Foxfire (83 page)

Just a little longer. Just a little farther. Look, you can see the bald spot through the break in the trees. By sunset, we'll be there. By sunset, we'll be safe. Then he recalled Temet's assurances before the ambush, and fear strained his smile.

They followed the stream southeast, marching single file along the narrow bank. Keirith eyed the thickening clouds and prayed for rain to hide their tracks. The brief downpour only soaked their clothes and left them more miserable.

Each time the tribe paused to rest, he and Callie trudged up a hill with Holtik. From the notch, the bald spot had been little more than a pale blob amid the dark greens of the pines. As they grew nearer, they could make out more details.

“It looks like a head,” Callie said. “See? The trees on the summit are hair, standing on end. Those two dark spots are eyes. And that part in the middle that juts out? That's the nose.”

“You'll have to tell the children,” Holtik said. “It'll make for a good tale.”

Keirith forced a smile, staring at the lower half of the face where the jaw had melted away. A shattered face, too reminiscent of Temet's, crushed by a Zherosi club.

His unease grew as they neared the base of the hill. To the east, it plunged straight down to the stream. But it was the rockslide on the north face that brought him up short. Uprooted pines littered the slope, but it was the same boulder-strewn desolation he had seen in his vision.

He choked back the bile that filled his mouth, fighting the overwhelming urge to flee. Leaving Holtik to lead the main body west around the rockslide, he and Callie trotted ahead.

The site was virtually impregnable. The stream curved around the hill, guarding its eastern and southern flanks. Although the boulders and fallen trees on the north face provided shelter for attackers, the loose scree of pebbles made the footing treacherous. The only place to mount an assault was the western slope.

Together, they scrambled up it. Hard enough for two grown men to claw their way over the rocks near the summit; they would have to rope the younger children together. The scrub pines atop the hill offered little protection from the wind, but after the exertion of the climb, they welcomed the gusts of cool air.

The tribe was easy to spot, moving slowly around the base of the hill, but if the Zherosi were nearby, they were well hidden in the forest. Keirith paused long enough to wave to Holtik before following Callie through the tumble of boulders near the summit.

The dark spots that had looked like eyes were really two small grottos, carved out by the rockslide. Under the “nose,” they found the shadowy entrance of a cave.

Keirith checked so violently that Callie had to grab his outflung arm to steady him. He closed his eyes, but still he saw the image of his parents from the vision.

“What is it?” Callie asked.

“Just dizzy. I'm fine now.”

But he let his brother go inside the cave first.

They had to duck to keep from scraping their heads against the low ceiling. The overhanging jut of the nose blocked most of the wind, but the interior was so gloomy, Keirith had to explore it with fingertips skimming the rock. Although fairly shallow, the cave was wide; it might be large enough to shelter the tribe, but they would be crammed shoulder to shoulder.

At first, he thought the dark shapes were a trick of the uncertain light or the uneven surface of the rock. But closer to the entrance, he was able to make out images: the triangular shape of tall pines with drooping boughs; small stick figures bearing bows; antlered stags; and a massive humanlike shape that might be a bear standing erect.

“There are some on this wall, too.” Callie's voice echoed eerily. “The legends say The People paddled up the river. But I suppose others could have fled overland.” He leaned close, peering at a group of stick figures. “I wish we had a torch.”

They left off their explorations and stood under the shelf of rock, staring north.

“We might have lost them,” Callie said. “The rain might have washed away our tracks.”

“Aye. Maybe.”

“Even if they pass this place, they might never discover we're here.”

“But if they do, we're trapped.”

With adequate food and water, they could hold off the Zherosi indefinitely. But their food supplies were limited. And the only source of water was the stream far below. The Zherosi wouldn't risk an assault. Not when they could wait and starve them out.

Callie rubbed his eyes. “It seemed like a good site from a distance. But if you think we should move on . . .”

In a halting voice, Keirith described his visions: their parents lying asleep in a cave; the battle between the eagle chicks; the line of people disappearing over the edge of the cliff.

“You're sure it was Mam and Fa?”

“I'm pretty sure it was Mam. But I couldn't see his face. He looked . . . old. And fragile. I thought . . . maybe . . . it was Fa's spirit, comforting her.”

“And the other woman? The one who was pregnant?”

“She had a mantle over her head, so I couldn't see her, either. But she was near her time—her belly was huge. And none of the women are that close to birthing. So either that part of the vision happens much later or it's a symbol. That life will go on.”

“Aye.” Callie cleared his throat. “The thing is . . . Ela's with child.”

For a moment, Keirith could only gape at him. Then he pulled Callie into his arms and hugged him hard. He wasn't sure whether to offer congratulations or sympathy. To be carrying a new life at such a time. What a joy and a burden for them both.

His happiness faded when Callie asked, “The eagle chicks? You and Rigat?”

“It has to be.”

Callie sighed. “I'm not a shaman. But it seems you were meant to come here.”

“Or I'm being warned to stay away.”

“If this is the place where you're supposed to confront Rigat . . .” Callie shook his head in frustration. “Gods, Keirith, I don't know. If he's the one controlling the Zherosi, then the only way we'll escape them is to convince Rigat to change his mind. Or . . . or kill him.”

A faint shout spared Keirith from answering. Hurrying out of the cave, they found Holtik scrambling across the rocks. One look at his face told Keirith the news was bad.

“It's Owan,” Holtik said.

He gave them the gist of Owan's information as they made their way down the hill. The crowd parted as they approached. Although the women's faces were strained, everyone was calm. Even the children waited in hushed silence.

Mam and Hircha were bandaging Owan's wounded arm. His tunic and breeches were torn, his hair matted with dirt and leaves, but his listless expression worried Keirith more; it reminded him too vividly of Eilin's after his first battle.

He crouched beside the boy and rested his hand on the bony shoulder.

Owan took a trembling breath. “Selima . . . she said she'll delay them. If she can. But there's only the three of them left. Selima, Cradaig, and Rendaron.”

His face crumpled, and Keirith tightened his grip.

“They know,” Owan finally managed. “That we planned to meet here. They captured Lendon. We heard him. Screaming.”

Lendon. The small lad who had found a bear for his vision mate. Because his spirit was fierce.

Keirith had no words of comfort to offer, no assurances that the boys' sacrifice had been worthwhile. He could only rest his forehead against Owan's matted hair and share his grief.

But only for a moment. There was no time to mourn these dead boys, no time to use his power to ease Owan's pain. They had to prepare. And although his stomach churned at the implications, he knew he had to lead his people onto that barren hilltop to make their final stand against the Zherosi—and Rigat.

 

 

 

From his vantage point atop a plateau in western Carilia, Rigat surveyed the battlefield far below. The warriors dispatching the wounded and looting the dead looked more like ants than men. Industrious little ants swarming through the grass.

The late afternoon sun painted the grasslands gold. Bronze helmets winked at the sun. A shallow red stream meandered across the plain; at dawn, it had been brown.

“A great victory, Promised One.” The Batal's voice oozed satisfaction. “The Carilians have no choice but to sue for peace. And with the terms we'll offer, it'll be ten generations before they recover.”

Hundreds of little ants swarming through the grass. Hundreds of others lying in the grass. Some ants would feast. Some would be a feast for the crows and ravens circling patiently overhead. The aftermath of battle was always the same, whether it involved warriors on a wind-swept plain or a brother and sister in a sun-dappled glade of foxtails.

“My officers and I would be honored if you'd join us tonight to celebrate.”

“Nothing like the food you'd get in Pilozhat, of course.”

“But victory lends flavor to the humblest fare.”

He staggered toward the tent they had erected for him and found Nekif waiting outside. He was glad that Jholianna had insisted he take the old slave with him this time. Nekif would know what to do.

The heat inside the tent was stifling, but he made no move to stop Nekif from lowering the flap. Better to sweat than allow the Batal to see him sprawled on the red and gold cushions, shaking like a frightened child.

Why had he thought coming to Carilia would distract him? He should have known that witnessing today's slaughter could only conjure memories of her.

He flexed his arm. The wound still throbbed. Jholianna's physician had removed the arrowhead, but he couldn't allow the man to stitch him up as if he were an ordinary mortal. He'd healed the wound himself, eliciting gasps of wonder. Within days, it began leaking blood. Now, he began every morning by resealing the gash.

Nekif crouched beside him, a goblet in one hand and a tiny packet in the other. At Rigat's nod, the old slave laid the goblet carefully on the rug and unwrapped the flaxcloth. The powder looked like green dust; only the scent—faint and bitter—proved that it had once been a living plant. Just as the dead ants on the battlefield had once been men.

She had meant to kill him. He had only defended himself. It was her fault, not his, that it had ended this way.

Nekif stirred the mixture and held out the goblet. Rigat took it with both hands, but Nekif still had to wrap his fingers around the goblet to steady it. The honey failed to disguise the bitter taste of the herbs. That was probably a good thing. If oblivion were too sweet, no one would want to return.

As he lay back, he heard Nekif slip outside; he would prevent anyone from entering until the effects of the drug wore off. He was drifting into the welcoming darkness when hands gripped his shoulders. Rigat frowned, wondering that Nekif had the temerity to shake him. And to call him by his name instead of his title.

He opened his eyes and stared blearily up at the slave. Strange that Nekif should be wearing a moth-eaten pelt around his shoulders. And that his eyes kept changing color—from their usual soft brown to gold. As gold as the honey in the brew. He was speaking in an urgent whisper. Something about going back. But there was no going back. Not anymore.

Rigat closed his eyes. When he woke, he would have to punish Nekif. A pity. But disobedience always had to be punished and obedience rewarded. Only then could balance be maintained.

S
QUINTING INTO THE GLARE of the rising sun, Keirith watched the Zherosi filling their waterskins at the stream. Now and then, one would glance up at the hilltop, but they seemed blithely confident that no arrows could reach them.

With a whisper of rustling grass, Holtik slid to the ground beside him. He observed the scene in silence, then noted, “They're within bowshot.”

“Not until we've heard their terms.”

“Terms?”

“There may be room to negotiate.”

“With what? Your life?”

“Let's just hear what they have to say.”

“Don't make the same mistake Trath did. He was foolish enough to trust them and every man in the hill fort paid for it.”

“You think I've forgotten?”

Holtik blew out his breath. “Nay. Sorry. I'm grumpy this morning. Killing a few Zherosi would have brightened my spirits.” He rolled onto his elbow and scratched his crotch. “Might as well light a fire. Braden snared three rabbits this morning. That's half a mouthful apiece.”