Foxfire (6 page)

But it was Fellgair's son who answered. “Sleep, Mam. Just sleep.”

F
AELIA WINCED AS A LOW-HANGING branch slapped her wounded arm. Winced again as she tripped over a root and slammed into something hard. A tree. Only a tree. Her palms scraped bark sticky with pine resin. Something sticky in her shoe as well. Blood? Or just a blister?

The old woman ahead of her moved in and out of the shafts of moonlight like a spirit, but Faelia could hear the hoarse rasp of her breath and her footsteps crunching unevenly on the dead pine needles.

An ominous creak made her freeze. Her fingers gripped the hilt of her sword, then relaxed as she realized it was branches rubbing together in the wind.

She had taken only a single step when someone careened into her. As she spun around, hands gripped her arms and a voice whispered, “Sorry.” She clasped bony elbows, steadying the boy. For a moment they clung to each other, two strangers taking comfort in the fleeting touch of hands. Then she released him and quickened her pace before she lost sight of the old woman.

She forced herself to concentrate on the next step and the next and the next after that. If she thought about the Zherosi warriors who were trailing them or the unexpected hazards that might lie ahead, the panic would rise like bile.

She mustn't think about her father's words either. The cause wasn't lost. It couldn't be. Too many lives had been sacrificed.

She'd had no chance to talk with Temet since the slaughter in the village. And what words would assuage his guilt and grief? She'd watched him send three of their mortally wounded comrades to the Forever Isles, his dagger driving up and under each breastbone. They knew the risks. They all took the oath. Better to die under a friend's blade than face torture and death at the hands of their enemies. But there had been no time to ease the way for all. If even one had been taken alive, their hiding places would be known. So now they must run.

It shouldn't have ended this way. They had planned so carefully. Temet had left scouts around Gath's village, others watching the Zherosi fortress at The Bluff. Outnumbered three to one, the ambush was still successful, the entire Zherosi force wiped out. She could still hear the whoops of victory, still see Temet's face, shining with exultation under the film of sweat and dirt and blood. And then the runner staggered toward them with the news of a second Zherosi war party converging on the village.

They had probably sent for reinforcements days ago. The river was too shallow and rocky for their great ships to reach The Bluff. They must have come overland from the fortress at Little Falls. Kept to the hills. Traveled by night. Else Temet's scouts would have seen them.

One mistake. That's all it took.

Perhaps their early victories had made them careless. Within days of joining Temet's band, she'd been blooded. The Zherosi never expected an ambush so early in the spring. Their second and third attacks had been equally successful. By then, she'd grown less squeamish about the torture. It wasn't as if Temet enjoyed it. He'd learned that a man broke much faster when he had to watch a dagger pierce a comrade's eye or listen to his finger bones crack. Temet always chose an older man to torture and a young one to witness it. A battle-scarred veteran would endure more pain than a recruit. The young ones were usually in tears when they were released. And their terror gave added weight to the message they carried back to their fortresses: “Your warriors are dead. You will all die if you continue to rape our land.”

Temet had picked up a few Zherosi phrases during his captivity in their holy city. Some of the other men—those whose tribes had capitulated without a fight—knew more. They were the most bloodthirsty for they had known the shame of appeasement. And they still dreamed of driving the Zherosi to the sea. Temet only hoped to stop them from encroaching any deeper into tribal lands.

Until two days ago, Faelia had believed it was possible. But images of the battle kept flashing through her mind. A man whose legs still carried him forward—three steps? four?—while his head flopped uselessly on his neck. A small mangled form that had once been a child. The white-rimmed eyes of a girl watching a sword slashing through the air. And the screaming that disturbed even the brief moments of sleep she managed to snatch.

Belatedly, she realized the pace had slowed. Shadows moved among shadows. A voice whispered, “Stream.”

She was suddenly aware of her overwhelming thirst and rumbling belly. She couldn't remember when she had eaten last; the few supplies they had managed to salvage went to the old folk and children.

Hearing the water below her, she moved up to help the old woman. Slowly, carefully, they sidestepped down the slope. The old woman clung to her good arm, grunting a little with the effort of keeping her balance.

“Thank you, child. After all I've lived through, I'd hate to break my neck now.”

Unexpected moisture stung Faelia's eyes. This nameless old woman had lost her family and her home, but her spirit was still strong.

She helped the old woman kneel beside the stream, then flung herself on the muddy bank. The icy water burned and the faint taste of peat carried memories of home. She choked down another mouthful and forced herself to stop.

The boy showed no such restraint. Hearing his frantic gulps, she grabbed the back of his tunic and yanked him away from the water.

“No more. Or you'll be sick.”

Already, whispered commands urged them to move on. She paused long enough to fill her waterskin, then offered her arm to the old woman. Together, they picked their way across the stream. By the time they reached the other side, her right foot was numb from the water seeping between the seams of her shoe. Careless. She should have repaired it before the battle.

Crawling up the opposite slope. Weaving along the trail. Peering into the darkness in search of obstacles: tree roots that trapped a foot, vines that ensnared an ankle. Always she had thought of the forest as a friend. Tonight, it had turned against her.

The night was waning when the line slowed again. Her gaze sought Temet, but he was lost among the dark figures in the clearing. He would be giving orders, sending some to guard the trail behind them, posting others as sentries around their makeshift camp.

When no one approached her to stand watch, relief quickly gave way to guilt. To assuage it, she forced herself to walk among the villagers, offering water to those who were still awake, pulling mantles around those who had fallen into exhausted sleep.

Behind her, footsteps crunched on dead pine needles. She turned, automatically reaching for the hilt of her sword, and recognized Temet. Gheala's uncertain light leached the color from his fair hair and reduced his eyes to hollow, black pools. He gripped her shoulder briefly—a comrade's touch rather than a lover's—and carefully lowered himself to the ground.

Stronger than the sharp tang of his sweat was the smell of fresh blood. Ignoring his whispered, “Leave it,” her fingers sought his thigh and came away damp. Only since joining the rebels had she learned that blood looked black in the moonlight.

She cut a strip of doeskin from her tunic and offered a silent apology to her mam. As a child, she had complained endlessly about the tedium of sewing. If she'd known then that she would be stitching bodies instead of tunics, she would have kept her mouth shut.

The bag with the medicinal supplies her mam had so carefully packed was lost. She still had her bone needle and sinew in her belt pack, but Gheala's waning light was too feeble to allow her to stitch the wound now. She could only wad the old bandage over the gash and bind it with the strip of doeskin.

Temet was as silent and unmoving as a boulder as she tied the makeshift bandage. After their victories, he would come to her, hot and fierce. Lovemaking offered a welcome release after the chaos of battle—for them and all those with partners—and a triumphant declaration of life. But there would be no passion tonight. The lucky ones would huddle with their lovers, grateful to be alive and to share each other's warmth. The rest could only hope for sleep to banish despair.

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. He shifted slightly so he could put his arm around her, careful of her wounded arm and bruised ribs. Were all big men so gentle? Perhaps that's what had drawn her to him—that same combination of strength and gentleness that her father possessed.

“How long do we have?” she whispered.

“Dawn.” The subtle shift of his body told her he was scanning the sky. “The rest of the rear guard will have joined us by then.”

“The rest?”

“Mikal caught up with us at the stream.”

She'd been too grateful for the water to notice.

“They're still following us,” he said.

Panic surged, but she fought it back.

“Mikal said they'd camped for the night, but they'll be back on our trail at daybreak.”

“They might give up.”

“Not this time.”

The Zherosi had never pursued them so relentlessly. Temet claimed they were afraid of the shadowy forest. From his description of their arid, treeless homeland, it might be true. Perhaps these warriors had lived in the north long enough to vanquish their fear. More likely, the hunger for revenge outweighed it.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Take most of the band with me. Try to draw them off.”

“Draw them off?”

He pulled away to cup her cheeks. “I need you to lead the villagers to your home.”

“What?”

“A mile from here, the trail splits. Take the north fork. Follow it past the waterfall. Then look for the black circle.”

“The place where the lightning struck.” Temet had made her memorize all the landmarks on the journey south. Then, it had seemed like a game to pass the time.

“Aye. You'll come to another stream.”

“The one with the boulder like an arrowhead in the middle.”

He squeezed her hand in approval. “The forest will start to thin after that. You'll reach the moors in two days. I'll send a few men with you, but I need to keep the bulk of the force intact. What's left of it.”

She gripped his uninjured arm. “It wasn't your fault.”

“I'm their commander.”

“Aye. But getting yourself killed won't bring back the others.”

“Your father's the hero. I'm just going to keep running. The Zherosi will tire of this chase eventually.”

“Then why not stay together? If we keep moving—”

“Look at them.” Temet jerked his head toward the sleeping villagers.

He was right. They could never sustain this pace. She'd be lucky to get them all home.

Fa would welcome them as he had the other refugees Temet had brought. He'd even welcomed Temet after the Freshening, when the Zherosi ceased their logging operations and his band dispersed until spring. Throughout the moon that followed, the two had debated, her father claiming the rebel forces were too scattered to offer any effective resistance and Temet insisting that was why Fa had to join them.

“There's no one else—no one!—who can unite us. Only then can we drive them out.”

“You've been to Zheros,” her father had replied. “You've seen them. If they bring the might of their empire to bear in the north, we'll be the ones driven out.”

“That's why we have to act now. While they reckon us too weak to be a threat.”

“It's a lost cause.”

“Why, Fa?” she had asked. “Why won't you support this fight?”

“Because it will destroy our people.”

“Our people are being destroyed now.”

“Not the ones in my village.”

And there it was. For all her impassioned words about the rape of their land and the destruction of their Tree-Brothers, her father still clung to the illusory safety of their isolated valley.

“The fight will continue,” he had insisted, “whether or not I join it.”

“But we'll lose. There are too many timid folk who would rather sit by their fires and pay their tribute and remember the old days.”

“Aye. Well. Perhaps I'm one of them.”

She had denied that fiercely. Her father might be reluctant to fight, but he was no coward. She could still remember him the day Keirith was stolen—ax in one hand, Zherosi sword in the other, an arrow sticking out of his arm and blood spattering him from his face to his bare feet. There was a warrior. There was a man who could inspire hundreds—thousands—to follow him. But only if someone could convince him to fight.