Foxfire (15 page)

“Someone's coming!”

Arun's voice made her heart thud. Boys scrambled up the uneven stones pounded into the earthworks to join him on the narrow shelf, all of them standing on tiptoe to peer over the top. Old men clutching spears and axes shouted up to the boys, demanding to know what they saw. The women's anxious voices only added to the confusion.

Trath elbowed his way through the crowd, shouting for quiet. The noise abated to nervous muttering, and finally to a silence filled with anticipation and dread. Then Griane heard a young voice hailing the hill fort. Relief made her legs tremble.

“It's Rigat!” Arun called, confirming what she already knew.

She swiped at her eyes and wormed her way to the front of the crowd.

“I said . . . oh, it's you.” Frowning, Trath nudged Donncha, allowing Griane to squeeze in between them.

In the deepening gloom of twilight, she could just make out Rigat's figure pelting up the hill, but the renewed babble of the women drowned out his words.

“It must be all right,” Donncha said. “They must have driven them away.”

“Woman, would you hush?” Trath bellowed.

But nothing could silence the speculation and prayers. Trath had to be content with shooing everyone back so that Rigat could enter the hill fort. Even before he spoke, his shining face told her they had won.

“They're running away! We've driven them out!”

In the burst of weeping and exclamations, he spared her a quick, hard hug. “Fa's safe. And Keirith and Callie. Faelia's hurt, but not too bad.”

Rigat sketched out the details of the attack, including the devastating rockslide that had buried at least half of the Zherosi force, but when the women began inundating him with questions about their sons and husbands, Trath silenced them with another bellow.

“We'll find out soon enough. For now, no one is to leave the hill fort. There may still be some gods-cursed Zherosi in the valley. Light your fires. Get these new folk settled. And help Mother Griane and Hircha with our wounded.”

From somewhere in the crowd, Griane heard Gortin's quavering voice, raised in the song of thanksgiving. They all joined in, a ragged chorus broken by outbursts of weeping. Even Trath's eyes looked suspiciously moist.

This was the hardest time. She remembered that all too well from the raid on Eagles Mount. Every woman around her stared at the pass, each filled with the same desperate hope.

Then came the reasoning.

And finally, the bargaining.

Did any of them, in the secret recesses of their hearts, ever offer up one of their men for another?

Griane closed her eyes. Her heart squeezed into a tight fist. She could hear Mirili's voice, quiet and competent as always, as she gathered the group of women in whose homes the newcomers would shelter. The longhut had already been prepared for the wounded, but food must be cooked, clothes found to replace the rags the survivors wore. Protecting and nourishing life—the task of women through the ages.

She felt Rigat's arm around her waist and opened her eyes. As she wiped a smudge of dirt from his cheek, he whispered, “It was me, Mam. I did it.”

Ever since he was a child, he had always come to her first, the words tumbling out of him as he shared his latest triumph.

Griane smiled. “What did you do, love?”

In the same excited whisper, he told her.

 

 

 

Darak left Callie with Keirith while he went in search of Ennit. He found him atop the eastern hill where Conn had been positioned.

Ennit's worried expression brightened as he approached. “Have you seen Conn? I can't find him anywhere.”

He had planned how he would break the news, chosen the words with care. But now, he simply stammered, “Ennit. Conn's . . . I'm sorry. Gods. Conn is dead.”

Ennit just stared at him.

“Come. I'll take you to him.”

With every step, Ennit seemed to age, growing smaller and weaker before his eyes. But he only broke down when he saw his boy. Darak held him as he had held Keirith. He had no words of comfort to offer Ennit either. What words could console a father who had lost his only son? Or a man who had lost his best friend? As he watched them carry Conn home, he could only be grateful that his sons were safe, that his best friend was alive, that—perhaps—Keirith and Ennit could comfort each other.

Reluctantly, he assumed the mantle of chief again. He sent the younger boys back to the hill fort for mullein stalks to use for torches, fishing nets to carry the dead and wounded. He sent two groups of men to scour the hills for the fallen. Faelia stubbornly refused to go to the hill fort until she knew Temet's fate, but finally Darak convinced her that she would only injure her ankle further by clambering over fallen rocks. He watched her hobble away, then walked into the pass to dispatch the dying Zherosi.

Callie insisted on accompanying him. After the third killing, his son took the dagger from his trembling fingers. He knelt beside the next man and gently tilted his head. Then he thrust the tip of the dagger into the spot behind the ear and, with swift, brutal efficiency, sliced downward through the jugular. Sweet, softhearted Callie, who could never bring himself to help Conn and Ennit with the autumn slaughtering.

Only when they had completed their grisly mission did Callie give way. Darak knelt beside him while he retched. As he stroked his son's hair, he recalled the savagery of the battle and the burning, gut-deep joy that had filled him. Was that why he was so reluctant to join Temet's rebellion? Because, despite all his talk of keeping his people safe, he simply feared he would enjoy the killing too much?

He thrust the thought aside; he had more immediate concerns now.

When he and Callie reached the southern end of the pass, they found dozens of Zherosi sprawled on the blood-slick grass. The tribe's dead had already been laid out, hands folded over their bellies. In the gathering dusk, he had to bend close to identify them.

Jadan and Easad lay side by side. Easad was only twelve; his father must have given in to his pleas to fight with the men. Kithean, Trath's only grandson. Ifan, the last of Ifrenn's line. Usok, the youngest member of the council. Elasoth, whom he had never forgiven for turning against Keirith.

In a subdued voice, Sion told him Madig and Nemek had just been carried away, both unconscious and bleeding from multiple wounds. Then he jerked his head toward a still figure, slumped against a pile of rocks.

Darak caught Temet as he tried to stand and eased him back down. A filthy bandage, stained with fresh blood, bound his left leg. Another, equally filthy, was wrapped around his head.

“Faelia?” Temet demanded in a hoarse voice.

“She took an arrow in her shoulder. And twisted her ankle. But she's safe.”

Temet let his breath out in a shuddering sigh and turned his face away. “My warriors . . .”

“We'll get them to the hill fort.”

“I sent the rest—the ones who could still march—after the Zherosi.” His fingers dug into Darak's bicep. “We won't let any get away.”

But night was coming on and Temet's men were exhausted. It would be all too easy to lose the trail. And if even one Zheroso managed to escape . . .

Darak squeezed the hand still gripping his arm. It was ice cold. Shock. And exhaustion.

“Come on, man. Let's go home.”

Torches flickered on the hillsides and across the moors as men searched for the missing. They carried the body of young Nionik down from the western hill. Born to Catha the day he and Keirith had returned to the village—the symbol of hope for them all—he still clutched his sling in his grimy fist.

Seg lay in the pass. He must have been trapped in the rockslide, for his body was crushed, the back of his skull shattered. If Madig's wounds didn't kill him, the loss of his only son might.

No one had seen Rigat.

With Gheala and the torches lighting the way, they carried their dead home. The curving stars of the Sickle were just visible in the southeast. “Sickle in the sky at night, blackbirds singing at first light.” The old rhyme that celebrated the first signs of spring. But the only song his tribe would sing was the death chant.

As he trudged up the hill, he could hear lamentations, punctuated by a keening wail as another woman learned the fate of her son or husband. Darak wished he could simply give way to grief, but while his body was heavy with exhaustion, his mind kept ticking off the plans that must be made.

A shrill scream jolted him from his thoughts. He hurried into the hill fort and discovered a cluster of women and children: Alada with her arms around Madig's little girls, Mirili and Arun hushing Catha. She had lost her firstborn son and her brother Elasoth today. Darak prayed she would not lose her husband, too.

As Catha struggled in Mirili's arms, Darak seized her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Nemek's still alive. And so is your father,” he quickly added, nodding to Madig's girls.

Alada knelt before the trembling children. “Mother Griane and Hircha will take care of your father. The Grain-Mother and Tree-Father will sit with Seg all night so he won't be alone. And you two can stay with me and Duba.”

It was the best place for them now. Alada and Duba had already adopted four orphans. Both women understood sorrow. Alada had lost her beloved father, his old mentor Sanok. Duba, her husband and son. Neither had sought a husband after their losses, finding strength in each other and love from the little ones in their care.

“Just until your father is well enough to come home,” Alada was saying. She shot him a warning glance, but he knew enough not to caution them that Madig might never come home.

As Alada led the girls away, Darak turned to Arun. “Take your mam home. Try and get her to rest.”

Arun's thin frame trembled, but he nodded. Only eleven, but the man of his family for now.

As Arun led his mother away, Darak said, “Nemek is strong, Mirili. In body and spirit.”

She nodded, white-faced but calm. “I'll sit with him.”

“Why not let Griane see to him first?”

A grim smile twisted her lips. “I'm no stranger to blood, Darak. Or death. I've felt Ardal's breath upon my neck before. Felt him brush past me to choose another. If he comes for Nemek, I want to be there. I may not be able to defeat the Dark Hunter, but at least I can fight him.” After a moment, she added, “These are the battles women wage.” Without waiting for his reply, she followed the men carrying Nemek to the longhut.

Someone had already strewn hides and furs in the center of the village and laid the bodies atop them. Lisula and Nedia knelt on either side of Conn. Tears coursed down Nedia's cheeks as she washed the dirt from Conn's face, but she continued to chant with her mother and Barasa.

Darak crouched beside Lisula, uncertain whether he should touch her or speak. Her soft chanting ceased, but her hands continued cleaning Conn's ghastly wound.

“I know there are many calls on you tonight, Darak. But if you can spare the time, would you go to Ennit? Nedia and I must stay here, and Ela . . . she just weeps.”

“Of course I'll go to him. Hircha knows?”

“Aye. She's with Griane. That's the best place for her right now. But Ennit . . .” For the first time, the calm voice faltered. “He's not . . . strong like you.”

Only death could have wrung such an admission from Lisula. He touched her shoulder gently as he rose, feeling anything but strong.

As he walked toward Ennit's hut, a slender figure slipped out of the shadows. Gheala's light and that of the flickering torches revealed the tension in Rigat's body and the wariness of his expression.

For a long moment, they regarded each other. Finally, Darak forced himself to ask, “You're not hurt?”

Rigat shook his head.

He had to say something, but he could not voice the questions that filled his mind. Instead, he asked, “Can you stand a watch tonight?”

Rigat's shoulders seemed to sag, but perhaps that was only a trick of the uncertain light. With a brusque nod, he strode toward the entrance of the hill fort. Torn between the desire to call him back and the need to put as much distance between them as possible, Darak watched him go.

Abruptly, he turned toward the longhut. He had only one thought now, only one desire.