Foxfire

“PUSH!” MOTHER NARTHI COMMANDED. Wila just crouched on the birthing stones, sobbing. Griane blew a hank of hair off her face and exchanged an impatient glance with the old healer.

Within moments of stumbling into the hill fort, Mother Narthi had volunteered to help with Wila’s birthing. Blessing her good fortune, Griane had accepted, knowing it would ease the girl to see a friendly face.

Since the birthing hut was outside the hill fort, they had brought Wila to the hut the three priestesses shared, leaving Hircha to tend to the other survivors. Most were simply exhausted and hungry and terrified, but soon enough, the longhut would be filled with the wounded.

She wasn’t sure if she prayed for the end of Wila’s labor or the end of the battle. After the ram’s horn had sounded, she’d heard that awful noise—louder than any clap of thunder—but all they could see from the entrance to the hill fort was a cloud of dust. Since then, she had been too busy to learn more.

Crouched between Wila’s feet, Narthi looked like a large, white-haired frog. When she frowned up at the straining girl, the resemblance grew stronger.

The poor girl was little more than a child herself. She’d seen her village destroyed, her family murdered, and now—among strangers—she was giving birth half a moon before her time. Small wonder she wept. But weeping wouldn’t help the child in her belly.

“Lift her higher,” Griane told Barasa, and won an approving nod from Narthi; if Wila crouched too low, she risked crushing the newborn.

Together, they heaved her up, arms bracing her back, shoulders propped in her armpits. Wila hung there like an overstuffed bag of barley and seemed to weigh twice as much.

Narthi brushed back the filthy hair. “I know you’re tired, child. But I need you to help me. To help your babe. Do you understand?”

Wila grunted as another contraction seized her. As her grunt grew to a bellow, Griane shared a satisfied smile with Narthi. Not long now, thank the gods. Her arms ached and Barasa looked like she was going to faint. Merciful gods, the woman was Grain-Mother to the tribe, the symbol of fertility. And she had brought two children into the world—may their spirits live on in the Forever Isles. How could she be so squeamish?

Wila pushed, crying out with the effort. This time, a new voice joined hers. With a crow of triumph, Narthi slipped the babe from between Wila’s legs and lifted it.

As Griane and Barasa eased Wila onto the rabbitskins, Narthi cleaned the babe with a soft scrap of lamb’s wool. Half laughing, half sobbing, Wila whispered, “Let me hold her.”

Griane took the babe from Narthi and laid her in Wila’s arms where she began rooting at Wila’s breast. Narthi looked up from tying a second knot of twine around the cord connecting mother and child.

Griane fetched the brew of feverfew and Maker’s mantle sweetened with honey, then held Wila’s head as she sipped. As always, the brew did its work. Soon, Wila was obeying Mother Narthi’s instructions to push again. The old healer used her needle-sharp dagger to cut the cord, then frowned at the afterbirth until Griane held out a bowl.

“I hope there’s lots,” Wila said dreamily. “We want lots of babes.” Then her face screwed up and she began to weep.

Griane looked down at the tiny scrap of humanity suckling fiercely at the girl’s breast. Homeless, fatherless, thrust into the world too soon—still, this child was strong, a survivor like her mother.

She kneaded the ache in the small of her back and ducked out of the hut. Drawn by the newborn’s cries, Lisula and Nedia hurried toward her. They would join Barasa in the ritual blessing. Mother Narthi would look after Wila. But the man who should have held out his arms in recognition of his firstborn child lay miles away, a feast for maggots.

Arun’s voice made her heart thud. Boys scrambled up the uneven stones pounded into the earthworks to join him on the narrow shelf, all of them standing on tiptoe to peer over the top. Old men clutching spears and axes shouted up to the boys, demanding to know what they saw. The women’s anxious voices only added to the confusion.

Trath elbowed his way through the crowd, shouting for quiet. The noise abated to nervous muttering, and finally to a silence filled with anticipation and dread. Then Griane heard a young voice hailing the hill fort. Relief made her legs tremble.

“I said . . . oh, it’s you.” Frowning, Trath nudged Donncha, allowing Griane to squeeze in between them.

In the deepening gloom of twilight, she could just make out Rigat’s figure pelting up the hill, but the renewed babble of the women drowned out his words.

But nothing could silence the speculation and prayers. Trath had to be content with shooing everyone back so that Rigat could enter the hill fort. Even before he spoke, his shining face told her they had won.

In the burst of weeping and exclamations, he spared her a quick, hard hug. “Fa’s safe. And Keirith and Callie. Faelia’s hurt, but not too bad.”

Rigat sketched out the details of the attack, including the devastating rockslide that had buried at least half of the Zherosi force, but when the women began inundating him with questions about their sons and husbands, Trath silenced them with another bellow.

“We’ll find out soon enough. For now, no one is to leave the hill fort. There may still be some gods-cursed Zherosi in the valley. Light your fires. Get these new folk settled. And help Mother Griane and Hircha with our wounded.”

From somewhere in the crowd, Griane heard Gortin’s quavering voice, raised in the song of thanksgiving. They all joined in, a ragged chorus broken by outbursts of weeping. Even Trath’s eyes looked suspiciously moist.

This was the hardest time. She remembered that all too well from the raid on Eagles Mount. Every woman around her stared at the pass, each filled with the same desperate hope.

My man is alive. My son is safe. Soon, I’ll see them walking toward the hill fort. Soon, I’ll hold them in my arms.

It’s all right if they’re hurt. Torn flesh can be stitched. Broken limbs can be set. Just let them be alive.

Merciful Maker, I’ll offer a sacrifice every day for the rest of my life if you bring them home safe.

If you must take one, take my husband. He’s lived a full life. But not my boy. Please, Maker, don’t take my son.

Griane closed her eyes. Her heart squeezed into a tight fist. She could hear Mirili’s voice, quiet and competent as always, as she gathered the group of women in whose homes the newcomers would shelter. The longhut had already been prepared for the wounded, but food must be cooked, clothes found to replace the rags the survivors wore. Protecting and nourishing life—the task of women through the ages.

She felt Rigat’s arm around her waist and opened her eyes. As she wiped a smudge of dirt from his cheek, he whispered, “It was me, Mam. I did it.”

Ever since he was a child, he had always come to her first, the words tumbling out of him as he shared his latest triumph.

Darak left Callie with Keirith while he went in search of Ennit. He found him atop the eastern hill where Conn had been positioned.

Ennit’s worried expression brightened as he approached. “Have you seen Conn? I can’t find him anywhere.”

He had planned how he would break the news, chosen the words with care. But now, he simply stammered, “Ennit. Conn’s . . . I’m sorry. Gods. Conn is dead.”

With every step, Ennit seemed to age, growing smaller and weaker before his eyes. But he only broke down when he saw his boy. Darak held him as he had held Keirith. He had no words of comfort to offer Ennit either. What words could console a father who had lost his only son? Or a man who had lost his best friend? As he watched them carry Conn home, he could only be grateful that his sons were safe, that his best friend was alive, that—perhaps—Keirith and Ennit could comfort each other.

Reluctantly, he assumed the mantle of chief again. He sent the younger boys back to the hill fort for mullein stalks to use for torches, fishing nets to carry the dead and wounded. He sent two groups of men to scour the hills for the fallen. Faelia stubbornly refused to go to the hill fort until she knew Temet’s fate, but finally Darak convinced her that she would only injure her ankle further by clambering over fallen rocks. He watched her hobble away, then walked into the pass to dispatch the dying Zherosi.

Callie insisted on accompanying him. After the third killing, his son took the dagger from his trembling fingers. He knelt beside the next man and gently tilted his head. Then he thrust the tip of the dagger into the spot behind the ear and, with swift, brutal efficiency, sliced downward through the jugular. Sweet, softhearted Callie, who could never bring himself to help Conn and Ennit with the autumn slaughtering.

Only when they had completed their grisly mission did Callie give way. Darak knelt beside him while he retched. As he stroked his son’s hair, he recalled the savagery of the battle and the burning, gut-deep joy that had filled him. Was that why he was so reluctant to join Temet’s rebellion? Because, despite all his talk of keeping his people safe, he simply feared he would enjoy the killing too much?

When he and Callie reached the southern end of the pass, they found dozens of Zherosi sprawled on the blood-slick grass. The tribe’s dead had already been laid out, hands folded over their bellies. In the gathering dusk, he had to bend close to identify them.

Jadan and Easad lay side by side. Easad was only twelve; his father must have given in to his pleas to fight with the men. Kithean, Trath’s only grandson. Ifan, the last of Ifrenn’s line. Usok, the youngest member of the council. Elasoth, whom he had never forgiven for turning against Keirith.

In a subdued voice, Sion told him Madig and Nemek had just been carried away, both unconscious and bleeding from multiple wounds. Then he jerked his head toward a still figure, slumped against a pile of rocks.

Darak caught Temet as he tried to stand and eased him back down. A filthy bandage, stained with fresh blood, bound his left leg. Another, equally filthy, was wrapped around his head.

“I sent the rest—the ones who could still march—after the Zherosi.” His fingers dug into Darak’s bicep. “We won’t let any get away.”

But night was coming on and Temet’s men were exhausted. It would be all too easy to lose the trail. And if even one Zheroso managed to escape . . .

Torches flickered on the hillsides and across the moors as men searched for the missing. They carried the body of young Nionik down from the western hill. Born to Catha the day he and Keirith had returned to the village—the symbol of hope for them all—he still clutched his sling in his grimy fist.

Seg lay in the pass. He must have been trapped in the rockslide, for his body was crushed, the back of his skull shattered. If Madig’s wounds didn’t kill him, the loss of his only son might.

With Gheala and the torches lighting the way, they carried their dead home. The curving stars of the Sickle were just visible in the southeast. “Sickle in the sky at night, blackbirds singing at first light.” The old rhyme that celebrated the first signs of spring. But the only song his tribe would sing was the death chant.

As he trudged up the hill, he could hear lamentations, punctuated by a keening wail as another woman learned the fate of her son or husband. Darak wished he could simply give way to grief, but while his body was heavy with exhaustion, his mind kept ticking off the plans that must be made.

The priestesses will clean the bodies. Gods. Poor Lisula. Too many to lay out in the Death Hut. We’ll have to cut gorse for a pyre.

Strip the Zherosi dead on the morrow. Then dump the bodies in the pits. Pit. The one’s buried under the rockslide. We’ll have to dig another. Or bury them out on the moors.

But first, tally our folk. Tonight. Make sure they’re all accounted for. And post sentries on the hills. In groups. In case there are any Zherosi stragglers. I’ll have Trath—Nay, he’ll be grieving. We’re all grieving. We’ve all lost someone. Except my family. How did we escape?

A shrill scream jolted him from his thoughts. He hurried into the hill fort and discovered a cluster of women and children: Alada with her arms around Madig’s little girls, Mirili and Arun hushing Catha. She had lost her firstborn son and her brother Elasoth today. Darak prayed she would not lose her husband, too.

As Catha struggled in Mirili’s arms, Darak seized her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Nemek’s still alive. And so is your father,” he quickly added, nodding to Madig’s girls.

Alada knelt before the trembling children. “Mother Griane and Hircha will take care of your father. The Grain-Mother and Tree-Father will sit with Seg all night so he won’t be alone. And you two can stay with me and Duba.”

It was the best place for them now. Alada and Duba had already adopted four orphans. Both women understood sorrow. Alada had lost her beloved father, his old mentor Sanok. Duba, her husband and son. Neither had sought a husband after their losses, finding strength in each other and love from the little ones in their care.

“Just until your father is well enough to come home,” Alada was saying. She shot him a warning glance, but he knew enough not to caution them that Madig might never come home.

A grim smile twisted her lips. “I’m no stranger to blood, Darak. Or death. I’ve felt Ardal’s breath upon my neck before. Felt him brush past me to choose another. If he comes for Nemek, I want to be there. I may not be able to defeat the Dark Hunter, but at least I can fight him.” After a moment, she added, “These are the battles women wage.” Without waiting for his reply, she followed the men carrying Nemek to the longhut.

Someone had already strewn hides and furs in the center of the village and laid the bodies atop them. Lisula and Nedia knelt on either side of Conn. Tears coursed down Nedia’s cheeks as she washed the dirt from Conn’s face, but she continued to chant with her mother and Barasa.

Darak crouched beside Lisula, uncertain whether he should touch her or speak. Her soft chanting ceased, but her hands continued cleaning Conn’s ghastly wound.

“I know there are many calls on you tonight, Darak. But if you can spare the time, would you go to Ennit? Nedia and I must stay here, and Ela . . . she just weeps.”

“Aye. She’s with Griane. That’s the best place for her right now. But Ennit . . .” For the first time, the calm voice faltered. “He’s not . . . strong like you.”

Only death could have wrung such an admission from Lisula. He touched her shoulder gently as he rose, feeling anything but strong.

As he walked toward Ennit’s hut, a slender figure slipped out of the shadows. Gheala’s light and that of the flickering torches revealed the tension in Rigat’s body and the wariness of his expression.

For a long moment, they regarded each other. Finally, Darak forced himself to ask, “You’re not hurt?”

He had to say something, but he could not voice the questions that filled his mind. Instead, he asked, “Can you stand a watch tonight?”

Rigat’s shoulders seemed to sag, but perhaps that was only a trick of the uncertain light. With a brusque nod, he strode toward the entrance of the hill fort. Torn between the desire to call him back and the need to put as much distance between them as possible, Darak watched him go.

The deerskin had been drawn up to let in the cool night air, but even from the doorway, the stench of blood and piss and tallow-soaked torches overwhelmed the comforting smell of peat smoke. An old woman—the one he had seen in the pass—dabbed at a bloody shoulder. Hircha was very pale, her expression frozen, but her needle rose and fell as she stitched another man’s arm.

He heard doeskin rip and found Griane parting the flaps of a ruined tunic. She bent closer to inspect the wounds, then glanced toward the doorway. Perhaps she had caught the inadvertent movement of his hand. Or perhaps, after so many years, she was simply aware of his presence.

He wanted so much to touch her, to feel the curve of her neck, the bony ridge of her shoulder. To reassure himself that she was real and alive and his.

In an instant, tenderness transformed to a more urgent need. To take her, here on the filthy bracken. To bury himself inside of her and reaffirm his existence in the midst of so much death. To forget grief and pain and the fear of what the morrow might hold and lose himself in her warmth. And then to lay his head against her breast and sleep, cradled in her skinny arms.

He lifted his hand, palm out. She did the same. His fingertips tingled, as if feeling her touch. Then she turned back to the wounded man who needed her, and he walked away to resume the burdens of chief.