Foxfire

THE OLD WOMAN STUMBLED. The boy seized one arm and Faelia grabbed the other. Between them, they hauled her to her feet again.

“Go on,” the old woman wheezed. “Braden will help me. You see to them.” She jerked her head toward the cluster of villagers who had simply halted at the bottom of the slope.

The old woman—why had she never thought to ask her name?—and Braden set off in a shambling trot. Faelia hurried toward the others, exhorting the faltering, helping the slow. But they were all slow. The burst of speed they had found when they first spied the Zherosi had long since faded. She tugged on arms, on tunics, herding them like a shepherd.

She dared a quick glance over her shoulder. Still no sign of the rear guard, but they had to retreat soon. At best, the six men would only slow the enemy. If their shots got past the Zherosi shields. If they weren’t cut down first.

They were willing to sacrifice their lives for the people of Gath’s village. It was up to her to ensure their sacrifice was not in vain.

The girl gasped, but allowed Faelia to pull her to her feet. Flinging an arm around her waist, Faelia forced her into a trot.

Half a mile. Maybe less. But the survivors were spread out across the moor, lurching across the uneven terrain, clinging to boulders or each other as they crawled up the gentlest slope. She had to keep them moving. She had to get them home.

With her eyes on the beckoning hills, she failed to notice the rabbit hole until her ankle twisted. She staggered, dragging the girl down with her. Pain lanced through her ankle as she pushed herself to her feet again. “Go,” she told the girl. “Keep running.”

Limping badly, she crested the rise. A short distance ahead, she glimpsed the old woman, her white hair bright as a signal fire among the greening grass. And there, at last, was the shadowed gap between the two sunlit hills.

She shouted to the others and pointed. Light returned to a few of the weary faces, but in others, she saw the flash of fear that so often accompanied hope. Is it real or just my imagination? Can I reach it or will the Zherosi catch me first?

The old man ahead of her reeled, and Faelia flung out a hand to steady him. He seemed unaware of her, muttering incessantly as he plodded on. Only when she caught a phrase did she realize he was repeating the traveler’s prayer.

She had heard it last on the morning she and Temet left the village. Grain-Mother Barasa had sketched the signs of protection on her forehead and over her heart while reciting the ancient blessing: “May the wind be at your back and the sun upon your shoulders. May the moon chase away the darkness and the stars guide your feet. May your path be smooth, your journey swift, and your homecoming joyous.”

Although the path was far from smooth and the journey agonizingly slow, the wind gusted from the south and the last rays of the sun beat warmly on her shoulders. Surely, those were good signs.

The thin wail cut through her hopeful thoughts like a dagger. Whirling around, she spied two men racing across the moor. Atop the hill behind them stood a line of warriors.

Over the terrified wheezing of the old man, Faelia heard the screams of the women and the higher, shriller shrieks of the children. She told herself to move, but her legs refused to obey. She could only stand and watch the Zherosi commander lift his hand.

The archers raised their bows. Her hand automatically reached for an arrow before she remembered that she had none. No bow, no arrows, only the sword hanging uselessly at her side and the dagger sheathed at her waist.

Helplessly, she watched her comrades dodge between clumps of heather in a desperate, hopeless attempt to outrun the arrows arcing toward them. Only when they flung out their arms and tumbled onto the grass did her mind reassume command.

She fell into an awkward, lurching trot, afraid to put too much weight on her right foot lest it buckle. As she passed the old man, she grabbed his arm, dragging him after her.

Ahead of her, the old woman staggered into the pass. “Stay to the right and the left!” Faelia shouted. She had told them about the pits, but in their frantic attempt to escape, they were bound to forget. Abandoning the old man, she quickened her pace. She had not brought these people so far to lose them now.

Another glance over her shoulder revealed the Zherosi trotting down the hill. A perfect square of warriors, every foot moving in unison. It was inhuman, that precision.

She scanned the hills before her, hoping to see movement among the sprouting bracken or heads peering out from behind the rocks and boulders. When she didn’t, she fought the nauseating panic and told herself that her folk were simply well-hidden. That they were waiting for the Zherosi to come within bowshot. That they would take them by surprise and turn that perfect square of warriors into a disorganized mass of men fleeing for their lives.

As she reached the gap, she saw Braden shoving people to the right and left. She squeezed his shoulder and turned back to help the stragglers. A hoarse moan escaped her when she saw how quickly the Zherosi were closing in.

She tugged at a boy’s tunic. Pulled a weeping woman’s arm. Bent over a sobbing child, wincing at the stab of pain in her wounded arm as she lifted him. The child’s breath warmed her left cheek. Something soft brushed the other. She heard a dull thunk off to her right and turned to find an arrow quivering in the turf.

Why weren’t her folk shooting? The Zherosi had to be within range now. If they waited to catch them in the narrow confines of the pass, it would be too late.

She thrust the child into the arms of a passing woman and turned toward the tortured gasping behind her. A tremulous smile lit the old man’s face.

His smile froze. Between one step and the next, his legs faltered. He was still reaching for her when he fell facedown in the dirt. Only then did she see the arrow in his back.

Darak knew Callie would obey. He was less sure about Rothisar. He could sense his eagerness for the kill as surely as he could smell Callie’s sweat. The very air was alive with that eagerness. Dread mingled with urgency, it danced over his exposed skin like a lover’s caress.

Ruthlessly, he tamped down the surge of bloodlust. Just as ruthlessly, he forced his gaze away from Faelia to assess the Zherosi once again. Ten rows of ten—more than twice their number. And all warriors, skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Against that, he had hunters who could bring down a doe at a hundred paces. Fishermen who had only used their spears to kill salmon. And boys armed with slings.

Only if they lured them into the pass did they have a chance. And only if he used his daughter as bait might the Zherosi fall into the trap.

No seasoned commander would enter the pass without knowing what lay beyond. But no seasoned commander would have followed these few survivors so far. Temet must be dead, the rest of his warriors scattered. From what he could see, these were refugees—women, children, old folk—weaponless and exhausted, counting on Faelia to lead them to safety.

They would have to kill at least half of the invaders with their arrows before risking a close fight. Temet—may his spirit live on in the Forever Isles—had told him they wore padded leather vests to protect their chests and loins, but squinting against the brilliance of the setting sun, he could swear several wore bronze armor. Those must be the commanders. Kill them and the others might panic.

His fingers stroked the haft of the ax that lay at his feet. During the raid in which Keirith had been stolen, he’d had to have his son tie it to his wrist. Age had curled the stumps of the missing fingers into claws. If they were unsightly, they gave him a better grip.

Again, the bronze-helmeted leader raised his hand. Again, the formidable square halted. The archers took aim. His gaze snapped to Faelia who had gone back to help the stragglers.

She yanked a woman behind a boulder. They huddled together as the arrows hissed past them. Three more stragglers toppled. As the Zherosi resumed their march, Faelia pulled the woman to her feet. Shouting encouragement to the others, they struggled on.

He tore his gaze from his daughter to glance down into the pass. The first of the refugees had reached the far end. Already, Arun was herding them toward the hill fort. He spied Nemek among the boulders, readying the net. The boy at the entrance to the pass continued to direct the stragglers. He couldn’t be much older than Rigat, but apart from frequent glances to monitor the progress of his pursuers, he seemed as steady as the rocks that studded the hillsides.

The six stragglers shambled toward the pass with an agonizing slowness that made his heart pound. As if in response, the Zherosi quickened their pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rigat shift slightly. His bow lay across his upraised knee, the nocked arrow held loosely between his fingers. Only the quick rise and fall of his chest betrayed his nervousness.

The wind carried the shouted command to him. The Zherosi broke into a trot, like a pack of wolves closing in for the kill. But still they maintained that tight formation. Gods, the commanders must train them for moons to instill that kind of discipline.

The stragglers stumbled into the pass. Faelia and the woman lagged behind. From this height, they looked as small as children. Strands of hair hung across Faelia’s face. She never took the time to braid her hair properly. Griane always scolded her about that.

They can taste it now. They’re hungry for it. The screams. The crunch of bone under their swords. The blood spattering their faces. They can smell the fear and its stink is sweeter than honeysuckle. Even their commander couldn’t stop them from charging into the pass now.

The two women lumbered awkwardly through the pass. The boy rushed forward to help, seizing the woman’s free arm and draping it around his shoulders. But for every step they took, their pursuers took three.

The sun slipped behind the southernmost Twin. Without its blinding glare, Darak could see the huge swell of the woman’s belly—and knew Faelia would never leave her behind.

As the Zherosi entered the pass, their perfect formation heaved and broke apart. The archers in the front were squeezed back. The warriors on the sides scrambled over the sharply rising ground. Then the commander shouted an order, and the seething mass reformed, marching five abreast behind him.

Only fifty paces separated them from Faelia and her companions. The three were practically crawling through the pass, clinging to boulders and clumps of grass, slipping on the loose scree of pebbles and dirt.

It was too soon. Only half of the Zherosi force was inside the pass. But dear gods, he couldn’t just crouch here and watch them cut down his daughter.

Faelia tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. With her right hand, she drew her sword. With her left, she unsheathed her dagger. She scanned the ground for a long moment, then limped slowly into the center of the pass. She planted her feet. And waited.

Through the film of tears, Darak saw the commander throw up his hand. As the Zherosi came to a halt, he called out something to Faelia that made his warriors laugh. Faelia’s only response was to shift her weight. Again, the commander taunted her and again, she refused to rise to the bait. He made an impatient gesture and one of the archers stepped forward.

Faelia threw back her head and laughed, hoarse and raucous as a raven. “Is this Zherosi courage?” she shouted. “Are you afraid to fight a woman?” And she spat.

Even if the commander didn’t understand the words, the tone and the gesture were clear. He drew his sword and strode forward. The warriors in the front ranks lowered their shields, exchanging grins and remarks. Those in the back scrambled up the sides of the hills to get a better view.

Darak waited, counting each step the commander took. Over the jeers of the warriors, he imagined he could hear the pebbles crunching under the man’s feet and the rasp of Faelia’s breath.

The commander’s foot came down. The thin layer of turf gave way. His head whipped back. His free hand clawed at the air. His startled cry became a scream as his body hit the sharpened stakes at the bottom of the pit.

A moment later, an archer was clutching the shaft of the arrow embedded in his throat. A dozen more went down in the rain of arrows that followed. Men reeled as stones slammed into their foreheads. Shields went up, protecting heads and chests. Slowly, they began to retreat.

Darak drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, chose his target, and let fly. His right hand moved ceaselessly, from bowstring to quiver and back again. Nock. Aim. Draw. Release.

Caught in the deadly crossfire from his men and Madig’s, the Zherosi stumbled over the fallen and clawed their way up the hillsides, seeking escape. A few bolted for the far end of pass, only to be cut down, easy targets in the open.

One archer paused. Too late, Darak realized the man’s quarry. He drew the bowstring back to his ear and released, but the archer’s arrow was already flying toward the limping figure.

Faelia’s hair swirled around her head as the impact spun her sideways. Before she hit the ground, Darak was charging down the slope.

As Keirith raced after Fa, Callie sprang up. Rigat lunged for him and grabbed his arm. “You can’t fight them with a dagger!”

He waited in an agony of fear until Callie crouched beside him again. Only then did he draw on the simmering power. Just enough to ensure that each arrow flew true, piercing the legs driving closer to Faelia, the unprotected throats bellowing with rage and fear. Like a hawk stooping on a pigeon, each arrow sliced through the air, screaming a shrill song of defiance, of blood, of death. As one song ebbed, another rose, feeding the power, feeding him.

His tribe mates raced down from the hills. Those at the far end of the pass abandoned their net to converge around Fa and Faelia, Keirith and Conn. He might be able to guide his arrows through that milling mass of people, but he had never used his magic that way and didn’t dare test it now.

Madig’s men were engaging the retreating Zherosi, but they would never be able to penetrate their defenses or keep the tight wedge of warriors from breaking through to freedom.

Atop the opposite hill, he spied a group of men straining to leverage a boulder free. A shiver of excitement rippled down his spine, sparking a sympathetic flash of power.

He closed his eyes, drawing strength from the earth beneath his feet and the cool breeze caressing his face. From the sweat rolling down his forehead and the last rays of the setting sun. Feeding his power with that of earth and air, water and fire. He called on Halam, the earth goddess, and Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers. On Bel, the sun god, and Hernan, god of the forest. He whispered the Maker’s name and the Trickster’s. Finally, he invoked the name of the Unmaker, the Lord of Chaos, for chaos was what he must wreak if his people were to survive.

They hesitated. They saw his swarthy skin, his black hair, his dark eyes—and they hesitated, trying to understand why their comrade was dressed like one of the Tree People. By the time they realized their mistake it was too late.

Keirith had long since discarded his fishing spear and snatched up a sword from a dead Zheroso. He ripped through leather and flesh, feeling the warm spatter of blood against his cheeks, tasting the salty tang of it on his lips. The screams of the wounded and the dying filled his ears and echoed with sickening intensity through his spirit.

He was dimly aware that others had joined them: Rothisar, bellowing like a stag in rut; shy Adinn, slashing with mindless ferocity; and Conn, who had abandoned the safety of the hilltop to charge after him, Conn, who guarded his weak side with a captured shield and his formidable club.

Behind him, Faelia grunted with every blow she landed. When Keirith dared a glance over his shoulder, he discovered his father swinging an ax with his right hand and a Zherosi sword with his left, snarling like the wolf that was his vision mate. He half expected him to dash into the thick of the fighting as he had during that long-ago raid on their village at Eagles Mount.

Memories of that battle clashed with this one. Each warrior who lunged at him was the Big One, eager to drag him away from his home, creep into the dark hole in the belly of the ship, and force him to his knees. Each jab of the sword was one of his captors thrusting into him. Each scream was his, a raw cry of shock and protest.

Keirith stumbled backward to avoid a thrust. Conn pivoted, club crashing down on Keirith’s attacker. Pulled off balance by the blow, Conn staggered, trapping his stolen shield beneath his knee. A backhanded swing of his club caught a charging Zheroso on the leg and sent him reeling, but another stepped into the breach. Blocked by Conn’s body, Keirith could only watch as the man raised his sword for the killing blow.

Unbidden, the power flared. As it slammed into the Zheroso’s unprotected spirit, the man’s shock reverberated through Keirith. More shocking was the wave of savage joy that filled him, the same joy he had felt the day he had attacked Xevhan.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, more intimately joined than lovers. A shadow crossed the man’s face. And then the side of his head caved in, crushed by Conn’s club.

The Zheroso fell to his knees. The sword slid from his grasp. Blobs of gray-red brain matter oozed out from beneath the leather helmet. His mouth gaped, desperately sucking air. And all the while, the dark eyes stared up at him. Then they glazed over and he slid to the ground.

For one horrifying moment, he thought it was the fallen Zheroso. Then he recognized his brother’s voice. He had not even felt Rigat’s presence, had never suspected that he possessed the power to enter another man’s spirit unnoticed. Instinctively, he fled deeper into himself.

He could feel the effort behind the brusque words, and the simmering power, barely contained. Dear gods, such power. Far stronger than Xevhan’s. How would Rigat control it? He’d be destroyed—they would all be destroyed—if he unleashed it.

His father and sister were in the middle of the group pursuing the retreating wedge of Zherosi. Everyone was too intent on the chase to listen to his shouts. He finally fought his way past the others and seized his father’s arm.

With a feral snarl, Fa spun around. Keirith leaped back to avoid his slashing sword. A wave of cold sweat broke out over his body. His legs shook uncontrollably. Then he realized it wasn’t his legs shaking, but the ground.

For a moment, he was back in Pilozhat, crouching on the steps of the temple of Zhe, holding Malaq in his arms, watching his smile fade as death claimed him. But instead of Malaq’s dark eyes, his father’s gray ones locked with his.

The sounds of battle faded in the anguish of shared memory. The thrust of Xevhan’s blade. The initial burst of agony. His spirit soaring higher and higher, flying as it once had with the eagle, seeking peace and calm and escape, only to be summoned by his father’s beseeching voice: “Come into me!”

The earth shuddered, forcing them back to the moment. They were alone, surrounded by the bodies of the dead and dying. A dozen paces ahead, Faelia and the others pressed their attack.

The gray eyes searched his face, then scanned the hillsides. Rigat and Callie stood atop the eastern hill, bathed in the red-gold light of sunset. As they watched, Callie raised something in his hands. Even above the tumult of battle, the mournful bleat of the ram’s horn was clear.

Together, he and Fa raced toward the others, shouting at them to retreat, grabbing arms, shoulders, the backs of tunics in their urgency. The ram’s horn sounded again. Anger changed to confusion as their shouts penetrated minds numbed by violence. Impelled by the passion in his father’s voice and the desperation in his face, they began to fall back.

As he searched in vain for Conn, a bronze-helmeted warrior stepped forward. Seeing his comrades rallying around him, Keirith summoned the grim, unforgiving face of the Son of Zhe and the resonant voice of the god-made-flesh that had brought men and women to their knees. He recalled words in a language unspoken for years. And just as he had in Pilozhat, he called down doom upon the Zherosi.

Here and there, a hand made a furtive gesture to avert evil. Most simply stared at him. Slowly, he backed away; to turn and run would shatter the illusion. He felt a hand clasp his elbow. Fourteen years ago, half of Pilozhat had followed him through the predawn gloom, chanting and praying and shouting his name. The light was just as dim in the shadowy depths of the pass, but today, his father was his acolyte, guiding him over the blood-slick earth, past the bodies, around the pit.

In the tribal tongue, he shouted to those on the hilltops to run. Then he cried, “Womb of Earth screams! Even in the land of the Tree People. And she brings death to those who rape her!”

With a sound louder than a hundred cracks of thunder, boulders ripped away from the earth, uprooting gorse bushes and clumps of moor grass as they careened downhill. Rocks caromed off them and hurtled through the air. But only in the middle of the pass where the Zherosi were trampling each other in a vain attempt to escape.

Boulders crashed into the tightly packed mass of men, throwing up a shower of dust and debris, obscuring the crushed bodies, the shattered limbs. But neither the incessant rumble of the rockslide nor the louder thud of boulders hitting earth could drown out the screams.

The ground shuddered, throwing him against his father whose face bore a look of stunned shock. On the hilltops, men scattered like rabbits. Where Callie and Rigat had stood, there was only a lone figure, silhouetted against the darkening blue of the sky.

He spotted Conn bending over a fallen Zheroso. When he shouted his milk-brother’s name, Conn straightened. A huge grin split his face. Keirith started toward him, but Conn waved him back.

Fa tugged his arm. They raced off, raising their arms to protect their heads from the stones that rained down, choking on the wave of dust that engulfed them. By the time they reached safety, the ground had fallen still.

As the dust settled, he made out Faelia’s tall figure among a knot of boys. Their slings hung forgotten at their sides as they stared into the pass. It took him a moment to recognize the stranger as the boy who had helped Faelia lead the stragglers to safety. He’d thought him younger because he was so short, but judging from the fair stubble that sprouted on his hollow cheeks, he was probably fifteen.

“Braden,” Faelia said, nodding to him. But her eyes were on Fa who slumped onto a boulder, one fist pressed against his chest.

As Keirith fell to his knees, his father’s head came up. “I’m fine, son.” Leaning heavily on Keirith’s shoulder, he pushed himself to his feet and reached for Faelia. He cradled her face between his hands, their foreheads touching in a wordless moment of thanksgiving. Then Fa drew himself up and glanced around, frowning.

“I sent them to reinforce Madig,” Faelia replied. As Fa turned to follow, she plucked at his sleeve. “It’ll be over before you get there. One way or another.”

After a moment, he nodded. His frown deepened as he gazed at the broken shaft of the arrow still protruding from Faelia’s shoulder.

Fa’s breathing was less labored now, but his face was still strained. Suddenly, the tension left his body. Keirith heard him mutter, “Thank you, Maker,” and saw Callie stumbling toward them, panting like a winded deer.

Keirith shook his head. He had shallow sword cuts on both arms and he ached all over—especially his ribs where the edge of a shield had buffeted him—but such minor wounds weren’t even worth mentioning. He was surprised when Fa pulled him down beside him and leaned close to kiss his cheek.

“Nay.” He scanned the eastern hilltop, but Rigat was gone. As he searched the clusters of exhausted men stumbling through the pass, he frowned. “Where did Conn go?”

Slowly, Keirith got to his feet. He took one step, then another. Then he started running, slipping on the shifting stones, dodging the larger boulders and the helmeted corpses, veering toward each bare-headed figure, only to hurry past, shock at spying a fallen tribe mate warring with the guilty relief that it was not Conn.

He saw a dark-haired figure, belly down and half-buried under the debris. A hand, flung out as if beseeching his help. And his milk-brother’s face, deathly pale beneath the dust and grime.

Keirith fell to his knees and seized the limp hand. Conn’s pulse fluttered under his fingertips, faint and erratic.

He clawed at the stones, cursing and praying as he fought to free him. The stones were too small to crush his legs. The blood matting the hair on the back of his head worried Keirith more. And Conn’s right arm, wedged under his body. He could easily have broken it in the fall. But Mam could take care of that. And the bruises. Even a concussion. Conn was alive. That was all that mattered.

His breath caught when he saw the blood. Pooling on the stones between Conn’s legs, soaking his breeches from hip to knee. Frantically, he grabbed Conn’s arm and rolled him onto his back. Only then did he see the broken sword gripped in his fist and the blood spurting from the jagged rent in his breeches.

He ripped off his belt and tied it around Conn’s leg. Then he yanked his tunic over his head and used his dagger to slice through the seams at one shoulder. Even before he finished knotting the makeshift bandage, the blood had soaked through it.

He cut off the other sleeve. Bound Conn’s leg again, knowing it would not stop the relentless spurt of blood, but unable to sit there and watch his life leak away.

Cursing, he pried the sword from Conn’s fingers and flung it aside. He could imagine him bending over a fallen Zheroso, pausing for just a moment to snatch up the coveted bronze blade, never imagining that such a small delay would matter.

Chance. Ill-luck. The will of the gods. The same gods who allowed a stone to smash into Conn’s head. Who watched his knees buckle and his body slump. Who stood by—uncaring, unfeeling—and allowed him to fall in just such a way that the blade would rip open his leg.

He pulled Conn’s unresisting body into his arms and called his name. Conn’s eyes fluttered open. An uncertain smile blossomed on his dirty face.

Conn’s wheezing laugh turned into a frantic gasp for air. As Keirith reached for the flailing hand, he spied the familiar scar at the base of Conn’s right thumb, the scar from the blood oath they had twice sworn: to be friends in this life and brothers in the next.

As if his senses were failing with Conn’s, the shouts and screams around him faded until he heard only his milk-brother’s tortured gasps and his own voice, hoarse and broken, murmuring ceaseless, useless words of comfort and promises that could never be fulfilled—that everything would be different now, that their bond would be stronger than ever, that they would be friends in this life and brothers in the next.

All the while, he searched for the stillness and emptiness of trance, hoping to ease the convulsions, to stop the pain, to help Conn’s spirit slip free. Rigat could have done it—he might even have been able to save Conn—but Keirith could only hold him and pray for his release.

Yet when that strong, solid body finally relaxed, it brought no relief, only a heavy weight squeezing his chest, denying him the breath to weep or protest or scream curses at the gods. As if the burden of breathing had passed from Conn to him, he gasped, rocking his milk-brother in his arms, burying his face in the soft hair that still smelled faintly of grass and sheep, squeezing the limp hand that was always so soft from the grease in the wool.

And then he felt arms around him, rocking them both, and his father’s voice, murmuring his name. But he found no comfort in those sheltering arms or that soft voice.

He knew it wasn’t Rigat’s fault. If not for him, many more would have been lost today. But that knowledge couldn’t ease his grief. Conn was dead. And the boy Keirith had once been—who had suckled at the same breasts as his milk-brother, played with him on the slopes of Eagles Mount, and always believed they would grow old together—today, that boy had died as well.