Foxfire (14 page)

The ground shuddered, throwing him against his father whose face bore a look of stunned shock. On the hilltops, men scattered like rabbits. Where Callie and Rigat had stood, there was only a lone figure, silhouetted against the darkening blue of the sky.

He spotted Conn bending over a fallen Zheroso. When he shouted his milk-brother's name, Conn straightened. A huge grin split his face. Keirith started toward him, but Conn waved him back.

“Go on! I'll be right behind you.”

Fa tugged his arm. They raced off, raising their arms to protect their heads from the stones that rained down, choking on the wave of dust that engulfed them. By the time they reached safety, the ground had fallen still.

As the dust settled, he made out Faelia's tall figure among a knot of boys. Their slings hung forgotten at their sides as they stared into the pass. It took him a moment to recognize the stranger as the boy who had helped Faelia lead the stragglers to safety. He'd thought him younger because he was so short, but judging from the fair stubble that sprouted on his hollow cheeks, he was probably fifteen.

“Braden,” Faelia said, nodding to him. But her eyes were on Fa who slumped onto a boulder, one fist pressed against his chest.

As Keirith fell to his knees, his father's head came up. “I'm fine, son.” Leaning heavily on Keirith's shoulder, he pushed himself to his feet and reached for Faelia. He cradled her face between his hands, their foreheads touching in a wordless moment of thanksgiving. Then Fa drew himself up and glanced around, frowning.

“Nemek? And the others?”

“I sent them to reinforce Madig,” Faelia replied. As Fa turned to follow, she plucked at his sleeve. “It'll be over before you get there. One way or another.”

After a moment, he nodded. His frown deepened as he gazed at the broken shaft of the arrow still protruding from Faelia's shoulder.

“Mam'll take care of it.” Despite her obvious pain, Faelia managed a smile.

Fa's breathing was less labored now, but his face was still strained. Suddenly, the tension left his body. Keirith heard him mutter, “Thank you, Maker,” and saw Callie stumbling toward them, panting like a winded deer.

“You're all right?” Fa demanded.

Callie nodded, his gaze lingering on Faelia. “I was so scared for you . . .”

“And Rigat?”

A shudder racked Callie's thin frame. “Rigat's . . . fine. And there are more men coming.”

“Dear gods . . .”

“Not Zherosi! Our people. Twenty or thirty. I saw them from the hill.”

“Temet,” Faelia whispered.

“He's alive?” Fa asked. “But I thought—”

“He tried to draw them off. The Zherosi. But they followed us instead.”

His father nodded and slumped against the boulder again. “Are you hurt, son?”

Keirith shook his head. He had shallow sword cuts on both arms and he ached all over—especially his ribs where the edge of a shield had buffeted him—but such minor wounds weren't even worth mentioning. He was surprised when Fa pulled him down beside him and leaned close to kiss his cheek.

“Did you cause it?” his father whispered. “The rockslide?”

“Nay.” He scanned the eastern hilltop, but Rigat was gone. As he searched the clusters of exhausted men stumbling through the pass, he frowned. “Where did Conn go?”

A tumble of rocks and debris marked the place where he had been standing.

“Maybe he's looking for Ennit,” Fa said.

Slowly, Keirith got to his feet. He took one step, then another. Then he started running, slipping on the shifting stones, dodging the larger boulders and the helmeted corpses, veering toward each bare-headed figure, only to hurry past, shock at spying a fallen tribe mate warring with the guilty relief that it was not Conn.

He saw a dark-haired figure, belly down and half-buried under the debris. A hand, flung out as if beseeching his help. And his milk-brother's face, deathly pale beneath the dust and grime.

Keirith fell to his knees and seized the limp hand. Conn's pulse fluttered under his fingertips, faint and erratic.

He clawed at the stones, cursing and praying as he fought to free him. The stones were too small to crush his legs. The blood matting the hair on the back of his head worried Keirith more. And Conn's right arm, wedged under his body. He could easily have broken it in the fall. But Mam could take care of that. And the bruises. Even a concussion. Conn was alive. That was all that mattered.

His breath caught when he saw the blood. Pooling on the stones between Conn's legs, soaking his breeches from hip to knee. Frantically, he grabbed Conn's arm and rolled him onto his back. Only then did he see the broken sword gripped in his fist and the blood spurting from the jagged rent in his breeches.

He ripped off his belt and tied it around Conn's leg. Then he yanked his tunic over his head and used his dagger to slice through the seams at one shoulder. Even before he finished knotting the makeshift bandage, the blood had soaked through it.

He cut off the other sleeve. Bound Conn's leg again, knowing it would not stop the relentless spurt of blood, but unable to sit there and watch his life leak away.

Cursing, he pried the sword from Conn's fingers and flung it aside. He could imagine him bending over a fallen Zheroso, pausing for just a moment to snatch up the coveted bronze blade, never imagining that such a small delay would matter.

Chance. Ill-luck. The will of the gods. The same gods who allowed a stone to smash into Conn's head. Who watched his knees buckle and his body slump. Who stood by—uncaring, unfeeling—and allowed him to fall in just such a way that the blade would rip open his leg.

He pulled Conn's unresisting body into his arms and called his name. Conn's eyes fluttered open. An uncertain smile blossomed on his dirty face.

“Keir?”

“Aye.”

“My head . . . it hurts.”

“A stone hit you.”

Conn's chest heaved as he gasped. “My legs, too? Can't feel them.”

“I . . . I think maybe you broke something.”

“Damn. Can't do . . . The Dignified Walk. Maybe . . . A Lugubrious Lurch.”

Conn's wheezing laugh turned into a frantic gasp for air. As Keirith reached for the flailing hand, he spied the familiar scar at the base of Conn's right thumb, the scar from the blood oath they had twice sworn: to be friends in this life and brothers in the next.

“Keir?”

“I'm right here. I've got you.”

“Hope . . . I didn't tear . . . my breeches. Hircha . . . will . . . scold me. Clumsy . . .”

Conn wheezed again. Then his back suddenly arched and his heels dug into the ground.

As if his senses were failing with Conn's, the shouts and screams around him faded until he heard only his milk-brother's tortured gasps and his own voice, hoarse and broken, murmuring ceaseless, useless words of comfort and promises that could never be fulfilled—that everything would be different now, that their bond would be stronger than ever, that they would be friends in this life and brothers in the next.

All the while, he searched for the stillness and emptiness of trance, hoping to ease the convulsions, to stop the pain, to help Conn's spirit slip free. Rigat could have done it—he might even have been able to save Conn—but Keirith could only hold him and pray for his release.

Yet when that strong, solid body finally relaxed, it brought no relief, only a heavy weight squeezing his chest, denying him the breath to weep or protest or scream curses at the gods. As if the burden of breathing had passed from Conn to him, he gasped, rocking his milk-brother in his arms, burying his face in the soft hair that still smelled faintly of grass and sheep, squeezing the limp hand that was always so soft from the grease in the wool.

And then he felt arms around him, rocking them both, and his father's voice, murmuring his name. But he found no comfort in those sheltering arms or that soft voice.

“It was Rigat,” he blurted. “He did it.”

He knew it wasn't Rigat's fault. If not for him, many more would have been lost today. But that knowledge couldn't ease his grief. Conn was dead. And the boy Keirith had once been—who had suckled at the same breasts as his milk-brother, played with him on the slopes of Eagles Mount, and always believed they would grow old together—today, that boy had died as well.

“
P
USH!” 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.

“Push!”

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?”

Panting fiercely, Wila managed to nod.

“Good. When the next pain comes, push with it.”

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?

“Hah! There's the top of the head. One more push ought to do it.”

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.

“A girl! A beautiful girl.”

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.

“Impatient. A good sign.”

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.

“When we relight the fires, we can throw it in and count the pops.”

“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.