Foxfire

GERIV DO KHAT SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the pavilion of the warship, scanning the two peaks that guarded the narrows. Either would have made an ideal site for a fortress, but judging from the size of the palisades atop both crags, they were used only as lookout posts.

Another example of a commander taking the easy way out. But why should this one make any effort when the Vanel of the Northern Army—the former Vanel—had spent all his time in his hilltop villa, extorting bribes from the local merchants to purchase marble to pave his floors, tapestries to line his walls, and slave boys to warm his bed?

Geriv permitted himself a small smile. He hadn’t been able to do anything about the marble floors, but the tapestries had bought enough grain and arms to fill the holds of the two supply ships that sailed with them. The Vanel—the former Vanel—had squealed like a virgin when they were pulled off the walls, but hadn’t dared do more. After his lackluster handling of the rebellion, he was lucky the queen was permitting him to retire to his country estate in Zheros. She should have ordered his execution. But, of course, she couldn’t risk alienating his family, one of the richest in the empire.

The ear-splitting blast of a kankh horn interrupted his thoughts. Korim clutched his forearm. “That must be the hill the Tree People call the Mountain of Eagles.”

Although he had spoken gently, a dark flush stained his son’s cheeks. Geriv suppressed a sigh. At fourteen, he, too, had been stung by every criticism—real or imagined—but he had never been as sensitive as Korim.

The thought of his irascible uncle evoked another smile. After Geriv had lost his left eye in the first Carilian campaign, he had feared he would never see active duty again. Vazh’s intercession resulted in a transfer to the lands of the Tree People. A bitter disappointment at the time, for only second-rate officers were posted here, but he had risen faster—and higher—than he could have elsewhere.

Twelve years in the southern provinces of the Tree People, the last three as Vanel. He had hoped his success in subduing those provinces would win him a command in Carilia. Instead, the queen sent him north.

He had cleaned up the mess at his new headquarters at Graywaters in just two moons. Another moon would complete his inspection of the river fortifications. After that, he would deal with the rebels. And then—please, gods—he could leave this barbarous land forever.

He felt less confident about his ability to deal with his son. It might have been different if the other children had lived. Or if he had been home to supervise Korim’s upbringing. Instead, the boy had remained in Pilozhat, pampered and petted by his mother and grandmother. After Kezha’s death, he had summoned Korim to his command post, determined to toughen him up. He had spent more time with his son in the past year than in the previous thirteen, but they were still strangers.

Korim leaned out from under the awning for a better view of Eagles Mount. Then he flopped back on the cushions with a heavy sigh. “There’s not a single eagle,” he said, clearly disappointed.

As they entered the channel, the ship rocked, its timbers groaning like a dying man. Geriv reached for his protective amulet, then firmly quelled the desire and contented himself with tracing the spiral of the gold serpent that clasped his cloak. He had insisted on traveling in the warship after all. The tricky currents and easterly wind necessitated the use of rowers. Although the tubby supply ships offered better accommodations, he refused to arrive in a vessel that, under oars, resembled a fat insect trying to fly with small, weak wings.

The drum master quickened the beat and the rowers responded, muscles bunching in their naked backs and arms as they bent over the oars. On the fifth stroke, the ship shot out of the narrow channel onto the broad, placid expanse of a lake.

Geriv bit back a dismissive retort. True, the gray-green water sparkled in the sunlight, but it couldn’t compare with the magnificent blue of the sea at Pilozhat. Instead of white sand, the shore was littered with pebbles. Green reeds testified to a marsh at the far end of the lake. Three smaller warships, suitable for patrolling upriver, were beached on the northern shore. In contrast to their sleek silhouettes, the fishermen’s coracles looked like oversized drinking cups.

Two moons ago, the only things bobbing on the lake would have been logs, ready to be floated downriver after the spring thaw. And the log-riders with their spiked boots and poles. The first time he had seen them herding the logs downriver, he had been as breathless as Korim.

It was a ritual almost as significant to the people of Zheros as the shedding of the adders. Since both events occurred in the early spring, the priests claimed this was proof that the gods blessed their logging operations.

Blessed or not, it irritated Geriv that his warriors spent so much time felling trees. But that sentiment he shared only with his uncle Vazh, who inevitably responded with a filthy curse and a lament about the old days “when a man could concentrate on chopping off heads instead of branches.”

Unfortunately, Zheros needed timber for its ships, so its warriors had to ensure the logs reached the sea. And its Vanel had to answer to the queen if they didn’t.

Frowning at the wistful note in Korim’s voice, Geriv scanned the hills that loomed dark green and treacherous in the distance. That’s how this place would have looked. Gloomy even at midday, a narrow track—ridiculous to call it a road—meandering through forests so dense that a man could see only a few paces into their depths. Easy to imagine a rebel behind every tree trunk. Easier still for a superstitious man to hear spirits whispering instead of the rustle of leaves.

Realizing he was stroking his amulet, Geriv let his hand drop to his lap and surveyed the southern shore. The usual circle of turf and stone huts. A field of sprouting barley. White blobs among the tree stumps on the hills—the ubiquitous sheep. Figures milling on the beach, attracted by the arrival of the ships.

“And more isolated. It’s made the conquest difficult. That and the stubbornness of the people. The southern chiefs were wiser, and their villages have prospered under our rule.”

“Women and children can spy for the rebels as easily as men,” Geriv reminded him. “But this village hasn’t given us any trouble in years. That’s why we bring them grain—when our harvests are good. To reward them for their good behavior.”

Before he continued upriver, he would have to arrange for someone to row him across the lake so he could personally present the sacks of millet. That would honor the chief, but it would entail making pleasant conversation with the tribal elders and enduring the eye-watering peat smoke, the stench of their unwashed bodies, and an interminable meal.

Geriv eyed the opposite shore. He spotted only three company standards. And although the line of warriors extended the length of the beach, the three komakhs were clearly undermanned; a quick estimate indicated barely two hundred men instead of the five hundred that should be posted here.

“No,” he finally replied. If the administration was as sloppy as he feared, he might be tied up for days putting things to rights. The chief of the Tree People could wait.

Shouts rang out aboard ship. The steersman leaned on his long oar and the rowers on the starboard side redoubled their efforts. As the ship swung away from the northern shore, he glimpsed the pointed stakes of a large palisade rising above a steep embankment.

Both sets of rowers bent over the oars. At another shout from the captain, the drum fell silent, the oars rose skyward, and the ship drifted toward the unseen shore behind him. Pebbles scraped the hull, and the ship shuddered to a halt.

While the crew ran out the boarding plank, Korim jumped to his feet. He kept smoothing his khirta until Geriv was forced to still him with a glance.

The slap of bare feet on the planks alerted him to Pujh’s presence. Geriv raised his arms so the old slave could strap on his sword belt. Pujh gave the buckle a proprietary pat, then stepped back with an appraising frown.

Geriv endured a quick tug on the bottom of his tunic, a flick of the dexterous fingers to remove a speck of lint from his sleeve, but when Pujh licked his fingers and started smoothing the three eagle’s feathers, Geriv seized his helmet and thrust it on his head. Pujh bowed and backed away, all the while grumbling about the importance of first impressions and the dignity of their house.

“I should be beaten if I allow you to appear in public looking like you’d slept in your clothes.” Pujh’s mouth pursed as he observed two slaves sliding poles into the brackets at the base of the pavilion. “No, no, no! The Vanel will walk.” As the slaves touched their foreheads to the deck, he muttered, “Fools. As if my Vanel would arrive at a post in a litter. Like some fat nobleman or rich widow.”

Geriv wearily lifted the patch over his left eye and rubbed the jagged, scarred socket. He abhorred the easy familiarity that sometimes arose between master and slave, but it was hard to be stern with the man who had guided your fingers as you struggled to drape your first khirta around your hips.

“Leave it,” he ordered as Pujh’s fingers fluttered toward his cloak. Scowling, Pujh contented himself with inspecting Korim, patting, adjusting, and remonstrating until Geriv waved him away.

Thankfully, his son did not return Pujh’s wink. The honorary rank accorded the personal aide to the Vanel might impress a slave, but it would take more than that—or the new sword proudly slung on Korim’s hip—to win the respect of the seasoned warriors lining the shore.

Geriv thrust the disloyal thought aside. Korim’s gift for languages, his knowledge of the Tree People’s legends and rituals . . . all had proved useful. He always fulfilled his duties eagerly, but despite the training Geriv had insisted upon, he was more comfortable with a fishing line in his hand than a sword, and preferred playing his flute to dicing.

Observing Korim’s anxious expression, Geriv gave him an approving nod. “You’ll do fine,” he said, as much to reassure himself as his son.

After inspecting the troops, Geriv spent the afternoon tramping about the encampment with the acting commander. Despite his limp, the wiry little Komal had no trouble keeping pace with him. His responses were gruff and blunt, but he answered Geriv’s questions readily enough. Even without the scars on his hands and the small campaign medallions clasped to his cloak, Geriv would have known him as a veteran, but unlike so many who had been sent north as a demotion, do Nizhi’s manner suggested competence.

His inspection bore out that impression. Following the approved protocol for provincial camps, two deep ditches had been dug around the perimeter. A rectangular palisade of sharpened logs, twice a man’s height, protected the huts. Earth from the ditch filled the space between the logs and was mounded high enough against the inside to create ramparts for archers.

Inside the walls, fifty huts lined the two stone paths that quartered the camp. Some were clearly the original dwelling places of the Tree People who had once inhabited the village. The newer ones were constructed of logs, each big enough to accommodate the ten men who made up a skalekh.

The officers’ residence and headquarters were larger, but hardly luxurious. Workshops, storage huts, and an infirmary occupied one quarter of the grid, along with two small pens for the oxen and donkeys. As a result, the living quarters were packed closely together. Still, the huts were clean, pallets neatly arranged around the central fire pit. And unlike many camps where the men simply squatted over a ditch, night soil jars stood outside each doorway.

The afternoon was waning by the time he completed his inspection. After a brief soak in the bathhouse, he and his staff joined do Nizhi and his officers at headquarters for a plain if hearty meal of roast mutton, flatbread, dried fruit, and wine. The officers gradually relaxed as they responded to Korim’s stream of questions. Geriv allowed his son’s chatter. Korim’s questions conveyed only eager curiosity; his might seem like an interrogation.

At an unseen signal from do Nizhi, the officers rose from their cushions and retired. Geriv nodded to the four members of his staff who followed them. Then he and do Nizhi stepped outside.

Woodsmoke and roasting meat scented the air. He heard laughter and curses from the nearby huts, along with the inevitable rattle of dice. The trill of a flute vied with the occasional bray of a donkey. Silhouetted against the sky, sentries stood watch at the corners of the ramparts and on either side of the wooden gate.

“Nights come on slow this far north,” do Nizhi said, eyeing the deep blue of the western sky. “At Midsummer, it’s still light when you go to sleep and before you know it, the birds are singing.”

The Komal’s mouth worked, but he refrained from spitting. “Too much work. The village was already here.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “To be fair, we arrived in late autumn. We barely had time to throw up a palisade and build more huts before the snows came. After that, we had to spend all our time logging.”

Geriv nodded. The malady seemed especially virulent among new recruits unused to the bitter winters. What was odder was that the former Vanel had failed to send a replacement or promote do Nizhi. The acting commander still wore the black tunic of a komal rather than the green one of a regimental commander. When do Nizhi failed to elaborate, Geriv bluntly asked him about it.

“We sent word downriver. Never heard back.” This time, do Nizhi did spit. “Since I was the only komal who’d been here from the first, the officers voted me commander.” After a long, considering stare, he added, “When we heard the new Vanel was coming, there were some who thought there’d be . . . changes.”

“Well, you know soldiers. Gossipy as old women. Especially when there’s no fighting to be done. Or logging,” he added as an afterthought.

A gob of phlegm spattered on the stones. “They insist on sending the new recruits upriver. Begging your pardon, Vanel, but it’s madness. Hard enough for veterans to stomach those forests, but the young lads . . . they panic at every shadow. I’ll say this for my commander—he was after Headquarters for years to send our men inland and post the new recruits here. But nothing ever changed. And it’s that kind of mistake that cost The Bluff dear.”

“No. But look at the officer who made it. A nobleman’s son with his first command. Thinking to cover himself with glory by chasing a few miserable rebels. Instead, he walks into an ambush and gets his men killed.” The Komal slapped his palm against a rough-hewn log. “It’s the inland fortresses that need the men. That’s where the fighting is. And the timber. But instead of sending troops out in strength—” With an effort, he choked back his next words.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” His voice grew impassioned again. “Little Falls is the only base of any size. At full strength, it has five hundred fighting men. Same as this one. But Deepford and The Bluff—they’re small. Only two komakhs each. You can’t log the forests and defend your camp with only two hundred men. The rebels pick ’em off like flies. So why keep so many men stationed here when they’re needed upriver?”

“I’ll tell you why,” do Nizhi retorted. “Because this was the Spirit-Hunter’s village. And there’s some think we need to maintain a presence here—a symbol of Zherosi authority. Well, symbols are all well and good, but . . .”

The rest of do Nizhi’s fierce but muted tirade washed over him, unheard. It had to be the same man. Fourteen years since that day in the temple of the God with Two Faces and Geriv could still see him, standing head and shoulders above everyone else. Those strange eyes, pale as polished silver. And the voice—deep and soft and terrifying—accusing the Zheron of murdering the Pajhit and cursing him to an eternity in the Abyss.

“Who’s to say? He left here years ago. Him and his family. But there are rumors. Some say he’s the leader of the rebellion. Some even claim he’s responsible for the recent ambushes.” The Komal shrugged. “You can’t believe every rumor you hear, Vanel. Especially when they come from the Tree People. Zhe’s coils, they believe this Spirit-Hunter single-handedly brought an end to the Long Winter. As if he were a god, not a man.”

No, he was definitely a man. A man who had wept when he thought his son was dead. The same son who had cast out the spirit of the Zheron and stolen his body.

Could he ask about Kheridh without implicating Vazh? Or giving away his own involvement in the escape of the Spirit-Hunter and his son from Zheros? Even after so many years, the memory filled Geriv with shame.

“Why would they leave?” he finally asked. “The natives are as rooted in their villages as the trees they worship.”

“Banished from the tribe or some such tale. If you’re that interested, you might ask old Mardon. He’s chief of the village.”

Geriv nodded and shifted the conversation to a general discussion of the relations between the Tree People and the Zherosi. But while he nodded thoughtfully at do Nizhi’s observations, he was still reeling from the knowledge that the Spirit-Hunter had lived here, had walked this ground, might have stood on this very spot, watching the stars come out.

He was alive. Whether or not he was leading the rebellion, he was a legendary figure among his people. More god than man to the Tree People, according to do Nizhi. How would the rebellion fare if their hero was captured—or killed?

He had advised his uncle to execute both father and son, but Vazh had chosen to honor a promise to a dead friend, leaving Geriv the bitter responsibility of guiding the Spirit-Hunter to freedom.