Darksoul. Anna Stephens

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      ‘And it’s my lads who’ll be on the top of it, fighting and dying all day and all night, too. We’re under siege, Merle; every single one of us is risking death now. Can you do it?’

      Merle stared at the faces of his masons and their apprentices, at the mounds of dressed stone, the tubs of sand and limestone waiting to be mixed. Then he clapped his huge hands once. ‘Work’ll go slower in the dark, sir, so we’ll need plenty of torchlight to see by, and if you’ve got men up there fighting, well’ – he pointed to a bloodstain – ‘not sure my lads want to be killed by a hundredweight of soldier and armour dropping on their heads. Still, we’ll give it our best and leave the rest up to the Dancer.’

      Durdil stepped forward and looked up into Merle’s honest, dusty face. ‘I don’t think we can leave this one to the gods, Merle. If you don’t manage this, we all die.’

      Merle’s chest inflated so much he nearly pushed Durdil back a step. ‘Aye, Commander. We understand. We won’t let you down, will we, boys?’ There was a chorus of grim affirmation and the masons turned away from Durdil, stepped up the wall and the indecipherable markings scratched in chalk and, without another word, began to chisel.

      ‘You’re a credit to your trade and to Rilpor. I have no doubts you’ll succeed. Anything you need today, Colonel Yarrow up above will see you get it. Once night falls, come to me.’

      Merle bobbed his head, and Durdil nodded again and headed for Last Bastion and the North Gate. The harbour nestled behind the stump wall had been probed but not assaulted; the boats remained intact, their masts the only thing between Rilporin and defeat.

      Durdil had been asleep for approximately three and a half seconds when someone burst into his room and yelled him awake.

      ‘What?’ he grunted, knuckling grit from his eyes and letting out a long, protracted groan as his muscles sparked into rebellious, agonised life.

      ‘I said, they’ve built a sow and it’s heading for the gatehouse. Looks like they’re going to try rope and tackle to bring down the portcullis. If they manage it, they’ll slap pitch against the gates at this end of the tunnel and set the whole thing on fire.’ Vaunt’s voice was calm as ice, but there were hectic spots of colour in his cheeks.

      ‘The room above the tunnel’s manned, correct? They’re opening the murder holes?’ Durdil asked as he staggered upright and squinted as Vaunt flung open the shutters. He looked out – mid-afternoon, apparently. Still not enough sleep.

      Durdil shrugged into chainmail and jammed a helmet on, ignoring Vaunt’s protest that he should be in plate armour. ‘No time,’ he snapped, buckling on his sword and snatching up vambraces and gauntlets.

      He strode to the door and out into an eerie, silent Second Circle and then jogged heavily towards the gate into First Circle. Vaunt caught him up, slung him a waterskin and then a heel of bread with butter spread as thick as his little finger was round. Durdil’s eyelids sagged and he groaned at the taste, mumbled thanks as Vaunt reclaimed the waterskin and replaced it with a thick pink wedge of what turned out to be lamb.

      Gods, food. His stomach reminded him that as welcome as the meal was, it was nowhere near enough and that he’d forgotten to eat before tumbling into his cot – and that, actually, there were a few more points his body would like to raise now that he was awake, such as the unexpected rigours of battle, the bone-deep bruises from swords and axes trying to hammer through his armour, the general lack of food, water, sleep and a spare minute to take a godsdamned piss, if you please.

      Durdil bit down on the meat, turned to face the closest wall, hefted his chainmail and let loose a stream of golden urine that glinted magnificently in the sun. He groaned again.

      ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Vaunt asked worriedly. ‘Blood in your piss, sir? I can get Hallos and—’

      Durdil grunted around the chunk of meat in his mouth and then shook his head, finished up and stuffed himself back in his trousers, remembering to wipe his hand on his sleeve before taking the meat out of his mouth.

      ‘I’m fine, let’s go,’ he said and forced himself into a run again, pounding through the killing field beneath the curtain wall, where an enemy would be trapped between the walls and so vulnerable to arrow shot from above – gods, don’t let it come to that – on towards the gatehouse on legs that really shouldn’t shake this much and in through the door and up and up and up the stairs to the level of the wallwalk, where Edris and Yarrow had the command.

      And Renik, too, apparently, though the man was supposed to be sleeping. I’m supposed to be sleeping. So’s Vaunt.

      ‘Show me.’

      Renik gestured to an arrow slit and Durdil pressed his face to the stone and looked down, still chewing the fatty lamb and trying not to drool. The sow was an upturned cart with plates of metal and animal hides nailed to its bottom, the legs of a dozen men visible underneath as they carried it as protection above their heads and made their way towards the gate.

      He could see the ropes unfurling behind them and knew they’d be attached to grappling hooks that they’d latch on to the portcullis. As soon as they’d hooked on, the squad on the other end of the rope would start cranking, hoping to pull the portcullis free of its housing before the defenders could sprint the length of the tunnel and unhook them.

      Standard manoeuvre, one we know how to counter … Durdil’s eyes tracked the long ropes trailing from behind the sow. Looked as though they stretched back to the trebuchet, now facing away from the city as though it was going to hurl rocks into its own army.

      ‘Fuck the gods,’ Durdil breathed and grabbed Renik by the shoulder, pulled him to the arrow slit. ‘What happens if they connect the ropes from the portcullis to the treb’s throwing arm?’ he hissed. ‘Could it work?’

      Renik paled and swallowed. ‘Dangerous,’ he said. ‘Either it flips the treb, shatters it, snaps the ropes or rips free the portcullis. Three of those will be lethal to the men around it. The fourth could well be lethal for Rilporin.’

      Durdil spun from the window and shoved Vaunt towards the stairs. ‘Get those fucking hooks off the portcullis right fucking now.’

      Vaunt didn’t hesitate, didn’t protest a major shouldn’t be doing something like this, didn’t mention the arrow shot he’d be under from the men in the sow the second he got close to the hooks. He just dodged a knot of soldiers and threw himself down the spiral staircase.

      ‘Help him,’ Durdil shouted, and the men gaped for a second and then followed. ‘Renik, get a Hundred and muster this side of the gates. If they get that portcullis open, hold them there until I can get you reinforcements.’

      ‘Sir,’ Renik said and bolted for the same staircase that had swallowed Vaunt.

      ‘Edris, Yarrow, whose command is under the least pressure?’

      ‘Mine,’ Edris said, ‘we’ve had them pinned back for a good few hours now.’

      ‘Right, fifty men. Fetch both the stingers stationed outside the gate into Second Circle. Vaunt’s going to stop the sow tearing open the portcullis if he can, but if not I want those stingers rolled into the tunnel and loosing at any advance. Renik’s your support. Do not let them through that tunnel. Understand?’

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