They had, much to the chagrin of the Leoric of Fin-Larger, demolished a large part of the town. Buildings had been brought crashing down and their remains piled up into makeshift walls. Killing grounds were created. Spikes were everywhere, an entire branch of troops had been doing nothing but sharpening stakes for days which had left them and their commander out of sorts. Her small army had definitely become two camps, though as long as they followed her orders they could hate her as much as they wished.
She did her rounds of the defences with Vir: it was plain they were too hurriedly built, they had not even managed to create decent wooden walls. The wood used in the building of houses was not the right size or thickness and they did not have the right tools. Fin-Larger once had a carpenter, but they had left and taken everything with them. What defensible walls they had built were full of holes – they would stop an army, right enough, but not for long.
“Good walls,” said Vir, looking up at them; the mound of rubble and old building material came up to his waist, the wall on it was half again as tall as him. “Considering what we have to work with.” He didn’t look at her, and though he tried to sound upbeat he couldn’t fool Dassit.
“Movement!” Shouted from one of the roofs, a house left standing for lookouts to use.
“Where, soldier?”
“To the north, looks like an army.”
“I better get up there, Vir,” she said, “you continue the inspection of the walls, find some way we can shore them up a bit more, make sure the walkways don’t collapse.”
She left Vir and went up through the interior of the house, it had been beautiful once, but now it was a wreck. Holes punched in walls to allow spears to be thrown from them. Half the roof gone and replaced with a platform built on it for lookouts; similar posts had been made at all the compass points. From here she could see the other three soldiers, looking out in opposite directions, occasionally glancing at the troops approaching.
“Look like ours, Trunk,” said the lookout. Dassit squinted, her eyes were not what they had once been.
“It’s Rai Dealish,” she said. “Doesn’t look like he’s still got his catapults.”
“Are they coming to help us?” She shook her head.
“No, looks like they will pass by, their route will not bring them here unless they change course.” She stayed at the lookout post, watching the army approach and when it was at its nearest point – an hour’s walk away, she thought – and the Light Above was at its highest, a message skipper left the army and came to them. She climbed down, went to their makeshift gates to meet the messenger, trying to ignore the sweat trickling down the inside of her armour.
The skipper stopped before her, the earthy smell of the dying gasmaw tethered above them stinging Dassit’s nostrils.
“You have a message for me?” she said. The messenger nodded, beneath their wide-brimmed hat their face paint was cracked and veined with sweat.
“The great Rai, Dealish Mat-Brumar has encountered the armies of the false Cowl-Rai.” He spoke the message with a sense of importance she did not think Rai Dealish deserved. “They are marching this way. You are ordered to hold them here.”
“Has the great Rai, Dealish Mat-Brumar actually seen this place?” she said, waving a hand at the makeshift walls and piles of rubble. “It was not built to be defended. Unless he brings his troops here and joins us we will barely hold them for a day.”
“The great Rai orders you to hold this place,” the skipper repeated. Dassit said nothing in reply, only watched the snake of the Rai’s army making its way across the plain in the distance.
“And what will he do?” she said eventually.
“He will meet up with the second army of the Red under Rai Uter Gan-Hilsen, and they will plan a defence. You must give them time to do that.” She nodded.
“So the order is to buy him time?” she said.
“Yes. You are to hold the enemy.” Dassit swallowed; a death sentence if she had to stay here.
“Return to Dealish, tell him I will buy as much time as I can.” The message skipper nodded.
“May I get a drink first?”
“Of course,” she said, “try the chimney house in the centre, or the guardhouse by it. One of my branch commanders will provide you a drink and something to eat.” She nodded and turned away. Vir stood behind her.
“What plan do you think the great Rai, Dealish Mat-Brumar, will come up with while we’re dying?” he said.
“I don’t know.” She looked over the defences again, trying not to despair.
“I do,” he spat, “run back to Jinnspire and hope the Cowl-Rai will hold his hand.”
“Careful how you talk, Vir,” she hissed. Vir only shrugged.
“What does it matter? Not like we’ll survive to get reported; this place, with us in it, will end up as flat as ruined Anjiin.”
“It’s not Rai ears I’m worried about.” She glanced over at a group of soldiers on patrol, saw Vir realise his foolishness, bow his head.
“Well,” he sniffed, “I’ll put more troops to strengthening the walls, and get more spikes out there.” She looked around the larger; it was a shambles, they could never hold it.
“Get them working,” she said, “and bring the branch leaders to the guardhouse. I want to talk to them.”
She sat and watched her branch leaders as they made themselves comfortable, Vir as laconic as ever, Tryu, looking uncomfortable with her new rank but proud of it as well. Tirin Har-Barich and Cavan Har-Gollust sat separately. The woman, Tirin, had been here when she entered, passing over a package of food to the message skipper and sending them on their way.
“We should do this in the chimney house,” said Cavan sullenly, wiping sweat from his face.
Part of Dassit agreed. The chimney house was blessedly cool. However, the walls were thin and she knew she would have to move her command to the guardhouse at some point anyway. Nowhere else would stand against an army. Besides, the chimney house was a good place to rest soldiers, a way of rewarding them. Finding officers there was no reward.
“Better use that place for soldiers to rest,” she said. “Now, pay attention.” On the table in front of them she had used some scavenged building materials to make a rough approximation of Fin-Larger. “We have to hold for as long as we can,” she said. “No surrender.” She looked at the others around the table. “So we at least have to put on a good show before we leave.”
“Leave?” said Cavan, leaning forward, voice and manner gruff. He styled himself on the Rai in his demeanour and she thought the reality of such officers was that they were weak, having to borrow another’s authority. “We hold this place. The Cowl-Rai and Chyi are with us.” Privately, Dassit wondered if the man was stupid, deluded or both.
“As the Cowl-Rai is not here we cannot hold this place,” she said.
“That is defeatist, treasonous talk,” said Cavan. Dassit stared at him for a moment, a big man in cheap armour polished to a shine. Did he believe what he was saying? Was he prepared to die here?
“Branch Har-Barich?” she asked, turning to Tirin. The woman scratched her cheek with the long nail on her little finger, something many affected so they did not mar their make-up.
“As Cavan says, we have been told to stand so we must stand.” Dassit took a breath. The woman had not struck her as the type to throw her life away.
“We have not quite been ordered to stand,” said Dassit. “We have been told to buy time and not surrender.”
“There is a difference?” said Cavan. She saw Vir smiling from the corner of her eye.
“Yes.” She stood. “We can only hold Fin-Larger for maybe a few days at most before we are overrun. Our orders are to buy time. Surrendering is giving up to the enemy. A fighting retreat is different. That is escaping so our forces can be of use later.” Tirin Har-Barich was watching her, Dassit wondered what she was thinking. Across from her Cavan Har-Gollust looked like he was wrestling with what she had said. Good, she thought, let him wrestle, it would keep him quiet. “I think we can buy more time by splitting our forces.” She looked over at Vir who was nodding. “Some of us will leave Fin-Larger and attack their convoy, using the fields as cover.” She looked around the table: Tryu was staring intently at her, drinking in her words. Cavan looked confused and Tirin remained unreadable “Our order is to hold them here,” said Cavan again.
“Well, no plan survives contact with the enemy,” said Dassit. “We cannot hold them here. So we will split up, half to make hit-and-run attacks. Slow them down that way. Tryu, you will take my chosen and lead that force.” She knew her chosen wouldn’t like that, but better they grumble and have a chance than die here. “The rest of us will continue to fortify this place, make it look like it’s important but we’re not staying. With any luck they will split their forces, some to lay siege here, some to follow our harrying forces. By the time they realise this place is empty they’ll be days behind the rest of their army. Tryu, do your best to lead the enemy to Rai Dealish and Rai Uter who will find it much easier to crush a smaller force. Then they can come back for the rest which we’ll hold in a fighting retreat.” She knew it was a plan that probably wouldn’t work. No guarantee the army would split. Even if it did she would likely be overrun. But it stood more chance than trying to hold Fin-Larger.
“No,” said Tirin. “That is not the order. The order is hold here. I ask that we vote, it is the way.” Dassit nodded, though inside she was seething that this woman would question her.
“Very well,” said Dassit, “I vote for my plan.”
“As do I,” said Vir.
“And me,” said Tryu.
“Then it is decided, Branch Har-Barich,” Dassit stood. “Even if Har-Gollust votes with you. Get your people ready. You and your branch will accompany Tryu while the rest of us make this place look more impressive than it really is.”
“Me?” Her surprise plain, but it suited Dassit to have the cleverer of her two rivals out of the town. The woman stared at her. If looks could kill, thought Dassit. Har-Barich bit her lip, plainly desperate for some way to save face after losing the vote. “What about the prisoners?” she said.
Har-Gollust chimed in. “You should execute them now. I’ll do it, it’ll raise morale. Everyone likes an execution.”
“I will deal with the prisoners,” said Dassit. “You and Vir can organise the troops, make sure they know we intend a fighting retreat and will not have to hold this place. That will improve morale better than any execution.” She watched them leave, Vir hung back.
“I don’t like Har-Gollust and Har-Barich much,” he said.
“As long as they fight, Vir, that’s all that matters.” He nodded. “Get out there and keep an eye on them, make sure they’re doing as they’re told.” With that she went downstairs, trying to decide what to do with the people in the cells.
The Forestal and the murder priest seemed no fonder of each other than they had been when she first visited.
“Have you decided to use me as a healer, yet, Trunk Commander?” said Fandrai, standing as she entered. Was he really a Cowl-Rai? Or did the Forestal, Tanhir, play some game?
“Sooner let a spearmaw out among sleeping children,” said Tanhir.
“I have decided not to use you as a healer,” said Dassit.
“Then surely you have better things to do than bother with us?” said Fandrai. She did and she knew it. But here she could escape her responsibilities and there was still something about these two that did not ring true. She hated that. Besides, the Forestal and the monk – if that was what he was – knew nothing of what was happening above. They had their own fight, and Dassit could be free from thoughts of the coming army while she was down here.
“The armies of the false Cowl-Rai are coming.”
“And you cannot defend this place,” said Tanhir, “and we are a drain on your resources so are to be executed.” Dassit stared at the Forestal; the woman seemed resigned to her fate. “I wonder how long the murderer’s promise not to kill will last when you put a noose around his neck.”
“I have not decided what to do with you yet,” said Dassit, wondering at how callous they thought she must be.
“One of your officers has made a decision though,” said Tanhir, “we hear everything down here.”
“I can be of help, as a healer,” offered Fandrai again. He sounded tired.
“My bow would be more use to you than his hands.”
“And what of when you run out of arrows?” asked the monk. “How many do you have, five? Ten?”
“I can fight with a spear as well as a bow,” said the Forestal.
“No one is being executed today,” said Dassit.
“Then why are you here?” said the monk, sitting on his bed. “This is what, your fourth visit in as many days? An odd way for an officer to spend her time.”
“As I have said before, how you are here does not make sense. I do not like mysteries.” Upstairs a door opened. Vir coming back, no doubt.
“We are not a mystery,” said Fandrai.
“That is true, it is very simple,” said Tanhir, “he is a murderer, I am his justice.”
“No,” said Fandrai, “she is a woman driven by revenge. I am merely a man obeying the tenets of my god.” Dassit stared at him. Her world had always been full of gods, every week the processions of different groves coming through her village. In Tiltspire, as a soldier she had seen less of them, Chyi was everything there. But leave the city and once more you would walk among a hundred different religions, all paying fealty to Chyi while scheming to be the strongest. Each had their own customs, some quite foul. The less acceptable ones tended to be wiped out, just like Fandrai’s had been, but she could not hate him for it; she could hate what he did, yes, but it was likely he had been raised in his religion since a child and knew nothing else. At the same time, the Forestal’s desire for revenge made sense to her. This was Crua, it was the way of things, or it had been. She had heard that in the north, Crua was no longer the land of a thousand gods, that Tarl-an-Gig was a jealous god and had driven out all others.
Dassit found that worse than the idea of a god of murder. It upset her that the northerners were changing the world in such a definite way.
“You say you were a travelling trader and just happened to recognise Fandrai?” The Forestal stared at her, nodded. Fandrai let out a small laugh. “Such things happen,” said Dassit, “but look at you, dressed like a Forestal and carrying a forestbow?”
“You would be surprised how few people recognise those things,” said Tanhir. Fandrai laughed again.
“I do not think you rise to trunk commander by being stupid, Tanhir,” he said.
“Take my name from your mouth,” said the Forestal.
Dassit heard footsteps, getting louder as they came down the stairs and she turned, expecting to find Vir. Instead she found herself looking at Tirin Har-Barich. She was not wearing her helmet, her hair long and dark, flowing over her armour. Her entire genealogy written down the side of her face which Dassit thought odd; it was not a particularly auspicious one. Har-Barich stared at her, then looked over her shoulder at the two prisoners.
“If you have come to try and convince me to die defending this place, Har-Barich, then you are going to fail. My decision is made.”
The branch commander nodded.
“Oh, decisions have indeed been made,” giggled Fandrai. Dassit ignored him.
“What about them?” Har-Barich pointed at the prisoners. “Have you told them they are to be executed?”
“No,” said Dassit, and she turned back to Fandrai and Tanhir. “I have not decided what to—”
Words stopped.
Pain. A blade sinking into her side like a lance of fire. Thrust between the plates of her armour as an arm came around her neck. Har-Barich hissing in her ear.
“You were meant to die here,” she said. “The skipper brought orders, and they are to make sure you never leave.” Another stab. A wash of pain. Dassit groaned. For a moment she was overwhelmed, not by pain but by anger at her own stupidity. Should have seen this. What sort of message skipper needed a drink and food after such a short trip? He had plainly been delivering another message.
The urge to live rising up in her. Overwhelming her. Years of training and instinct kicked in. Survive. Survive at all costs. She twisted her body, flesh ripping around the knife, feeling it cut deeper but she could not let the woman stab her again. Trying to put armour between the knife and her. The move took Har-Barich by surprise, spinning the woman round. Dassit, with her strength quickly ebbing, pushed backwards, smashing the branch commander against the bars of the cage behind her. Pain radiating through her at the impact. Lights flashing in her vision. Her attacker grunting.
“You die,” hissed into her ear. “You die here.” Dassit struggled but the woman had her tight, no escape. Strength ebbing. Her life would end in a cell, stabbed from behind by one of her own. It was not how she imagined it. The arm around her throat tightened. She felt Har-Barich moving to thrust the knife into her side again. Here it comes, she thought. Hot blood flowed down her legs. Movement, a grunt, readying for the blade. About to bite again.
The blade about to bite.
Again?
Har-Barich struggling. No longer hissing in her ear. The grip around her neck loosening. Letting go. Dassit fell forward. Landed heavily on her knees. Falling onto her side. Rolling over. The Forestal had Har-Barich, her arms through the bars. One around the officer’s neck, the other holding her knife hand. Har-Barich’s face slowly turning purple as the bandit woman squeezed, a look of pure concentration on her face. Next door the murder priest was dancing from foot to foot, chanting.
“Death! A death for Hirsal of the Shadows!”
The Forestal continue to squeeze until Har-Barich went limp. She let go and the branch commander slipped to the floor.
“You saved me,” said Dassit, the words coming out slowly.
“And you me, from the sound of it,” said the Forestal; in her hand she had the key to her cell.
“Help me,” said Dassit. She had been wounded before. Knew it was bad this time. Could feel blood pooling around her. Hear the sucking sound when she moved. The Forestal unlocked the cage, used the door to push the body of Har-Barich out the way. She knelt to look at Dassit’s wounds, her face told Dassit everything she needed to know.
“I’m sorry, Trunk Commander,” she said, “it is too late for you.” She stood, walked across and picked up her bow and arrows. Strung the bow, bending the wood to fit the string, all the time staring at the other prisoner.
“I can save her,” said the monk, all levity fled from him. His face serious. “Let me out, I can save her. I know the workings of a body, she is not beyond my help. You know this is true.” The Forestal nocked an arrow. Dassit watched, it all felt very far away. She was cold. What a place to die.
Tanhir pulled on the bow, bringing it to full draw and aiming the arrow at Fandrai.
“This is for my family, last monk of the god of murder.”
“My death is her death,” said the priest with a nod towards Dassit. She did not mind dying, not really, it would be good to rest. Fandrai stood, to meet his fate. “Is that not also the murder of an innocent?”
“Be quiet,” said the Forestal, her voice low and full of threat, “and prepare to meet your god.” Dassit closed her eyes.
She never saw the arrow leave the bow.