Foxfire (26 page)

While the crew ran out the boarding plank, Korim jumped to his feet. He kept smoothing his khirta until Geriv was forced to still him with a glance.

The slap of bare feet on the planks alerted him to Pujh's presence. Geriv raised his arms so the old slave could strap on his sword belt. Pujh gave the buckle a proprietary pat, then stepped back with an appraising frown.

Geriv endured a quick tug on the bottom of his tunic, a flick of the dexterous fingers to remove a speck of lint from his sleeve, but when Pujh licked his fingers and started smoothing the three eagle's feathers, Geriv seized his helmet and thrust it on his head. Pujh bowed and backed away, all the while grumbling about the importance of first impressions and the dignity of their house.

“Be quiet, old man. Or my first act after stepping ashore will be to have you beaten.”

“I
should
be beaten if I allow you to appear in public looking like you'd slept in your clothes.” Pujh's mouth pursed as he observed two slaves sliding poles into the brackets at the base of the pavilion. “No, no, no! The Vanel will walk.” As the slaves touched their foreheads to the deck, he muttered, “Fools. As if my Vanel would arrive at a post in a litter. Like some fat nobleman or rich widow.”

Geriv wearily lifted the patch over his left eye and rubbed the jagged, scarred socket. He abhorred the easy familiarity that sometimes arose between master and slave, but it was hard to be stern with the man who had guided your fingers as you struggled to drape your first khirta around your hips.

“Leave it,” he ordered as Pujh's fingers fluttered toward his cloak. Scowling, Pujh contented himself with inspecting Korim, patting, adjusting, and remonstrating until Geriv waved him away.

“You look very nice, Master Korim. Skalel do Khat, that is.”

Thankfully, his son did not return Pujh's wink. The honorary rank accorded the personal aide to the Vanel might impress a slave, but it would take more than that—or the new sword proudly slung on Korim's hip—to win the respect of the seasoned warriors lining the shore.

Geriv thrust the disloyal thought aside. Korim's gift for languages, his knowledge of the Tree People's legends and rituals . . . all had proved useful. He always fulfilled his duties eagerly, but despite the training Geriv had insisted upon, he was more comfortable with a fishing line in his hand than a sword, and preferred playing his flute to dicing.

Observing Korim's anxious expression, Geriv gave him an approving nod. “You'll do fine,” he said, as much to reassure himself as his son.

Frowning, he strode across the stern deck to the boarding plank.

 

 

 

After inspecting the troops, Geriv spent the afternoon tramping about the encampment with the acting commander. Despite his limp, the wiry little Komal had no trouble keeping pace with him. His responses were gruff and blunt, but he answered Geriv's questions readily enough. Even without the scars on his hands and the small campaign medallions clasped to his cloak, Geriv would have known him as a veteran, but unlike so many who had been sent north as a demotion, do Nizhi's manner suggested competence.

His inspection bore out that impression. Following the approved protocol for provincial camps, two deep ditches had been dug around the perimeter. A rectangular palisade of sharpened logs, twice a man's height, protected the huts. Earth from the ditch filled the space between the logs and was mounded high enough against the inside to create ramparts for archers.

Inside the walls, fifty huts lined the two stone paths that quartered the camp. Some were clearly the original dwelling places of the Tree People who had once inhabited the village. The newer ones were constructed of logs, each big enough to accommodate the ten men who made up a skalekh.

The officers' residence and headquarters were larger, but hardly luxurious. Workshops, storage huts, and an infirmary occupied one quarter of the grid, along with two small pens for the oxen and donkeys. As a result, the living quarters were packed closely together. Still, the huts were clean, pallets neatly arranged around the central fire pit. And unlike many camps where the men simply squatted over a ditch, night soil jars stood outside each doorway.

The afternoon was waning by the time he completed his inspection. After a brief soak in the bathhouse, he and his staff joined do Nizhi and his officers at headquarters for a plain if hearty meal of roast mutton, flatbread, dried fruit, and wine. The officers gradually relaxed as they responded to Korim's stream of questions. Geriv allowed his son's chatter. Korim's questions conveyed only eager curiosity; his might seem like an interrogation.

At an unseen signal from do Nizhi, the officers rose from their cushions and retired. Geriv nodded to the four members of his staff who followed them. Then he and do Nizhi stepped outside.

Woodsmoke and roasting meat scented the air. He heard laughter and curses from the nearby huts, along with the inevitable rattle of dice. The trill of a flute vied with the occasional bray of a donkey. Silhouetted against the sky, sentries stood watch at the corners of the ramparts and on either side of the wooden gate.

“Nights come on slow this far north,” do Nizhi said, eyeing the deep blue of the western sky. “At Midsummer, it's still light when you go to sleep and before you know it, the birds are singing.”

“How long have you been posted here?”

“Two and a half years now.”

“I take it the previous commander had good reason to place the camp here rather than fortify Eagles Mount.”

The Komal's mouth worked, but he refrained from spitting. “Too much work. The village was already here.” After a moment's hesitation, he added, “To be fair, we arrived in late autumn. We barely had time to throw up a palisade and build more huts before the snows came. After that, we had to spend all our time logging.”

Geriv noted the scorn in his voice, but merely asked, “When did the Remil die?”

“Early this spring. Natives call it the Freshening cough.”

Geriv nodded. The malady seemed especially virulent among new recruits unused to the bitter winters. What was odder was that the former Vanel had failed to send a replacement or promote do Nizhi. The acting commander still wore the black tunic of a komal rather than the green one of a regimental commander. When do Nizhi failed to elaborate, Geriv bluntly asked him about it.

“We sent word downriver. Never heard back.” This time, do Nizhi did spit. “Since I was the only komal who'd been here from the first, the officers voted me commander.” After a long, considering stare, he added, “When we heard the new Vanel was coming, there were some who thought there'd be . . . changes.”

“News travels fast,” Geriv replied noncommittally, wondering who had sent a bird upriver to alert do Nizhi.

“Well, you know soldiers. Gossipy as old women. Especially when there's no fighting to be done. Or logging,” he added as an afterthought.

“Is that why you sent two komakhs upriver after the ambush?”

“Which one?” do Nizhi asked gloomily.

“The first one,” Geriv snapped.

A gob of phlegm spattered on the stones. “They insist on sending the new recruits upriver. Begging your pardon, Vanel, but it's madness. Hard enough for veterans to stomach those forests, but the young lads . . . they panic at every shadow. I'll say this for my commander—he was after Headquarters for years to send our men inland and post the new recruits here. But nothing ever changed. And it's that kind of mistake that cost The Bluff dear.”

“The former Vanel can hardly be held responsible for a poor command decision in the field.”

“No. But look at the officer who made it. A nobleman's son with his first command. Thinking to cover himself with glory by chasing a few miserable rebels. Instead, he walks into an ambush and gets his men killed.” The Komal slapped his palm against a rough-hewn log. “It's the inland fortresses that need the men. That's where the fighting is. And the timber. But instead of sending troops out in strength—” With an effort, he choked back his next words.

“Go on.”

“Well, it's obvious, isn't it?” His voice grew impassioned again. “Little Falls is the only base of any size. At full strength, it has five hundred fighting men. Same as this one. But Deepford and The Bluff—they're small. Only two komakhs each. You can't log the forests and defend your camp with only two hundred men. The rebels pick 'em off like flies. So why keep so many men stationed here when they're needed upriver?”

“Why, indeed?”

“I'll tell you why,” do Nizhi retorted. “Because this was the Spirit-Hunter's village. And there's some think we need to maintain a presence here—a symbol of Zherosi authority. Well, symbols are all well and good, but . . .”

The rest of do Nizhi's fierce but muted tirade washed over him, unheard. It had to be the same man. Fourteen years since that day in the temple of the God with Two Faces and Geriv could still see him, standing head and shoulders above everyone else. Those strange eyes, pale as polished silver. And the voice—deep and soft and terrifying—accusing the Zheron of murdering the Pajhit and cursing him to an eternity in the Abyss.

He interrupted do Nizhi to demand, “Is he alive? The Spirit-Hunter?”

“You know the tale, then.”

“Is he alive?”

“Who's to say? He left here years ago. Him and his family. But there are rumors. Some say he's the leader of the rebellion. Some even claim he's responsible for the recent ambushes.” The Komal shrugged. “You can't believe every rumor you hear, Vanel. Especially when they come from the Tree People. Zhe's coils, they believe this Spirit-Hunter single-handedly brought an end to the Long Winter. As if he were a god, not a man.”

No, he was definitely a man. A man who had wept when he thought his son was dead. The same son who had cast out the spirit of the Zheron and stolen his body.

Could he ask about Kheridh without implicating Vazh? Or giving away his own involvement in the escape of the Spirit-Hunter and his son from Zheros? Even after so many years, the memory filled Geriv with shame.

“Why would they leave?” he finally asked. “The natives are as rooted in their villages as the trees they worship.”

“Banished from the tribe or some such tale. If you're that interested, you might ask old Mardon. He's chief of the village.”

Geriv nodded and shifted the conversation to a general discussion of the relations between the Tree People and the Zherosi. But while he nodded thoughtfully at do Nizhi's observations, he was still reeling from the knowledge that the Spirit-Hunter had lived here, had walked this ground, might have stood on this very spot, watching the stars come out.

He was alive. Whether or not he was leading the rebellion, he was a legendary figure among his people. More god than man to the Tree People, according to do Nizhi. How would the rebellion fare if their hero was captured—or killed?

He had advised his uncle to execute both father and son, but Vazh had chosen to honor a promise to a dead friend, leaving Geriv the bitter responsibility of guiding the Spirit-Hunter to freedom.

This time, he vowed, it would be different.

A
FTER LEAVING TEMET'S FORCE, Darak traveled for a half a moon with Sorig as his only companion. They never stayed more than one night in any village, never mentioned where they were heading next. They had to be cautious, Sorig explained. Spies might report their movements to the Zherosi.

The thought that their own people might betray them saddened Darak, but did not surprise him. Nor did his failure to win recruits. The tale of the massacre in Gath's village preceded them, and while they always received food and shelter, the chiefs of the neighboring villages bid them farewell the next morning with obvious relief.

Although he missed his family, the forest soothed him. Each time he'd ventured south to hunt, his joy was marred by the knowledge that he would soon return to the bleak, empty moors. To feel the soft mulch underfoot, to breathe in the musty fragrance of the earth, to fall asleep to the sigh of the breeze and wake to a chorus of birdsong . . . he felt almost guilty for enjoying it.

And the leaves. After years of seeing only alders and evergreens, his eyes were starved for the colors of a deciduous forest—the shimmering greens of young leaves, the soft pinks and golds and reds of the feathery tufts just beginning to unfurl.

He even enjoyed camping under the stars at night. If they were lucky with sling or snare or fishing line, they cooked their catch over a fire. If not, they subsisted on food provided by the last village or Griane's dwindling supply of suetcakes. Inevitably, they shared stories about themselves, which is how Darak learned that Sorig had been born into the Holly Tribe just across the lake from his old village.