af40fc13b9c3)



Mace (#u2a196041-81fc-5e17-b2ef-5b9223a3a174)



Crys (#ue17aa377-b9c4-5a03-9395-f1b4477e1eab)



Tara (#u32996dcd-543c-5839-acfa-9a0bcc8ccf32)



Crys (#ua5dee7e9-3569-51bc-a0c8-087b550ce351)



Dom (#u0bc3baaf-1944-543b-b8d3-df7e1245d0d1)



The Blessed One (#ud240b4b1-cdca-5bb8-8153-52162629e51b)



Dom (#ue5f2956d-4168-5f65-9577-0b178e1ad36e)



Crys (#ub9212caa-3ca6-5239-a8d6-6fd8e06817d7)



Rillirin (#u0723b156-5500-54dc-a8ad-3b5fb48dc2c0)



Corvus (#u281e5438-d532-50e8-b6ab-5ce316ac2b4a)



Mace (#u91032b81-08bc-50d6-a752-31eb00d81a6c)



Dom (#ua3b43eb6-b00d-5a2b-b8f9-0a38b432344f)



Tara (#u2feadada-5794-5833-b4b9-cd1a8869f3a9)



Mace (#u7b11fbd0-328f-521f-b2a0-b4669993d574)



Epilogue (#u39068a64-761d-5669-82ae-65bb3793541f)



Acknowledgments (#u23b5b3a9-1791-5812-91c3-ea6931df63d5)



By Anna Stephens (#ue6b3459a-b22a-5d14-ab6f-d9bbe085659d)



About the Publisher (#ubcefcc52-00e3-5896-8329-eb021dc896ae)










DURDIL (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)


Fourth moon, morning, day seventeen of the siege

King’s chamber, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

The last length of yellowed, crusted bandage came away with a soft sucking sound, and the sickly-sweet, hideous scent of rot plumed into the air. Hallos’s nose wrinkled; Durdil coughed hard and then snorted. It didn’t clear the stink. On the opposite side of the bed, two of the priests faltered in their chanting, and then, halting, retching, caught up with the others.

Durdil peered over Hallos’s shoulder. ‘How …’

‘How is he still alive? Gods only know,’ Hallos grunted. He used a long silver spoon with a slim bowl to poke at the wound and Durdil was reminded, sickeningly, of eating a custard tart. He swallowed, tasting bile. ‘The end’s near though, Durdil. Very near.’

‘And the enemy is clamouring at our gates,’ Durdil fretted. ‘I need to be on the wall. But … what if he wakes?’

Hallos jabbed the spoon against the neatly sutured, red and yellow, weeping flesh of Rastoth’s chest. The dying man moaned but did not stir. ‘He’s not waking up again, my friend,’ he said softly. ‘Not this side of the Light.’

He straightened and faced Durdil, and Durdil gritted his teeth against what he knew was coming. Again. ‘He may be unconscious, but he’s in unspeakable agony in there nonetheless. It’s time we eased his pain.’

‘He’s the king, Hallos. Ending his life would be regicide,’ Durdil said, weariness taking the fervour from his words so they just came out defeated instead. The voice in the back of his head agreed with the physician, pointed out that if it was him, he’d be begging them to do it. He pushed it away and looked to the priests for aid, but the most senior, Erik, gave a slow nod of agreement even as he prayed. No help there.

Hallos’s black eyebrows, flecked with grey these days, drew down and he touched Durdil’s arm. ‘It would be a mercy, Durdil. A mercy for your friend.’ Durdil opened his mouth but Hallos held up a finger. ‘Would you deny a soldier – an officer, even a prince – the grace on the field of battle? No. You’d end their agony and pray them into the Dancer’s embrace. Rastoth was a soldier, campaigned for years to the south and the east. Fought the Krikites, fought the Listrans. Treat him as a soldier one last time. Do him that honour and let us gift him into the Light.’

At his words the priests shifted their chanting and Durdil recognised the song of mourning and of celebration of a life well lived. They were singing as though he was already dead and Durdil’s last choice was taken from him.

His heart was breaking, had been breaking every hour of this endless, desperate siege. He was too tired to think clearly, too exhausted in body and mind to make any decision not immediately related to the preservation of the city for one more day. He had no idea what to do, why this decision had to fall to him. I’m the Commander of the Ranks, not the arbiter of life and death for kings. Not my king, anyway. Not Rastoth.

The king’s face was ashen, except for the hectic spots of red caused by the fever. Black lines ran from the neat tear in his chest and the lips of the wound were red, angry, puckered, straining at their stitches as they swelled. Monstrous and on the point of bursting. Obscene, over-ripe fruit that wanted only a touch, a breath, to split and spill its horror.

Durdil had chewed his lip to ribbons since the siege began and winced as he bit at it now. He scrubbed a hand across the back of his head and down his neck. Erik nodded again when he looked to him for aid. Hallos was waiting, the plea clear on his lips and in his eyes. Give him what he can’t ask for himself. Help him, as you’ve helped him all your life. Serve him.

‘I’ll tell the council he succumbed to his wound,’ Durdil said eventually. ‘They know it’s inevitable, so we’ll let them think it was a natural end. Otherwise, our noble Lords Lorca and Silais are likely stupid enough to accuse us of treason in the midst of this … mess.’

Each of the priests nodded and their voices swelled louder, urging Rastoth’s spirit to begin breaking its anchors to his dying, rotting flesh.

‘Opium?’ Hallos murmured, selecting a small jar with a hand that didn’t – and Durdil felt should – shake.

‘You’ll never get him to swallow it. Will you?’

Hallos’s smile was weary and sad. ‘There are things you will never know of my art, my old friend. Don’t worry. Just … say your goodbyes, yes? We should do it quickly, now the decision has been made. We should spare him any more of this … this sham of life.’

Hallos stepped out of his way and Durdil looked again at his king, his decades-long friend, lying still and pale against the pillows. Rastoth’s breath came in tiny pants, clammy sweat glistening in the gloom. His hands were claws. From the open window came the sound of a dog-boy playing with a litter of puppies, uncaring of the dying king or besieged city.

Durdil fell to one knee by the bed, his armour clattering about his shoulders. ‘Sire, forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘I should have protected you, kept you safe …’ The man might be old and mad, but he was Durdil’s king and Durdil’s friend.

‘I will save Rilporin, Rastoth. I will save our country and our gods, our people. All of it. I swear on my hope of reaching the Light. When we meet again, I …’ He choked back a sob.

Hallos squeezed past him and an involuntary denial sprang to Durdil’s lips, a hand reaching to stop the cup on its way to Rastoth’s lips.

Erik rounded the bed and pulled him gently to his feet. ‘Your last act for your king, Commander, should be the one that brings him peace,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t interfere now. Pray.’

Durdil’s lips began moving in prayer as the priests sang, as Hallos raised Rastoth’s head with pillows and tipped small, patient sips of wine and opium into his mouth, massaging his throat until he swallowed. Rastoth’s breathing slowed as the drug stole his pain, as it relaxed his limbs, as it took his mind far, far away from the ruin of his body and the ashes of his reign.

Durdil crowded close, found Rastoth’s leg beneath the covers and rested his hand there. ‘Marisa’s waiting,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Marisa and Janis both. In the Light. Waiting for you. Tell her I said hello and … and ask her to forgive me. I failed you, all three of you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

Something that might have been a smile, or just the last twitch of dying muscles, crossed his face, and then Rastoth the Kind, Rastoth the Mad, exhaled a last, bubbling breath and died.

Durdil stared in silence at the council gathered in the war room, his fingers steepled before his lips. His eyes were red with fatigue and grief, and he’d delivered the news of Rastoth’s death into a silence that was thick with alliances and churning with calculation. As expected, both Lords Lorca and Silais were clearly vying to win the majority of the council and be the next power in Rilporin. Perhaps even to sit on the throne.

‘My lords, as grievous as this news is, I will not be releasing it to the populace or the Rank. Nor will we be flying the scarlet or declaring a week of official mourning, as is customary. We are at war, my lords, and as of now martial law is in effect. Those of us who live to see the siege’s conclusion can carry out the funeral rites with all pomp and ceremony at that point. For now, we concern ourselves only with the fight.’

‘This is preposterous; you have not the authority,’ Lord Lorca began, his silver tongue momentarily losing its sheen. ‘King Rastoth must be—’

‘King Rastoth is dead. We the living have more important things to worry about than feasting his memory or arguing about interim governments. The state of the wall, for instance. The enemy’s trebuchets have been loosing at it for days now. The Stonemasons’ Guild is inspecting it daily for weaknesses. I’ve asked them to—’

‘You do not ask the stonemasons anything,’ Silais muttered, ‘not if you want them to actually do anything. You order them. Order, I say.’

‘Thank you for your opinion, Lord Silais, but they’re working ceaselessly and providing regular reports,’ Durdil said. ‘There is little more I, or they, can do than that. I have also spoken with the pigeon-master, and it appears that while he was in the city, Prince Rivil—’

‘King Rivil, surely,’ a voice said. Durdil glanced at Questrel Chamberlain. The man simpered and smoothed down his oiled hair. ‘By right and blood, my lords, Commander, the prince is now our king. Surely we should address him as such.’

A babble rose among the nobles, ermine flying as they gesticulated, the volume increasing, the tone becoming angry, strident. Durdil steepled his hands again and leant back in his chair, waiting, the sound of arguing noblemen washing over him.

It got louder before it got quieter, but eventually more and more councillors noticed Durdil was taking no part in the debate. They loathed him to a man, but he was Commander of the Ranks and led the defence. The decision, ultimately, was his. Either he opened the gates to Rivil, proclaiming him king … or he didn’t, proclaiming them all traitors to the throne.

A fine choice. I cannot wait to make it.

Durdil waited until there was silence, and then he waited a few moments longer until they were squirming.

‘My lords, Prince Rivil attempted regicide. Before that he was implicated in his own mother’s murder and converted to the bloodthirsty faith of our ancient enemies by way of killing his brother, the rightful heir to the throne. There is no man more unfit to rule our great country than he. As I began to say, the pigeon-master confirms that all birds trained to fly to Highcrop in Listre, the home of the only surviving – and distant – member of the line of succession, were killed by Rivil or the Lord Galtas Morellis. We cannot inform Lord Tresh that Rastoth has fallen, that Rivil is cast out of the succession. Once this siege is lifted, however, I will send an emissary to his lordship with all haste, informing him that he is now our king.’

‘Tresh? Never heard of ’im,’ a voice muttered.

‘Not even a full blood,’ another whispered. ‘More Listran than Rilporian. Listran, I ask you!’

‘Tresh is a bastard, isn’t he?’

‘King Tresh,’ Durdil snapped, his temper wearing ever thinner, ‘is by all accounts a studious man and astute judge of character. He will make a fine king, especially with a council such as this to advise him.’

To hinder him, to kiss his arse and bleed him dry and blind him to all but their wants, their needs, their desires. If only the gods would allow me to put every last bloody one of them in the catapult baskets and send them out to meet their foes.

Durdil bit down on a smile as he imagined the long, drawn-out wail of outrage Lorca would make as he flew skyward. Please, Dancer, just one.

‘Until then, my lords, we remain at war. And martial law is the order of the day.’

‘I support your proposal,’ Lorca said, though they both knew it was no such thing. ‘Take steps to curb the unruly peasantry even now hoarding food from their betters and breathe new strength into our men. A good thing, too. Some of them flag already.’

Already? They’ve been defending this city for over a fortnight. They’ve done more for Rilporin and its people in that time than you have in your entire life. They spend their lives like coppers, without thought, and they do it for the city and the king. They do it, gods love them, for me. And I have to order them to … calm, Durdil. Calm.

Durdil found that his grief and his fatigue combined to make a heady, dangerous, short-tempered brew. He raised his fist to his mouth and bit the knuckle hard, focusing on the pain as the muttering swelled anew.

‘If that is all, my lords, I have a wall to defend,’ he barked, screeching his chair back over the flagstones and cutting the conversation dead.

The council rose and paused; normally this was when they’d bow to the king. A couple dipped their heads in an awkward half-salute. Lorca’s pale eyes studied Durdil for a moment too long, and then he swept from the war room with his cronies hurrying after him.

Silais remained seated, inspecting his perfect fingernails until Lorca had cleared the doorway. It just wouldn’t do for him to be held up by the man. Durdil resisted the urge to spit on the table and stalked from the room, Hallos trailing miserably behind him and Major Vaunt bringing up the rear. In the days since the siege had begun, the hour in the war room was the only time most of his officers got away from the wall or the barracks or the hospital. Durdil had taken to rotating the privilege between them so that each of them had the excuse for a bath and a change of clothes every few days.

And aren’t they already seeing it as a luxury, he thought. How quickly the unbearable becomes normal. And now I have to tell my officers that Rastoth is dead and to keep it secret.

And there’s still no word from the North Rank. Where the bloody fuck are my reinforcements?




GALTAS (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)


Fourth moon, morning, day twenty-two of the siege

East Rank encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands

‘The siege progresses as expected, Sire.’ Galtas handed him the distance-viewer and waited while he scanned the wall, the men scurrying across its top and around its base like ants. ‘We are making good progress.’

‘Are we?’ Rivil turned a sour look on him, slapping the viewer in the palm of his hand and no doubt shaking the lenses out of alignment. ‘Are we really? Does it feel like that to you? Because it feels to me like we’ve been sitting on our arses for three weeks while our men attempt the wall and fail. Over and shitting over again.’

‘The siege towers are making a difference now,’ Galtas began, ‘and the trebuchets are definitely having an effect. You can see the defacement of the wall to our left of the gatehouse.’

‘Having an effect. Defacement,’ Rivil sneered. ‘You realise we’re destroying my fucking city in order to conquer it, don’t you? Or at least, we’re attempting to.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Why did I ever let you talk me into this mad scheme?’

Because you didn’t have a plan and your military mind consists of how many wagonloads of luxuries you can take on campaign rather than soldiers or weapons. Because you’re a spoilt little shit who’s never done a day’s work in your life and couldn’t plan a siege if your life depended on it. Oh wait, it does.

So does mine.

‘General Skerris approaches,’ Galtas said instead of voicing any of the thoughts hurtling around his brain.

The fat general of the East Rank wobbled to attention and saluted. ‘Prince Rivil, Lord Galtas,’ Skerris wheezed, ‘we’re about ready for another push, if you’d like to give the order? The Mireces are readying their new tower after the … mishap with the first. Trebuchets will keep up the bombardment until the troops are within range, then cease fire to avoid casualties. Our target is Second Last—’ he pointed a fat finger at Second Tower and Last Bastion, the section of wall to their left of the gatehouse. ‘The Mireces will assault Double First.’ He indicated First Bastion and First Tower to their right.

Skerris’s words conjured a vivid image of the Mireces’ first siege tower bright with flame as the defenders’ fire arrows lodged in the unprotected wood. It’d burnt fast and hard, killing several of the Raiders inside it. A fucking shambles.

‘Defenders’ll have to split their forces again. If we can establish a decent bridgehead this time …’ Skerris trailed off as Rivil’s scowl returned.

‘How many men have we lost so far?’ he snapped.

‘Some hundreds, Sire.’

‘It’s too slow, Skerris. All of this is too slow. We might have destroyed the West and North Ranks, but that incompetence at the harbour two weeks ago allowed fucking thousands of South Rankers into the city to reinforce the defenders. What if they’ve sent for the rest?’

‘Sire, we are doing all that we can. Progress is steady. Yesterday we held a bridgehead for the better part of three hours,’ Skerris added.

‘What do you want, a fucking medal?’ Rivil shouted. ‘We’re running out of artillery for the trebs and a bridgehead is not a bridgehead unless it accomplishes something other than the deaths of our men.’

‘Standard divide and conquer, Sire, and the same tactics will apply if the remainder of the South Rank does come. It may not look like it, but we’re doing well. We’re winning.’

It was probably the worst thing Skerris could have said. Rivil’s face purpled and saliva flew. ‘Winning? Does this look like fucking winning to you, fat man? We’re living in tents and shitting in fields while they live off the provisions of an entire city. They have months of supplies in there, hospitals, armouries, inns and cooks and clean clothes …’

Rivil stopped talking, and neither Galtas nor Skerris moved to fill the silence. Rivil’s temper had been shortening by the hour this last week. He faced the city again just as the lead trebuchet unloaded its stone at the wall. The ground in front was littered with spent boulders and giant slabs of rock that had been cracked off the outer face, all of which further hindered the ladder teams and siege towers.

‘Skerris, send the men, ours and the Mireces. Full assault. Galtas, you’re going with them.’

Galtas sputtered a laugh. Go into the city? As part of a ladder assault? ‘Sire, I’m not Rank-trained. I’ll be too slow up the ladder. I could better serve—’

‘The gods will watch over you,’ Rivil interrupted. ‘So you need not be afraid. If the Mireces have the balls for it, I’m sure you do too. I want you in Rilporin and I want definitive proof that my father is dead. These bastards are too motivated for my liking; the king clinging to life might be enough for them. Then I want you to do something to get us in, either frontal assault or a quiet infiltration. Either will suit.’

‘Do something?’ Galtas echoed. ‘Such as?’

Rivil snarled at him: ‘Improvise.’

Galtas’s face was wooden, unresponsive, but he managed a bow and plastered an insincere smile across his mouth. ‘As you command, Sire,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’ll see to the orders immediately. General, shall we?’

He stalked across the field towards the half of the Third Thousand whose turn it was to die today, his ears straining behind him for Rivil’s voice telling him he was joking. It didn’t come. Galtas would be running up the inside of a siege tower and out across a gangplank on to the wall while archers loosed shaft after shaft at him, or he’d be scaling a ladder along with the Rankers, up into enemy territory with arrows, rocks and boiling oil being poured down on his head, to roll on to the allure and face a thousand defenders.

Galtas was going to die.

‘His Highness is getting a little fractious, eh, milord?’ Skerris said as they marched towards the assault teams. On his right, Galtas could see a swarming mass of blue-clad Mireces readying themselves, their second siege tower, this one covered in fire-proof animal skins, already rumbling towards the wall.

‘Fractious?’ Galtas said, and then bit down on his response and chose other, less volatile, words. ‘He chafes at the delay. He is of course too valuable to risk at the wall, and so there is little he can do until we have forced an entry. He wishes to fight alongside his men, to lead them in battle.’

Galtas suspected Rivil wanted no such bloody thing, but he couldn’t exactly put forward his theory that Rivil just wanted the big chair and the shiny crown and someone else to do all the actual governing for him.

‘If it is the Lady’s will, he will get that chance,’ Skerris rumbled. ‘As for you, what’s your preference? Tower or ladder?’

‘I suppose a quiet way in through a gate is out of the question?’ Galtas quipped and Skerris laughed, slapped him on the back and knocked him off balance. ‘I would value your opinion on this one. Which is more likely to get me killed? And of course, there’s the matter of my disguise for once I’m in the city.’

‘Disguise?’

Galtas tapped his arm, the blue of his shirt visible between the half-sleeve of his mail and the thick leather vambrace. ‘Not sure I’ll get access to the king’s quarters or anywhere else dressed like this.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I’ll need the shirt off one of your corpses,’ Galtas said. ‘Clean, preferably.’

Skerris nodded slowly. ‘I understand. As for the way in, if you’re quick and the gods love you, the ladder’s your friend.’

I suspect the ladder’s my death, Galtas thought sourly. Still. The Lady’s will.




THE BLESSED ONE (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)


Fourth moon, morning, day twenty-two of the siege

Mireces encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands

There was a crackle to the air, and the fine hairs on the nape of Lanta’s neck and along her forearms stood erect. The gods were so close now, ever-present, like the scent of a lover on skin. She didn’t need to be in a sacred space to hear Them now; Their voices were everywhere and Their commands were simple: take the city, slaughter the inhabitants, burn the temples. Kill or convert, but leave no one alive who held the Dancer and the Fox God in their hearts.

Commands that filled Lanta with joy and holy fire. There would be thousands for sacrifice once the city fell, thousands whose blood would wet earth dedicated to the Dark Lady and Gosfath, God of Blood.

‘Your will, Red Ones. All this to your glory, all this in your names. Rilporin will fall and your children will rise in its place. Gilgoras will be yours.’ Lanta knelt in the grass of a spring morning, surrounded by the stink of thousands of warriors waiting their turn to fight and die.

No cave-temple rock walls lit with fire watched her prayers, no cold stone dug into her knees, witness to her ritual pain. Lanta knelt in the light of the world and the gods were there with her, in a country from which They’d been forced a millennium before. A shiver ran across her skin. They were under the same sun as her, no longer separated by an impenetrable veil but merely its tattered remnants. Gilgoras trembled beneath Their presence and Their vengeance would be terrible and beautiful in its glory.

She waited, but the Dark Lady did not summon her. Lanta’s disappointment was keen but she could understand the gods’ delight in being back in Gilgoras, free to roam Rilpor, Listre and Krike and visit those pockets of true believers that Lanta was convinced must still exist. The gods would speak when They needed to. They came when They chose, not when Lanta wished it. A lesson hard learned many years before. Until then, the children of the Dark Path knew what they had to do.

The Blessed One finished praying and eased herself to her feet, the sun warm on her scalp and the breeze gentle across her cheek. The gods may not have spoken, but still They hovered close, Their bloody wings outstretched across the army, shrouding it in divine right. Victory was promised, and Lanta would pay any price to ensure it was so. Pay it gladly, gleefully, secure in her righteousness.

She gazed at the city, and then around the vast expanse of the Wheat Lands. They called this place the bread basket of Rilpor, and this year those crops that hadn’t been trampled into the mud would feed Mireces bellies. More wheat than she’d ever seen. More crops, more grass, more flat farming land than Lanta had believed existed stretched around them and the city nestled in the embrace of Rilpor’s mighty rivers. All theirs soon enough.

‘As the gods will.’ Lanta sighed and looked back at the city again, grey walls looming over the plain like a storm front, scarred and battered and still imperious, intact and mocking their efforts. She brushed grass and flakes of dirt from her skirt. Of all she had expected of the holy war, the possibility that the siege would be boring hadn’t occurred to her. But the days had stretched, one into another, with no significant gains and more than a few losses.

Lanta’s thoughts strayed to Eagle Height and the women and children waiting in the snow and rock of the mountains. The snowmelt would be flooding down the narrow channels carved into the rock now, taking the unwary, driving carcasses, branches and stones before it, leaving the land behind cleansed. The slaves would be planting their own poor crops now, carrots and turnips in the hard ground, coaxing them to life with goat manure and prayers. Pask would sacrifice a man for their victory, and a woman that the crops would not fail, that there would be no late storms.

Eagle Height – home. She sighed, staring around the camp filled with the chatter of Mireces. It would be good to summon the women, children and priests after they had secured victory, to send them into the towns and villages like a sacred flood, driving all before them who would not live beneath their rule. Rilpor would become Mireces, and Rilporians would become their slaves. Once the city fell and the Flower-Whore and Her bastard Trickster son were dead, there was nothing they could not do.

Once the city fell. Lanta’s smile was grim. So much work still to do, even once all Rilpor was theirs.

‘What did you learn?’

The words startled her and Lanta returned to her surroundings. She faced Gilda and sneered. ‘Many things,’ she said, ‘things you would not understand, lost in your petty delusion that life is anything other than brutal and full of pain. You fail to see how, in accepting those things to honour our gods, that we become stronger.’

Gilda folded her hands over her stomach and gazed into the sky for a while. ‘You’re right,’ she said eventually, her eyes twinkling as they met Lanta’s, ‘there’s little I understand about your religion, about why you would choose a life of fear and an eternity of pain over a world of life and light and beauty and an afterlife of joy and oneness. Because life is hard, aye, but it isn’t brutal. Brutal’s what we do to each other. Hard is what the seasons do to us. But I meant, did you learn anything about the siege? Been going a while now, hasn’t it?’

‘I would not tell you if I did,’ Lanta snapped. ‘That is between the king, Rivil, myself and the gods.’

Gilda’s mouth quirked. ‘Oh,’ she said quietly, ‘you said “if I did”. So you didn’t, then. Learn anything. Gods not chatty today?’

Lanta’s fists clenched. ‘Don’t push me, old woman,’ she snapped, gathering up the chain attached to Gilda’s slave collar and jerking her forward. ‘There’s little reason for me to keep you around any more. Your sacrifice may speed along the siege and bring our victory that much sooner.’

Gilda grabbed her chain and tugged in turn, pulling Lanta a step closer to her. Lanta’s free hand dropped to her knife. ‘Then why don’t you?’ Gilda hissed. ‘Instead of the endless threats? Why don’t you just do it? I tire of your company, and frankly this camp stinks of shit. Do you people have no idea how to dig a latrine pit?’

Lanta pulled her knife. ‘Do you want those to be your last words?’ she snarled, pressing the knife to Gilda’s stomach.

Gilda laughed, loud and genuine. ‘Latrine pit,’ she repeated and broke into fresh giggles. ‘Why not? It’ll be something to tell my family when I see them in the Light.’

Lanta dug the tip of the knife in hard and Gilda’s amusement vanished like tears in a lake. ‘When you’re sacrificed, old woman, it won’t be the Light you go to, oh no. Sacrifice sends you somewhere very different. Sends you to the Afterworld, to the Red Gods and all Their faithful children. And when they learn what you are there, they’ll spend eternity tearing you to pieces. And you’ll feel it. You’ll feel everything. You’ll die a thousand times a day, every day, forever.’

There was sweat on Gilda’s forehead and she pulled hard on the chain to make some space between them. ‘That doesn’t sound like fun,’ she managed, but the fire was gone from her voice. ‘But that’s where you’ll go too, isn’t it? Why would you condemn yourself to that?’

Lanta scoffed and, letting her step back, sheathed her knife. ‘That’s not my fate. I will sit with the other Blessed Ones and enjoy the company of my gods. I will watch while the dead are given everything they were promised the Afterworld would provide – endless food, endless scores to settle, endless enemies to kill. They will run and kill and die and fuck in the bloody grass of the Afterworld for eternity. And you will be their favourite toy.’

Gilda licked her lips. ‘I see. Well, when you do get around to killing me, remind me to change my last words, will you? I think “Fuck you, cunt” has a better ring to it and, by all accounts, I’ll get to shout it at you on a daily basis forevermore. Wonder how many centuries it’ll take before it drives you mad.’ That insufferable grin returned. ‘I look forward to ruining your afterlife.’

Lanta’s lips drew back from her teeth, but before she could respond they were interrupted. Skerris, Corvus and Rivil walked along the invisible line that marked safe distance from the small catapults poking out at them from the four towers and the top of the gatehouse interrupting Rilporin’s great western wall.

‘You said the North Rank had been dealt with,’ Corvus said, a scowl marring his brow. Lanta moved closer, Gilda clanking along behind her like a reluctant puppy on a rope.

‘We acted to neutralise the North before leaving the forts to come here, yes,’ Skerris said. ‘I’ve faith in the scheme, Sire, but we’ve had no confirmation as yet that it was successful, though every day they don’t march over the horizon strengthens my conviction we dealt them a fatal blow. It’s possible the rest of the South Rank may come, and if so, combined with the defenders, they’ll very nearly match us in number. We propose that in such an event we would face the South on the field while your warriors ensured the city stays locked tighter than a miser’s purse. Keep the forces separate, crush them separately.’

‘If that day comes, General, we will do as you suggest,’ Corvus said. ‘But I hope to end this before then. I’ve men ready for the day’s push.’

‘As do I,’ Rivil said. ‘Shall we do as before? You take Double First and we’ll assault Second Last? My man Galtas will be going with them this time. He’s orders to infiltrate the palace and see what intelligence he can gather. He will attempt to sabotage one of the harbour gates.’ He gestured to either end of the wall. ‘You’ve seen that they’re secured behind the stump walls that stick out from the towers all the way to the water, but if he gets one open, wet feet or arrow volleys won’t stop us. We’re days away from victory; I can feel it.’

‘The Lady’s will,’ Lanta said and the men bobbed their heads. ‘Victory will come when the gods decide. Continue to play your parts in Their honour, and that victory may be soon. I will pray the assault is successful.’

Corvus came to a halt and faced the Rilporians. ‘Say we did take Rilporin before reinforcements arrive. What then? We end up being the ones besieged. Trapped inside a city we at least don’t know while its citizens and any surviving Palace Rankers use every building and alley as an ambush site to pick us off while the South Rank assaults the walls. You weren’t in Watchtown, Rivil, you don’t know how they used the very streets against us. We’d be massacred. Why not face them on the field, destroy them out here? I say we march out of Rilporin when the South is sighted, face them in open battle.’

Lanta understood his caution and shared his concern. The Rilporians were supremely confident in their forces, while the Mireces didn’t know the city and were far slower on the scaling ladders. The firing of their siege tower was an embarrassment and the second, while built, was lighter and less sturdy. Who knew what damage a direct strike from one of the tower catapults would cause. Though at least this one is fire-proof.

Corvus looked around the group, his face thoughtful. ‘The more I think about this, the more I wonder if we need to take it? Is conquering Rilporin our only option?’

‘What other choices are there?’ Rivil asked, spreading his hands in confusion. ‘What do you propose, that we destroy it?’

He laughed; Corvus didn’t and Lanta saw the path of his thinking stretching before them. We burnt Watchtown and killed the survivors. The gods have told us to cleanse the country of heathens. Why should we bother to take this city if we can achieve our ends with its destruction?

Excitement flared in her belly and Gilda’s chain rattled as she squeezed it. Skerris and Rivil were staring at them both with identical expressions of horrified disbelief.

‘Wait, you can’t be serious?’ Rivil demanded, his voice strident. ‘That’s my city, my fucking capital city and my home, the seat of my kingship. I won’t have you burn it to the ground and slaughter its inhabitants just because the cock-up at Watchtown has made you cowards—’

‘Prince Rivil,’ Lanta snapped in a tone as smooth as ice and just as chilly, faster even than Corvus’s hand went to his knife hilt, ‘we Mireces fear only the gods, as is right and proper. Your countrymen are nothing to us but meat to be ground under our heels. Moreover, we have been fighting, killing and dying for centuries in the names of the gods and we will do anything, anything They command to see Them return to Gilgoras as They deserve. You, meanwhile, have been a convert for a mere handful of years, your soldiers for a matter of weeks. Do not dare speak to us of cowardice, or of not doing all the gods require. You have done nothing but make demands of Them since you first stepped on to the Path. You should be wary lest the Dark Lady’s patience expire.’

Rivil flushed an angry red, but Skerris’s stony glare warned him to mind his tongue. ‘You are as wise as you are lovely, and I apologise for my hasty words,’ Rivil responded with clear effort. ‘It … galls me to think that Rilporin may have to be sacrificed for the glory of the gods.’

‘Nothing that is to the gods’ glory should be galling,’ Corvus put in. Behind her, Lanta heard Gilda snort and mutter something beneath her breath.

‘It is King Corvus you should apologise to,’ Lanta said and Rivil’s lip twitched. ‘It is his courage you have doubted, despite the fact that he himself fought in Watchtown while, so far, you have yet to set foot on the field.’

Rivil’s flush this time was even more pronounced, and Lanta took a brief pleasure in it, though she knew she played a dangerous game. It was not wise to taunt their allies; and, despite her words, victory was far from assured. If Rivil turned on them, or abstained from battle, they could still lose all.

‘King Corvus, my apologies,’ the prince grated. ‘The slowness of the siege wears upon me. But I will not see Rilporin razed to the ground unless there is no other possible route to victory. I will explore all those routes before I agree to such a scheme. Rilporin is mine, the throne is mine, and the gods will see me take my place upon it before long.’

Lanta bit the tip of her tongue to prevent her lips curling in disgust. You are a mewling boy spouting words you cannot understand. I was born into the gods’ bloody embrace, my soul wedded to the Dark Path before you first soiled your linens. And yet you presume to know Their will, Their desires for you? You have no humility, Prince, and you will be shown no mercy in consequence, in this world and the next.

‘If we did destroy Rilporin,’ Skerris said, to Rivil’s clear disgust, ‘then it would leave us without options if the South Rank comes. Capturing the city gives us power to negotiate, walls to shield our wounded, our holy.’ He gestured at Lanta. ‘Without Rilporin, we must fight, must win, on the very day the enemy arrives.’

‘We talk in circles,’ Corvus said, waving his hand and dismissing Skerris’s words, ‘and about things we cannot yet control. I have a third of the men from Cat Valley ready to assault the wall, with more held in reserve should the first wave be successful. The sun is not yet high; we have a whole day’s killing still to come. Let’s get on with it.’

Rivil opened his mouth but Skerris cut in, smooth and oblivious as though he didn’t know his prince was about to speak. ‘At once, Your Majesty. Sire, the Third Thousand is ready, as is Lord Morellis. With your permission?’

‘Yes, yes, send them in. Let’s hope they make a bloody dent in the enemy this time, eh?’ Rivil folded his arms and stood beside Corvus, affecting boredom as though the outcome meant nothing to him, while the two forces reacted to flag and drum and began to move, siege towers rumbling across the plain, assault teams carrying long, flexible scaling ladders scurrying behind them, trying to keep under cover as long as possible.

They picked up speed, only slowing as they wended their way through the debris at the base of the wall, until finally they splashed against the stone and began to climb.

‘My feet are on the Path,’ Lanta murmured. At her side, Gilda let out a noisy yawn and scuffed a foot in the grass.

‘What’s for lunch?’ she asked. Lanta gritted her teeth.




DURDIL (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)


Fourth moon, afternoon, day twenty-two of the siege

Gatehouse, western wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

He had three thousand men of the Palace Rank and the two Thousands he’d summoned from the South Rank, who’d arrived five days after the siege began and fought their way into the city from the River Gil. Five fucking thousand, or at least that’s what the numbers on the books said. Hundreds fewer now, and more wounded every day. Five thousand soldiers and more than double that in frantic civilians, a hundredth in hysterical nobles of every stripe, and a fifth in City Watch whose only skill was clubbing drunks and collecting taxes.

Durdil liked numbers to be neat and easily divisible, but right now he’d have settled for any number that had several zeros at the end of it and every one of them friendly, well armed and fucking lethal.

His face was neutral as he stood on the roof of the gatehouse with his hands resting on the waist-high wall. They’d forced back the latest assault after hours of close, bloody fighting, the Easterners and Mireces establishing multiple bridgeheads around their siege towers and ladders. Durdil’s arms and shoulders ached from wielding sword and knife, spear and shield. His voice was little more than a croak these days, and he was drinking honeyed water to try and restore its vigour.

Three weeks of frontal assaults, of ladders and siege towers and those godsdamned never-ending trebuchets sending rocks against the wall.

Three weeks and still no North Rank.

Perhaps there’s unrest on the border. Perhaps word’s reached Listre of our situation and the Dead Legion’s pushing into our lands, using our distraction against us. If the Legion can summon enough numbers, General Tariq won’t risk leaving the northern border open …

We’re on our own.

Durdil watched two men help a third into the stairwell, no doubt headed to the nearest hospital. It sparked a memory and he sighed, added checking on the numbers of wounded to the bottomless list of things he needed to do today. So many demands on his time, from appointing a new major into dead Wheeler’s position to combating the food hoarding, managing the production of replacement arms, and navigating the bloody council of bloody nobles and their endless, bloody stupid demands.

A figure erupted out of the stairwell leading down into the gatehouse and shouldered men aside, clouds of dust drifting from his beard and his enormous shoulders. Renik and Vaunt, Durdil’s surviving majors, spun to face him, hands on sword hilts, squinting up at the giant.

‘Commander Koridam, sir? Commander, it’s me, Merle Stonemason,’ the huge man said, in case anyone could mistake him for someone who didn’t haul blocks of stone around all day. ‘You got a problem, Commander. So we’ve all got a problem.’

‘Merle Stonemason, what news then?’ Durdil asked heavily. ‘I do hope it’s not a big problem. We’ve already got rather a lot of those.’ Flippancy didn’t work on Merle, or on Durdil for that matter, and a cold weight settled into his stomach as the honest brow of the stonemason crinkled.

‘Me and a couple of the lads checked the wall this morning as per your orders, sir, like we done every morning. She’s been taking more of a pounding than a two-copper whore since this siege began and …’

Durdil bit hard on the inside of his cheek. ‘And?’ he asked, straining for calm. He could feel sweat gathering at his hairline.

Merle stroked his beard, loosing a small drift of dust and stone chips to patter down his shirt. He brushed them away and shifted, uneasy. ‘And like said lady of easy affections, the wall’s well and truly fucked, Commander.’

Durdil went very still, blood tingling in every limb as something screamed at him to run, run anywhere, just away. ‘Wall’s what?’ he croaked, resisting the urge to press a hand to the slowly tightening band around his chest. Now was really not the time for another heart twinge.

‘We done some digging around, Commander, on the wall and in the guildhouse. Those repairs you ordered three years ago?’ He pointed to Second Last, the end that the East Rank had been bombarding ever since they’d arrived. Durdil nodded, dumb.

‘Didn’t happen. Oh, they did some superficial work down past Second Tower just to make it look like everything was going to plan, but it’s a veneer of good stone over rotten stone that should’ve been chipped out and replaced. You weaken that wall enough, it’s coming down, sir. Ain’t nothing there to stop it. And …’ He paused, awkward, and Durdil’s chest tightened a little more, ‘far as we can tell from the paperwork, well, the order to make good rather than mend come from the palace, sir.’

Durdil inhaled through his nostrils with a squeak. His majors were silent statues of denial. It was testament to Durdil’s desperation that he got hold of Merle with one hand and dragged him to the outer edge of the wall, the huge man bobbing along behind him like a cork on a stream. Durdil leant between two merlons and jerked a finger across and downwards.

‘You telling me this wall will crumble? When? How long can it stand?’

Merle didn’t protest being manhandled, probably too surprised someone had managed it to take umbrage. ‘Gatehouse is always the weakest point, Commander, on account of the huge fucking tunnel cut through it. But having walked the length of this wall this morning, and done what tests I can without alerting suspicion, I can tell you the section between Second Tower and Last Bastion is just as weak, where the repairs were supposed to get done and weren’t. She ain’t cracking yet, but when she does …’

‘They knew this,’ Durdil hissed, pointing at the trebuchets and the army behind them. ‘Rivil and that one-eyed shit Galtas knew those repairs hadn’t been made. Have they really been planning this for three years?’

‘Couldn’t say, Commander,’ Merle said as though the question hadn’t been rhetorical. Together they watched as one of the trebuchets unwound and unleashed a rock the size of a carthorse. It tumbled end over end towards the wall between Second Tower and Last Bastion, smashing into the stone with a jarring impact they could feel from the gatehouse. Merle leant dangerously far out over the wall and squinted along its length, as though he could see the damage from here.

Then he stood back and rubbed his palms hissing together. He smelt of smashed rock and sweat. ‘If they’re not stopped, Commander, and emergency repairs aren’t made, I reckon they could get through there in a few more weeks. Same with the gatehouse, if they put their minds to it.’

‘I’m not liking this conversation, Merle,’ Durdil said, amazed at the steadiness of his voice. Bile coated his teeth.

‘Me neither, sir,’ the big man said, ‘but them’s the facts.’

Major Renik was pale as snow and clutching at the healing wound in his side as though Merle’s words had reopened it. Major Vaunt had turned to a pair of runners and sent them for Durdil’s colonels, Yarrow and Edris.

Three weeks to full breach and no reinforcements. Nothing from Mace and the West Rank, nothing from Tariq in the north.

Three weeks until there’re Mireces and heathens killing door to door and raping anything that moves.

Durdil bit down on the surge of nausea, sucked in air and tried to think. Merle was watching him with much the same expression as an ox facing the poleaxe. Durdil wanted to punch the merlons but knew it’d not only hurt his knuckles but, if Merle was to be believed, might actually bring the bloody wall down.

‘How many good masons do you have, Merle?’ he asked, working hard at maintaining a neutral tone.

‘Eight.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘For what I think you’re suggesting? No. But I can muster a dozen skilled apprentices for the carrying and the labour once we’ve chipped out the worst stone. O’course, we’re weakening the wall further by doing that. You need to get those trebuchets off us for a day at the least. Mortar’ll take time to set. Day and night’d be preferable, two days and a night ideal.’

‘Impossible,’ Vaunt murmured, ‘not unless we send a suicide mission out there in the middle of the night to disable the engines.’

‘Right now, there isn’t an idea I’m not prepared to consider, suicide missions included,’ Durdil snapped.

Colonels Edris and Yarrow appeared on the top of the gatehouse and Renik moved towards them, speaking quickly and quietly, giving them the latest. Both men swore and then crowded close to Durdil to listen.

‘Get your masons and get on it. I want the stone ready and waiting to be put in as soon as the old stuff is removed. But I don’t want you doing that until you hear from me.’ Durdil glanced past Merle at his officers. They nodded, grim-faced. ‘I can guarantee each one of the masons a lordship and ten gold kings to the apprentices if the wall holds,’ Durdil added, wondering if he could.

Merle looked affronted. ‘I don’t want so much as a copper knight, let alone a gold king or a lordship, Commander,’ he protested, waving hands like hams in the air between them. ‘You can have my skill and my time and my sweat for nothing more than food and drink to keep me working. And I can say the same for maybe half my men. The rest, well, best keep that coin to hand. I won’t mention the lordships and my advice is you don’t either. We’ve seen enough poor nobles lurking around the palace that a title don’t hold as much enchantment as gold. For me, though, my promise is good. Feed me and keep me in water and weak ale and I’ll see you well reimbursed.’

Durdil did a mental adjustment of the man before him and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. Greatest city in the world, they say, he thought as he resisted the urge to throw his arms around the massive mason.

‘Forgive me, Stonemason, I didn’t mean to impugn your honour. These are … trying times. For now, send me numbers of how many men you need to cut, dress or transport stone, and what help the Watch and the citizenry can be in this matter. I’m afraid we won’t be able to spare you any soldiers.’

‘Send them to me,’ Yarrow interrupted, ‘Second Last is my command. I’ll see it done, sir.’

Durdil nodded and felt the smallest easing of tension. Someone else to share the burden. Thank the gods he’d invested so much time in training his subordinates, in insisting that the best men be stationed in the city to guard the king.

Not that that had saved him.

Merle clapped his hands. ‘Strong backs and uncomplaining natures would be most welcome. At least three score to get us moving at speed.’

‘I’ll get them to the guildhouse by dusk, Stonemason,’ Yarrow said, saluted and disappeared.

‘And the gatehouse?’ Durdil asked as Merle began to edge towards the stairs after him. ‘What can we do with that?’

‘Bar and prop the gates, pile rubble against the inside face of the wall that can be shovelled into the tunnel to seal it. They look like they’re getting through the portcullis at that end, you do seal it. And then pray.’

‘Thank you, Merle. We’ll all be doing that, I think,’ Durdil said. ‘I’ll be here or at the palace until this siege is defeated. You’ll always be able to find me.’

Merle nodded and squeezed back into the stairwell. There was distant thunder as three trebuchets unwound and, seconds later, the whine of stone moving at great speed and the triple shattering boom of impact. Durdil clutched at the wall, not sure if he could feel it swaying or whether his panicked imagination had taken over his senses. Didn’t appear to be any casualties along Second Last, though, and he breathed a quick prayer of thanks.

‘Sir, should we cut the rope to the portcullis? Don’t want them pushing the gate up and engaging the mechanism. It’ll lift straight up and let them into the tunnel and at the door.’

‘No, or not yet anyway. Despite everything, I haven’t given up hope that the North Rank is coming, despite the lack of communication. Perhaps even my son and the West. If they are, we’ll need to support them on the field. That means exiting through the gatehouse at the double to help crush these bastards. So no cutting ropes or sealing tunnels for now.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ Vaunt said a little unsteadily and Durdil realised how young he was.

He slapped him on the back. ‘This siege is going to be bloody, and it may be protracted, but we’ll get there, Major. We have to.’

Colonel Edris forced a reassuring grin he clearly didn’t feel. ‘Damn right we will,’ he added. There was a commotion on Double First and he saluted and then hurried back into the stairwell and along to his command.

‘Commander Koridam?’ a red-faced palace messenger panted to a stop before them.

An endless parade of bloody messengers, each with news direr than the last, he thought.

‘Yes?’

‘The council of nobles requests your presence, and that of your colonels, to discuss matters of state.’

Durdil blinked. ‘Matters of state? You mean the war?’

‘I was not privy to that information, sir,’ the messenger said. ‘If you could proceed with all urgency to the palace?’

‘No. If this is not a military matter, I trust them to resolve it themselves. The only “matter of state” with which I am concerned is the survival of this city and victory. If they wish to discuss the progress of the siege, I will make time for them.’

‘My orders were very specific, sir,’ the man said, and now the flush was embarrassment and worry. ‘You have been summoned specifically by Lord Silais and Lord Lorca.’

Ah yes, the sycophant and the snake. ‘Unfortunately for the noble lords, my authority outweighs theirs in time of war,’ Durdil said. ‘Don’t worry, you can say you did everything possible to force me to attend. Off you go. Vaunt, I’ll be at the hospitals checking the wounded. Send a runner if they try another assault, will you? I want us reconvening on the first floor of the gatehouse at dusk.

‘Are you still here?’ he snapped to the messenger, who looked as unlucky as it was possible to get. Durdil didn’t care. If Lorca and Silais weren’t offering their immediate support for the siege – and he knew they wouldn’t be – there was nothing they could be discussing that would possibly interest him.

Durdil’s step was heavy as he descended the stairs, leaving the man open-mouthed behind him.





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