Foxfire (16 page)

The deerskin had been drawn up to let in the cool night air, but even from the doorway, the stench of blood and piss and tallow-soaked torches overwhelmed the comforting smell of peat smoke. An old woman—the one he had seen in the pass—dabbed at a bloody shoulder. Hircha was very pale, her expression frozen, but her needle rose and fell as she stitched another man's arm.

He heard doeskin rip and found Griane parting the flaps of a ruined tunic. She bent closer to inspect the wounds, then glanced toward the doorway. Perhaps she had caught the inadvertent movement of his hand. Or perhaps, after so many years, she was simply aware of his presence.

He wanted so much to touch her, to feel the curve of her neck, the bony ridge of her shoulder. To reassure himself that she was real and alive and his.

In an instant, tenderness transformed to a more urgent need. To take her, here on the filthy bracken. To bury himself inside of her and reaffirm his existence in the midst of so much death. To forget grief and pain and the fear of what the morrow might hold and lose himself in her warmth. And then to lay his head against her breast and sleep, cradled in her skinny arms.

He lifted his hand, palm out. She did the same. His fingertips tingled, as if feeling her touch. Then she turned back to the wounded man who needed her, and he walked away to resume the burdens of chief.

T
HE WIND SWIRLED AROUND the hilltop, tugging at robes and skirts. Rain slid like tears down the faces of the dead. As Darak eyed Gortin's guttering torch, he offered a silent prayer to Taran and Nul to restrain the storm until the bodies were consumed.

They had built the pyre at first light. Sacrificed a ewe in thanks for their deliverance. Struggled up the hill with their dead slung in mantles and carefully placed the bodies on the gorse branches. They lay shoulder to shoulder—his folk and Gath's and Temet's—awaiting the flames.

Rigat plucked at his sleeve. “Don't worry,” he whispered. “The fire will burn.”

Darak nodded automatically, his troubled gaze fixed on Keirith. At least, he'd managed to break through Ennit's stunned silence last night; all his efforts to draw Keirith out had failed.

Gortin intoned the final words of the rite and lifted the mullein torch. For a long moment, he stared at the bodies, shaking his head. Suddenly, his despairing expression grew fierce.

“Too many times we have performed this rite. Too many times we have carried our loved ones to the Death Hut or consigned their bodies to fire. Merciful Maker, can you not see our grief? Can you not hear our cries?”

Ennit's face twisted in anguish. Keirith's might have been carved from stone.

“Oak and Holly, we may be far from your forests, but we are still your children, descendants of the rowan and the alder who pulled their roots from the soil of the First Forest and crossed the boundary between their world and ours to become the first woman, the first man. How can you let these invaders destroy us? Destroy our tree-brothers?”

He could feel Faelia's burning gaze. Despite Griane's protests, she had insisted on hobbling up the hill. It was her duty, she claimed, and her right.

“Gods of our people. Welcome these new spirits to the sunlit shores of the Forever Isles. And remember those who are left behind. Show us the path of deliverance. Comfort us in our time of need. Give us a sign of your love and your protection.”

Gortin thrust the torch into the base of the pyre. The gorse ignited with a whoosh of air that made him stagger backward. Orange flames leaped up, licking eagerly at the resinous wood and the tallow-smeared garments of the dead.

Clutching his blackthorn staff for support, Gortin cried, “A sign! No rain can quench the flames. Just as no enemy can destroy our people.”

A roar rose up from the men. Women screamed their defiance, clutching their hair, beating their breasts, swaying and swirling and stamping the earth in the ecstasy of grief.

The shiver that crawled down Darak's spine owed little to the cold wind or the driving rain.

 

 

 

By the time they returned to the village, the storm had passed and the sun peeked through a break in the clouds. Another good omen, some said.

They shared a paltry feast—whatever the women could throw together. Later, there would be time to honor the dead. Now, there was too much to do for the living.

Rothisar led a party back to the pass to strip the Zherosi dead and dispose of the bodies. Alada and Duba carried furs and spare mantles to the cave. Temet's warriors were still in the longhut with the rest of the wounded, but when they recovered, they would need somewhere to sleep; the huts were already crowded with the folk from Gath's village.

Darak convened the council meeting in his hut. With Usok and Elasoth dead, and Madig and Nemek fighting for their lives, only five members remained: the Tree-Father and Grain-Mother, him and Lisula, and old Trath.

He wished he could nominate Ennit to replace one of the fallen elders, but with only Callie and young Lorthan to help, his friend would be busy enough tending the flocks. Instead, after waiting impatiently while Gortin and Barasa offered the ritual prayers, he proposed Sion, a reticent hunter and a bit of a loner, but a man of common sense and wisdom.

Everyone agreed that Callie should join them until Nemek recovered. Trath suggested two fishermen—Adinn and Hakiath. When Barasa put forward Rothisar's name, Darak suppressed a grimace; the last person he wanted on the council was Jurl's belligerent nephew.

The elders might take a year to decide upon a name for their tribe, but in a crisis, they were far more decisive. With little discussion, Sion and Adinn were elected as permanent members, with Callie and Hakiath serving until Nemek and Madig recovered.

They waited for the new members to join them before summoning Faelia and Temet. Their accounts were brief and grim. When Temet finished speaking, Darak said, “It's early in the season for the Zherosi to be on the move.”

With obvious reluctance, Temet said, “We struck first. Ambushed a couple of their scouting parties.”

All winter, they had wrangled, Temet arguing that they had to attack the Zherosi whenever and wherever they could, Darak claiming that those tactics only provoked reprisals. This time, Gath's village had paid the price.

Temet shifted his wounded leg, grimacing. “They'd never come in such numbers before. I don't know how many there were. Two hundred? Three? The villagers fought like wolves. Old men with axes. Women with clubs. Boys younger than your Rigat . . .”

“How many did you lose?” Darak asked quietly.

“Seventy-three. Including those who fell yesterday.”

And likely, there would be more: the badly wounded ones in the longhut, perhaps even some of those Temet had sent after the Zherosi.

“It was chaos after the battle,” Faelia said. “Temet tried to rally us, but—”

“We scattered,” Temet interrupted. “As soon as I'm able to travel, I'll round up the survivors. If there are any. Those who are still recovering from their wounds can stay behind to help defend the village.”

Of course, Temet would have to leave the wounded behind. But volunteering them to defend the village told Darak that he had little hope that all the Zherosi would be caught.

Helpless anger made him want to reject the offer, but common sense prevailed. They would need those extra men and women—to hunt, to teach his folk to fight with swords, to improve their defenses. Gods, they needed their strong arms and backs to help build the terraces so they could get the barley into the ground.

After a brief discussion of the immediate steps that must be taken, Darak called the meeting to a halt. It would be days before Temet could travel. Time enough to craft more detailed plans later.

As the elders filed out of the hut, Darak eyed Temet, considering the deep grooves pain and grief had carved around his mouth, the hollowness under his cheekbones, and his slow, careful movements. But this was one confrontation he refused to postpone.

“A word with you, Temet. If I may.”

Faelia hesitated in the doorway, then reluctantly allowed the deerskin to fall behind her.

Temet took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, as if preparing for a blow.

Careful to keep his voice soft, Darak said, “You gave me your oath.”

“And I kept it.”

“Oh, aye.
You
didn't lead them here. You let Faelia do that.”

“I tried to draw them off. That was the plan.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want and be damned!”

Darak started toward him, then drew up short as Temet gripped the hilt of his dagger. Temet stared down at his hand, frowning, as if he couldn't quite believe what he had done. Then he slumped wearily against the wall of the hut.

“Forgive me. I never used to be such a hothead.”

“I remember.”

“Do you? I wonder sometimes.”

Although Temet's voice was quiet, the words stung. “I remember you went singing to your death. And bought me the chance to save my son. It's not your fault I failed.”

“You didn't fail. Keirith lives. You'll never know if you could have saved his body, too. And blaming yourself for what you did or didn't do won't change that.”

The blunt words might have been cruel if another man had spoken them. But Temet knew more about loss and blame than he did. He had lost his home, his wife, his child. Seen his comrades slaughtered. Yet he was not too hardened to grieve—or to love.

For his daughter's sake, Darak kept his voice gentle. “Keirith's life is a debt I can never repay.”

“I didn't bring up the past to win your trust. Or perhaps I did. I don't know.” Temet ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. “As bad as things were, it was easier in the slave compound.”

“Aye. Well. We were drugged.”

Temet's short exhalation might have been a chuckle or an exasperated sigh. “We acted together. In that moment, we were men again. In control of our lives, our fate.”

“Then you should know how I feel now. When you've taken that control away from me.”

“You can stay here.”

“Can I? All it takes is for one man to escape—one!—and the Zherosi will know where this place is. The place I chose because it was a safe haven.”

Temet shook his head wearily. “There is no such thing.”

“There was! Until you came. Sooner or later, they're bound to seek revenge. The only way to keep my people safe is to join your damn rebellion.” Darak's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “So it looks like you've won the Spirit-Hunter's support, after all.”

“I didn't want it this way. I hope you believe that.”

“Does it matter?”

Before Temet could answer, a freckled hand flung back the deerskin. Faelia limped into the hut.

“Don't blame Temet. It was me.”

“What are you talking about?” Darak asked.

“I led the Zherosi here. I made sure they followed my group. Temet knew nothing.”

Darak stared at her, too stunned to speak. The hope that she was lying to protect her man vanished when Temet seized her good arm and spun her toward him.

“You little fool! You could have been killed. And everyone with you.”

“It was a risk.”

“That cost the lives of every man I sent with you. And what? Eight of the villagers who were counting on you to get them to safety.”

“We all discussed it. And we all agreed. But it was my plan. So if you want to whip anyone for disobeying orders, whip me.”

Her words were directed to Temet, but her gaze remained fastened on her father, begging forgiveness and understanding. When Darak shook his head, her expression grew fierce.

“They'd given up. All of them. But I told them we would be luring their enemies to the village of Darak Spirit-Hunter. That you'd give meaning to their suffering and avenge the deaths of their loved ones and help our people reclaim this land. And I watched mothers bind the bleeding feet of their children and old men's eyes gleam with hope.”

He looked at this tall stranger in men's clothing, this warrior he had helped create, whose voice shook with passion and whose eyes brimmed with tears she refused to shed. The woman blurred with the memories of the child who used to ride through the village on his shoulders, small hands reaching up as if to snatch a cloud from the sky. Who disdained needle and thread for sling and stone. Who would crawl into his lap after supper, idly playing with a braid, freckled face raised to his as if she couldn't bear to let him out of her sight for a moment.