Foxfire (13 page)

As the Zherosi entered the pass, their perfect formation heaved and broke apart. The archers in the front were squeezed back. The warriors on the sides scrambled over the sharply rising ground. Then the commander shouted an order, and the seething mass reformed, marching five abreast behind him.

Only fifty paces separated them from Faelia and her companions. The three were practically crawling through the pass, clinging to boulders and clumps of grass, slipping on the loose scree of pebbles and dirt.

“Fa!”

It was too soon. Only half of the Zherosi force was inside the pass. But dear gods, he couldn't just crouch here and watch them cut down his daughter.

Faelia stopped. She said something to the boy who made a violent gesture of negation.

As the boy took the woman's arm and led her away, Faelia turned to face the advancing Zherosi.

“Please!” Callie implored.

Faelia tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. With her right hand, she drew her sword. With her left, she unsheathed her dagger. She scanned the ground for a long moment, then limped slowly into the center of the pass. She planted her feet. And waited.

Through the film of tears, Darak saw the commander throw up his hand. As the Zherosi came to a halt, he called out something to Faelia that made his warriors laugh. Faelia's only response was to shift her weight. Again, the commander taunted her and again, she refused to rise to the bait. He made an impatient gesture and one of the archers stepped forward.

Darak raised his bow and silently cursed his shaking hands.

“I can take him, Fa.”

He studied Rigat for a moment, then nodded. “On my signal.”

Faelia threw back her head and laughed, hoarse and raucous as a raven. “Is this Zherosi courage?” she shouted. “Are you afraid to fight a woman?” And she spat.

Even if the commander didn't understand the words, the tone and the gesture were clear. He drew his sword and strode forward. The warriors in the front ranks lowered their shields, exchanging grins and remarks. Those in the back scrambled up the sides of the hills to get a better view.

Darak waited, counting each step the commander took. Over the jeers of the warriors, he imagined he could hear the pebbles crunching under the man's feet and the rasp of Faelia's breath.

His heart was pounding so hard that he thought the entire Zherosi force must hear it.

He took aim on a warrior in the front line.

It was like that moment before dawn, when time seemed to stutter to a halt and the world held its breath.

The commander's foot came down. The thin layer of turf gave way. His head whipped back. His free hand clawed at the air. His startled cry became a scream as his body hit the sharpened stakes at the bottom of the pit.

“Now, Rigat!”

A moment later, an archer was clutching the shaft of the arrow embedded in his throat. A dozen more went down in the rain of arrows that followed. Men reeled as stones slammed into their foreheads. Shields went up, protecting heads and chests. Slowly, they began to retreat.

“Aim for the men in the back. Go for their legs!”

Darak drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, chose his target, and let fly. His right hand moved ceaselessly, from bowstring to quiver and back again. Nock. Aim. Draw. Release.

Caught in the deadly crossfire from his men and Madig's, the Zherosi stumbled over the fallen and clawed their way up the hillsides, seeking escape. A few bolted for the far end of pass, only to be cut down, easy targets in the open.

One archer paused. Too late, Darak realized the man's quarry. He drew the bowstring back to his ear and released, but the archer's arrow was already flying toward the limping figure.

Faelia's hair swirled around her head as the impact spun her sideways. Before she hit the ground, Darak was charging down the slope.

 

 

 

As Keirith raced after Fa, Callie sprang up. Rigat lunged for him and grabbed his arm. “You can't fight them with a dagger!”

“I have to do something!”

“Then stay here and use your sling. That'll help the most. Please, Callie!”

Conn stepped forward and squeezed Callie's shoulder. “I'll go.”

Before Rigat could urge him to stay, Conn charged down the hill after Keirith.

He waited in an agony of fear until Callie crouched beside him again. Only then did he draw on the simmering power. Just enough to ensure that each arrow flew true, piercing the legs driving closer to Faelia, the unprotected throats bellowing with rage and fear. Like a hawk stooping on a pigeon, each arrow sliced through the air, screaming a shrill song of defiance, of blood, of death. As one song ebbed, another rose, feeding the power, feeding him.

His tribe mates raced down from the hills. Those at the far end of the pass abandoned their net to converge around Fa and Faelia, Keirith and Conn. He might be able to guide his arrows through that milling mass of people, but he had never used his magic that way and didn't dare test it now.

Madig's men were engaging the retreating Zherosi, but they would never be able to penetrate their defenses or keep the tight wedge of warriors from breaking through to freedom.

Atop the opposite hill, he spied a group of men straining to leverage a boulder free. A shiver of excitement rippled down his spine, sparking a sympathetic flash of power.

He closed his eyes, drawing strength from the earth beneath his feet and the cool breeze caressing his face. From the sweat rolling down his forehead and the last rays of the setting sun. Feeding his power with that of earth and air, water and fire. He called on Halam, the earth goddess, and Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers. On Bel, the sun god, and Hernan, god of the forest. He whispered the Maker's name and the Trickster's. Finally, he invoked the name of the Unmaker, the Lord of Chaos, for chaos was what he must wreak if his people were to survive.

Slowly, patiently, Rigat fed the power and smiled as the fire within him crackled with anticipation.

 

 

 

They hesitated. They saw his swarthy skin, his black hair, his dark eyes—and they hesitated, trying to understand why their comrade was dressed like one of the Tree People. By the time they realized their mistake it was too late.

Keirith had long since discarded his fishing spear and snatched up a sword from a dead Zheroso. He ripped through leather and flesh, feeling the warm spatter of blood against his cheeks, tasting the salty tang of it on his lips. The screams of the wounded and the dying filled his ears and echoed with sickening intensity through his spirit.

He was dimly aware that others had joined them: Rothisar, bellowing like a stag in rut; shy Adinn, slashing with mindless ferocity; and Conn, who had abandoned the safety of the hilltop to charge after him, Conn, who guarded his weak side with a captured shield and his formidable club.

Behind him, Faelia grunted with every blow she landed. When Keirith dared a glance over his shoulder, he discovered his father swinging an ax with his right hand and a Zherosi sword with his left, snarling like the wolf that was his vision mate. He half expected him to dash into the thick of the fighting as he had during that long-ago raid on their village at Eagles Mount.

Memories of that battle clashed with this one. Each warrior who lunged at him was the Big One, eager to drag him away from his home, creep into the dark hole in the belly of the ship, and force him to his knees. Each jab of the sword was one of his captors thrusting into him. Each scream was his, a raw cry of shock and protest.

Keirith stumbled backward to avoid a thrust. Conn pivoted, club crashing down on Keirith's attacker. Pulled off balance by the blow, Conn staggered, trapping his stolen shield beneath his knee. A backhanded swing of his club caught a charging Zheroso on the leg and sent him reeling, but another stepped into the breach. Blocked by Conn's body, Keirith could only watch as the man raised his sword for the killing blow.

Unbidden, the power flared. As it slammed into the Zheroso's unprotected spirit, the man's shock reverberated through Keirith. More shocking was the wave of savage joy that filled him, the same joy he had felt the day he had attacked Xevhan.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, more intimately joined than lovers. A shadow crossed the man's face. And then the side of his head caved in, crushed by Conn's club.

The Zheroso fell to his knees. The sword slid from his grasp. Blobs of gray-red brain matter oozed out from beneath the leather helmet. His mouth gaped, desperately sucking air. And all the while, the dark eyes stared up at him. Then they glazed over and he slid to the ground.

He was only a little older than Rigat.

For one horrifying moment, he thought it was the fallen Zheroso. Then he recognized his brother's voice. He had not even felt Rigat's presence, had never suspected that he possessed the power to enter another man's spirit unnoticed. Instinctively, he fled deeper into himself.

With a supreme effort of will, he obeyed.

The wave of impatience jolted him.

He could feel the effort behind the brusque words, and the simmering power, barely contained. Dear gods, such power. Far stronger than Xevhan's. How would Rigat control it? He'd be destroyed—they would all be destroyed—if he unleashed it.

His father and sister were in the middle of the group pursuing the retreating wedge of Zherosi. Everyone was too intent on the chase to listen to his shouts. He finally fought his way past the others and seized his father's arm.

With a feral snarl, Fa spun around. Keirith leaped back to avoid his slashing sword. A wave of cold sweat broke out over his body. His legs shook uncontrollably. Then he realized it wasn't his legs shaking, but the ground.

For a moment, he was back in Pilozhat, crouching on the steps of the temple of Zhe, holding Malaq in his arms, watching his smile fade as death claimed him. But instead of Malaq's dark eyes, his father's gray ones locked with his.

The sounds of battle faded in the anguish of shared memory. The thrust of Xevhan's blade. The initial burst of agony. His spirit soaring higher and higher, flying as it once had with the eagle, seeking peace and calm and escape, only to be summoned by his father's beseeching voice: “Come into me!”

The earth shuddered, forcing them back to the moment. They were alone, surrounded by the bodies of the dead and dying. A dozen paces ahead, Faelia and the others pressed their attack.

“We have to retreat!” Keirith shouted. “We have to get out of the pass.”

The gray eyes searched his face, then scanned the hillsides. Rigat and Callie stood atop the eastern hill, bathed in the red-gold light of sunset. As they watched, Callie raised something in his hands. Even above the tumult of battle, the mournful bleat of the ram's horn was clear.

Together, he and Fa raced toward the others, shouting at them to retreat, grabbing arms, shoulders, the backs of tunics in their urgency. The ram's horn sounded again. Anger changed to confusion as their shouts penetrated minds numbed by violence. Impelled by the passion in his father's voice and the desperation in his face, they began to fall back.

A third time, the ram's horn sounded.

“Get them out of here!” Keirith shouted.

As he searched in vain for Conn, a bronze-helmeted warrior stepped forward. Seeing his comrades rallying around him, Keirith summoned the grim, unforgiving face of the Son of Zhe and the resonant voice of the god-made-flesh that had brought men and women to their knees. He recalled words in a language unspoken for years. And just as he had in Pilozhat, he called down doom upon the Zherosi.

“Womb of Earth speaks. Tremble before her anger.”

Here and there, a hand made a furtive gesture to avert evil. Most simply stared at him. Slowly, he backed away; to turn and run would shatter the illusion. He felt a hand clasp his elbow. Fourteen years ago, half of Pilozhat had followed him through the predawn gloom, chanting and praying and shouting his name. The light was just as dim in the shadowy depths of the pass, but today, his father was his acolyte, guiding him over the blood-slick earth, past the bodies, around the pit.

Pebbles skittered down the hillsides. Rock cracked against rock. The hills themselves began to creak and groan.

In the tribal tongue, he shouted to those on the hilltops to run. Then he cried, “Womb of Earth screams! Even in the land of the Tree People. And she brings death to those who rape her!”

With a sound louder than a hundred cracks of thunder, boulders ripped away from the earth, uprooting gorse bushes and clumps of moor grass as they careened downhill. Rocks caromed off them and hurtled through the air. But only in the middle of the pass where the Zherosi were trampling each other in a vain attempt to escape.

Boulders crashed into the tightly packed mass of men, throwing up a shower of dust and debris, obscuring the crushed bodies, the shattered limbs. But neither the incessant rumble of the rockslide nor the louder thud of boulders hitting earth could drown out the screams.