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Darksoul
Anna Stephens
The thrilling sequel to GODBLIND, the biggest fantasy debut of 2017.The Wolves lie dead beside Rilpor’s soldiers, slaughtered at the hands of the Mireces and their fanatical army.The veil that once kept the Red Gods at bay has been left in tatters as the Dark Lady’s plans for the world come to fruition. Where the gods walk, blood is spilled on the earth.All that stands between the Mireces army and complete control of the Kingdom of Rilpor are the walls of its capital, Rilporin, and those besieged inside.But hope might yet bloom in the unlikeliest of places: in the heart of a former slave, in the mind of a soldier with the eyes of a fox, and in the hands of a general destined to be king.
Copyright (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Anna Smith 2018
Map copyright © Sophie E. Tallis 2017
Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Anna Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008215941
Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008215965
Version: 2018-07-12
Dedication (#u12feb8fa-f5b7-5219-8f6f-cb6a72bd368b)
For Mum, Dad, and Sam.
Thanks for letting me grow up weird.
Table of Contents
Cover (#ufe16d133-45c0-5311-b045-57af98ebf520)
Title Page (#ueffb613b-c02d-5a60-a79f-38167a65c69d)
Copyright (#u83476bd9-5ec4-5a51-bd2b-9249033b5e57)
Dedication (#u4ed15d96-5bc2-5394-96d3-3a79a9dde87d)
Map (#u7e83a2ad-11db-5baf-b00a-ba6539523ad7)
Durdil (#u2044f14f-e710-5004-921a-a44bbdf722ed)
Galtas (#uec5bbad2-78aa-5b46-b879-645e7867c1e4)
The Blessed One (#u59857956-7166-5e6b-b3d0-942c68f7511e)
Durdil (#u9023e0bd-55f7-50d2-93f4-6f87676eb7ac)
Galtas (#ufc0c0555-e487-5bff-acf4-53c83940400e)
Gilda (#ub4e69445-92e2-5919-b72a-d32e965ec616)
Dom (#u49f6661c-7704-5e74-b72a-7e40363d82df)
Durdil (#u3b088cfd-91ba-5c9f-a9b4-32cf81251735)
Corvus (#u16d9a79c-ab97-5533-a501-b44c517adada)
Mace (#uec90d223-aca7-5c5a-9976-007d310a5818)
Durdil (#u6f207ae9-6309-55e9-b893-31bdc562ceff)
Corvus (#ue350b67f-0e0a-5a90-b513-5b9ebde4766f)
Tara (#ued52d597-aa50-5ac8-947d-6bb8279ca7d3)
Gilda (#u82186cff-69c5-53bc-94e6-60e8f999822a)
Crys (#u3183a25a-5f01-54da-b258-6865baeeac79)
Rillirin (#ubf40ce90-a256-5084-9fdc-2dec24d391c3)
Mace (#u5f60d00f-5542-52f5-8fa6-855e85034ad5)
Rillirin (#u81fad2cc-2038-522e-a118-3ddd716225fc)
Galtas (#u6a9b77ea-d063-5eb6-90cd-b4cc947e7f96)
Crys (#u7e2ba33d-1b54-5d15-95d5-244923d7dc74)
Galtas (#ue7d89698-2feb-50d2-a9af-249dea7e49f0)
The Blessed One (#u4e8b90c6-65c1-5c0e-943c-5d33e391344b)
Durdil (#u5367e4e9-628a-5f5a-a74b-f0b1c7165b73)
Crys (#u5b5c4795-418b-5557-ad57-f370de4db243)
Durdil (#u9dfd765d-ce45-59e7-9979-b48135502f0e)
Corvus (#u53a279a7-4c6e-5ffb-bcb9-8c81262f03ac)
Tara (#u01ffc74c-bfb1-5bea-a322-a7ef881a5571)
Crys (#udbe2b1de-ad68-5426-990f-a892e96205c5)
Mace (#u758af6e6-3572-5f74-9b89-5a56b4a5d19e)
Rillirin (#ue9ff3ae1-5889-5316-a600-c6b1b38ac760)
Corvus (#u1b72e6e5-8b62-5ea6-8970-4f9fb9b19873)
Dom (#ua8efe985-3a8c-5d51-aadc-5d0be27fddbc)
Crys (#u3439920b-8195-582e-ae00-1b0b825cc73b)
The Blessed One (#ucaf7915c-8434-51de-ae6b-3f547f56cfa4)
Tara (#u1fb1f9d0-45d0-5172-afb8-18adcb58168d)
Corvus (#uff367073-4693-54f9-90af-2e68488c2676)
Tara (#u5b426b8f-e8cc-5b71-be5f-444ad887a9d9)
Galtas (#u95fa55d8-cbe7-5960-a523-644b87f664e6)
Corvus (#u5489ff9f-ddba-5d49-9e4f-af40fc13b9c3)
Mace (#u2a196041-81fc-5e17-b2ef-5b9223a3a174)
Crys (#ue17aa377-b9c4-5a03-9395-f1b4477e1eab)
Tara (#u32996dcd-543c-5839-acfa-9a0bcc8ccf32)
Crys (#ua5dee7e9-3569-51bc-a0c8-087b550ce351)
Dom (#u0bc3baaf-1944-543b-b8d3-df7e1245d0d1)
The Blessed One (#ud240b4b1-cdca-5bb8-8153-52162629e51b)
Dom (#ue5f2956d-4168-5f65-9577-0b178e1ad36e)
Crys (#ub9212caa-3ca6-5239-a8d6-6fd8e06817d7)
Rillirin (#u0723b156-5500-54dc-a8ad-3b5fb48dc2c0)
Corvus (#u281e5438-d532-50e8-b6ab-5ce316ac2b4a)
Mace (#u91032b81-08bc-50d6-a752-31eb00d81a6c)
Dom (#ua3b43eb6-b00d-5a2b-b8f9-0a38b432344f)
Tara (#u2feadada-5794-5833-b4b9-cd1a8869f3a9)
Mace (#u7b11fbd0-328f-521f-b2a0-b4669993d574)
Epilogue (#u39068a64-761d-5669-82ae-65bb3793541f)
Acknowledgments (#u23b5b3a9-1791-5812-91c3-ea6931df63d5)
By Anna Stephens (#ue6b3459a-b22a-5d14-ab6f-d9bbe085659d)
About the Publisher (#ubcefcc52-00e3-5896-8329-eb021dc896ae)
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.
