Foxfire (75 page)

“Hold him!” he snapped at the guards who had restrained Othak. “And you,” he ordered two others, “restrain Skalel do Mekliv. Forgive me, Jonaq, but you're as hot-headed as Korim and I refuse to sacrifice either of you.”

“What has he ever done to deserve this?” Korim shouted, struggling uselessly.

“He held my brother hostage. He used him to try and capture my foster-father, who is dead because of him. He murdered every man in that hill fort.”

“That was . . . we are at war!”

“A moment ago, you accused your father of trickery. Now you defend him?”

“Against you, yes. How can you call yourself the Son of Zhe and kill my father who has spent his whole life defending Zheros?”

“Korim. Stop.” The Vanel sounded weary. “You won't change his mind. And you'll only bring his anger down on you.”

“I don't care!”

“But I do. Please. If you . . . if you honor me as your father, you will obey me.”

Tears welled up in the boy's eyes. He blinked furiously to keep them from spilling over.

“So.” The Vanel gazed back at him steadily. “You intend to cast my spirit into the Abyss as well?”

Rigat allowed the silence to stretch for a few moments, but there was no change in the Vanel's expression. A hard man. A warrior like his uncle. And like his uncle, he, too, had served the empire well. Even the plan to use Keirith as bait to capture Darak was a sound one.

“No,” he said at last. “I'll allow you to take your own life. That's more fitting for a warrior. Your uncle died well. I hope you will, too.”

The Vanel's eye closed briefly. Then he nodded. “My uncle was always a brave man. I look forward to meeting him in Paradise.”

“Please.” Korim's voice was softer now but just as emphatic, the brown eyes clear and hard. “We've all seen your power. We know how implacable you can be. Now show us you can also be merciful. That you recognize the value of a commander who has fought with bravery and honor all his life. That you can overlook your personal grudge because he targeted your family. I've met Kheridh. And Darak. Do you think they would demand my father's death?”

“No,” Rigat replied. “But they're better men than I am.”

“Do you want me to beg as the priest did?” He fell on his knees in the dirt. “Then I beg you. Please. Don't do this.”

For the first time since he had stopped Korim from attacking, the Vanel looked at his son. Rigat could find little resemblance between them, Korim's face so young, almost girlish, Geriv's hard and angular, lined by years of exposure to the elements and the burdens of command. The one, pleading yet defiant, and the other twisted with grief and regret and a longing so naked and hungry that Rigat caught his breath.

“I cannot give you the gift of your father's life. Instead, I give you the gift of his love.”

Confused, Korim glanced up at his father. Immediately, the mask fell back into place. But for just a moment, the boy glimpsed the truth—perhaps for the first time in his life—and the tears he had fought so hard to control poured unheeded down his beardless cheeks.

“Korim.” The Vanel cleared his throat. “Don't.”

Korim swallowed hard and swiped at his cheeks with his fists like a little child. The Vanel pulled his son to his feet. Then he freed his hand and stepped back, studying his son's face.

“I have not . . . we were . . . ill-suited, you and I. But that was my fault, not yours.”

Korim shook his head vehemently, drawing a weary smile from his father. The Vanel opened his mouth as if to speak again, and closed it. Awkwardly, he embraced his son, but when Korim continued to cling to him, he gently but firmly pulled away.

He removed his helmet and cloak and handed them to Jonaq. With steady fingers, he unbuckled the leather straps at his sides. Korim helped him pull the bronze armor over his head, then stood there, cradling it in his arms. Finally, he unsheathed his sword. Turning west, he raised it in salute. It took Rigat a moment to realize he was staring up at the Death Hut.

The Vanel faced him and bowed. “With your permission, I will address my troops.”

“Very well.”

Rigat smiled when he began reciting the prophecy. A noble gesture and a fitting tribute to the enemy who had defeated him. But as the Vanel continued speaking, his smile faded.

“He will kill without mercy. He will strike down all who offend him. No mortal woman shall call him beloved. No mortal man shall call him friend.”

It was in his power to silence the man, but to do so would seem petty and childish. Better to let him finish and have done with this.

The Vanel knelt in the dirt and grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands, carefully placing the tip beneath his breastbone. “Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Tremble before him and greet him with dread. For with him comes only death.”

With a muttered oath, Rigat stepped forward. The Vanel drove the sword home, his smile a rictus of agony. The weight of his body forced the blade so deep that the tip protruded through the back of his tunic. Without a sound, he slowly toppled to the ground.

Rigat quelled the desire to kick the supine body, to obliterate the grimace that still twisted the mouth. He stepped back, gauging the reactions of those around him. All the fight seemed to have left the boy, but the other one—Jonaq—was breathing hard. He could sense the wariness of the other officers, hear the faint growl that circulated from man to man as they gazed from their fallen commander to the one who had ordered his death.

A delicious shiver of fear rippled through him. Othak had used words to turn the tribe against him. The Vanel had attempted to do the same. But if they could use words as weapons, so could he. And with his power, he could ensure that every man—from those clustered around him to the warriors by the lakeshore to those still arrayed on the hillsides—could hear.

“Listen, my warriors, to the words of Rigat, Son of Zhe and King of Zheros. Geriv do Khat is dead. He was a brave man, but he challenged my authority. He paid for that mistake with his life. As will any man who defies me. But I honor this man's bravery and his lifetime of service to our empire, and command you to do the same. Hail, Geriv do Khat!”

A ragged cheer echoed his. He let his gaze drift across the ranks of men, bringing the force of his personality and the strength of his power to bear on all those assembled. The cheer grew louder. Sword hilts thumped against shields, spears pounded the ground, until the valley thundered with the ovation. Only Korim remained silent, staring at him with undisguised hatred.

Rigat held up his hands and waited for the cheering to die. “Let those who did the killing have first choice of the spoils. Salvage any foodstuffs. Slaughter the sheep and chop up the scaling ladders to build a fire. Tonight, we feast!”

This time, it was his name on the lips of the troops, his name that echoed through the valley. The officers clustered around the Vanel's body cheered the loudest, their white-rimmed eyes and stark faces belying their enthusiastic bellows. Full bellies and the promise of loot might win the support of the common warriors, but they had the added incentive of that glimpse into the horrors of the Abyss.

Was it really so easy to control men? The promise of rewards, the threat of punishment? He should have grasped it much sooner. After all, balance was the essence of the tribal religion.

As the officers dispersed to carry out his orders, Jonaq lingered. “My lord? If I may speak to you?”

Rigat waved his permission, inwardly smiling at the transition from the Vanel's ravening wolf to the Son of Zhe's eager and obedient hound.

“What of the others? From the village. Shall we pursue them as ordered?”

Rigat hesitated. His family wouldn't welcome him so soon after Darak's death. But if they were forced to flee from the Zherosi, they would have time to recognize their danger, to realize that he was the only person who could save them.

He couldn't take them to Zheros, but he could find some other place where they would be safe. Perhaps he would whisk all the survivors away. Perhaps—as the boy had said—it was time to show how merciful he could be, even to those who had hurled rocks at him.

A sennight or two. Perhaps a moon. By then, his family would realize just how much they needed him.

“Pursue them,” he instructed Jonaq. “But do not engage them. And under no circumstances allow any member of my family to be harmed.”

“Just . . . pursue them? But not capture them?”

Rigat nodded, enjoying Jonaq's confusion. He had no intention of taking the man into his confidence. The incomprehensible orders would add to the Son of Zhe's mystery and provide a good test of Jonaq's loyalty. If the man balked, he would find another to command.

“And if they attack us, my lord?”

“A band of women, children, and old folk? Not very likely. But if they do, you may defend yourselves. So long as none of my family is harmed. I want that clearly understood.”

Jonaq's mouth worked. He glanced skyward as if seeking inspiration—or courage—then thumped his chest with his fist. “Yes, my lord.”

Suppressing a smile, Rigat flung a companionable arm around Jonaq's shoulders and felt him flinch. “I'll make it easy for you.”

Gently, he entered Jonaq's spirit. His arm tightened around his shoulder, holding him immobile while he silently calmed the instinctive rush of terror. Then he pictured each member of his family in turn. As an afterthought, he added Lisula and Ennit and Ela. He could hardly allow his mother's best friends and his brother's intended to be killed by accident. Nedia would have to take care of herself; she should have welcomed his advances and spurned Seg's.

He withdrew from Jonaq's spirit, pleased at his fearful expression. “Get one of the mapmakers to make sketches so all your men will be able to recognize them.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jonaq hesitated, then added, “Forgive me, my lord. I still don't understand why—”

“You don't have to understand. You merely have to obey.”

F
ROM HER VANTAGE POINT atop the hill, Faelia watched the Zherosi army breaking camp.

For a day and a night, she and Holtik had hidden here. They were too far away to see much, but when the parley began, she had recognized the Vanel's scarlet cloak and Othak's robe. The third man had to be Trath and the other looked to be one of the Vanel's junior officers.

She had held her breath as the four men walked to the Death Hut. When they returned without apparent incident, she began to hope. She even exchanged a brief smile with Holtik. It vanished when the small party of Zherosi followed Trath into the hill fort. Dear gods, what was the old man thinking—letting them inside their defenses? Her fears were confirmed when the horn blared and the rest of the Vanel's warriors charged up the slope.

After a long while, she became aware of the dull pain radiating through her fingers and discovered that she had gouged ten deep furrows in the earth. She was still staring at them when she realized that an odd silence had fallen over the valley.

A figure moved away from the cluster of Zherosi officers. She caught her breath when she spied the red hair. Rigat might have arrived too late to save those in the hill fort, but he could still avenge their deaths.

Impossible that a boy's voice could carry so far. But of course, he wasn't just a boy; he was the Trickster's son.

When she heard him claim responsibility for the Vanel's death, she smiled, wishing she had witnessed it. When the troops looted the village and slaughtered the remainder of the flock, she told herself that Rigat was simply assuaging their blood lust. When she watched the battering rams destroy the walls, and flames engulf the fields of barley, and black smoke stain the sky above the village in which she had spent half her life, she convinced herself that only such drastic measures would keep the Zherosi from falling upon those who had fled.

She had clung to that belief throughout the night. But now, as she watched one komakh break away from the main body of the army and turn east, hope died.

A stonechat called from a nearby clump of gorse, its sharp clack eerily reminiscent of the pebbles that had clattered down the hills during the rockslide. Rigat had defended his people that day; now he encouraged the Zherosi to annihilate them.

Holtik tugged on her arm. “Faelia, we have to go. We have to warn the others.”

Fa had almost persuaded her to trust Rigat. She should have known better. He could never be trusted. He was the Trickster's son.

 

 

 

It was midmorning before they reached the encampment. The cold fury at Rigat's betrayal leached all emotion from her voice as she told them about the massacre. Shame as well as caution kept her from revealing Rigat's presence at the hill fort. She would have to tell her family, but they had already been tainted by his actions and she had to protect them from the tribe's enmity.