Darksoul. Anna Stephens

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Durdil had chewed his lip to ribbons since the siege began and winced as he bit at it now. He scrubbed a hand across the back of his head and down his neck. Erik nodded again when he looked to him for aid. Hallos was waiting, the plea clear on his lips and in his eyes. Give him what he can’t ask for himself. Help him, as you’ve helped him all your life. Serve him.

      ‘I’ll tell the council he succumbed to his wound,’ Durdil said eventually. ‘They know it’s inevitable, so we’ll let them think it was a natural end. Otherwise, our noble Lords Lorca and Silais are likely stupid enough to accuse us of treason in the midst of this … mess.’

      Each of the priests nodded and their voices swelled louder, urging Rastoth’s spirit to begin breaking its anchors to his dying, rotting flesh.

      ‘Opium?’ Hallos murmured, selecting a small jar with a hand that didn’t – and Durdil felt should – shake.

      ‘You’ll never get him to swallow it. Will you?’

      Hallos’s smile was weary and sad. ‘There are things you will never know of my art, my old friend. Don’t worry. Just … say your goodbyes, yes? We should do it quickly, now the decision has been made. We should spare him any more of this … this sham of life.’

      Hallos stepped out of his way and Durdil looked again at his king, his decades-long friend, lying still and pale against the pillows. Rastoth’s breath came in tiny pants, clammy sweat glistening in the gloom. His hands were claws. From the open window came the sound of a dog-boy playing with a litter of puppies, uncaring of the dying king or besieged city.

      Durdil fell to one knee by the bed, his armour clattering about his shoulders. ‘Sire, forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘I should have protected you, kept you safe …’ The man might be old and mad, but he was Durdil’s king and Durdil’s friend.

      ‘I will save Rilporin, Rastoth. I will save our country and our gods, our people. All of it. I swear on my hope of reaching the Light. When we meet again, I …’ He choked back a sob.

      Hallos squeezed past him and an involuntary denial sprang to Durdil’s lips, a hand reaching to stop the cup on its way to Rastoth’s lips.

      Erik rounded the bed and pulled him gently to his feet. ‘Your last act for your king, Commander, should be the one that brings him peace,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t interfere now. Pray.’

      Durdil’s lips began moving in prayer as the priests sang, as Hallos raised Rastoth’s head with pillows and tipped small, patient sips of wine and opium into his mouth, massaging his throat until he swallowed. Rastoth’s breathing slowed as the drug stole his pain, as it relaxed his limbs, as it took his mind far, far away from the ruin of his body and the ashes of his reign.

      Durdil crowded close, found Rastoth’s leg beneath the covers and rested his hand there. ‘Marisa’s waiting,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Marisa and Janis both. In the Light. Waiting for you. Tell her I said hello and … and ask her to forgive me. I failed you, all three of you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

      Something that might have been a smile, or just the last twitch of dying muscles, crossed his face, and then Rastoth the Kind, Rastoth the Mad, exhaled a last, bubbling breath and died.

      Durdil stared in silence at the council gathered in the war room, his fingers steepled before his lips. His eyes were red with fatigue and grief, and he’d delivered the news of Rastoth’s death into a silence that was thick with alliances and churning with calculation. As expected, both Lords Lorca and Silais were clearly vying to win the majority of the council and be the next power in Rilporin. Perhaps even to sit on the throne.

      ‘My lords, as grievous as this news is, I will not be releasing it to the populace or the Rank. Nor will we be flying the scarlet or declaring a week of official mourning, as is customary. We are at war, my lords, and as of now martial law is in effect. Those of us who live to see the siege’s conclusion can carry out the funeral rites with all pomp and ceremony at that point. For now, we concern ourselves only with the fight.’

      ‘This is preposterous; you have not the authority,’ Lord Lorca began, his silver tongue momentarily losing its sheen. ‘King Rastoth must be—’

      ‘King Rastoth is dead. We the living have more important things to worry about than feasting his memory or arguing about interim governments. The state of the wall, for instance. The enemy’s trebuchets have been loosing at it for days now. The Stonemasons’ Guild is inspecting it daily for weaknesses. I’ve asked them to—’

      ‘You do not ask the stonemasons anything,’ Silais muttered, ‘not if you want them to actually do anything. You order them. Order, I say.’

      ‘Thank you for your opinion, Lord Silais, but they’re working ceaselessly and providing regular reports,’ Durdil said. ‘There is little more I, or they, can do than that. I have also spoken with the pigeon-master, and it appears that while he was in the city, Prince Rivil—’

      ‘King Rivil, surely,’ a voice said. Durdil glanced at Questrel Chamberlain. The man simpered and smoothed down his oiled hair. ‘By right and blood, my lords, Commander, the prince is now our king. Surely we should address him as such.’

      A babble rose among СКАЧАТЬ