Foxfire (27 page)

“You might remember my fa,” Sorig said. “Jorn was his name.”

“Jorn? Mardon's boy?”

A rare smile lit Sorig's long face as he nodded.

“You've got the look of him. I see it now. A good hunter. And fast. Gods, that man could run like a deer. Of course, that was a long time ago. He must be . . . what? . . . close to forty now.”

Sorig's smile vanished. “He's dead.”

“I'm sorry, lad.”

“Eight years ago now.”

“It's hard to lose a father so young. I was eleven myself.” For a long moment, they both stared into the fire, lost in their memories. Then Darak roused himself to ask, “And your mam?”

“She died before him. Her and the babe.”

Darak winced and vowed to ask no more questions.

“I lived with my uncle's family. Until the Zherosi came. Some folk wanted to fight. But my grandfather—” Sorig spat the word out like a curse. “He said there was no point.”

Hard to believe Mardon had capitulated without a fight. The chief was always wrangling with the Oak Tribe about fishing rights and hunting territory—and hauling the Maker into every discussion, no matter how trivial. But that was years ago. Even a pious old stick like Mardon could change.

“Is he still chief?”

“Aye. Or was a year ago. That's the last time I was that far west. I hardly recognized the place. Your village is still there, too—only now it's Zherosi sleeping in the huts. Behind a great wall of wood. The trees are gone. Nothing but stumps on the hills now.”

Darak winced again, unwillingly picturing the beauty of his birthplace despoiled. “And Mardon permitted it?”

Sorig's expression grew darker. “That's why I left. I went to my mother's people. At Little Falls. Later, I joined up with Temet, along with Mikal and a few others. He's my cousin, you know. Mikal.”

Darak nodded. They both had the same wiry builds, the same long jaws. But Sorig's features were softer and his eyes more hopeful, as if there were some part of him that life's adversities had been unable to touch.

“We're the only ones left now—Mikal and I.”

Which explained how such young men could have risen so quickly to become leaders. Darak guessed Sorig was about Urkiat's age. Throughout this journey, he'd found himself drawing parallels between them, both young, both bitterly opposed to the Zherosi occupation. Like Urkiat, Sorig had fought with his family over its collaboration with the Zherosi, but he had chosen to carry his battles away from his village so they would not suffer.

“Will we be going to Eagles Mount?” Darak asked quietly. “To look for recruits?”

“No point,” Sorig said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “They'll never join us.”

But as they traveled farther west and south, others did. At every village, their numbers swelled until they had fifty young men and three women traveling with them.

“Thanks to you, we'll double that number before Midsummer,” Sorig assured him.

Their pace was more leisurely now. Sorig spent part of each afternoon instructing the recruits in battle tactics and close-quarter fighting. Darak used the time to hunt; it was too painful to watch them jab at each other with the fallen branches they had shaped into mock swords, to listen to their boasts and laughter as they compared bruises.

It was still a game to them, an exciting diversion from plowing and planting, hunting and fishing. Too soon, they would have to parry the blows of real swords instead of wooden ones. Darak vowed to remain aloof, unwilling to learn about their families, their hopes, their dreams. It would make it that much harder to bear their deaths.

When they reached the next village, he accepted the welcome of the chief, joined the rest of the tribe at a feast in his honor, and ate his food amid awestruck stares and whispered comments. As always, he revealed his true purpose in coming and, as always, the chief reluctantly allowed him to speak after the feast was over.

As he rose from his place and walked slowly into the center of the circle, a hush fell. He gazed at their expectant faces and began to speak in the deep, melodious cadence old Sim had taught him so many years ago.

Sorig slipped quietly away. Darak couldn't blame him; he'd heard the tale more than a dozen times by now. But the new recruits seemed as bespelled as those hearing it for the first time. A tale that linked his listeners to the earth beneath them and the sky above, to the sacred waters of their lakes and rivers, to the trees and animals that were their brothers and sisters, to the gods who walked in the First Forest, to the spirits of the Oak and the Holly.

He filled them with his words, made the tale resonate like the song of the World Tree. And when the longing reached its pinnacle, he led them into a darker tale. One that told of the blood that must be shed, the lives that must be offered. Of revenge against those who had raped their land and stolen their children and cut down their tree-brothers. Of arrows singing through the air and swords biting into flesh and the sweet screams of dying men.

The eyes of the children grew round, while those of the young men gleamed. Even the old men, who understood the cost . . . even they were swept up in the grandeur of the vision.

But not the women. Here, as in the other villages, he might discover a few like Faelia who were warriors at heart. But the rest?

He watched their faces grow pinched and fearful. Watched their arms tighten around their babes or draw a child close to their skirts. Watched them gaze around their village, as if imagining piles of rubble where their homes now stood.

Each anxious face was Griane's, each pair of haunted eyes. When callused hands clutched the arm of a son, a lover, a husband, he remembered hers: drifting over his body, swaddling a babe's bottom, washing skinned knees and sewing torn tunics, ladling stew into a bowl and grinding herbs for a poultice. Hands that offered pleasure and nourishment and protection. Comforting, capable, life-affirming hands that tried so hard to keep the dangers of the world at bay, and when that was impossible, provided relief from the inevitable pain.

And although he continued to weave the tale, he felt only a weary disgust at cloaking danger and death in seductive words. All he could offer was the slender hope that they might restore the balance that had been lost and the peace that had been shattered and a world where children could worship at the sacred tree of their tribe and walk in the shadows of a forest that had been old when their ancestors were young.

For this, Faelia had been willing to sacrifice everything—even the love of her father. To preserve his family, he had committed himself to the same path. But even as he smiled at the young men and women who crowded around him at tale's end, the doubts continued to assail him, the bitter self-loathing as lacerating as the thorns of that twisted tree in Chaos.

As the twilight deepened, he excused himself and quietly slipped away from the village. When he reached a small clearing in the forest, he offered a silent prayer for his wife and children. Then he called his vision mate.

She emerged from the deep shadows under the trees and padded toward him. Although she moved more slowly these days, her tail waved its usual exuberant greeting.

He got down on his knees, grunting a little with the effort. Her tongue rasped against his face. He rested his cheek against the fur of her neck and felt her wriggle with pleasure. They had met many times in the years since he had led his family east. Time might have altered her appearance, but she was still—would always be—his Wolf.

“It is good to see you, Little Brother.”

“And to see you, Wolf.”

She cocked her head. “You are troubled.”

“Aye.”

Her head came up as she scented the air. “Is it this new pack?”

“They're so . . . young.”

“And so many. Why do you need a pack this large?”

He tried to explain, but the concept of war was alien to her.

“What of your old pack? Your mate and your pups?”

“I'll go back to them—when this is over.”

“Better to stay with the pack you know. The pack you trust.” She shook herself, as if irritated. “You are always searching for new packs, Little Brother. I do not understand this.”

“Only by joining this new pack will I help my old one.”

“This makes no sense. How can a strange pack help you? It has its own territory to defend.”

Darak struggled to find words she would understand, but could only reply, “It's a strange time, Wolf. Many things are changing.”

“Pack is pack.”

“Aye. But now many packs are coming together. This is something men do in times of trouble. Join with others in a common cause.”

She regarded him intently. In the faint light of Gheala's newborn crescent, her golden eyes looked as silvery as the fur on her muzzle. “But it is not your cause, Little Brother.”

He hung his head, unable to deny the truth.

“And this is what troubles you.”

“Aye. But I've started down this trail and there's no turning back now.”

“There are many trails through the forest. Many scents to follow. If you are hunting the stag, you must not be distracted by the scent of a rabbit.”

“I'm not sure what I'm hunting these days.”

“Then you must choose your prey, Little Brother. Soon. Or your pack will grow hungry and weak. And then it will drive you away.” She whined softly. “That is the way with wolves and men alike.”

B
ABBLING TEARFUL THANKS IN Zherosi, Keirith tightened his grip on the man's sword arm. He was careful to keep his right hand free, to keep his left arm away from his body so he could draw his dagger and drive it up under the man's chin. During the other ambushes, he'd accomplished the move with ease. So why did his limbs feel so heavy, as if he were moving underwater?

The man reared back, fingers closing around his wrist. He could feel his hand going numb, the dagger slipping from his grasp.

Helpless, he fell onto his back, the earth hard as stone beneath him. Even in the shadows under the trees, the bronze blade glittered, blinding him with the reflected radiance of the sun. His arms shook as he gripped the man's wrist, desperate to stop the blade's inexorable descent.

The tattoos on the man's naked forearms writhed in fear and ecstasy. Two black heads ripped free of the constraining flesh. The man screamed, then screamed again as the serpents slithered down his wrists and over their locked hands. They wriggled up Keirith's arms and burrowed into his skin, leaving a trail of fire behind them and a scent like roasting meat. But no pain, no pain at all, only the hot bloodlust flooding his body and the warm, salty taste of victory in his mouth.

His arms were light again, his hands strong. With practiced ease, he ripped the dagger from the man's fingers, then threw him to the ground and straddled him.

Laughter froze him in mid-thrust. For the first time, Keirith looked into the man's face—and saw himself.

Xevhan's voice whispered inside his spirit. Too shocked to speak, Keirith just shook his head, staring into the face that was Xevhan's and his.

Xevhan winked. When he opened his eye, Keirith saw a figure reflected in it. An auburn-haired boy, his grimy face streaked with tears. But as he watched, the pale skin deepened to the tawny color of deer hide. Blue eyes darkened to brown. The hair fell out in clumps, leaving his head smooth and bald. Then new hair sprouted, black as the tattoos on their forearms, wriggling like adders, twisting into a long, neat braid.

With all his strength, Keirith drove the dagger up and under Xevhan's breastbone. But it was his heart he pierced, his mouth that opened in a silent scream of agony, his lifeblood that gushed out. The red torrent filled Xevhan's mouth, but could not choke off the delighted laughter.

Xevhan's laughter shook him as if he were laughing, too. Like old friends sharing a good joke.

“Keirith!”

He jerked upright, flailing at the unseen hands that tried to restrain him. Then he recognized his sister's voice.

Faelia's fingers relaxed. “Are you all right?” she whispered.