Foxfire (60 page)

He went under once and emerged, sputtering. Glimpsed Kelik's face for an instant as they tumbled past him. Slammed into something soft and recoiled with a startled yelp when he found himself staring into the wide, unseeing eyes of a dead Zheroso. Felt pebbles beneath his feet and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Chest heaving, he crawled through the shallows, dragging the boy behind him, and collapsed.

Belatedly, he realized he should take away the boy's sword. His shaking fingers fumbled with the belt. Finally, he simply drew it from the sheath.

He raised his arm to toss it aside when he heard the splashing. Groaning, he rolled into a crouch, but it was only Kelik, tugging the protesting slave by the wrist. Despite his age, the slave seemed far less exhausted than Kelik who simply sank onto the pebbles while the old man threw himself on his master, weeping and babbling.

Kelik nodded toward the boy. “That's the Vanel's son?”

“After all that, he better be.”

Darak's tired smile faded as he looked past Kelik and saw Mikal striding toward a cowering slave, sword upraised.

“Stop!”

He pushed himself to his feet and staggered down the beach. Mikal's scowl deepened when he saw the naked blade in his hand.

“You'd kill me to save them?” He spat. “They're all Zherosi.”

The slaves were roped together, ankle to ankle. Two clung to each other, whimpering. The others simply stared up at Mikal, too terrified to even try and loosen their bonds.

Darak tossed the sword to the ground. “There's been enough killing for one day. And these are slaves, not warriors. They've never done us harm.”

“They row the ships. Make the food.” Mikal jerked his head at the old man who was pressing his lips to the boy's hand. “Care for their fallen masters.”

“I won't slaughter unarmed men.”

“They'd kill you given half the chance.”

“With what?” Darak demanded. “Their bare hands? Cut them loose.” When Mikal hesitated, he shouted, “Cut them loose!” His gaze swept the five men flanking Mikal. “Do any of you speak Zherosi?”

“Some,” Radirom replied.

“Then translate for me.” Darak gestured to Mikal who had sheathed his sword in favor of a dagger. “This man is going to cut your bonds. After that, you're free to go. Tell them.”

If they understood Radirom's stumbling Zherosi, they were too terrified by Mikal's dagger to give any indication.

“Maker, give me patience.”

Darak knelt before one of the slaves who recoiled, shaking his head and weeping. He patted the man's knee, murmuring the kind of nonsense a mother would use to soothe a fretful babe. Careful to keep his gestures slow, he mimed cutting the rope, then waved them away, pointing downriver. The slave just stared at his mutilated hands with horrified fascination.

“If you will permit me,” a soft voice said in the tribal tongue, “I will translate.”

He glanced over his shoulder and found the boy sitting up. Quelling his shock at his fluency with the tribal tongue, Darak stammered, “Aye. Thank you.”

The old slave extended his hands to help his master to his feet, but the boy shook his head. Cautiously, he pushed himself to his knees, then rose, swaying slightly. He took a moment to steady himself, then walked forward. In the same soft voice, he addressed the slaves, then glanced up at Darak as if awaiting further instructions.

“Tell them there's a village. Five miles downriver. Or they can wait here for the ship from Little Falls.”

The boy frowned. “There is no other ship leaving Little Falls.”

“There will be. Once we send word to your father.”

The boy went very still. His gaze darted to Darak's hands, then back to his face.

“Of course. The Spirit-Hunter.”

Slowly, he drew himself up. Then he bowed. It should have made him ridiculous—a skinny boy in a dripping khirta, bowing as if he stood in the great palace of Pilozhat. But it took courage to face defeat with such dignity, and Darak had to admire him.

“I am Skalel Korim do Khat, aide to the Vanel of the Northern Army.” A visible shudder, quickly suppressed. “And your prisoner.”

F
AELIA STARED UP AT THE TWINS and felt neither joy at reaching home nor satisfaction at leading her band to safety. When Selima squeezed her shoulder and whispered, “You did it,” she simply stared at her.

Eighty men and women had begun the journey with her; less than half remained. Eilin had been one of the first to leave. He had begged Fa to let him go to Little Falls to rescue Keirith, but of course, Fa had refused to take such an inexperienced fighter. Perhaps he'd lost heart after that. Or feared that without Keirith's presence to steady him, his courage would fail him.

At least Eilin had told her he was going home. Most of the others simply slipped away during the night. Every morning, she woke to discover their ranks had thinned. Every evening, she watched the moon rise, her hopes dwindling along with Gheala's body. And every night, she saw Temet's ruined face and mutilated body in her dreams.

Losing him had been a crushing blow, but somehow, abandoning her father was worse. In joining Temet, she had chosen a life where danger stalked them every day. Her mind had always known that death could separate them; her heart simply refused to dwell on it.

But when Fa sent her away, something inside of her had died. Although she had managed to hold back her tears when they parted, she had clung to him like a frightened child. Then she'd stumbled away without daring to look back.

Why hadn't she paused—just for a moment—to catch a final glimpse of him? Why had she thrown away that opportunity to study his expression and posture, to imprint them on her mind and heart forever? How could she leave, knowing she would never see him again?

Even the great Darak Spirit-Hunter would not be able to free his son from that fortress. And once he surrendered the Vanel would either execute him or ship him to Zheros, where there was no possibility of escape or rescue.

To be shut away behind stone walls. Never to feel the wind on his face or snow melting on his tongue. Never to see the sun or the forest or his family. Better a speedy execution than such a living death.

“Keep this fight alive,” Fa had said. But even if a miracle occurred and he succeeded in freeing Keirith, what then? More useless attacks on the Zherosi? More ceaseless wandering through the wilderness, seeking new recruits, other rebel bands? Temet had tried and failed. Rigat's truce was a sham. And she was crawling home like a whipped dog.

As the sentinels blew two long blasts on their horns to signal the arrival of strangers, she squared her shoulders and started toward the gap in the hills. In the dying rays of the sun, the sprawling clumps of heather on the slopes of The Twins looked like dozens of small fires. Once, she might have gloried in the sight. Today, she felt only dread.

Her mam's face would be lit with hope as she watched them arrive. She would scan the faces, looking for Fa and Keirith. And as hope slowly died, her gaze would settle at last on the traitorous daughter who had lured them away.

 

 

 

Griane recognized Faelia's bright hair first. It took longer to discover that Darak and Keirith were not with her. When she saw Faelia's grim expression, her hand sought Callie's.

“They're alive,” Faelia said by way of greeting.

“But where—?”

“Later, Mam. After I get these people settled. Selima—you'd best go to Mam's hut and have her take a look at you.”

It was Selima who told them about the massacre. Numb, Griane sat by the fire pit and allowed Hircha to inspect the woman's wounds.

Keirith, a captive of the Zherosi. Darak, determined to rescue him. It was as if time had spiraled backward and the nightmare was beginning again.

“But why did you come here?” Hircha asked. “Instead of staying with Darak and the others?”

“Darak's decision.” Selima flexed her shoulder carefully. “It would have taken more men than we had to free Keirith by force. And Darak feared the Zherosi commander would send troops here. There's a history between them.”

Hircha's hands froze on the roll of nettle-cloth. “What's his name?”

“Do Khat. Geriv do Khat. A one-eyed man.” Selima studied Hircha a moment before adding, “You know him, too.”

“Aye.”

“That's right. I'd forgotten you were there.”

“I was there.”

As soon as Hircha helped her ease into a fresh tunic, Selima headed for the doorway. As she reached for the deerskin, she paused. “Faelia . . . she thinks you blame her, Griane.”

“But she wasn't even with Keirith when—”

“Not that. For taking him and Darak away in the first place.”

Griane shook her head wearily.

“Then tell her that,” Selima said. “And make her believe you. She's hurting.”

“Thank you,” Griane replied stiffly. “I'm aware of that.”

Selima grimaced. “Sorry. I'm not . . . I'm used to giving orders. Or taking them. When you don't know if you'll be alive on the morrow, you don't waste breath on niceties. I meant well.”

“Thank you,” Griane repeated with more warmth. “It's kind of you to look out for her.”

“She's a good woman. And a good fighter. Losing her man . . .” Selima stared up at the thatch and swallowed hard. Then she turned abruptly and left.

Moments later, Callie slipped into the hut.

“You heard?” Griane asked.

He nodded. She had never seen him look so grim. For a moment, they all sat in gloomy silence. Then Hircha asked, “And where was Rigat during all this?”

Bad enough that Othak continued to circulate his malicious lies. For a member of her family to doubt Rigat was unbearable.

“Are you accusing him, too?”

“Nay. But why didn't he warn them?”

“Because he's not omnipotent! He doesn't see everything that happens like . . .”

“Fellgair,” Callie finished. “Do you think this is his doing?”

“I don't know.”

Somehow, she had to find a way to get word to Rigat. Only he could help Darak and Keirith now. But first, there was her daughter to think about. For once, she would put Faelia first.

While Callie headed to Trath's hut to pass along the information Selima had given them, she and Hircha made their way to the cave. Mirili had already gathered spare bedding and food. Griane was relieved to discover that the most serious problems were blisters, exhaustion, and hunger. The recruits seemed appallingly young—most of them only a few years older than Rigat. As she spread ointment on scrapes and bandaged blistered feet, she intercepted more than a few wide-eyed looks.

“You're Griane the Healer?” a red-haired boy whispered. “From the tale?”

He looked so crestfallen that she laughed. “I was younger then.”

The heavy-set man sitting beside him cuffed the boy lightly. “That was thirty years ago. Even Darak Spirit-Hunter and Griane the Healer can't make time stand still. He was well when we saw him last,” he added.

“Thank you.” She took a moment to control her voice. “You're married, too, I take it.”

The boy gaped. The man simply said, “My wife died. Last winter.”

“How did you know?” the boy blurted. “That he had a wife?”

“A married man would think to give another man's wife news of him.”

Her explanation deflated the boy further. Clearly, he had imagined that Griane the Healer possessed the power to see into men's minds as well as ease the aches of their bodies.

“My name is Holtik,” the man said. “This one—with his mouth hanging open—is Owan.”

“You are welcome to our village,” she replied automatically. “I wish we could offer you a more comfortable place to stay.”

Holtik shrugged. “We've been sleeping in the open. A cave's a luxury.”

She hesitated. Although she had just met the man, she liked his broad, honest face and his innate sensitivity.

“There's a bound to be a council meeting soon. To discuss what steps should be taken in case the Zherosi march on the village. I think you should be there.”

He frowned. “Faelia and Selima—they're the leaders.”

“Aye. But some men listen better to the words of another man.”

“Your elders must all be unmarried, then. Else they'd have learned better.” A brief, wistful smile lit his face. “But I'll mention it to Selima.”

Although she hungered for more news of Darak, Griane rose and made her way over to her daughter.