Foxfire

THE RIVER GLISTENED in the early morning sunlight. From a nearby tree, a blackbird warbled. The freshening breeze caressed Geriv’s face. Bitterly, he reflected that it was going to be a beautiful day.

Geriv nodded to the Remil and strode back with him. He still couldn’t believe the Spirit-Hunter had planned to rescue Kheridh with only ten men. Once his warship had crossed the river, he’d sent men to scour the area, but they found no sign of a larger force—only a few slaves tied to trees.

At the far end of the row, the spy crouched beside one of the bodies. Riddled with arrows, like the others. Probably only a few years older than Korim, who stared at the corpses, sickened.

“A pity you didn’t kill him,” Geriv remarked to the spy.

Korim looked up. “No man could have killed the Son of Zhe.”

Korim’s head jerked toward the spy. “You . . . you shot Darak? Deliberately? But why would you—?”

“Because our anonymous friend wants to end this rebellion,” Geriv replied. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it? The night we met at Little Falls?”

“What better way to do that than by depriving the rebellion of its leader?”

Still, the spy remained silent, as oblivious to their presence as he was to his wounds. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his right arm. Another was embedded in his left shoulder. Blood soaked the sleeves of his tunic and dripped onto the grass at his feet.

Geriv glanced curiously at the dead man whose long face bore a slight resemblance to the spy’s. “A kinsman?”

“My cousin. Sorig.” He whispered the name as if it were a prayer. Gently, he closed the staring eyes. “Will you take them to Little Falls? So they can have a proper funeral?”

“I have my own dead to attend to. If Birat wants their bodies, he can send men to collect them.” He turned to the Remil. “I’m going north. On the morrow. With three komakhs. Get the troops ready when we return to the fortress. You’ll remain in command there until I return.”

“I intend to command the assault on the Spirit-Hunter’s village.”

“Darak’s lung-shot,” the spy said. “He’s probably dead already.”

He started toward the river, only to be brought up short when Korim seized his arm. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s likely that boy—Rigat—took them back to their village. If the Spirit-Hunter is dead, the other members of his family will make excellent hostages.”

“I take my orders from the queen, not some scruffy boy who claims to be the Son of Zhe.”

Geriv jerked his arm free. “You don’t allow your enemies to escape if it’s in your power to stop them.”

And he would stop them—both the Spirit-Hunter and his accursed son—even if it cost him his command and his life. Damn Vazh. He should have killed them both when he had the chance.

Staring down into his son’s shocked face, he chose his words with care. “Kheridh tricked you. The Spirit-Hunter captured you. There was nothing you could have done to prevent that,” he added quickly. “Or to escape. But it doesn’t change the fact that they humiliated you.”

Korim winced. When Geriv laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, Korim’s head came up, his eyes wide and uncertain.

“You may return to Headquarters if you wish. But I hope you’ll come with me. The only way to regain the respect of your fellow officers—to regain any measure of self-respect—is to go after these men and crush them. Once and for all.”