Darksoul

The Blessed One (#litres_trial_promo)

Durdil (#litres_trial_promo)

Crys (#litres_trial_promo)

Durdil (#litres_trial_promo)

Corvus (#litres_trial_promo)

Tara (#litres_trial_promo)

Crys (#litres_trial_promo)

Mace (#litres_trial_promo)

Rillirin (#litres_trial_promo)

Corvus (#litres_trial_promo)

Dom (#litres_trial_promo)

Crys (#litres_trial_promo)

The Blessed One (#litres_trial_promo)

Tara (#litres_trial_promo)

Corvus (#litres_trial_promo)

Tara (#litres_trial_promo)

Galtas (#litres_trial_promo)

Corvus (#litres_trial_promo)

Mace (#litres_trial_promo)

Crys (#litres_trial_promo)

Tara (#litres_trial_promo)

Crys (#litres_trial_promo)

Dom (#litres_trial_promo)

The Blessed One (#litres_trial_promo)

Dom (#litres_trial_promo)

Crys (#litres_trial_promo)

Rillirin (#litres_trial_promo)

Corvus (#litres_trial_promo)

Mace (#litres_trial_promo)

Dom (#litres_trial_promo)

Tara (#litres_trial_promo)

Mace (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

By Anna Stephens (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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.