Foxfire (73 page)

S
TANDING AT THE FOOT OF THE HILL, carefully out of range of the defenders' arrows, Geriv surveyed the earthwork fortress. Thin curls of smoke rose from the unseen huts. Here and there, he glimpsed heads peering over the walls. A well-trodden path led to an entrance so narrow it would admit only one man at a time; the defenders had blocked it with a breast-high heap of rubble.

A waste of labor. The spy had sworn the village had no spring inside the walls and fewer than fifty men and boys of fighting age. They were ill-equipped to withstand either an assault or a siege.

Geriv was prepared for both. His men had rations for another half-moon, easily supplemented by fish from the lake and the sheep grazing on the hillsides. The bullocks he had requisitioned had proved invaluable in dragging the pine spars across the moors. But before he wasted time with a siege or men in an assault, he would try another tactic.

“Tell them we wish to parley.”

“Yes, Vanel,” Korim replied.

Those two words had comprised the bulk of his son's conversation since the prisoner exchange. He seemed neither resentful nor sullen, just strangely withdrawn. Geriv had included him in his meetings with the other officers, attempted to address the problems that lay between them—done everything but plead with his son to talk with him—before abandoning the effort.

Still, he found himself admiring Korim's stiff back and firm stride as he marched halfway up the path to the hill fort. Disdaining a shield, he stood slender and erect—easy prey to an overeager archer—and relayed the request.

After a brief delay, two men clambered over the rocks and started down the hill. Waving Jonaq back, Geriv walked forward to take his place at Korim's side.

The robed man was obviously the head priest and, judging by the scars around his left eye, recently elevated to the position. Geriv's stomach lurched when he saw the three eagle feathers tied to the older man's braid. He reminded himself that this might only be the acting chief, appointed while the Spirit-Hunter recovered, but his gaze drifted to the Death Hut atop the western hill.

He waited impatiently for the ritual introductions to conclude. Even with an army of three hundred men surrounding his village, the chief insisted on reciting the interminable list of his ancestors, as if this were a social call. At least he was a better actor than the priest whose shaking voice and sweat-sheened forehead betrayed his fear.

As soon as the preliminaries were concluded, he asked the question that had been burning in his mind for the last eight days. “Where is the Spirit-Hunter?”

The chief jerked his head toward the Death Hut.

Disappointment rose like bile in Geriv's throat. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

If not for the bullocks slowing his progress and the morning spent felling trees for battering rams and scaling ladders, he might have been in time.

“And Kheridh?”

After he gleaned that the Spirit-Hunter's son had fled with his family, he lost interest in the long reply and concentrated on controlling his face and his breathing.

“They've sent all the women and children away,” Korim said. “The chief hopes your army will retire and leave his people in peace. He says there are no rebels in the village. And claims that—with the exception of the Spirit-Hunter and his son and daughter—no member of his tribe has ever fought with the rebels and only once—when their village was attacked—have they taken up arms against us.”

Of course he would say that. Perhaps it was even true. But according to the spy, the village had provided a safe haven for the rebels.

“I wish to see the Spirit-Hunter's body. You will accompany me.”

Without waiting for Korim's translation, he retraced his steps, squinting against the glare of the westering sun. In silence, they marched up the hill to the Death Hut.

Sweat poured off him as he climbed. He wanted to believe it was merely exertion, but he knew better.

“There is a danger of relapse,” the physician had warned him before he left Little Falls. “And a forced march will only increase that danger. Please, Vanel. Be reasonable. Your health is more important than chasing after a few miserable rebels.”

He had ignored that advice, enduring long marches when his body screamed for rest, and the fever and chills that denied him the healing respite of sleep. And all for nothing. He had lost the chance to face his enemy one more time, to look into those gray eyes and find an acknowledgment of defeat.

Crows rose up with a loud flapping of wings. As they neared the low-walled structure, Korim checked suddenly. Geriv just studied the body laid out on the shelf of stones.

The gray eyes were gone, of course—the first prize sought by the birds. Strips of ragged flesh hung from the exposed cheekbones. Yet the maimed hands, folded atop that broad chest, retained an echo of strength, and the three eagle feathers, now hanging askew, held a certain sad dignity.

If such a man had died in Zheros, his body would have been anointed with sweet oils and dressed in a khirta of softest lilmia. His arms would have been banded in gold, his feet shod in sandals studded with precious gems. The greatest poets in the empire would recite the tales of his achievements. The greatest architect would construct his tomb. All commerce would cease during the three days of mourning. Women would tear their garments, men would rub ashes onto their faces. Warriors would carry his body through the streets. Thousands of mourners would follow them to the tomb, where murals depicted his great deeds and the smoky scent of incense sweetened the air. And after his spirit flew through the tiny roof hole to the green shores of Paradise, his body would rest forever in the cool darkness.

Instead, Darak Spirit-Hunter—the greatest man of his people—was left to the scavengers.

At best, he would become a martyred hero. At worst, an avenging spirit. Every spear hurtling out of the shadows would be flung by the Spirit-Hunter's unseen hand. Every accident that befell a logging party, every unexplained blight on Zherosi livestock, every ship that foundered at sea and every warrior who sickened with the Freshening cough would be proof of his enduring power. The cynics would use him for their own purposes and the superstitious would whisper his name with awe.

He could march every member of the Spirit-Hunter's tribe through every village in the north. Have them proclaim that they had carried his body to the Death Hut. Have them point to the head impaled on a spear and shout, “This is all that remains of Darak Spirit-Hunter.” And those who did not claim it was a lie would raise their voices in horror at the desecration. As if leaving it for the birds and animals to devour wasn't desecration enough.

Barbarous people. He would never understand them.

He turned abruptly and found the chief's gaze fixed on Korim. His son's head was bowed, his hands gripped tightly together. Then his head came up. His lips moved, whispering words too soft to hear. But there was no mistaking the spiral he sketched in the air—the symbol of the coiled adder and the traditional Zherosi blessing.

“Korim,” he grated.

Ignoring him, Korim turned and bowed to the chief. “He was a great man.” He spoke slowly so Geriv had no difficulty following the words. “I am sorry that he is dead.”

The priest stiffened, but the chief returned the bow, his expression thoughtful. With a supreme effort of will, Geriv bit back a curse and stalked down the hill.

The words thudded into his brain with every footstep. When he reached the end of his days, would his son tell strangers what a great man he had been? Would he stand beside his bier with bowed head and stricken expression? Geriv doubted he would feel anything except—perhaps—relief.

The fact that he bore part of the blame for their disastrous relationship only fueled his fury. But what should he have done? Given up his career? Chosen to forgo the rank and privileges he had fought for his entire life? He had a province to subdue. Thousands of men who depended upon him. Korim should have understood that. He should have tried harder to bridge the gap between them, instead of misinterpreting every gesture, disdaining every overture.

“I have no time for this!”

Only when he heard Korim's polite “Vanel?” did he realize he had spoken aloud.

Jonaq hurried toward him. “What are your orders, Vanel?”

He could see the eagerness in Jonaq's eyes, in the eyes of all his officers, and knew every man arrayed around the hill fort shared it. For days, they had dreamed of avenging the defeats they had suffered at the hands of these barbarians, of abandoning the monotony of drilling for the exhilaration of battle. Like him, they yearned for it the way some men lusted for women, every sense heightened, every nerve thrilling to the jarring impact of sword cleaving flesh, the hoarse scream of a wounded foe, the salty spray of blood anointing their lips.

Saliva filled his mouth and he swallowed it down, but the blood lust still churned in his belly, and the palm resting on the hilt of his sword was damp with sweat. He resisted the urge to wipe it on his khirta as he turned to the chief.

“You claim Kheridh and his family have fled. You will have no objection if my men search the village to confirm that.”

After Korim translated, the chief hesitated, narrowed eyes searching his face. But all he would find there was the ill-concealed impatience of a commander who wished to complete this thankless mission and return to the comfort of his headquarters.

“Search if you like,” the chief said. “You won't find them. But afterward, your army will leave?”

“You have my oath. How large is the village?”

“We have twenty-six huts.” Cannily, he avoided giving away the number of defenders.

Geriv shrugged. “Then fifty men should suffice.”

“I'd think twenty-six should suffice.”

Geriv kept his smile gentle and his voice condescending. “Let us compromise on forty. You must have double that number of defenders. My men are the ones at risk.”

“With an army at their backs?”

“That's my offer. Either accept it or prepare for our attack.”

The chief's gaze lingered on the battering rams and scaling ladders lying at the base of the slope, then drifted across the formations of warriors that surrounded the hill fort—as if a forest had sprung out of the barren ground. He spat, then gave a grudging nod.

Eyeing the gob of phlegm a finger's breadth from his sandaled foot, Geriv said, “The priest will stay. A token of your goodwill.”

A nice touch, he thought. Besides, it couldn't hurt to leave one man alive to attest to the Spirit-Hunter's death and the terrible cost of incurring the enmity of their conquerors.

 

 

 

Invisible behind his mist-shield, Rigat listened and watched. He had rushed to the prisoner exchange to save Darak and Keirith, only to have his brother accuse him of ruining everything. This time, he would study the situation before deciding what to do.

His gaze lingered on Othak. Hard to believe that shrinking figure could have incited the whole village to turn on him. Harder still to believe that the gods could be so kind as to deliver two prizes into his hands.

As Trath started up the hill, the Vanel motioned a hawk-faced young man aside; even Rigat had to strain to catch the words.

“. . . but wait until all your men are inside. Deploy them so the huts shield them from the archers. You'll be outnumbered, Jonaq. But you have surprise in your favor and far better training than that rabble. As soon as you give the signal, we'll storm the fortress.”

Rigat studied the Vanel with renewed interest. He knew Geriv was proud; he had discovered that when he'd touched the man's spirit during the prisoner exchange. But he was clever, too. He had not broken his oath, merely sworn to take his army away after searching the village. Trath had simply assumed that he meant to leave them alive.

Rigat already knew his family was not inside the hill fort. As soon as he'd opened the portal, he had used his power to search for them. Now, he confirmed that Ennit and Lisula were absent as well. Likely, Trath had sent all the old folk away, along with the women and children.

Only a few moons ago, he had played When I Become Chief. Now it was no longer a game. If he wished, he could stop the slaughter. Just step through the portal and give the order. Would the defenders fall on their knees in gratitude? Offer him—finally—the respect he was due? More likely, they would believe the Vanel had kept his word and left them in peace. They would never know—or believe—that they owed their salvation to him.

Although sunlight still flooded the valley, a wave of cold engulfed him. His reluctant gaze drifted to the Death Hut. He knew what Darak would do. Knew, too, that the rest of his family would expect him to save his people. But none of the men inside had raised their voices to protest Othak's accusations. If they hadn't hurled stones, they had allowed others to do so. Why should he protect them now?