Foxfire

THROUGHOUT THAT LONG AFTERNOON, her words echoed in Keirith’s mind, as relentless as the hurried tramp of feet. And like the rain seeping into the earth, his hope of salvaging Rigat leached away.

He had no time to learn more than the bare facts before he took command of the rear guard. There were so few boys of fighting age and no women with sufficient training that he took only Callie, Braden, and Takinel, another of the orphans from Gath’s village. He prayed Ennit’s ruse would work, that the rain would obliterate their tracks, that the children would be strong enough for the journey.

They clawed their way up steep hills, slipping and sliding on the wet pine needles. Sidestepped down treacherous slopes, clinging to tree trunks and boulders and fallen logs, knowing one misstep might bring the disaster of a twisted ankle, a wrenched knee. At the top of every rise, Keirith scanned the terrain behind them, searching for movement among the trees, but the dense forest and driving rain made it impossible to spy their pursuers.

By the time they reached the notch, the rain had subsided to a drizzle. The women spread skins on the ground and huddled together, mantles shielding the children from the freshening breeze. The little ones clung to their mothers, too tired to cry, too tired even to eat.

At twilight, Ennit and Lorthan stumbled into their makeshift camp, still dragging the sheep behind them. When darkness fell without any sign of Selima and her recruits, he prayed that they had simply made camp for the night and would catch up with them on the morrow.

He and Callie chose to take the second watch so they could spend some time with their mother first. As they walked toward her, Hircha blocked their path.

“She hasn’t said a word. Not to me. Not to anyone. I’ve never seen her like this, Keirith. Even after Darak died.”

At least they had seen Fa’s body. Faelia’s death was unreal. He kept expecting her to appear out of the gloom and roll her eyes when he told her they had all believed she was dead. Only his mam’s tight mouth and staring eyes confirmed the truth.

He crouched on one side of her, Callie on the other. He was reluctant to touch her; she still had the look of a shaman lost in a vision. Or Duba, dream-walking through the long years after she had lost her son.

It was that image that made him clasp her unresisting hand. “I don’t know what to say, Mam. Or what to do. But I’m here. We’re all here. Please. Don’t . . . go away.”

His voice broke on the final words, the voice of a scared little boy, caught up in events he could not control.

He had meant to comfort her, to lend her his strength. But she was the one to pull his head down to her shoulder. Her strong hands held him, her voice murmured his name softly. And his murmured in counterpoint: “Mam. Mam. Mam.”

In his dream, Faelia screamed when the arrowhead cleaved her breastbone. Even when she stopped clawing at the shaft of the arrow, even after she fell to the ground, even after she was dead, the scream just went on and on and on. Only then did he realize it was his mam clawing at the arrow, his mam falling to her knees, his mam’s scream tearing the air, tearing his spirit, tearing him apart.

Rigat jolted awake, his cry echoing off stone walls as cold and unforgiving as his mother’s face. But her strong hands cradled him against her body, her lips pressed gentle kisses to his wet cheeks, her voice murmured his name softly. And his offered a broken, sobbing counterpoint: “Mam. Mam. Mam.”

Then he saw the waterfall of black hair and the dark eyes, wary as a doe’s in the flickering torchlight. He pushed her away, wincing at the pain in his arm and the memories it evoked. “I want the Supplicant! Where’s the Supplicant?”

Her silence confirmed what he had always known: that she would leave him, too. In the end, they would all leave, and he would be alone.

The metal of the goblet, as cool as the fingers stroking his neck. The brew, as sweet as her voice urging him to sleep. Sweeter still, the peace that filled him, deep and dreamless as death.

Selima and her recruits were still missing when Keirith roused the tribe at dawn. Fear sharpened senses dulled by lack of sleep. His mind sifted plans and tactics. His body responded automatically to obstacles: ducking under low-hanging limbs, dodging a thorn bush sprawling across the trail. A small part of him even noted the fresh-washed beauty of the forest: water droplets sparkling in the shafts of sunlight, the crispness of the morning air, the leaves of the birches edged in gold. Like his folk, summer was fleeing.

At every hilltop, he glanced back. Each time he caught the flash of metal among the trees, his bowels clenched. Callie’s eyes reflected his fear, but neither of them gave voice to it.

When the tribe stopped beside a stream, swollen with last night’s rain, he gulped down a few swallows of the cool water and refilled his waterskin. Then he was on his feet again. Rest brought only the renewed consciousness of aching muscles, the reminder that the Zherosi were coming closer with every heartbeat. Better to seek out Holtik and discuss the next leg of the journey, to walk among his tribe mates offering reassurance to the adults and praise for the children’s resilience.

Just a little longer. Just a little farther. Look, you can see the bald spot through the break in the trees. By sunset, we’ll be there. By sunset, we’ll be safe. Then he recalled Temet’s assurances before the ambush, and fear strained his smile.

They followed the stream southeast, marching single file along the narrow bank. Keirith eyed the thickening clouds and prayed for rain to hide their tracks. The brief downpour only soaked their clothes and left them more miserable.

Each time the tribe paused to rest, he and Callie trudged up a hill with Holtik. From the notch, the bald spot had been little more than a pale blob amid the dark greens of the pines. As they grew nearer, they could make out more details.

“It looks like a head,” Callie said. “See? The trees on the summit are hair, standing on end. Those two dark spots are eyes. And that part in the middle that juts out? That’s the nose.”

Keirith forced a smile, staring at the lower half of the face where the jaw had melted away. A shattered face, too reminiscent of Temet’s, crushed by a Zherosi club.

His unease grew as they neared the base of the hill. To the east, it plunged straight down to the stream. But it was the rockslide on the north face that brought him up short. Uprooted pines littered the slope, but it was the same boulder-strewn desolation he had seen in his vision.

He choked back the bile that filled his mouth, fighting the overwhelming urge to flee. Leaving Holtik to lead the main body west around the rockslide, he and Callie trotted ahead.

The site was virtually impregnable. The stream curved around the hill, guarding its eastern and southern flanks. Although the boulders and fallen trees on the north face provided shelter for attackers, the loose scree of pebbles made the footing treacherous. The only place to mount an assault was the western slope.

Together, they scrambled up it. Hard enough for two grown men to claw their way over the rocks near the summit; they would have to rope the younger children together. The scrub pines atop the hill offered little protection from the wind, but after the exertion of the climb, they welcomed the gusts of cool air.

The tribe was easy to spot, moving slowly around the base of the hill, but if the Zherosi were nearby, they were well hidden in the forest. Keirith paused long enough to wave to Holtik before following Callie through the tumble of boulders near the summit.

The dark spots that had looked like eyes were really two small grottos, carved out by the rockslide. Under the “nose,” they found the shadowy entrance of a cave.

Keirith checked so violently that Callie had to grab his outflung arm to steady him. He closed his eyes, but still he saw the image of his parents from the vision.

They had to duck to keep from scraping their heads against the low ceiling. The overhanging jut of the nose blocked most of the wind, but the interior was so gloomy, Keirith had to explore it with fingertips skimming the rock. Although fairly shallow, the cave was wide; it might be large enough to shelter the tribe, but they would be crammed shoulder to shoulder.

At first, he thought the dark shapes were a trick of the uncertain light or the uneven surface of the rock. But closer to the entrance, he was able to make out images: the triangular shape of tall pines with drooping boughs; small stick figures bearing bows; antlered stags; and a massive humanlike shape that might be a bear standing erect.

“There are some on this wall, too.” Callie’s voice echoed eerily. “The legends say The People paddled up the river. But I suppose others could have fled overland.” He leaned close, peering at a group of stick figures. “I wish we had a torch.”

With adequate food and water, they could hold off the Zherosi indefinitely. But their food supplies were limited. And the only source of water was the stream far below. The Zherosi wouldn’t risk an assault. Not when they could wait and starve them out.

Callie rubbed his eyes. “It seemed like a good site from a distance. But if you think we should move on . . .”

In a halting voice, Keirith described his visions: their parents lying asleep in a cave; the battle between the eagle chicks; the line of people disappearing over the edge of the cliff.

“I’m pretty sure it was Mam. But I couldn’t see his face. He looked . . . old. And fragile. I thought . . . maybe . . . it was Fa’s spirit, comforting her.”

“She had a mantle over her head, so I couldn’t see her, either. But she was near her time—her belly was huge. And none of the women are that close to birthing. So either that part of the vision happens much later or it’s a symbol. That life will go on.”

For a moment, Keirith could only gape at him. Then he pulled Callie into his arms and hugged him hard. He wasn’t sure whether to offer congratulations or sympathy. To be carrying a new life at such a time. What a joy and a burden for them both.

“If this is the place where you’re supposed to confront Rigat . . .” Callie shook his head in frustration. “Gods, Keirith, I don’t know. If he’s the one controlling the Zherosi, then the only way we’ll escape them is to convince Rigat to change his mind. Or . . . or kill him.”

A faint shout spared Keirith from answering. Hurrying out of the cave, they found Holtik scrambling across the rocks. One look at his face told Keirith the news was bad.

He gave them the gist of Owan’s information as they made their way down the hill. The crowd parted as they approached. Although the women’s faces were strained, everyone was calm. Even the children waited in hushed silence.

Mam and Hircha were bandaging Owan’s wounded arm. His tunic and breeches were torn, his hair matted with dirt and leaves, but his listless expression worried Keirith more; it reminded him too vividly of Eilin’s after his first battle.

Owan took a trembling breath. “Selima . . . she said she’ll delay them. If she can. But there’s only the three of them left. Selima, Cradaig, and Rendaron.”

“They know,” Owan finally managed. “That we planned to meet here. They captured Lendon. We heard him. Screaming.”

Keirith had no words of comfort to offer, no assurances that the boys’ sacrifice had been worthwhile. He could only rest his forehead against Owan’s matted hair and share his grief.

But only for a moment. There was no time to mourn these dead boys, no time to use his power to ease Owan’s pain. They had to prepare. And although his stomach churned at the implications, he knew he had to lead his people onto that barren hilltop to make their final stand against the Zherosi—and Rigat.

From his vantage point atop a plateau in western Carilia, Rigat surveyed the battlefield far below. The warriors dispatching the wounded and looting the dead looked more like ants than men. Industrious little ants swarming through the grass.

The late afternoon sun painted the grasslands gold. Bronze helmets winked at the sun. A shallow red stream meandered across the plain; at dawn, it had been brown.

“A great victory, Promised One.” The Batal’s voice oozed satisfaction. “The Carilians have no choice but to sue for peace. And with the terms we’ll offer, it’ll be ten generations before they recover.”

Hundreds of little ants swarming through the grass. Hundreds of others lying in the grass. Some ants would feast. Some would be a feast for the crows and ravens circling patiently overhead. The aftermath of battle was always the same, whether it involved warriors on a wind-swept plain or a brother and sister in a sun-dappled glade of foxtails.

He staggered toward the tent they had erected for him and found Nekif waiting outside. He was glad that Jholianna had insisted he take the old slave with him this time. Nekif would know what to do.

The heat inside the tent was stifling, but he made no move to stop Nekif from lowering the flap. Better to sweat than allow the Batal to see him sprawled on the red and gold cushions, shaking like a frightened child.

Why had he thought coming to Carilia would distract him? He should have known that witnessing today’s slaughter could only conjure memories of her.

He flexed his arm. The wound still throbbed. Jholianna’s physician had removed the arrowhead, but he couldn’t allow the man to stitch him up as if he were an ordinary mortal. He’d healed the wound himself, eliciting gasps of wonder. Within days, it began leaking blood. Now, he began every morning by resealing the gash.

Nekif crouched beside him, a goblet in one hand and a tiny packet in the other. At Rigat’s nod, the old slave laid the goblet carefully on the rug and unwrapped the flaxcloth. The powder looked like green dust; only the scent—faint and bitter—proved that it had once been a living plant. Just as the dead ants on the battlefield had once been men.

She had meant to kill him. He had only defended himself. It was her fault, not his, that it had ended this way.

Nekif stirred the mixture and held out the goblet. Rigat took it with both hands, but Nekif still had to wrap his fingers around the goblet to steady it. The honey failed to disguise the bitter taste of the herbs. That was probably a good thing. If oblivion were too sweet, no one would want to return.

As he lay back, he heard Nekif slip outside; he would prevent anyone from entering until the effects of the drug wore off. He was drifting into the welcoming darkness when hands gripped his shoulders. Rigat frowned, wondering that Nekif had the temerity to shake him. And to call him by his name instead of his title.

He opened his eyes and stared blearily up at the slave. Strange that Nekif should be wearing a moth-eaten pelt around his shoulders. And that his eyes kept changing color—from their usual soft brown to gold. As gold as the honey in the brew. He was speaking in an urgent whisper. Something about going back. But there was no going back. Not anymore.

Rigat closed his eyes. When he woke, he would have to punish Nekif. A pity. But disobedience always had to be punished and obedience rewarded. Only then could balance be maintained.