Foxfire (12 page)

Griane would never let him down. Already she'd be tallying her supplies and mentally ticking off which women could be relied upon to help with the wounded. But Hircha's fist was clenched over her heart, and her eyes were fixed on him as if his mere presence could ward off the attack. This was the first time since their escape from Zheros that the enemy had threatened her. She had to be recalling her capture as a child and the long years of slavery that followed. But as he watched, she slowly lowered her fist and nodded once.

Keirith's gaze met his. We have fought them before, his expression said. Fought them and won. But his fingers ceaselessly rubbed his left forearm where the black tattoo of the Zherosi's sacred adder twisted from wrist to elbow.

So many thoughts chasing after each other in his mind while his voice calmly laid out the strategy. So many frightened faces turned to his, but he could only see those terrified people on the moor, running for their lives. He pictured the leader desperately herding them toward the gap in the hills. Saw the tangled red hair streaming behind her, heard her shouted exhortations to hurry, felt his heart pounding in rhythm to hers.

“If we can save these strangers, we will. But our first priority is to protect our folk. I want no heroics. No needless sacrifices.”

“Let's go. And may the gods keep us safe.”

T
HE OLD WOMAN STUMBLED. The boy seized one arm and Faelia grabbed the other. Between them, they hauled her to her feet again.

“Go on,” the old woman wheezed. “Braden will help me. You see to them.” She jerked her head toward the cluster of villagers who had simply halted at the bottom of the slope.

“Keep moving!” Faelia shouted. “Toward that gap in the hills.”

One or two turned to follow the direction of her finger, but most just stood there, dazed.

The old woman—why had she never thought to ask her name?—and Braden set off in a shambling trot. Faelia hurried toward the others, exhorting the faltering, helping the slow. But they were all slow. The burst of speed they had found when they first spied the Zherosi had long since faded. She tugged on arms, on tunics, herding them like a shepherd.

I
am
their shepherd. And unless I get them moving, they'll all be slaughtered.

She dared a quick glance over her shoulder. Still no sign of the rear guard, but they had to retreat soon. At best, the six men would only slow the enemy. If their shots got past the Zherosi shields. If they weren't cut down first.

They were willing to sacrifice their lives for the people of Gath's village. It was up to her to ensure their sacrifice was not in vain.

She bent over a fair-haired girl who had fallen to her knees. “It's only a little farther.”

“I can't,” the girl muttered, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and hopelessness.

“You must.”

“I'm so tired.”

With an oath, Faelia drew back her hand and slapped her. “Get on your feet. Now!”

The girl gasped, but allowed Faelia to pull her to her feet. Flinging an arm around her waist, Faelia forced her into a trot.

Half a mile. Maybe less. But the survivors were spread out across the moor, lurching across the uneven terrain, clinging to boulders or each other as they crawled up the gentlest slope. She had to keep them moving. She had to get them home.

With her eyes on the beckoning hills, she failed to notice the rabbit hole until her ankle twisted. She staggered, dragging the girl down with her. Pain lanced through her ankle as she pushed herself to her feet again. “Go,” she told the girl. “Keep running.”

Limping badly, she crested the rise. A short distance ahead, she glimpsed the old woman, her white hair bright as a signal fire among the greening grass. And there, at last, was the shadowed gap between the two sunlit hills.

She shouted to the others and pointed. Light returned to a few of the weary faces, but in others, she saw the flash of fear that so often accompanied hope. Is it real or just my imagination? Can I reach it or will the Zherosi catch me first?

The old man ahead of her reeled, and Faelia flung out a hand to steady him. He seemed unaware of her, muttering incessantly as he plodded on. Only when she caught a phrase did she realize he was repeating the traveler's prayer.

She had heard it last on the morning she and Temet left the village. Grain-Mother Barasa had sketched the signs of protection on her forehead and over her heart while reciting the ancient blessing: “May the wind be at your back and the sun upon your shoulders. May the moon chase away the darkness and the stars guide your feet. May your path be smooth, your journey swift, and your homecoming joyous.”

Although the path was far from smooth and the journey agonizingly slow, the wind gusted from the south and the last rays of the sun beat warmly on her shoulders. Surely, those were good signs.

The thin wail cut through her hopeful thoughts like a dagger. Whirling around, she spied two men racing across the moor. Atop the hill behind them stood a line of warriors.

Over the terrified wheezing of the old man, Faelia heard the screams of the women and the higher, shriller shrieks of the children. She told herself to move, but her legs refused to obey. She could only stand and watch the Zherosi commander lift his hand.

The archers raised their bows. Her hand automatically reached for an arrow before she remembered that she had none. No bow, no arrows, only the sword hanging uselessly at her side and the dagger sheathed at her waist.

Helplessly, she watched her comrades dodge between clumps of heather in a desperate, hopeless attempt to outrun the arrows arcing toward them. Only when they flung out their arms and tumbled onto the grass did her mind reassume command.

She fell into an awkward, lurching trot, afraid to put too much weight on her right foot lest it buckle. As she passed the old man, she grabbed his arm, dragging him after her.

Ahead of her, the old woman staggered into the pass. “Stay to the right and the left!” Faelia shouted. She had told them about the pits, but in their frantic attempt to escape, they were bound to forget. Abandoning the old man, she quickened her pace. She had not brought these people so far to lose them now.

Another glance over her shoulder revealed the Zherosi trotting down the hill. A perfect square of warriors, every foot moving in unison. It was inhuman, that precision.

She scanned the hills before her, hoping to see movement among the sprouting bracken or heads peering out from behind the rocks and boulders. When she didn't, she fought the nauseating panic and told herself that her folk were simply well-hidden. That they were waiting for the Zherosi to come within bowshot. That they would take them by surprise and turn that perfect square of warriors into a disorganized mass of men fleeing for their lives.

As she reached the gap, she saw Braden shoving people to the right and left. She squeezed his shoulder and turned back to help the stragglers. A hoarse moan escaped her when she saw how quickly the Zherosi were closing in.

She tugged at a boy's tunic. Pulled a weeping woman's arm. Bent over a sobbing child, wincing at the stab of pain in her wounded arm as she lifted him. The child's breath warmed her left cheek. Something soft brushed the other. She heard a dull thunk off to her right and turned to find an arrow quivering in the turf.

Why weren't her folk shooting? The Zherosi had to be within range now. If they waited to catch them in the narrow confines of the pass, it would be too late.

She thrust the child into the arms of a passing woman and turned toward the tortured gasping behind her. A tremulous smile lit the old man's face.

“We're almost home,” she assured him.

His smile froze. Between one step and the next, his legs faltered. He was still reaching for her when he fell facedown in the dirt. Only then did she see the arrow in his back.

“Fa!” she screamed to the hills. “Where are you?”

 

 

 

“Fa . . .” Callie whispered.

“Hold.”

Darak knew Callie would obey. He was less sure about Rothisar. He could sense his eagerness for the kill as surely as he could smell Callie's sweat. The very air was alive with that eagerness. Dread mingled with urgency, it danced over his exposed skin like a lover's caress.

Ruthlessly, he tamped down the surge of bloodlust. Just as ruthlessly, he forced his gaze away from Faelia to assess the Zherosi once again. Ten rows of ten—more than twice their number. And all warriors, skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Against that, he had hunters who could bring down a doe at a hundred paces. Fishermen who had only used their spears to kill salmon. And boys armed with slings.

Only if they lured them into the pass did they have a chance. And only if he used his daughter as bait might the Zherosi fall into the trap.

No seasoned commander would enter the pass without knowing what lay beyond. But no seasoned commander would have followed these few survivors so far. Temet must be dead, the rest of his warriors scattered. From what he could see, these were refugees—women, children, old folk—weaponless and exhausted, counting on Faelia to lead them to safety.

They would have to kill at least half of the invaders with their arrows before risking a close fight. Temet—may his spirit live on in the Forever Isles—had told him they wore padded leather vests to protect their chests and loins, but squinting against the brilliance of the setting sun, he could swear several wore bronze armor. Those must be the commanders. Kill them and the others might panic.

His fingers stroked the haft of the ax that lay at his feet. During the raid in which Keirith had been stolen, he'd had to have his son tie it to his wrist. Age had curled the stumps of the missing fingers into claws. If they were unsightly, they gave him a better grip.

Again, the bronze-helmeted leader raised his hand. Again, the formidable square halted. The archers took aim. His gaze snapped to Faelia who had gone back to help the stragglers.

She yanked a woman behind a boulder. They huddled together as the arrows hissed past them. Three more stragglers toppled. As the Zherosi resumed their march, Faelia pulled the woman to her feet. Shouting encouragement to the others, they struggled on.

“She won't leave them.” Keirith's voice, off to his right, strained but calm.

“Hold.”

He tore his gaze from his daughter to glance down into the pass. The first of the refugees had reached the far end. Already, Arun was herding them toward the hill fort. He spied Nemek among the boulders, readying the net. The boy at the entrance to the pass continued to direct the stragglers. He couldn't be much older than Rigat, but apart from frequent glances to monitor the progress of his pursuers, he seemed as steady as the rocks that studded the hillsides.

The six stragglers shambled toward the pass with an agonizing slowness that made his heart pound. As if in response, the Zherosi quickened their pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rigat shift slightly. His bow lay across his upraised knee, the nocked arrow held loosely between his fingers. Only the quick rise and fall of his chest betrayed his nervousness.

The wind carried the shouted command to him. The Zherosi broke into a trot, like a pack of wolves closing in for the kill. But still they maintained that tight formation. Gods, the commanders must train them for moons to instill that kind of discipline.

The stragglers stumbled into the pass. Faelia and the woman lagged behind. From this height, they looked as small as children. Strands of hair hung across Faelia's face. She never took the time to braid her hair properly. Griane always scolded her about that.

Another shouted command and the Zherosi began to sprint.

“Fa . . .” Callie's voice trembled with urgency.

“Hold.”

“She won't make it.”

“She will.”

The two women lumbered awkwardly through the pass. The boy rushed forward to help, seizing the woman's free arm and draping it around his shoulders. But for every step they took, their pursuers took three.

The sun slipped behind the southernmost Twin. Without its blinding glare, Darak could see the huge swell of the woman's belly—and knew Faelia would never leave her behind.