Darksoul

by Anna Stephens

  Durdil’s blush was more pronounced this time. He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Mostly they’re just glad I keep Hallos and his endless experiments away from them. Speaking of which, he told me you were exhausted and needed to rest. Why are you up here?’

  ‘That was yesterday. I’ve slept since then.’

  Durdil squinted at him, at the glint in his eye and the small smile at odds with their situation. ‘Well, you’ve done something in a bed since then,’ he said and now it was Mace’s turn to blush.

  Durdil was just winding up to thoroughly humiliating the boy and enjoying every moment of it when Last Bastion’s catapult loosed, followed a few seconds later by North Tower One’s. Durdil spun to his right to peer north along the length of the allure. The men on the wall stilled, straining their ears for the sounds of attack. The East Rank’s trebuchet unwound in reply, hurling a stone screaming through the air to impact, yet again, on the patched and repaired weak spot.

  ‘Gods, they’re like a dog on a rat with—’ Durdil began.

  The door to First Bastion slammed back on its hinges and Merle Stonemason emerged as though conjured from the depths of a particularly dusty hell. Yarrow was following him, face as white as the flowers of his namesake. ‘Commander? Commander, she ain’t gonna hold, sir. You need to clear the wall. Right fucking now.’

  Durdil stared at Merle and the noise surrounding them fell away behind a blanket of buzzing. His vision narrowed down to Merle’s honest, grimy, panic-stricken face. ‘Say that again?’ he croaked.

  ‘Stone set crooked, mortar got squeezed out when it was still wet so there’s nothing to hold the blocks in place. We’ve been propping it, mortaring over the cracks, but the wall’s starting to bulge where we did the work, sir. Stone’s being pushed out with every impact. She’s going.’ He grabbed Durdil by the breastplate. ‘Get everyone off the wall.’

  ‘Here they come,’ Edris shouted and there was an explosion of noise and shouting as ladder tops appeared along the battlement.

  ‘Make ready,’ Mace roared.

  ‘Get off the fucking wall,’ Merle boomed in a voice that nearly ruptured their eardrums. Men came to a shocked standstill all around them until Mace yelled again and Edris did likewise and they began to move, jerky, like puppets dancing to the tune of a drunkard, preparing to fight, wanting to flee.

  Durdil found his fist in Merle’s leather apron and the big man’s face close to his. ‘Will the entire wall collapse or just the part above the repair? Answer me!’

  ‘With luck, just that section, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, mason, then we defend Double First,’ Durdil said and released him. Around him chaos raged as soldiers shoved away ladders and hacked at the men climbing them, men in blue, slow but lethal.

  ‘Yarrow, clear the wall between Second Tower and Last Bastion. East can have it. Fill those towers with men, barricade the doors. They can have the wall in between but not the towers. Understand?’ Yarrow nodded, mystified but trusting Durdil to know what he was doing. Durdil hoped that he did.

  ‘Once that section of wall is overrun, tower catapults are to loose on it. Fucker’s coming down anyway, may as well fall when we want it to, not them, eh?’ Yarrow blinked rapidly and raised a finger. ‘Say “yes, sir”,’ Durdil snapped.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Yarrow said automatically. He puffed out his cheeks, shook his head once, but then a dazed grin split his face. ‘Every enemy on that wall will be killed.’

  ‘See it done.’

  ‘And me, sir?’ Merle asked as Yarrow ducked away and began shouting orders.

  Durdil shook his head and stumbled as Mace shoved him away, yelling incoherently. They ran into First Tower and slammed the door on the noise. ‘You’ve done enough, Merle, you and all your boys. Get into Second Circle. Once that section of the wall comes down, the enemy’ll be up and over the rubble like goats. It’ll be hand to hand in the streets down there. You don’t want to be part of that.’

  Merle stroked his beard and then slapped Durdil on the arm, knocking him sideways. ‘This is Sweetie,’ he said, drawing an enormous hammer from his belt. ‘Me and Sweetie like hitting things. I’m guessing Raider heads are softer than granite. Maybe I’ll hang around a while.’

  Durdil found the breath to laugh. ‘You stand in the breach once it’s made,’ he said, marvelling, ‘and there’s no fucker who’ll try and cross it. Welcome to the Palace Rank, Merle. Not sure we’ve a uniform big enough for you.’

  ‘Don’t need no uniform,’ Merle protested. ‘Man’s got to fight for his home when it’s threatened, don’t he? Don’t need a fancy jacket for that.’

  Before Durdil could reply, the mason squeezed across the room and followed Yarrow on to the allure.

  CRYS

  Fourth moon, dawn, day forty-one of the siege

  South Tower One, southern wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  ‘Are they coming?’ Crys demanded, shoving an archer away from an arrow slit and peering out. ‘Course they’re coming. Bastards.’

  And they were, hundreds of them, running full pelt around the shattered end of the stump wall and charging for the gate. At their centre a dozen running in formation, an iron-tipped tree-trunk battering ram held between them.

  Crys patted the archer’s shoulder and jogged down the stairs and out on to the southern wall’s allure. He hopped up on to the guard wall, balancing over the dizzy drop into the city below and waved his arms until he had everyone’s attention.

  ‘All right lads,’ he shouted, ‘they’re coming and they’ve got a battering ram, so I won’t lie: the situation’s as sticky as a bad shit, but we’re up on the wall shooting them, and they’re banging a twig against the gate. I know you’re tired, we all are, but we’ve got arrows aplenty and we’ve got light to kill them by. I know you all: you’re loyal, you’re professional, and you’re killers. I need all three, and so do you. Do your jobs, and we live.’

  ‘Nearly at the gate, sir,’ Lieutenant Weaverson called.

  ‘Right, I’m going down to take a look and speak to the men down there. Roger, get them loosing as soon as they’re—’

  ‘Loose!’ Weaverson howled.

  ‘—in range,’ Crys finished and headed for the stairs.

  The merchants’ quarter was silent and shuttered, no lights in the windows when he exited the tower. ‘All right, Tailorson, looking good,’ he muttered to himself as he scanned the area. ‘Streets are empty, clear lines of sight. You’re tucked up safe here, they can’t … get … in.’

  He came to halt and peered into the recessed shadows cast by the fortifications around the gate. Furtive movement, the soft slide of cloth on stone, the harsh squeak of metal on metal, like the sound of bolts being drawn.

  Crys broke into a run, drawing his sword on instinct, eyes fixed on the gate and the faint blush of dawn showing through. It was open.

  ‘Sweet Dancer,’ he breathed. ‘Some bastard’s betrayed us.’

  The light touched the bodies slumped around the gate, the soldiers he was here to check on. Now the wide, open courtyard used by the merchants to unload wagons was empty except for Crys and a small boy with very big, very round eyes. So first, who opened the gate and second, where’s he gone and third, oh gods, I can hear the Mireces coming.

  ‘Are you a soldier?’ the boy piped and pointed. ‘Those men all fell over. It was very funny.’ Crys followed the little finger to the gate. ‘Thump thump,’ the boy said and laughed. ‘All fall down.’

  ‘Go home, lad,’ Crys said as a cold finger prickled down his back. ‘Right now.’

  The boy wandered over to him and tried to take his hand; Crys snatched it away. ‘Will you fall down too?’ he asked, unperturbed.

  Another cold shiver wormed beneath Crys’s armour. ‘It’s looking increasingly likely,’ he muttered. ‘Go home,’ he hissed with a bit more vehemence. ‘Right now.’ There was movement along the base of the wall. ‘Run,’ he yelled into the boy’s face.

  The boy froze, his lo
wer lip wobbled, and then he burst into tears. ‘I hate you,’ he sobbed.

  ‘Get in line,’ Crys snapped, ‘now just fuck off, will you? There’s a battle on.’

  The war cries of the Mireces went up a notch, triumph in their screams.

  ‘Weaverson,’ Crys roared, ‘South Gate breach, South Gate fucking breach.’

  There were shouts of alarm from above and Crys grinned; then he shoved the boy hard sideways so that he sprawled on the cobbles and jumped forward to engage the three men sprinting through the gate, howling their victory. The boy was wailing about a skinned knee and Crys had a fraction of a second to wish that was all the pain he would ever suffer, and then there was a notched and angry sword arcing at his face.

  Crys jinked left, parried the blade with his own and loosed a sloppy punch with his left fist as the man stumbled past, a glancing blow to his ear that did nothing but piss him off. He roared and stumbled again, tripped over something. His sword flashed. There was a high-pitched squeal that stopped Crys’s heart, and when the man attacked him again the point of his sword was smeared red.

  The boy. He killed the boy.

  Crys’s lips peeled back from his teeth and he drew a knife with his free hand, used it to block the second attacker’s overhead lunge and dragged it quick as lightning down the man’s face, through the eyeball and cheek, ripping open the lips. His scream was almost as high-pitched as the boy’s had been and he dropped like a stone, sword forgotten, fight abandoned, hands pressed to his face.

  An arrow flashed past him and took the third man in the throat; another skewered the first through the calf.

  ‘Mine,’ Crys yelled, savage now, and no more arrows flew. He stalked his victim as the man limped away. Crys knew it was stupid to follow, knew the man was leading him towards the gate and the others now openly pouring through it, followed anyway. ‘P-please,’ the Raider stuttered, ‘p-please.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Crys snarled, jumping forward and punching his sword into the man’s neck. ‘You killed a child. A boy. There are no pleases left in the world for scum like you.’ He sensed movement, glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Need a hand?’ Dalli asked, hundreds of Wolves at her back, grim-eyed and grim-faced and swathed in dirty bandages all.

  The corner of Crys’s mouth turned up. ‘Fresh as daisies, are you?’

  ‘Fresh enough.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ He pointed with his sword. ‘We need to seal this gate; I don’t know who opened it, but I intend to find them and feed them their own intestines.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Ash?’

  Dalli frowned. ‘Isn’t he with you? I saw him around dusk; he said he was going to come to you.’

  Crys went cold. ‘What?’ He looked around as though Ash would suddenly appear. ‘He never got here …’

  Lim shoved past them, knocking Crys off balance. ‘Aren’t you two lucky you still have someone to worry about in all this? Let’s hope your lovers live forever, eh? Seeing as they’re so important.’

  He raised his sword over his head. ‘Sarilla!’ he roared. ‘For the dead!’ The Wolves howled with him and charged, flowing around Dalli and Crys like smoke.

  Crys watched them go, twitching with the need to find Ash, his stomach full of hot lead. He couldn’t go; he knew he couldn’t, but gods he wanted to. Needed it. Horror like he’d never felt crawled into his throat, cutting off speech.

  He looked at Dalli as though for permission. She narrowed her eyes and jerked her head. ‘Let’s seal this gate, Major,’ she growled and then her face softened. ‘And then we’ll go and find him together.’

  Crys managed a nod and then leapt into the fray; the sooner this lot were dead, the sooner he could look for Ash.

  DURDIL

  Fourth moon, dawn, day forty-one of the siege

  Double First, western wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  Yarrow was dead. Word had come along the allure, through the gatehouse and into Durdil’s ear, and he’d responded without thought, running back the way the messenger had come, roaring men out of his path.

  ‘Multiple assaults,’ Durdil muttered as he jinked and dodged around the soldiers on the wall. ‘Gods preserve us from multiple breaches.’ He was almost at Second Tower and shoving a soldier out of his path when the trebuchet’s next strike impacted and nearly shook him off his feet. He made a wild grab for the wall and clung on as the whole thing rocked.

  ‘Imagining things,’ he gasped and reeled across the allure to the guard wall, peered down into the killing field. A mess of rubble and a clear and horrifying bulge in the wall’s surface told him he was imagining nothing. The masts propping the wall had tumbled like kindling and masons were hard at work shoving them back into place, their shouts strident with alarm. Durdil was astonished they were still there, risking their lives.

  The wall rumbled, shivered and then settled.

  ‘Full breach between Second Tower and Last Bastion,’ came the shout he’d been waiting for and Durdil turned away from the killing field and charged on, feeling as if he was running downhill, as if the wall had tilted …

  He skidded again to a halt, stood still and stared at the wallwalk in the pink light of dawn, then turned and examined the other end. Then he lay flat on the stone and stared along it, ignoring the men hacking away at the ladders and the soldiers climbing them. It was crooked. The allure was definitely sloping. His gaze was snagged by a snaking crack up the guard wall.

  This part of the wall’s supposed to be safe. The towers are supposed to … That tower’s leaning. Bugger me with a bargepole, the tower’s leaning!

  Durdil sprinted for Second Tower and crashed inside. ‘Merle Stonemason,’ he roared, ‘Merle Stonemason, where are you?’ He grabbed Vaunt. ‘Where?’

  Vaunt pointed. ‘Outside, sir, got cut off when we pulled back.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘Come with me,’ he snapped. ‘We need that man alive.’

  Vaunt pressed his lips together on whatever protest – whatever eminently sensible and perfectly justified refusal – he was about to utter. He hefted a shield and snatched up a spear, handed them to Durdil and took the same for himself.

  Durdil strode to the opposite door. ‘On my mark. Three. Two. One.’ The door was wrenched free and Durdil lunged, slamming his shield out in front and jabbing with the spear. There was an arm’s length of space around Merle as the huge man swung Sweetie with economical force as though he was working stone. The hammer had already killed a dozen by the look of the corpses. But his face was purple with strain and his other arm was missing from the elbow and there was a lot – a lot – of blood pooling around his feet.

  Vaunt and Durdil killed their way to him, and then a score of Palace Rankers flooded out around them, forming a shield wall against their brethren from the East. They retreated as a unit, a bristling hedgehog shambling backwards, men being picked off one by one until they reached the tower.

  Four Easterners tried to follow them in and died on the threshold before Vaunt managed to slam the door and the rest piled barrels and tables against it.

  ‘Can you walk? Can you walk, man?’ Durdil shouted at Merle. The big ox gave a slow nod, Sweetie falling from his fingers and landing on Vaunt’s foot. Vaunt’s mouth opened in a silent howl of pain, but he handed Durdil a tourniquet without a word. Durdil tied it around the stump of Merle’s arm and led him to the stairs. ‘This tower’s leaning. Will it fall?’

  ‘Tower should be safe,’ Merle said, blood draining from his face as fast as his arm now. ‘Strong.’

  ‘It’s leaning,’ Durdil repeated.

  Merle blinked owlishly. ‘See it from outside,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Shit. Right, Vaunt, hold this tower only until the collapse, then get the fuck out that way. Towards the gatehouse, not downstairs. That way. No one stays inside.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But you shouldn’t—’

  Durdil grabbed him. ‘Stop those catapults,’ he hissed. ‘I told them to loose on the w
all, to bring down just the weak section, but something’s not right. It might all go.’

  He pushed Merle into the stairwell and they began the dizzying descent, Durdil going first and hoping the mason didn’t lose consciousness and crush him to death. The trebuchet sent another, possibly the final, stone into the wall and the entire tower lurched to the side. A crack appeared in the wall to his right and Durdil made a noise part horror, part defiance. ‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ he yelled, as though his words were mortar in the cracks.

  Merle came to a halt and ran his hand over the fault, his brow furrowed. ‘’S not right.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Durdil said. ‘So let’s hurry.’

  Durdil scurried on, dragging Merle by the sleeve, turn after turn, breath whistling in his throat and that damned tightness back in his chest worse than ever. A slight greying of his vision around the edges, his pulse outracing his feet. ‘No,’ he panted, ‘not now. Not … now.’

  The sun had gilded the sky by the time they came out of Second Tower’s door and into the killing field. The other masons had fled. Durdil squinted against the brightness and dragged Merle thirty paces out from the wall, then turned the big man around and pointed.

  There were more cracks down here, a lot more, all of them jagging out of the rebuilt section of wall. ‘Merle, look. I’m right, the towers are leaning. You said just the wall would go, not the towers. Are my men safe?’

  Merle didn’t say anything. Instead he stood swaying, eyes unfocused, and then he folded up and slid on to his knees, his side, and then his back. He was paler than stone dust, and one look at him and Durdil knew he was dying.