Foxfire

THE DAY HAD BEGUN BADLY with his stilted farewell to his son. Korim had saluted him before marching up the boarding plank. Although Geriv remained on the shore until the ship disappeared beyond the bend in the river, Korim never looked back. Or if he did, he never acknowledged his father’s wave.

He spent the rest of the day tramping about the fortress: doubling the men guarding the ships and patrolling the parapet; posting additional guards around Kheridh’s hut; inspecting the disposition of provisions; meeting with his officers to ensure that each understood the importance of the next few days. By late afternoon, he was exhausted, but satisfied that he had taken every conceivable precaution to ensure that the Spirit-Hunter could never breach his walls and that Kheridh could never escape them.

He was less sanguine about his relationship with his son. He had tried to ease matters this morning, even asked Korim to remain at Headquarters until he returned so that they would have an opportunity to “reevaluate the future.” Korim had simply nodded and replied, “Yes, Vanel.”

From beginning to end, he had handled the matter poorly. As a commander, he rarely allowed his emotions to rule him; as a father, it seemed to happen with increasing frequency.

What infuriated him the most was that he felt as if he were in the wrong. Dear gods, it was Korim who had endangered himself—endangered everyone in the fortress—with that foolish escapade. Interrogating the prisoner, indeed. Showing off, more likely.

He still hadn’t decided what to do about Remil do Fadiq. His lack of judgment was even more appalling than Korim’s. Perhaps he should send for do Nizhi. He’d held things together at Eagles Mount well enough. Why not offer him a promotion and let him take charge here? And ship do Fadiq off to one of the smaller posts downriver.

He’d decide after the Spirit-Hunter surrendered. Until then, he needed his mind to be free of all distractions. Including the unfortunate situation with his son.

After a joyless supper with Jonaq, he returned to his quarters. As the slave assigned to serve him fumbled with his sword belt, he regretted the impulse that had made him send Pujh downriver. Whether or not Pujh’s presence provided any comfort for Korim, his absence certainly ensured more discomfort for him.

Wearily, he hung his sword belt on the wooden hook and sat on his pallet to remove his sandals. He was still reaching for the laces when he heard the hysterical cry.

Unable to make sense of Pujh’s babbling, Geriv turned to the Remil who simply held out his hand. Dangling from his clenched fingers was Korim’s amulet.

Geriv took it, pleased that his hand was so steady, that he could listen so calmly to Pujh’s faltering account of the ambush. Then Pujh cried, “He said to tell you . . . he made me memorize it . . .” The old man choked on a sob. “He said, ‘Your ship is destroyed. Your warriors are dead. Your son is my prisoner. I will exchange him for mine on the morrow at sunrise. At the narrows. Ten miles downriver. Beach your ship on the southern shore. You may bring ten men across the river as . . . as an escort. I will be waiting for you.’ It was the Spirit-Hunter, master!”

Geriv nodded, transfixed by the amulet in his palm. He wondered if the Spirit-Hunter had chosen the site deliberately; before marching south to ambush the rebels, Geriv had beached his ship at that very spot.

He carefully laid Korim’s amulet on the table. Then he walked to the window and gripped the frame until his fingers ached. To have come so close to success and have it snatched away. And all because of his son’s foolhardy behavior.

What would happen if he refused to hand over Kheridh? The Spirit-Hunter must realize that killing Korim would only result in Kheridh’s death as well.

He tried to think, to analyze the situation as a commander would, but he kept seeing his son’s stark face as he reprimanded him, hearing his own voice, cruel and sarcastic, as he suggested that Korim pack.

The Spirit-Hunter would have men watching the narrows. And probably upriver as well. Could they make a forced march at night and surprise them? Likely, they would just melt into the forest, taking Korim with them. And if by some miracle they did find them, it would be too easy for his son to be killed in a night battle—by the Spirit-Hunter’s men or his.

Geriv’s gaze swept the compound, the palisades, the half-moon that hung over the southern hills, seeking inspiration, seeking some way out.

He helped Pujh to his feet and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. When the old man flung his arms around him and burst into a fresh storm of tears, he merely patted the heaving shoulders again until the sobs abated.

Then he gently freed himself and said, “Now, Pujh. I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Every detail, no matter how small. Everything about the terrain where the exchange is to take place. And everything you can recall about the Spirit-Hunter.”

Darak leaned against a pine, staring down at the silver stripe of moonlight bisecting the river. Kelik and Mikal should have been back by now. Even if the old slave slowed them down, they would have reached Little Falls before sunset. The night was half gone and there was still no sign of them.

Perhaps they’d waited until dark to set the old man free. That would have been smart. Give Geriv less time to come up with a plan. He should have thought of it himself. Then he wouldn’t be standing here, worrying.

He didn’t expect Geriv to attempt a night rescue; it was in both their interests to go through with the prisoner exchange. But he had posted sentries in the forest and at the base of the hill. He and Sorig watched the river from the summit. If Geriv came, they’d know.

The ambush had gone better than he could have hoped. He hadn’t counted on the slaves, though. They were too terrified of the forest to head downriver to the village. In the end, he’d had to tie them up again; if they were frightened by an owl or a bat and went rushing off into the forest, his men might kill them, mistaking them for Geriv’s warriors in the dark.

It was probably for the best; there was no way of knowing what sort of reception they would find at the village. A few of the Zherosi might have made it there, but he doubted they would be in much shape to lead a counterattack.

In spite of his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. The waiting gnawed at his nerves almost as much as the fixed and penetrating gaze of the boy behind him.

Pine needles crunched, and he tensed, only to relax again as he realized the boy was only shifting position. He had refused to give his oath that he would not run away, so Darak had bound him to a tree. The boy had submitted without a struggle. When Darak assured him that he would not be harmed, he’d turned his head away with the same disdain he had shown in refusing his offers of food and water. Later, though, the dark eyes had turned back to him, filled with such resentment that Darak considered blindfolding him. Instead, he had simply turned his back. But he could still feel that gaze burning into him.

What did the boy expect? That he would feel ashamed of capturing him? It was absurd. Yet as the night wore on, his elation at the success of his plan faded, replaced by the very shame he found so ridiculous. He would have preferred not to use a mere boy as a pawn, but Geriv had left him no choice.

The pine needles rustled again, and he glanced over his shoulder. Although he was standing only ten paces away, the boy was little more than a dark shape under the trees. He was turning back to study the river when he heard the soft groan. Reluctantly, he walked over to investigate.

The rustling was continuous now as if, despite his best efforts, the boy could not control his trembling. But he still refused to speak.

Nearly blind in the darkness, he checked the ropes. The ones binding his wrists were tight, but the flesh around them didn’t feel swollen. And although those that encircled his arms and chest were also secure, Darak was certain they could not be causing the boy’s discomfort. Perhaps his arse was simply sore from sitting so long.

When this statement failed to elicit any response, Darak sighed. As he straightened, the boy made a hoarse sound, then cleared his throat.

“All right. I’ll untie you. Don’t do anything stupid like trying to run away. Likely, you’d just tumble down the hill and break your neck.”

It would be easier to saw through the rope with his dagger, but they had no more to bind him again. His fingertips were burning by the time he managed to loosen the knots. He left the rope around the boy’s wrists; even with his hands bound, he should be able to take a piss.

He pulled the boy to his feet and gripped his arm to keep him from dashing off. The precaution proved unnecessary; his legs were so wobbly he could barely walk. As Darak led him behind the tree, the boy lurched in the opposite direction. Uncertain what he was up to, Darak let him lead. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips when he realized his prisoner clearly intended to piss on the tree he had been leaning against.

He kept his grip on the skinny arm as the boy tugged at his khirta. From his grunts, he was making little progress. And from the way he danced from one foot to the other, it was anyone’s guess whether he would manage to loosen it before he pissed himself.

Darak let the dance go on for a few moments before pushing the boy’s hands aside. He fumbled with the heavy folds of cloth, hindered by the darkness and his unfamiliarity with the khirta’s draping. He finally found the section that passed between the boy’s legs, but it was firmly tucked under his belt.

He grabbed the bulky fold and pulled. The boy yelped. Darak muttered an apology, but haste and embarrassment only made his fingers clumsier. He was sweating by the time he managed to yank the cloth loose.

The boy wrenched free and twisted to the side. After a few more moments of frenzied dancing, Darak heard a heartfelt groan and the gush of liquid pelting the pine needles.

It went on and on and on. He wouldn’t have thought a man could have that much piss inside him, never mind this skinny boy. The stubborn young idiot’s bladder must have been near to bursting.

The stream subsided to erratic spurts and finally to silence. The boy sighed. So did Darak, aware of both the sympathetic twinges in his bladder and the peculiar intimacy of the moment.

Darak was so intent on the boy’s progress that he was unaware of Sorig’s approach until he heard him whisper, “Everything all right?”

They both started. The similarities of their reactions disturbed Darak; the last thing he wanted was to feel any sort of connection to this boy. After reassuring Sorig, he seized the skinny arm with more force than necessary, led the boy back to the tree, and tied him up again.

He tested the ropes and heard a soft grunt of pain. Angry with himself, he wasted more time loosening the bonds a bit before crouching in front of the boy.

He knew he should walk away; the boy clearly hated his company. But he couldn’t help recalling Keirith’s stories of his first days in Zheros: the fear of not knowing what his captors intended, the need to guard himself every moment lest he betray that fear or reveal a damning piece of information that could result in his death.

The boy sounded startled. Of course, Geriv would never have revealed his part in their escape. And despite everything, Darak was reluctant to do so now. Not to protect Geriv, but to shield this boy. He shook his head, impatient with himself, but still chose his words with care.

“Malaq—the Pajhit—befriended Keirith and feared for his life. So he asked Khonsel do Havi to protect him. The Khonsel had your father shadow Keirith. To make sure he came to no harm. For that, I have remembered him—all of them—in my prayers.”

“Aye. It’s ironic. Given all that’s happened. I can’t remember him well—save for the eye patch, of course. He struck me as a good fighter. Stern but not cruel. Or stupid. He’ll make the exchange. It may gall him, but he’ll do it.”

In the silence that followed, his heart nearly failed him. Finally, the boy said, “His shoulder was injured. In the ambush. But he is . . . well.” Another interminable pause before he added, “They were drugging him.”

One part of his mind noted that the boy had said “they” not “we.” But he was too relieved to know that Keirith was all right to pursue that. It took him a moment to understand why they would drug him, but of course, Geriv had been there when Keirith cast out the Zheron’s spirit. But why Keirith would talk to this boy—the son of his captor—mystified him.

“He was blindfolded,” the boy explained in response to his question. “I pretended to be from the village. To fool him into giving away information. But I was the fool,” he concluded bitterly.

“It was worth trying.” The words surprised him as much as his desire to shield the boy had. “You speak our language well. Very well. There’s the accent, of course, but—”

“More guttural. Like the tribe folk of the south. But with the drugs dulling his senses, Keirith probably didn’t notice.”

“We did not even talk of the rebellion. Not really. Only . . . everyday things. Growing up. Fishing. Our fathers.” The boy cleared his throat. “You must love him very much. To follow him to Zheros all those years ago. And to risk your life for him now.”

“Aye. Well. A father can get angry with his children and still love them. I’ve raised my voice—and my hand—to all of mine at one time or another. And your father—”

“You’ve nothing to fear,” Darak assured him. “Even if I were the kind of man who would kill a boy, what would I gain? Your father would kill Keirith, and then we’d both lose our sons.”

“This is true. But my father knows this about you. That you are not a killer. That you love your son. So he can wait. And gamble that, in the end, you will back down.”

He had considered that possibility, but had managed to convince himself that no man would risk his son’s life. Confronted by the calm certainty in the boy’s voice, Darak couldn’t help feeling that, although the boy was his prisoner, he was the one who was trapped.