Foxfire (48 page)

“Why not suggest that he visit the estates of the slave owners? To speed the census along and talk to the slaves himself.”

“It would be too easy for him to open a portal to the Spirit-Hunter. We need to keep him close.”

The Khonsel frowned thoughtfully. “I'll come up with something, Earth's Beloved. But we should not discuss this again.”

She nodded; it had been a risk to reveal as much as he had. But there were always risks in ruling an empire—especially in the shadow of the Son of Zhe.

As the Khonsel rose, she voiced the fear that was always with her these days. “If Rigat discovers the truth . . .”

“He won't.”

“If he touches your spirit again . . .”

He won't.” The Khonsel smiled grimly and patted the sheath of his dagger. “I'm a warrior, Earth's Beloved. So is my nephew. If it comes to that, we both know how to die well.”

GERIV WIPED THE SWEAT from his eyes and examined the site again. By now, Jonaq would have returned to Little Falls—with or without the Spirit-Hunter. Hoping for a message, Geriv had waited as long as he dared, but he couldn't jeopardize the second part of his plan by waiting to learn the outcome of the first.

Jonaq had argued against a two-pronged attack. Argued even more passionately against leaving only a token force at Little Falls. But he didn't understand that securing the Spirit-Hunter—one way or another—warranted any risk.

Geriv had taken the precautions he could. Three days ago, he had marched his troops out of the fortress at dawn and sailed ten miles downriver before beaching the ships. Following the crude map drawn by the spy, they had marched south. Geriv had led the scouting party himself, discarding one site after another until reaching this one.

He had archers in the woods to pick off any rebel scouts. More on the rise on which he stood. And the rest of his men arrayed around the site, ready to close in once the rebels reached the stream. More than two hundred men against a band less than half its size.

If the spy's information was correct. If he was wrong, if he had deliberately misled them . . .

“You can't trust him,” Jonaq had insisted.

“I don't.”

“At least let the Remil lead the troops. Don't risk yourself.”

“Only if I lead the attack do I demonstrate its importance to the men.”

“Then let me stay with you.”

“I need you to lead the attack on the Spirit-Hunter's band.”

He had kept his voice patient, preferring to reward Jonaq's loyalty rather than reprimand him for his doubts. He always encouraged his aides to offer their opinions, but on this matter, his mind was made up.

He had been equally adamant in his refusal to allow Korim to accompany him. The boy had pleaded and wheedled until Geriv finally lost his temper.

“If you're so eager to be blooded, practice your sword work. And if you want to be treated like a real officer, learn to obey orders.”

Korim's head had snapped back as if he had struck him. Then he had thumped his chest with his fist and stalked out of the room.

They had ruined him, his grandmother and mother. Stuffed him full of poetry and music and all the gentle graces. Even after a year, the boy still had no conception of the dangers in this land. Of the hard life a warrior led. Or the hard choices a commander had to make.

A shiver racked his body, and he scowled. The one thing he hadn't anticipated was this damnable fever. It had begun two days ago and worsened on the march south. At first, he had stoically endured the pervasive aches and the alternating bouts of chills and sweats. But this morning, he had barely managed to keep down his breakfast.

He turned to study the two skalekhs lined up to receive their final orders. He had insisted on seasoned warriors who could be counted on to keep their heads during the heat of battle. The Remil had selected the men himself, and they seemed to warrant do Fadiq's confidence. Their faces held the barely-suppressed excitement every warrior felt before a battle, but there was none of the greasy sweat or nervous shifting of eyes and feet that betrayed fear or doubt.

Conscious of their gazes, he straightened his aching shoulders.

“You all have descriptions of the targets. They are your only objective. It's possible that one—or both—may have gone ahead to scout the site for this Gathering. We won't know that until the rebels arrive. If you don't see your target, you may draw your swords and engage the enemy at will. Otherwise, you are to use your clubs. I want them alive. Is that understood?”

He waited for every head to nod before turning to the officer who had been given the most important responsibility. He was older than the others, his lean face pocked with plague scars.

“The man possesses the power to attack another's spirit. He must be secured quickly and rendered unconscious.”

The Skalel thumped his chest with his fist. “I understand, Vanel. I will not fail you.”

Geriv dismissed them and studied the site a final time. Then he crouched behind a tree to wait.

 

 

 

Keirith trotted beside Pedar, trying in vain to shake off his gloomy thoughts.

He had dutifully told Temet about the truce he had “Seen,” and was relieved that Temet had seemed as skeptical as he was. He feared the Zherosi were only using Rigat, but his brother had returned three days later to assure him that the queen had ordered a cessation of hostilities until the next full moon.

Keirith's relief was fleeting; yesterday, he'd had a true vision that seemed to contradict Rigat's promise of peace.

It began with a chaotic battle, somewhere in a forest. He was in the center of the fighting, yet neither his friends nor his enemies seemed to notice him. It was as if an invisible shield surrounded him. As he cried out to his comrades, his gaze was drawn to a rocky slope. Two boulders stared down at him. The ledge beneath cracked open in a crooked grin, and Xevhan's laughter roared out.

He had shared the vision with Temet, dismayed that he could recall so few details of the terrain. At the outset of today's journey, every boulder made his heart thud, but as the afternoon wore on, weariness took the edge off his anxiety.

Despite the coolness of the forest, sweat soaked the band of flaxcloth inside his leather helmet. Under the padded leather armor, taken off a dead Zheroso, his tunic clung to his body. He let out a sigh of relief as the pace slowed, then started when he heard a yelp from Pedar.

“If it's not the midges, it's the deerflies.” Pedar rubbed his neck and scrutinized him sourly. “They don't seem to find you very appetizing.”

“I guess they don't like the taste of Zherosi.”

“Well, that's hardly fair,” Pedar replied. “If the bastards are going to steal our land, at least they should be plagued by our bugs.” His scowl turned to a smile when he saw Selima approaching. “Why are we stopping?”

“There's a stream up ahead. Temet's letting us rest and refill our waterskins.” She grinned as Pedar warded off another deerfly. “Getting eaten, are you?”

“Devoured.”

“Poor babe.”

She nipped the swelling lump on his neck, and Pedar gave an exaggerated shiver of delight. “It's much nicer when you do it.”

“I should hope so.”

Keirith cleared his throat. “All right, all right,” he said, doing his best to imitate Temet's most fatherly tone. “There'll be plenty of time for that later.”

Selima laughed and punched his arm, easily dodging his return blow. “Cocky, but slow. I like that in a man.” With a grin for both of them, she strode off.

“Keep your hands off my woman,” Pedar cautioned.

“As if I could catch her.”

Pedar laughed, then spun around with a curse, waving madly at the persistent deerfly.

Temet walked over, a rare grin lightening his features. “Since you're feeling so frisky, Pedar, why don't you pass the word to those in the rear that we'll rest here?”

Pedar's head drooped, then jerked up. Howling, he slapped at his neck, but the deerfly was already buzzing away in triumph. “That one was your fault,” he said, glaring at Temet. Muttering dire threats, he stomped off, head darting from side to side in search of other attackers.

“When will we reach the Gathering?” Keirith asked.

“Sunset.”

When he failed to suppress a groan, Temet slapped his back. “You'll feel better after you've had some water.” As they walked toward the stream, he added, “I just wish we had time to bathe. I stink.”

“We all stink.”

“Aye. But I'd hate to see Faelia wrinkle her nose when she gets a whiff of me.”

“You could smell like a stoat and it wouldn't put Faelia off.”

Temet's expression softened as he contemplated their reunion. Then he noticed Keirith's amused look and frowned. “Well. She's an affectionate woman.”

Laughing at that understatement, Keirith knelt beside the stream. He drank deeply and refilled his waterskin, then pulled off his helmet and plunged his head into the water.

Gods, it was good. It was all he could do to keep from ripping off his clothes and jumping in. He sat back on his haunches and shook his wet hair off his face, savoring the cool trickles running down his neck. Minnows darted through the shallows, flashing silver in the shafts of sunlight. He watched them, smiling, until Temet's fingers dug into his arm. Caught by his frozen expression, Keirith followed the direction of his gaze.

Two boulders, halfway up the slope. Beneath them, a slanting ledge of rock bisected by a long, uneven fissure.

His eyes met Temet's. For a moment, they both crouched there, bound together in shared recognition and horror. Then Temet leaped up and shouted, “Ambush!”

Like a flock of deadly birds, arrows flew between the trees, cleaving flesh and saplings alike. He heard Temet shouting, but his voice was soon lost amid the screams. Then Keirith spotted him, fair hair streaming behind him as he ran. Too late, he remembered he had left his helmet and shield beside the stream and spun back, only to retreat as dozens of Zherosi poured down the slope.

He stumbled past one body, leaped over another. Glimpsed Pedar and Selima rallying a group to them. As he veered toward them, a spear thudded into a sapling. He shied away and collided with Temet.

“Get behind me!” Temet yelled, flinging up his shield.

Four Zherosi darted toward them from the right. Three more moved in from the left. Back to back, he and Temet met the charge.

He slashed at an unprotected throat, then spun and hacked at a club-wielding arm. Both men danced out of range.

Wet hair slapped his cheek, blinding him. He flung it back, then quickly ducked under the sweep of a club. Still in a crouch, he thrust up with his sword to rip open the man's leg.

A scream of pain. The sweet smell of blood. A surge of triumph as his enemy staggered away. A wave of despair as another stepped forward to fill the gap.

Slash and pivot. Duck and thrust. Just as Temet had taught him. Just as he had practiced dozens, hundreds of times.

He was no longer a warrior, hardly even a man, just a cornered animal, fighting for its life. Around him, dozens of others must be doing the same. He could hear the shrieks of pain, the clang of swords, but they seemed far away. Only these enemies, these weapons were real.

Hacking at the sword thrusting toward Temet's throat. Beating aside the club arcing toward Temet's head. Desperately bracing for an attack, only to watch his enemies backing away.

He heard the crack of shattered wood. Temet's savage howl. Another crack. Then Temet slammed into him.

Something slimy and warm spattered against the back of his neck, but he was fighting for balance on the blood-slick grass and could only pray Temet wasn't badly wounded. He regained his footing before the Zherosi could press their advantage. They shifted their feet, clubs at the ready, watching him, waiting for his next move. Did they know about his part in the ambushes? Is that why they wanted him alive?

He took a step back and stumbled over something soft. A hoarse cry escaped him when he glanced down.

Shards of bone protruded from the bloody pulp of Temet's jaw. Shattered teeth filled the gaping hole of his mouth. Above the smear of flesh that had once been his nose, the blue eyes stared up at him, glazed and unseeing.