Darksoul

by Anna Stephens

  The trebuchet didn’t stop, but at least the Mireces lining the bank had retreated after the last of the ships passed around the stump wall – or what was left of it. Rillirin knew that as soon as they’d smashed away enough of it, more Mireces would come, charging along the bank right past her to try and take the exposed gate. As long as the trebuchet was working, she was safe from that. But as long as the trebuchet was working, she couldn’t move and risk being seen by the engineers.

  Rillirin woke from a frozen half-doze as the sun tumbled below the horizon; something wasn’t right. She waited, stiff with cold and half convinced she was already dead, and listened. Nothing.

  Nothing? What about the trebuchet?

  It had been as regular as time all day, and the absence of it now was a wrongness worrying at her ears. They’d stopped. The wall must be down. Shit, they’d be coming. She’d lain all day with her head turned up towards the lip of the bank to watch for approaching Mireces, and now her neck muscles creaked painful protest as she shifted and twisted, squinting from the corner of her eye at the city. It loomed black and crowned with fire – hundreds of torches leavening the onrushing night. The stump wall was a black and jagged tooth, silhouetted with more fire. Rillirin could see past its jumble of debris towards the gate.

  She wanted to run towards it, screaming her name – as though anyone would know it or care, would open up and let her in. Instead she looked ahead, along the long, curving line of the bank and the suck and shush of dark water to her left. Slowly she drew in her limbs, a spider curling into death, and even more slowly, breath quiet and muscles shuddering with cold and tension, she began to crawl. Along the edge of the river, knee and elbow sprawling into thick mud and shallow water, the bank rising above her and cutting off her view of the enemy – and their view of her.

  She had a knife strapped to her forearm under her sleeve; if they found her, she’d kill herself rather than go back to the Mireces and the untender mercies of the Blessed One.

  The pad of feet through the grass, the jingle of chainmail and creak of leather. Rillirin collapsed and let her eyes unfocus, half-shut, mouth open, fear stilling her shivers.

  ‘Check the water’s edge.’

  Relax. Just lie still. Look dead.

  Closer, and closer still until she could see legs in her periphery. Silence. Eyes on her, calculating. Rillirin breathed slow and shallow, high in her chest, imagining jumping up and ripping the knife free, the surprise enough to take the first, a low gutting slash from below. And then run from however many others there were.

  ‘Just the dead; come on.’ The legs moved away and so did the voices, leaving her in the gathering gloom, only slightly more alive than the corpses below her.

  Rillirin lay there a while longer, disbelieving. Then she breathed a prayer of thanks to the Trickster and slowly, painfully, she began again to crawl.

  The sounds of fighting had faded with distance. Night cloaked the river when Rillirin finally stopped. She estimated she’d crawled, and then walked, several miles away from the city, following the river as it curled in a wide, lazy loop. Now when she stopped and turned around, she couldn’t see so much as the glow of the city in the distance. Just the faint light of a half-moon on the river as a guide.

  She had no idea where to go. The Dancer’s Fingers, the long range of hills around which the river curved, were ahead in the dark, but after that? Rillirin had tied her fate to that of the Wolves and now she was cast adrift, alone in a country being torn apart with no destination and no allies to help her.

  Her knees and elbows were raw with crawling, sleeves and trouser legs and boots and feet soaked from repeated slides into the shallows, hunger rivalling sickness in her belly and the wound in her back throbbing, the only thing about her that was hot. And that probably wasn’t a good sign. She walked another hour along the narrow track by the side of the river, the bank looming up on her right, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. There were sticks dotting the shore, and she collected an armful, throwing back the wet ones, keeping the dry. Her fingertips were numb, toes too, her thoughts muddled and slow. Cold.

  Rillirin’s boot went into the mud up to the ankle and she stared at it stupidly, then around her in the hazy moonlight. The river had broadened and slowed into a marsh, rifted with runnels of water and peppered with young shoots. Reedmace. She threw the driftwood up the bank and dug feverishly into the mud around the nearest plant, dragging the whole thing out, root and all, and bit into it, ignoring the cold slimy tang of the mud as she ate the fresh young growth and then gnawed at the thick tuberous root.

  She ate another five and then collected her firewood before making her cautious ascent of the bank. Surely she’d come far enough not to be spotted? The going was easier and faster on the flat, and she used the scent and sound of the river to keep her on course as the movement brought some warmth back to her limbs and made her damp clothes just a little more bearable.

  The sun was rising when Rillirin made it to the Fingers, her feet blistered and everything a weary blur in the first pale kiss of dawn. She wended between the first of the hills and clambered around to the back of one, putting its bulk between her and the city. Surely now, finally, she could risk a fire and get herself warm, decide what to do next? A croaking challenge and Rillirin dropped the firewood and yanked out her knife before she recognised the figure slumped in the narrow dell between the two hills.

  ‘Gilda?’

  The old woman looked up, brandishing a wicked-looking spike in a trembling hand. She squinted. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Gilda? It’s me, Rillirin. Gods, Gilda, you’re alive!’ Rillirin rushed to her as Gilda sagged back against the slope of the hill, her breathing harsh and rattling. ‘What happened?’ she asked as she threw herself on to her knees at Gilda’s side. One sleeve of the priestess’s gown was torn and stiff with dried blood, and through the rent Rillirin could see a nasty, swollen wound, a slice that looked as if it went down to the bone and up into the shoulder.

  ‘When did this happen? How, where?’

  ‘Few days, I think,’ Gilda croaked. She shrugged her good shoulder. ‘In truth, I don’t know. Bit blurry.’

  ‘They left you here?’ Rillirin asked, ripping the material further. The wound was red and angry, swollen and hard to the touch. Infected.

  ‘Escaped,’ Gilda said. ‘Thirsty.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to carry water in. We’ll have to walk. Come on, up you get.’ She helped Gilda to stand, scared by the heat that came off her skin, the lightness of her frame as she leant on Rillirin’s shoulder. Together they staggered around another hill and found a small pool. Rillirin breathed a swift prayer of thanks; she didn’t think the old priestess would have made it as far as the river.

  She scooped water to Gilda’s mouth and then made her comfortable where the ground was drier. ‘I’m going to start a fire and then take a look at your arm,’ she said. ‘You just rest. When was the last time you ate?’

  ‘The Dancer Herself put me in your path, Rillirin, so that you could save me. Or at least learn the truth before I die.’

  ‘You’re not going to die,’ Rillirin said, her voice harsh with worry. ‘Stop talking such shit, woman.’

  Gilda’s mouth curved in a faint smile. ‘You found your voice since I’ve been gone, I see,’ she mumbled. ‘Go on, make a fire, then look for bog moss to pack in my arm. It’ll help fight the infection.’

  Rillirin did as she was told and managed to find some edible greens as well. It was a meagre meal, and she made Gilda eat it all, ignoring the growling of her own stomach. Gilda passed out when Rillirin packed the wound – even nastier now that she’d cut away the material to inspect it – with bog moss and bandaged it with the remains of the sleeve.

  The light was fading when Gilda woke, and Rillirin had foraged a little more food and firewood. Gilda watched her with eyes that seemed to penetrate her skin and see right inside her.

  ‘There are things you should know,’ s
he said eventually. ‘And I need to tell you now in case … Dom is with the Mireces. He’s working with them. No, don’t interrupt. He’s a Darksoul now, like your brother. Converted. Ejected the Light from inside himself and filled his soul with Blood.’

  Rillirin’s head was spinning with the abruptness of the revelation and its utter impossibility. ‘No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t, not Dom. Not my Dom.’ Her stomach lurched and she dry heaved, cramping with hunger and nausea both, and spat into the grass by her side, throat raw with bile and horror. Goosebumps broke out across her back and arms, her head pounding with sudden pain. ‘It’s the wound. You’re misunderstanding things, that’s all; the fever’s confused you. He wouldn’t do something like that. The gods are everything to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. My arm … he tried to kill me, Rillirin, on Lanta’s orders. He didn’t even hesitate.’ She gestured to the long spike still attached to the collar around her neck by a chain. ‘I protected myself with this, fled while Lanta was screaming for her guards. If it helps at all, I don’t think he converted willingly. I think the Dark Lady … broke him.’

  ‘He tried to kill you?’ The words came out in a harsh croak unlike any sound she’d ever made before. It was preposterous, insane. It was the fever. But Gilda’s eyes were clear enough and filled with a sorrow that made Rillirin wince and wrap her arms around herself. ‘Did you kill him?’ she whispered, her skin icy with dread.

  Gilda held herself very still. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I hurt him, badly I think, but … I hope not.’

  Rillirin slumped with relief despite herself. She of all people had cause to hate the Mireces. Dom allying with them should make her sick, but all she cared about was that he might still be alive. Maybe it’s not as bad as she thinks. Maybe there was some sort of mistake.

  ‘There’s more,’ Gilda said, relentless; Rillirin thought she’d never be able to understand it all. ‘You’re pregnant by him.’

  ‘What?’ Rillirin felt herself blush, ridiculous as that was. Pregnant? That’s impossible. It had only been one night, with Dom damn near gutted by a Mireces blade after the Blood Pass Valley battle and both of them grieving for Cam’s death. Just one night, Rillirin tense and afraid despite his gentleness, both wanting and fearing his touch, desperate to be a woman for him and not the broken thing she knew herself to be. And for a short while, there in the dark, she had been. For a while she’d understood him and been understood in a way she hadn’t even known was possible. Even so, though. Pregnant?

  But the words spoke to something inside her, a deep well of knowing that embraced the knowledge, accepted it, confirmed its truth. ‘I’m pregnant?’ she whispered.

  Gilda’s smile was gentle despite the sweat gathering on her face. ‘You are, lass. Did you not suspect?’

  Rillirin blinked, her hand going to her belly. It was flat. ‘No. I’ve never had a steady cycle; never been strong or well fed enough to bleed regularly.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘Then with the fighting, and the tunnels, and coming here, I thought the sickness was wound-fever or fear. You’re sure?’ she clarified, even though now that she knew, she could feel the rightness of it, the tiny seed of new life – hers and Dom’s, created in love amid pain and horror – sleeping warm inside her. A connection between her and Dom that could never be broken.

  This. I can use this to bring him back, to save him. Our child can make him see what’s real, where he belongs. I can do this. I will do it.

  ‘I have to go back to Rilporin,’ she said. ‘If he’s … fallen, then this pregnancy, our child, might be the thing to restore him. I can bring him back to the Light, Gilda. I know I can.’

  Gilda bit her lip. ‘You can’t go there, not now, not while the Mireces are there,’ she said, her voice strong despite her pain, adamant.

  Rillirin felt the newborn joy crystallise and then shatter. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Lanta knows. And I have no doubt she’s going to want you – and your bairn.’

  GALTAS

  Fourth moon, afternoon, day thirty-three of the siege

  The heir’s wing, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  He was wearing the uniform of the Personal Guards to the royal family. It secured him unparalleled and – more importantly – unquestioned access to the palace, but the Personals were a small, close-knit unit. Any one of them would know instantly he was an imposter.

  Best just stay out of their way then.

  But that, of course, was easier said than done. He’d chosen the meeting place because he knew Rivil’s quarters as well as he knew his own. He hadn’t reckoned on the fucking West Rank turning up and taking over every spare room and common space. Fortunately, even Durdil wasn’t stupid enough to throw open the royal apartments to defeated soldiers, but slipping through the palace had been more fraught than he’d expected. Next time – if there was a next time – they’d meet somewhere less full of soldiers who wanted him dead.

  Still, his palms were clammy and cold sweat made its miserable way down his back into the crack of his arse as he waited in a shadowed corner of Rivil’s audience chamber. His guests were to meet him in the bedchamber, meaning they’d pass him by on the way through the suite and he could ensure they were those he was waiting for, and that they hadn’t brought unexpected friends. Still, the risk was enormous, and doubly so now the palace was heaving with stinking, exhausted soldiers and lice-ridden Wolves. How they’d survived to make it this far, any of them …

  Focus. If this meeting goes to plan, I’m not only free of the city, but firmly back in Rivil’s favour. And why wouldn’t it go to plan? They were happy enough to fly the scarlet at my suggestion. No, I just need to keep them dangling a little longer …

  Footsteps. Galtas tensed and drew his knives, checked his approaches, his line of sight and ease of movement. Could be those he was here to see, could be Personals, could be West Rankers. Someone knocked at the door – what the fuck? Did they think he was going to stroll up and open it, welcome them in with a smile and a glass of wine? Galtas breathed quietly. There was a pause, and then the click of the antechamber door opening.

  More footsteps, slow and hesitant. Galtas flexed his fingers on the knife hilts. Someone coughed. ‘Hello?’ Another voice hushed him, there was frenzied whispering, and then the men came through into the audience chamber and crossed it, making their way to the bedchamber. They didn’t even glance around. Galtas watched them go, his ears straining back into the antechamber for hidden guards or assassins. Nothing.

  The men came back out of the bedchamber, alarm plain on their faces at his absence. Galtas melted from the shadows, his knives glinting. ‘My lords,’ he said and they jumped, squeaked in fear, but didn’t call for aid and he relaxed a fraction. ‘I’ve been waiting.’

  ‘Forgive us, Lord Morellis. We wanted to ensure we were not being followed. There are so many soldiers here now, it was … not easy.’

  Galtas suspected it had been impossible. These fools couldn’t lose a blind tail on a dark night in a labyrinth. Only their rank and arrogance would have allowed them to move through the palace without suspicion. Still, better to keep the meeting brief and get the fuck out while he still could.

  ‘How circumspect,’ he said drily. ‘Would you take a seat?’ He gestured and rounded the desk to sit in Rivil’s chair. It put him in a corner, but it also put the desk between them. They perched on the edges of their seats like wild birds. ‘The latest intelligence, if you please.’

  The men exchanged a look. ‘We require assurances first,’ the first said cautiously, tugging repetitively and unconsciously at the lace of his cuff. ‘That all you promised is in hand.’

  Galtas sighed. He sheathed one of the daggers, used the other to clean beneath his fingernails. He didn’t bother looking up as he spoke.

  ‘As agreed, King Rivil will see you richly rewarded for your …’ He gestured with the knife and both men leant away from it. ‘… aid in bringing
this siege to a swift conclusion. After all, none of us want to be killing our countrymen, and if Rastoth had done the decent thing and died years ago, then none of this would have been necessary. King Rivil sent me into the city to procure such help as you are able to provide. In return for the information you gather at the war council each day, I will secure you safe passage out of the city. You will not be harmed, and you may take as much wealth as you can carry. Your women and children will of course accompany you, and once peace is restored, you may return to your estates here to find them untouched. I have no doubt that the king will welcome you back on to his council.’

  ‘And what is it you intend to do with the information we provide?’

  Galtas did look up at that. ‘How easy do you think it will be for me to get you out of the city?’ he demanded, leaning forward and thumping the knife point-first into the polished table. They jumped again. ‘The best – the only – time I can get you safely away is when all the action is focused on a breach of the walls or one of the gates. You tell me which section of the defence Durdil thinks is likely to fall first. I relay that message – don’t ask me how, I won’t tell you. We then assault that very section and ensure a breach. When all eyes are focused there, I spirit you away through a different exit.’

  The men before him eyed one another. ‘Many soldiers will die,’ the second ventured, though only the mildest concern touched his face at the thought.

  ‘Then it is a good thing that is what they are paid for!’ Galtas snapped, working the knife out of the table and sheathing it. ‘Neither of you have territory in the Western Plain, so if it’s the Mireces you are concerned with, you don’t need to be. They will settle the scrublands once the city surrenders and you will hear nothing more from them.’