Darksoul. Anna Stephens
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Rilporin stands firm and the walls are yet intact. While the loss of the king is a huge blow, it is one we can – we are – surviving. Besides which, the enemy will have eyes on the King Gate, as they are watching all the city’s exits; any attempt to evacuate the populace will be seen and countered swiftly. It is far too dangerous to move thousands of people; they’ll be slaughtered on the road. Rilporin is the safest place for them.’
Someone coughed to cover a laugh. ‘You misunderstand,’ Lord Lorca said, his tone affable and amused. ‘The people will stay, of course. There is nowhere else for them to go, after all and, as you say, no doubt your soldiers will triumph. But the, ah, the essence of Rilpor, the values and culture that makes our country what it is, that resides in its upper classes. We propose simply that those of appropriate position who wish it be allowed to leave Rilporin for less dangerous climes. I, for example, though my heart desires to stay and support the city, am prepared to undertake the dangerous journey to Listre and inform Tresh that he is now our king. I pledge to see him safe until such time as you have secured the country for his arrival.’
I bet you bloody do, Durdil thought bitterly. Set yourself up as his chief adviser, orchestrate the fall of your enemies within the council, and bag yourself a nice big stack of gold, eh? All under the guise of advising him, and all while sitting safe in another country!
‘I, too, will visit Tresh,’ Silais said, as Durdil had known he would. ‘Our new king must be protected. Must be … apprised of the state of his kingdom.’
‘You want to run away with your families and all your money while the rest of us fight,’ Durdil said in a voice devoid of all expression. ‘Fine, go. I’ll not stop you.’ A few hundred fewer weak-chinned idiots roaming the city can only be a help. And despite the identity of the messengers, Tresh does need to know he’s king.
Lorca’s smile was small and pained and he gave off an air of weary resignation at Durdil’s words. ‘We are pleased to hear it,’ he said. ‘Those who wish to go will assemble at East Tower tomorrow. Your force will be ready then, I presume?’
Durdil pursed his lips. ‘Force, my lord? What force would that be?’ His tone was polite – for now. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next.
Lorca spread his hands and exchanged an amused glance with Silais. Hardoc of Pine Lock wore an expression he no doubt thought was stoic, when in reality he looked constipated. He’d ventured a small tut at Lorca’s suggestion they leave Rilporin. He was also wearing full armour. Ceremonial, naturally. No need to be silly and lug around real armour, but it did make him look so much more martial than the rest.
Durdil coughed into his hand to hide his smile. The Haddock had decided he was a warrior, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Durdil couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when he invited him up on to the wall to repel an assault. Still, at least he wouldn’t be fleeing the city, which meant Durdil could commandeer his household guards if he needed—
‘The Thousand to escort us in safety to Listre’s border, Commander,’ Lorca said, pulling Durdil’s attention back. ‘We cannot be expected to ride in state without sufficient protection.’ He exchanged another amused glance with Silais, their interests for once aligned. ‘There is a war on, after all.’
Durdil stared at Lorca in silence for a moment, trying to work out whether he was being mocked, and then he roared with laughter. He slapped the table and laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.
Lorca’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed until he snapped, ‘Enough, Commander. You will explain the meaning of this outburst.’
Durdil looked around the table at the affronted, pompous faces and the last dregs of his mirth drained away, along with the last reserves of that day’s energy. ‘You’re serious?’ he asked. ‘You think the city is going to fall and so you want to run away and save yourselves under guise of meeting Tresh – all right, I understand that. It’s a natural reaction. You want to take your families for the same reason; again, I understand. But you also want me to send a fifth of my defenders with you, further weakening the city’s defences and leaving the people staying behind without adequate protection?’
Durdil waited for a denial or a protest that he had misunderstood their request; none came. ‘No. No, my lords, there will be no armed force accompanying you. If you wish to go, then go; your household guard will have the job of keeping you alive, though by rights every one of them should be mine to aid in the defence. Not a single man of the Palace or South Ranks, or the City Watch, will accompany you. Their charge is the safety of this city, and the thousands of citizens within it. They will discharge that duty and no other.’
Lorca opened his mouth and Durdil held up his palm. ‘Let me be very clear,’ he said. ‘Without a king, heir or any single member of the royal family in residence in Rilporin, defence of this city, the country and the faith falls to me. You all agreed to suspend the ordinary governance of this city in return for martial law. You placed me in power, my lords, and I plan on discharging that duty to its fullest. And my duty is to preserve the lives of as many of our citizens as possible.’
Lorca made to interrupt again and so Durdil slammed his palm down on the table, the flat crack making them all jump. ‘No, my lords. If you would go, then do so and may the gods preserve you, but you will be going alone. If you elect to stay, then war-room discussions will be confined to military matters only. Now, if none of you have anything serious or pertinent to the defence of Rilporin to discuss, I have a wall to defend.’ He pushed up from the table.
Posturing, sycophantic, arrogant, pompous little—
The door burst open. ‘Commander, there’s a bridgehead on the allure between the gatehouse and Second Tower. Fierce fighting, sir; they’re pushing hard and throwing more men at the ladders. Easterners and Mireces both. Colonel Yarrow requests more men.’
‘On my way,’ Durdil bellowed and bolted for the door, ignoring the shouted questions from the councillors and Hardoc’s tentative offer of aid, made quietly enough that it was unlikely Durdil would hear it and accept. Even the thought of a breach wasn’t enough to dampen his enthusiasm at being out of that room.
He found a little spike of fresh energy from somewhere and hurried for the assembly place and his waiting horse, flung it into a gallop down the King’s Way, racing towards war and away from the much messier, harder to understand, knife-in-the-back infighting that was politics.
Fourth moon, evening, day thirty of the siege
Mireces encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands
Corvus watched through narrowed eyes as the East Rank established a new bridgehead on the wall and the Mireces did their best to emulate them on their section. His men were slower and clumsy compared with the Easterners, but lethal if they reached the top. If they reached the top. Even as he watched, small figures fell, arms and legs flailing against the air until they disappeared into the shadows at the base of the wall.
A fucking month we’ve been here and still we’re no better on the ladders. Still there is no progress.
There had been only minimal defenders on the wall when the attack began, but that’d changed soon enough and now the battle was hand-to-hand and fierce all along the northern end, what Rivil and Skerris referred to as Second Last. His men had Double First, and while they didn’t have the same skill on the ladders, they’d established a fragile bridgehead around the siege tower.
The Blessed One had vanished hours before to pray for their victory, and Corvus paced the grass out of catapult range, chewing a fingernail and flicking his gaze between his men and Rivil’s. It didn’t matter who established the first serious breach, didn’t matter who took their section of wall first. What mattered was victory. Corvus told himself he believed that.
‘What?’