Darksoul

THE BLESSED ONE

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

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.