Darksoul. Anna Stephens

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       DURDIL

       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 СКАЧАТЬ