There had been two quakes since they’d arrived, the land shaking beneath her feet, and she tried to ignore them. The quakes came more and more often now, something to do with the passing of one Cowl-Rai and rising of the next no doubt. Dassit put it out of her mind, she had other things to think about.
The town was not as empty as she had first thought. Most of the populace was hiding, though when they appeared they did not give her any great hope of creating a defence force. They were either children or very old. All the strongest had already been taken for the armies of the Red, it was the same everywhere. Any that had not been taken had most likely been sent away the moment she was seen approaching. It annoyed her on a professional level, but on a personal level she understood. If she was a Leoric it was what she would do.
That did not make her any kinder.
She had Vir sort through the townspeople, finding any strong enough to rebuild the walls. Tiran and Cavan she had commanded to take their troops and reap the grasses around the walls. Partly because they would need them for food, and partly because she could not get that Osere-cursed image of an army sneaking up on her through them out of her head. The two branch commanders were not pleased, so she had Tryu take her personal guard and join them, then none could claim she played favourites. After that she had walked the walls, or what there was of them. Spitting and cursing to herself with every step. This place had been rich, but it had never thought it would need defending. Its Tanside walls were in the best condition, no one knocked down defensive walls to build poor housing; though it was not that poor, the tannery pits were long since gone from Fin-Larger. On Grasside the walls were almost entirely gone to make way for the tall thin houses. One good shot from a Rai and the entire town would burn. She started making notes on a map as she moved round, becoming more and more morose as she did.
Dassit was not the type to give up, but she could not stop thinking that if someone asked her to design a town that was indefensible then she would have drawn something very much like Fin-Larger.
To take her mind away from the state of the town, she decided she would go and see the spy the Leoric said they had caught. The one currently languishing beneath the guardhouse on the town square. That a spy had come here seemed unlikely to Dassit.
The watchhouse was an ugly, blocky building of mud and straw bricks around a wooden frame. Small windows, sturdy, difficult to storm and difficult to burn. This would be where they made their last stand if the armies of the Blue came here in force.
She wondered who she would find in the basement. Some poor outlander no doubt.
Inside two soldiers sat; they gave her a salute.
“Prisoner?”
“Two of them, downstairs.”
“Two?” The nearer of the two guards nodded.
“A woman and an old man.”
“Which do they say is the spy?”
“The woman,” said the other guard. “The old man is a vagrant.” She nodded.
“I’ll be downstairs, come if I shout. Come if it sounds too quiet.”
The prison room was surprisingly bright, light holes had been cut into the wall to let the sun in. The heat was oppressive, the smell of the buckets given to the prisoners as latrines powerful. She ignored it, she’d smelled much worse. She made a mental note to have the light holes filled with rubble. Someone could get in, or pour burning oil through them and bring the building down in flames.
The prisoners were asleep, or pretending to be. Their beds had once been next to each other, separated by bars – she could see old marks on the floor – but they had been moved as far away from each other as was possible in the cells. There was not much else in the room. A desk, a chair and a long stick, tapered at both ends, leaning against the wall. She smiled to herself, walked over and picked it up. The smooth wood was weighty, at the centre notches had been cut into it.
“Forestbow,” she said to herself and put it back.
“Few recognise that, Rai.” The words were quiet, but said with venom. Dassit turned to find the woman sat up on her bed, her clothes the green of new fields, her face discoloured by old bruises.
“I am not Rai,” said Dassit. She picked up the bowstaff again. “I’ve never seen an unbroken one of these before.” It was beautiful, in its own way. And lethal.
“Few Rai live to say they’ve seen one at all.” Dassit let out a short laugh, little humour in it as the woman stood, she was in pain and had to lean against the wooden bars.
“I was on a patrol, sent to escort two Rai near a Jinneng village called Murtast.” She carefully put the bow back and picked up the quiver of arrows from under the desk. “Forestals had been attacking, taking willwood from the Treefall site. These bows did a lot of damage but we fought them off in the end. Soldiers found one of the Forestals wounded.” She put the arrows down. “They impaled him on his bow. Broke it in the process.” The woman stared at her from her cell.
“Is that what you will do to me?” Dassit shook her head.
“Not my way. Death should be quick. A knife to the throat, a rope round the neck.”
“So that is what you will do to me?” Dassit laughed again, more real this time. The woman sounded entirely unconcerned, conversational even.
“No, at least not yet.” She walked over to the cage. “I am curious to what a Forestal is doing here, and having fought some of you in the past, even more curious as to how the fools that run this place subdued you. They are hardly warriors.” The woman behind the bars only stared at her. “Do you have a name? Mine is Dassit.” She did not really expect an answer.
“You are very polite for a servant of the Rai, Dassit.” The Forestal cocked her head to one side.
“Why are you here, Forestal?”
“To die, of course. Just like we all are. Her, me, and you.” This from the old man, he had sat up on his bed, a halo of frizzy white hair around his skull. At his voice the Forestal sneered, she tried to hide it but failed. More going on here than it appears thought Dassit. She hated a mystery. Mysteries got you killed. “My name is Fandrai,” said the old man. “I am not as impolite as the Forestal.” The old man laughed to himself and the Forestal turned from him.
“Why would you say we are here to die?” asked Dassit.
“The paint on your armour,” he said, “tells me you’re a trunk commander. Probably at least two branches under you from the noise outside.”
“You seem to know a lot, old man, are you a soldier?”
“I’ve fought,” he said. Grinned at her, showing his teeth were painted black, some filed into points. No clan paint on him. “That many troops must just be passing through, I thought. But you haven’t passed, which means you’re here to defend this place.” The Forestal made a noise, a mixture of a laugh and a grunt.
“You must have really upset someone if you’re meant to defend here,” she said, “the old man is right. You’ve been sent to die.” It annoyed her that it was so obvious, even to a Forestal.
“I believe you have still not explained how you come to be here, Forestal.” The woman stared at her, turned away and sat down on her cot.
“We are not only bandits, Trunk Dassit,” she said softly. “We are also traders.”
“Traders of what you have stolen.” The Forestal turned back to her.
“Isn’t everything in our land stolen from someone?” she said. The old man laughed.
“She’s got you there, soldier. She’s got you there.” The Forestal ignored him and continued talking.
“Fin-Larger is famed for its flour. The finest bread in all Crua, I am told. I was sent to find out what price they wanted for it.”
“I know the Forestals trade,” said Dassit, “but they don’t usually come to do it with a bow and looking, well, as much like a Forestal as you do.”
“I mis-calculated,” said the woman. “Did not think rich and comfortable townspeople would even know what I was.” The old man watched them both, bright-eyed and amused. Dassit stepped closer to the bars.
“I do not know, Forestal,” she said, “whether to think you are stupid, or whether you think I am?” The Forestal did not reply. “How were you were subdued by a bunch of old people and children?”
“I slipped and fell, hit my head. When I came to I was bound and they were beating me.”
“Even so…”
“And I am a little past my prime, though it kills me to say so.” Dassit stared at her; now she had mentioned it Dassit saw that, beneath the make-up and the bruises, the woman was far older than she had first assumed. Older than Dassit, but not as old as the man.
“You’re lying to me,” she said. “And much as I have nothing against you personally, I may have to fight a war here, and I have no time for mysteries that may bite me from behind when I least expect it.” She turned away from her and to the old man. “What’s your story?” Beneath his white hair she could see tattoos, strange lines and shapes weaving across his skull beneath flaking white make-up.
“Just an old man, Rai,” he said, looking at the floor, “looking for somewhere to beg, and a dry place to sleep.” The Forestal snorted, a derisive sound. Dassit let out a breath.
“You’re both lying to me,” said Dassit, “so you’ll both hang today.” With that she turned, walking towards the door.
“I can help you!” She stopped. The old man had called out and she turned back to his cell. He stood with his hands on the bars, his long dirty robe covering his feet. “You have a fight coming, and I can help. I am a healer.” She stared at him. A healer she could use but she had no reason to believe him.
“Don’t listen to him,” said the Forestal, her voice dead, “and don’t hang him either. Spear him in his cell but make sure you don’t get too close.” Dassit closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead.
“I do not have time for this. I was of half a mind simply to set you both on your way.” She looked from one to the other. “Either tell me the truth or the next voice you hear will be my executioner.” She didn’t have one, but Vir would gladly step up.
“He is a criminal,” said the Forestal, nodding towards the old man.
“I have paid my price,” he said, there was bitterness and pain in his voice. “All has been taken from me.” Something in him changed as he spoke. A darkness on his face, a personality he had hidden behind the laughter emerging.
“Explain,” said Dassit. The old man sat down heavily, as though his strength abruptly fled. The Forestal stood.
“Have you ever heard the name ‘Hirsal-Who-Is-In-The-Shadows’?” Dassit shook her head.
“Sounds like some grove god; I heard the new Cowl-Rai has been eradicating them. We still have them in the south, but there are far too many to know them all. My family followed Yua-Who-Brings-Bread and I swear we were the only ones.” No reaction to her joke from the Forestal.
“Even among the myriad forest gods,” said the Forestal, “Hirsal was mostly unknown. They had a grove right in Wyrdwood, hidden in the depths and none knew of it.”
“A hundred other gods do,” said Dassit.
“Hirsal is a god of murder,” said the Forestal.
“Death is necessary.” The old man bit the words out, as though compelled to. When she looked over at him he had his head in his hands, staring at the floor. When he spoke there was a desperation there. “Without death there is no life. The bodies decay, the great canopy breaks them down and they rise anew. In Hirsal’s name the swarden rise and—”
“Shut up, old man,” said the Forestal, her tongue sharp with anger. “Bleat about the circle of life all you wish but you murdered families, you murdered innocent travellers, you killed for the pleasure of it.”
“No!” he stood. “Never for pleasure.” There was a power in his words then, anger. Dassit no longer felt he was a foolish old man. “It was for the balance of life and death.”
“Put two monks together and let them name a god and they try to raise a Cowl-Rai.” The Forestal looked across at the old man. “He is Hirsal’s.”
Dassit felt fear then. The same gut-churning fear as when she stood in the spearline, watching the enemy advance. She took a deep breath, swallowed. Wished she had a weapon in her hand. “Why is he still in there?” She pointed at the cage. “Even a normal Rai wouldn’t be held by that cell, they would burn through the bars.”
“Something happened to him,” said the Forestal. “Maybe he is weak now, I do not know. We found his grove, wiped them out.”
“And you call me a murderer,” spat the old man.
“You had been preying on us for centuries.” Anger like the first flash of lightning in a storm. “And what we did was not murder, it was a battle. One that you ran from like a coward.”
“That is why you are here then?” said Dassit. “You were chasing him.” The Forestal nodded.
“Kill him, now. Before whatever has made him weak and unable to access his cowl wears off.” The old man sighed – it was the sound of a true ancient, like it came from the depths of somewhere dry and desiccated.
“Think what you want of what we believe. Lie to yourself about the inevitability of death if you must, but do not call me a coward.” He stood. Dassit reached for a sword she was not wearing. “Something is wrong in Crua, death itself is corrupted. Had you come across us any other time, Forestal, every one of my people would still live to worship in blood. To feed the mother forest. The fungus beneath your feet would have reached out and rotted you where you stood. I have lived two hundred years, seen Cowl-Rai die, and Cowl-Rai rise.” To Dassit, it was like the room shook, she expected dust to rain down, and brick and shattered wood to follow.
It did not.
The old man sat. The feeling of power ebbed away. “My power is in death, the strongest and most inevitable of all of Iftal’s gifts. But to touch it now will destroy me. I am reduced to being just a man.” He turned to Dassit. “But I meant what I said, Trunk Commander, to destroy a body you must know it. And I know all the secrets of the flesh. I will heal your warriors.”
She was about to answer when a horn blew outside. The alarm. Dassit made to leave; if the cages had held them this long they would continue to hold them.
“Tanhir,” shouted the Forestal; Dassit stopped at the door, turned. “My name is Tanhir.” Dassit gave her a nod.
Outside she found Vir waiting.
“The Blue are here?” she said. He shook his head.
“Not yet. It’s the Army of Rai Dealish, they have sent a messenger to us. The enemy have been spotted. They go to intercept them.” She took Vir over to one of the remaining wall towers to watch the tail of Dealish’s army. Over a thousand troops, far more than she had been told he would get, palanquins carrying the Rai, siege engines being pulled by crownheads.
“Wish we had a catapult,” said Vir. “I like a catapult.”
“Don’t know why he has them, he’s meant to be mobile.” She shook her head; the catapults would be more use here. “He’s not leaving anyone or -thing behind to help us fortify this place then?” Vir shook his head.
“Messenger barely stayed long enough to deliver the message.” She shook her head, then turned away from the army and handed Vir her map of the town.
“Anything marked with an X, bring it down. I want spikes all along whatever walls we can make. Firebreaks within the town. If there’s enough wood you can even build yourself a catapult.” He laughed. She wanted to, but it wouldn’t come.
“You all right, Trunk?” he asked, a line of worry on his forehead. “You seem distracted.”
“Just something the prisoners said.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He spat and coughed, the dust of Fin-Larger got everywhere. “People like that never tell the truth.” She turned back to watch the army as it moved away, hoping that Vir was right because the words of the old man, they frightened her in a way nothing else had in her life.
Death itself is corrupted.
And the land shook beneath their feet.