Foxfire (44 page)

He actually found himself smiling, imagining the Maker tapping an impatient foot while listening to the growing list of his requests.

It was the only time that day he smiled. By sunset, willpower alone was keeping him on his feet. But as the gloom under the trees deepened, his spirits rose. The Zherosi hated the forest even at midday; in the uncertain light of the gloaming, they would be even more apprehensive.

Much as he wanted to push on, he knew he lacked the energy. Shamed but infinitely grateful, he let the others take the watches while he slept.

It seemed only moments later that a hand shook him awake. It was considerably darker now, although he could still make out chinks of gray sky through the canopy of leaves. Assuring the others that he felt rested enough to move on, he forced himself to his feet.

The pace slowed as they picked their way through a wide valley pocked with boggy places from the recent rains. Swarming midges bit unprotected necks and faces, making the journey even more miserable.

They had gone less than a mile when a faint orange glow brightened the sky.

“Could it be Temet?” the Dark One whispered.

“If Sorig wouldn't allow fires,” Darak replied, “neither would Temet.”

“Are they the ones who were following us?” Freckles whispered. “Or another group?”

“No way of telling.”

To circle north meant crossing low-lying ground with little cover. There seemed to be no choice but to go south and try to sneak past the camp before sunrise.

The Dark One led the way, with Darak behind him. The damp mulch underfoot helped muffle the sound of their passage, as did the freshening breeze that blew from the west, carrying the scent of rain as well as woodsmoke from the Zherosi camp. Although he strained to detect any sounds, all he could hear was Cleft Chin's breath behind him, the shushing of the leaves, and a soft rustle when someone pushed a low-hanging branch out of the way.

The absence of sound from the camp nagged at him. Perhaps it was too far away; the gloaming made it hard to judge distance. But he had been a hunter too long to ignore his instincts, and they told him something was wrong.

As he skirted an overhanging ledge of rock, he reached out to tap the Dark One on the shoulder. Before he could, the Dark One came to such an abrupt halt that Darak had to pull up short to keep from walking into him. They all froze. Darak's nostrils flared as he caught the scent of urine.

A man stood on an outcropping near the top of the rise, staring skyward as he pissed. It took Darak a moment to pick out three others, barely visible among the trees; there were probably dozens more nearby.

The Zherosi had baited the trap with the fire and they had walked right into it.

The man above them groaned as he eased his bladder. One of his comrades chuckled. Fighting the urge to bolt, Darak turned his head to scan their surroundings, then swiveled with equal slowness to motion Cleft Chin back. As he did, Cleft Chin's fingers closed around his forearm. Darak staggered, scraping his head on rock. Before he could recover, Cleft Chin shoved him under the ledge.

His pack cushioned his back as he slammed against the hillside. A hand covered his mouth. A knee held him immobile. He managed to clamp his teeth on the fat of a finger, but his right arm was pinned against earth and his left against Cleft Chin's body, making it impossible to draw his dagger.

Something heavy thudded onto the ledge. He twisted his head in time to see a body land before their grotto and skid through the damp leaves. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from the man's neck, and his penis flopped against his baggy khirta.

Darak tasted blood in his mouth. Heard shouts from above. A scream. Another body slid headfirst down the rise. There was a loud crashing in the underbrush. More shouts. Cleft Chin whispered “Don't move” as two more bodies tumbled past their hiding place. Arrows skittered off rocks and thudded into tree trunks.

And then—incredibly—laughter. And Freckles' voice calling, “You couldn't hit a bear if it was standing in front of you.”

What was the girl thinking?

He craned his neck, searching for her, until a bellow of anger from above made him freeze. A Zherosi warrior pelted down the hill, ignoring a shouted command.

A second burst of laughter—off to the left this time—and another rain of arrows. More warriors staggered past, cursing as they tripped over tree roots and stones. He counted more than thirty before he heard the scream, thin and distant. A Zheroso or one of his folk?

A horn blared, and he flinched. The last time he had heard the sound was when the Zherosi led him to the sacrificial altar.

He could smell the fear-stink of his sweat, feel the faint tremor coursing through Cleft Chin's leg. At least he knew now that the man had been trying to save him. Perhaps he'd seen something on the hill or realized the others were about to bolt. If only they had kept their heads, they all might have retreated unseen. Why had Freckles turned back to taunt the Zherosi?

The horn sounded again. This time, he heard the faint blare of another. Too far away to be sure of the direction. Perhaps the Zherosi had split their forces, leaving half to guard the camp while the rest fanned out to catch them. But it was just as likely they had simply left the fires blazing while their entire force took to the woods.

Cleft Chin shifted position. Relieved of the pressure on his chest, Darak took a grateful gulp of air. They crouched together beneath the ledge until the long twilight finally yielded to darkness. He helped Cleft Chin tug the body closer, using it to shield them from the warriors straggling back up the hill. None paused to examine their fallen comrade. Gods willing, they would wait until daylight to retrieve their dead.

The forest was quiet, the scent of rain stronger. He could only pray Bear, the Dark One, and Freckles had escaped. And that the storm would come before dawn. Even if it didn't, he and Cleft Chin would have to sneak past the watchful Zherosi who showed every intention of remaining on the hill above them.

He heard a soft, wet sound and realized Cleft Chin was sucking the finger he had bitten. His fingers groped for the man's knee and closed around a muscular thigh instead. He squeezed it all the same, in thanks and apology.

He must have dozed, for he came awake to the rumble of thunder. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the silhouettes of trees. They waited until the drizzle became a downpour before crawling over the dead Zheroso and scuttling down the slope, guiding themselves by touch. At the bottom, they froze, listening for any sounds of pursuit, then groped their way deeper into the forest.

There were no stars to guide them. No familiar landmarks. All they knew was that the Gathering place lay somewhere to the southwest. Darak waited for another flash of lightning to take a bearing on the hill they had just fled. Then he padded off with Cleft Chin behind him.

If any Zherosi had been lurking in the woods, he would have stumbled right into them. As it was, he tripped over the body. Lightning revealed Freckles' pale face. The once-fierce eyes were open and empty; the rain made it look as if they were filled with tears.

He laid his palm against her wet cheek and whispered a prayer. Then he obeyed Cleft Chin's urgent tug on his arm and moved on.

Each time they reached high ground, they stopped, waiting for the lightning to take a new bearing. After the storm passed, stars began peeping through the breaks in the scudding clouds. As the sky lightened, they discovered the dark mound of Black Hill in the distance, rising above the gently rolling plain.

They collapsed onto the ground, soaked and shivering.

“You sleep,” he told Cleft Chin. “I'll keep watch.”

“I'm fine.”

“Sleep.”

Cleft Chin lay down beside him, but his eyes remained open. “They didn't capture you. That's the most important thing.”

It took a moment for the truth to dawn. When it did, Darak wondered how he could have been such a fool.

None of them had panicked. They had deliberately distracted the Zherosi while Cleft Chin pulled him into their hiding place. They must have planned it while he slept. He could picture them, crouched on their haunches, discussing the role each should take: Bear who had the advantage of size; the Dark One, whose coloring made him harder to spot in the shadows; and Freckles, the fastest runner in the group. Tonight, she had not been able to run far or fast enough.

“Their names?”

Cleft Chin regarded him silently. Then he said, “The big man is Terias. The dark lad is Fannir. The red-haired girl—she was called Mattia.”

Darak repeated their names aloud, silently adding a prayer after each. “And you?”

“My name is Kelik.”

His uncle's name. His father's brother who had died before he was born. He could easily have met him tonight in the Forever Isles.

A woman—little more than a girl—had died for him. Likely, two men had as well. The gods only knew if the other recruits were alive. And Sorig and the two scouts who had gone with him.

Tonight had shown him the futility of keeping his distance. Would he mourn the loss of any of these young men and women less because he refused to learn their names? They were all part of this rebellion. Part of his pack. And as pack leader, it was up to him to know their strengths and weaknesses, to keep them strong, to fight side by side with them, and—as far as he was able—keep them safe.

“If you won't sleep, would you tell me the names of the others?”

One by one, Kelik described them—each man, each woman—and Darak repeated their names. A formidable task to remember them all, even for a man who had once been a Memory-Keeper. A long litany of names, like the one he had memorized when he went south to rescue Keirith. That had been a litany of the lost—captured, sold into slavery, sacrificed on a foreign altar. He prayed this was a litany of the living.

The sky was a glory of pink and purple when he repeated their names a third time.

Shouldering their packs, they headed south to the Gathering of rebels.

F
AELIA LAY BELLY-DOWN in the long grass atop Black Hill, watching the shadows of clouds chase each other across the rippling grass. Between the drenching thunderstorm three nights ago and the need to stand watches day and night, none of the scouts had gotten much rest, but she was far too excited to sleep. Silly, really. It might be another full day before her father arrived.

A soft snore from her right made her glance over at Mikal. A fly buzzed perilously near his half-open mouth. She suppressed a giggle. The poor man had barely finished giving his report on the fortress at Little Falls before marching south with them. Temet had urged him to go with the main body, rather than lead a forced march to Black Hill, but Mikal took his status as acting second-in-command seriously—too seriously, she sometimes thought—and he had brushed off Temet's concern.

Spying on Little Falls always upset him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Bad enough to see your childhood home sitting in the shadow of a Zherosi fortress; Mikal had the added burden of knowing his tribe had helped build it.

The discovery that Zherosi ships had arrived with reinforcements only added to Mikal's gloom—and hers. If that part of Keirith's vision was true, the rest might be, too.

Which was another reason sleep eluded her. Keirith didn't seem to think Fa was in any immediate danger, but even she knew visions were difficult to interpret. She also knew her brother well enough to sense he was hiding something. When she'd pressed for details, he had reminded her that the vision might be a warning of danger, not betrayal. But his frown belied those comforting words.

“Sorig will guard your father,” Temet had assured her. “And once he's with us, I'll keep a bodyguard around him at all times.”

Neither of them shared their worst fear: that the traitor Keirith had Seen might be a member of their band. She hated looking at her comrades with suspicion, hated her helplessness even more. During the sleepless nights, only Temet could banish the doubts and fears that stalked her.

This was the longest they had been apart since that nightmarish flight to her village. She missed the comfort of his body, their fierce, wordless lovemaking. She had never expected to need a man so—or find one who measured up to her father.

Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if they had met under ordinary circumstances. Would he have expected her to change from hunter to wife, to remain at home to cook and sew and bear his children? From the little he had said of his wife, that was the role she had played.