He knelt down. ‘Merle, you’re going to listen to me and listen good. You’re a big bastard and I’m an old fuck, so you’re going to have to help me, all right? No way I can lift your flabby arse without help. So, count of three and you’re going to stand, and it’s going to hurt like the Red Gods are buggering you, but you’re going to do it because that’s the only way I can get you to hospital. Ready? One, two …’
‘Stop,’ Merle whispered. ‘Get up there, evacuate all the way to the gatehouse. Towers’re wilting like a poxed cock.’
There was yet another impact even as they sat there and a crack exploded in the wall in front of them with the sound of thunder splitting the sky. The wall rippled.
‘Fuck,’ Durdil squawked. He got his shoulder into Merle’s armpit and screamed him up to standing, the pair of them tottering towards Second Circle’s wall and the right-hand bend into the slaughter district. There was a gate there; they could get through to safety.
Merle made a sound like a cow giving birth and went to his knees again. The stump of his arm wasn’t bleeding much any more, but from the look of him it was because he didn’t have any blood left. ‘Come on,’ Durdil shouted at him, dragging frantically at his remaining arm. ‘Come on!’
‘Sorry.’ Merle toppled sideways and lay still, his visible eye fixed on the wall. They were a hundred paces from the corner. Durdil saw a flag waving frantically from Second Tower – cease fire. His brow wrinkled and then he looked right just as Last Bastion’s catapult released straight into the faltering wall.
‘Godsdamnit,’ he whispered.
The impact shattered the top of the wall, tossing East Rankers about like straw dolls. There were screams from high up, thin and distant, and a stream of defenders fled Second Tower for the gatehouse, staggering as the wall rocked beneath their feet.
‘Run!’ Durdil screamed at them, his fists clenched at his sides. The rumbling grew into a screaming stone beast and suddenly, with a plume of dust like a woman’s skirts, the wall between Second Tower and Last Bastion swayed, rocked some more, and began to slump.
Durdil looked up at the wave of stone breaking over his head. He puffed out his cheeks and barked a single, mirthless laugh, tapped his fingertips to his heart.
He didn’t run.
CORVUS
Fourth moon, dawn, day forty-one of the siege
Mireces encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘That’s it. It’s down. Send everyone.’ Corvus was nearly dancing with excitement; he took Lanta’s hand and kissed it, laughing.
‘Fost comes,’ Valan said, pointing, and Corvus raised his arm. Fost broke into a run. ‘Sire, are you sure you want to send everyone? A rearguard to protect you and the Blessed One …’ Valan fretted.
‘Sire, a breach!’ Fost yelled.
Corvus laughed. ‘Well, yes,’ he shouted back. ‘Did you think we hadn’t noticed?’
Fost waved his arms. ‘No, South Gate. We’ve breached the South Gate.’
Corvus slapped his fist into his palm. ‘Two? Now we’ve got them. Now we’ll have victory, eh, Prince Rivil?’ He looked at the Rilporian’s stony face. ‘Sorry, King Rivil now, isn’t it? Anyway, a day or two, bloody and protracted and street by street no doubt, but they’re nearly done.’
Fost arrived and stumbled to a halt, hands on his knees. ‘And word from … the Lord Galtas,’ he gasped.
‘He still lives?’ Rivil demanded, shouldering past Corvus. ‘Where? What word? What did he say?’ Fost held up a scrap of paper and Rivil snatched it from his hand. ‘King Gate, midnight tomorrow.’ A grin spread across his face. ‘If two breaches weren’t enough, Galtas is going to give us three. Did you see him? He’s well?’
Fost straightened and glanced to Corvus before answering. ‘None of us saw him. When we charged the South Gate it was already open, half a dozen guards dead around it. The note was nailed to the gate, where only someone coming in from outside could see it.’
‘Godblind?’ Corvus said.
Dom swayed on his feet, his arms outstretched, finger joints popping, head thrown back on his shoulders. He grunted, spraying drool, and then slumped, head hanging to his chest. Slowly he nodded. ‘The note speaks true. The King Gate will be opened from inside at midnight tomorrow. It will lead on to a courtyard and the entrance to a tunnel. The tunnel goes all the way to the palace, the heart of the city.’
‘That’s where the council will be, with Durdil and the officers. They’ll command from the palace, using distance-viewers and runners to relay their orders. If we take the palace, take the high command, we take the city. The army won’t fight if we’ve got Durdil.’ Rivil was gleeful now.
‘Once again your inside knowledge of Rilpor and its customs aids us,’ Lanta said. ‘We are grateful.’ She turned to Corvus. ‘But do we need three breaches?’
‘Yes,’ he said immediately. ‘The more ways in, the better. The South Gate is open now, but they’ll throw everything they’ve got at it to close it. A way in from the rear of the city will divide precious resources, stretch them so thin they break. This is it; the city’s death throes.’
Rivil’s sneer was plain. ‘And who has accomplished that? Us. We told you of the weak point in the wall. Galtas opened the South Gate. Now he will open the King Gate.’ He narrowed his eyes at Corvus. ‘In fact, tell me again why we allied with you?’
The Godblind stepped forward before Corvus could move. ‘Because there are many deaths yet to come, King. Many deaths to come, many to atone for.’
Rivil backhanded the man hard across the face. The Godblind screeched and reeled back, the swollen cut in his cheek weeping fresh blood.
‘Do not speak to your betters,’ Rivil snarled.
‘Enough!’ Lanta barked. ‘The slave is not yours to punish.’
‘The Godblind is arguably more important than you or me, Rivil,’ Corvus warned him. ‘Do not touch him again without permission.’
Rivil flicked his fingers in dismissal before wiping Dom’s blood from his knuckles. ‘Enjoy your toy,’ he said. ‘I will have no need of him when I sit on my throne.’
Corvus exchanged a meaningful glance with Lanta. ‘We waste time,’ he said. ‘Rivil, I will send a third of my men at the South Gate now, and tomorrow at dusk lead another third over the river with a view to taking this King Gate. The rest we hold in reserve, to protect the Blessed One and the Godblind.’
‘I will send two-thirds of the Rank against the main wall breach today,’ Rivil said, ‘and keep up the pressure through the night and all of tomorrow, draw them off the East Tower if possible. Perhaps we shall meet in the middle and share wine over a conquered city.’
‘Perhaps we shall,’ Corvus said.
‘The gods will be pleased to see you fight, Your Majesty,’ Lanta said sweetly, as though that was what Rivil had meant. ‘You have commanded an excellent siege, but the gods always like to see a man risk his skin in Their name. You will be much envied by your officers when you climb the breach yourself. Will you go today, or tomorrow?’
Rivil’s face paled a little, but he summoned his customary sneer with an effort. ‘At the point when I can do most good, of course. Corvus, you will enter the city through the King Gate?’
Corvus nodded; he had no such qualms about fighting, had been itching to get involved for days.
‘Good. I will judge the best moment to engage as the siege progresses.’ Rivil’s smile was wooden. ‘Blessed One.’ He inclined his head and spun on his heel, hurrying back to his own camp with his guards scampering to keep up.
‘He’ll do no such thing,’ Valan muttered and spat. ‘He’ll get within bowshot and then find something more important to do. Like empty his linens of fear-shit.’
‘Be careful, Sire,’ the Godblind said suddenly. He dabbed at the cut on his cheek with the cuff of his shirt. ‘Something in the city stirs. Something wakes.’
‘Something wakes?’ Lanta asked. ‘What does that mean?’
Dom pursed his lips and winced as the
cut stretched. ‘I’m not sure yet. Something hidden.’ He spread his hands. ‘More dangerous than running into an enemy city. When the hidden is revealed, the weak become strong. There is no more, not yet. Perhaps with time but … even the gods cannot penetrate this shadow. That is all there is to know.’
Corvus licked his teeth and then spat into the grass. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said. ‘For now, let’s get on to that bastard South Gate and force entrance. I want this city on its knees.’
‘Your will, honoured,’ Valan said and Fost echoed him.
The Godblind was silent, staring at the city with haunted eyes. ‘It wakes,’ he muttered.
TARA
Fourth moon, dawn, day forty-one of the siege
Last Bastion, western wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
Tara led her squad along the allure from North Tower One towards the giant dust cloud occluding the western wall.
Last Bastion was standing, but slumped like a drunk, tilted down towards the haze over Second Last. Even as she watched, there was a whump, tiles fell from the roof, and then an orange glow began on the tower’s crooked catapult platform.
Shit. Something’s caught light in there, and the fire barrels are in the storeroom below. If that fire eats through the catapult platform and reaches those barrels, the whole tower’s going to go up like a Bel-fire. It’ll be carnage.
She sped up, no idea what she was going to do but determined to do it anyway. Her men pounded along behind her. Just another day in the glorious West Rank.
The dust was drifting on the breeze now, dancing and swirling in the killing field and around the tower like morning mist, brightening and then obscuring the flags of flame. ‘This is a bad idea,’ Tara gasped as she slammed open the tower door and began pelting up the stairs to the catapult level.
The smoke was drifting down the stairwell already, thick and stinging. Tara put her nose and mouth in the crook of her elbow and carried on. It was getting hotter. The catapult platform was the very top level of the tower, with moveable partitions that could open one wall in turn from which to loose. Three were closed and one of those was well alight as Tara stepped through the door and the heat slapped her in the face. A strong breeze blew in through the open wall, whipping at the flames and driving them ever higher. The platform was floored in wood to absorb impact from the catapult, and her best guess was that the wall collapse had knocked over the brazier used to light the fire barrels.
Fire barrels. Tara could see barrels in the far corner. Her heart leapt like a fish. They brought up the barrels from storage!
‘Douse those barrels now or we all die,’ Tara yelled over the crackle of flame. The men who’d followed her up each had a pail of water from the cistern at the base of the tower. Three threw their buckets, making about as much difference as a piss in a rainstorm, and as the soldier closest to her made to do the same she heaved on his arm.
‘No! There, throw it there. There, fucker,’ she yelled, pointing and coughing. He threw the water and doused a section of floor. It was just enough. Tara tapped her fingertips to her heart, held her breath and sprinted through that tiny avenue between walls of fire.
Crouching, scorching, her hair beginning to smoulder, she grabbed the boot she’d spotted and the foot it contained and began pulling back the way she’d come. Back through an ever-narrowing corridor of safety.
The fire roared across the gap ahead of her, cutting off her escape route. The air was empty of oxygen and searing her lungs, so Tara stopped breathing, stopped looking, took another grip on the leg and heaved again, but he was armoured, and he was heavy. Her knee hit the blackening wood and she felt the skin blister through her trousers. Wool wasn’t the best defence against fire, it seemed.
A noise and she turned her face up, eyes slitted against the fire, and caught a bucketful of sweet, cold water right in the face. Hands grabbed her, grabbed the body behind her, and dragged them clear.
Someone was slapping her repeatedly around the head, and she was about to punch them in the balls when she realised her hair was on fire. Another bucket was poured right over her head and shoulders: cold bliss.
Someone carried her clear of the fire, and they were halfway down the stairs to wall level when the barrels went up and took the whole fucking roof with it.
‘Protect the general,’ a voice yelled over the roaring, rumbling, crackling as the stairs shuddered and, she’d swear, tilted.
General? Tara smiled. ‘I’m a major.’
The man didn’t reply, stumbling sideways into the wall and bouncing her skull off it. He cursed, slipped down a step, yelled over a twisted ankle, nearly dropped her, and then ran heedless down the stairs as the rumbling from above increased. Tara tucked her head into his chest as her feet and ankles cracked into the wall with every turn.
They reached the allure leading to North One and the soldier threw her on to it, turned back into the stairwell, grabbed the body of the man she’d saved from those carrying him and slung him directly at Tara with a screamed ‘Catch!’
Tara was on her arse but she held out her arms on instinct and the figure slammed into them, his pauldron splitting open her chin he hit her so hard. They crashed on to the wallwalk and she just got her head up in time to see Last Bastion sway, cracks like veins jagging through the walls, and then the tower’s top level folded in on itself like a flower and it tumbled into the killing ground below. The soldiers, the burning catapult, and most of the corner wall went with it.
All movement ceased except for the swirl of smoke and dust and fire. The figure next to her groaned and raised a reddened, blistered face. Tara recognised Mace.
‘Why were you in there?’ she yelled, suddenly furious.
Mace watched her mouth moving with little comprehension. ‘Downstairs when the fire started. Men burning. Tried to …’ He gave up and coughed, great gobbets of black phlegm splatting on the stone beside Tara’s head. Black snot ran from his nose and he emitted a long, drawn-out groan as he slumped to one side.
The tower was still settling, blocks of stone bigger than her head bouncing and skating across the allure. ‘Time to move,’ Tara croaked and rolled on to her belly, struggled to her hands and knees, and paused to cough. Perhaps a score of soldiers had made it out on to the allure with them, in various states of smoking ruin, and they’d got the same idea, dragging themselves and each other towards the dubious and distant safety of North One.
‘Up you get, General,’ she said, though she couldn’t seem to get past hands and knees herself. ‘And make it quick. We’re not safe yet.’
‘Excellent,’ Mace groaned, and started to crawl. Most of his hair was gone, the side of his face red and blistered, burns running down his throat and disappearing under his dented, smoke-stained armour. Cords stood out in his neck as the pain began to register.
‘Gods alive,’ she muttered, stomach sinking into her feet. ‘How hurt are you?’
Mace coughed; he didn’t look at her. ‘I need to get across to the gatehouse and organise some sort of defence before those bastards start climbing the debris. Hallos can shout at me if I’m still alive by dusk.’ His voice was a strangled wheeze, as though he was being throttled, and something that looked like steam wisped up from inside his armour.
Tara smelt meat cooking and bile rose in her throat. ‘You should—’
‘We might all be dead in an hour,’ he interrupted, his voice jagged. ‘I’ll get treated later.’ He saw her expression. ‘I promise.’
When they were far enough from the splintered end of the allure, Tara forced herself to stand and dragged Mace’s unburnt arm to help him up. She hooked her shoulder under his arm and together they staggered towards North One, and eventually made their painful way down the steps and into First Circle.
The gatehouse seemed miles away. Tara coughed and coughed, the shakes setting in hard now, and then put her hands on her knees and threw up while Mace wobbled, unsupported. She decided not to do anything like that again ever. Her head was spinning, the
ground heaving slowly like the swell on a lake.
‘All right, Major?’ Mace asked, and there was a strain in his voice she hadn’t heard before, not even after everything they’d been through in the last months. Pain.
She turned to look up at him, caught him unguarded with his jaw clenched so tight she could almost hear the enamel squeaking. She straightened. ‘Absolutely fine, sir,’ she said, suppressing another cough. ‘But you’re not. The gate to Second Circle and the hospital isn’t too far—’
‘Gatehouse. Now. The enemy isn’t shitting around with hospitals. Neither am I.’
‘The enemy wasn’t just cooked in his own armour,’ Tara snapped, but it set off another coughing fit and ruined her point somewhat. Mace joined her and hawked up some more black filth. But then he started moving again, and not towards the gate. Towards the killing field – or what was left of it with the wall’s shattered remains filling most of the space up to Second Circle’s wall.
Tara swore, spat, and then limped after him. Together they moved towards the gatehouse.
A runner was loping towards them. ‘South Gate breach,’ he gasped. ‘South Gate breach.’
‘Bloody bastard shits,’ Tara snarled. ‘Sir, there’re Rankers milling around down there. I’ll take a hundred of them, bolster the southern defence. The rest can help hold the breach. General, with your permission?’
Mace focused on her and then nodded. ‘Do it.’
Tara stepped close and dropped her voice. ‘Gatehouse then hospital. Sir.’ Mace waved her away and she knew he wouldn’t go, knew she couldn’t make him, either.
She forced her aching legs, her burning lungs, her pounding heart, into yet another run towards the soldiers staring in shock at the shattered wall, the broken defence. Beyond it, there were Mireces in the city.
CRYS
Fourth moon, morning, day forty-one of the siege
South Gate, southern wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
He was too busy trying to stay alive to pay much attention to the screaming, roiling, grating of stone breaking, but he knew what it had to mean. The fuckers had finally made it through the western wall.
Darksoul Page 17