Foxfire (43 page)

D
ARAK SCRAMBLED UP the hill after the excited young scout. As he swerved to avoid a blackthorn, he spotted the other man through the screen of trees. He didn't know their names; in his effort to remain aloof, he'd steadfastly refused to learn the names of all the recruits. For his purposes, these two were the Chatterer and Cleft Chin.

“Almost there,” the Chatterer said. “You'll see it. Plain as day. And no more than a two-day march. Or three. Depending on whether we wait for Sorig and the others. Mind that root, Spirit-Hunter. I nearly snagged my foot.”

That the boy managed to keep from falling on his face was a miracle, since he insisted on glancing back every other word to ensure Darak was still behind him.

“They should have been back by now, don't you think? Sorig and the others, I mean.”

“Aye.”

“They've been gone a whole day. Day and a half, really.”

“Aye.”

“I know Sorig can take care of himself, but my cousin's with him. Iann. The tall fair-haired lad? With a bit of a squint to his left eye? Oh, gods. Don't let on that I mentioned that. I always tell him it's hardly noticeable, and he's sensitive about it, the silly gawk.”

Mercifully, they had reached the summit where Cleft Chin greeted him by pointing west.

“There. What did I tell you, Spirit-Hunter? Plain as day.”

To give the Chatterer his due, the hill
was
as plain as day, even to his aging eyes. Black Hill, Sorig had called it. Grass must have sprung up since last summer's fire, for the summit looked distinctly green now. No wonder Temet had chosen it for the Gathering. From that vantage point, they would be able to spy an approaching force for miles.

“So what do you think, Spirit-Hunter? Two days?”

Darak scanned the narrow valley. Although it was only early afternoon, the trail lay deep in shadow. According to Sorig, it wound west for three miles before the land leveled out.

“There's little chance of encountering a Zherosi patrol so far from Little Falls,” Sorig had assured him. “But I'll take a few men and scout ahead. I'd rather be late to the Gathering than get trapped in that valley.”

That was a day and a half ago.

“We can make it in two days easy,” the Chatterer said. “If we start now. But if we wait for Sorig—”

“Let the Spirit-Hunter think.”

Although Cleft Chin had spoken kindly, the Chatterer's face turned scarlet. He started to stammer an apology, then clamped his lips together.

As Darak studied the terrain to the north, Cleft Chin said, “Someone's coming.”

Peering through the trees, Darak made out three men, running flat out through the valley. Without waiting for orders, the Chatterer plunged back down the hill to alert the others.

“Your eyes are better than mine,” Darak said to Cleft Chin. “Are those Sorig's men?”

“I think it's the ones you sent out this morning. The one in front looks like Owan. The skinny, red-haired lad.”

Like the Chatterer, Cleft Chin had noted his reluctance to learn the names of the recruits.

After watching a few moments longer, Darak said, “Stay here and keep watch.”

Cleft Chin nodded, and Darak retreated down the slope. The others were clustered around the Chatterer, but they broke off their eager questioning as he approached.

“You,” he said, pointing at the Chatterer. “Come with me. The rest of you, into the trees. No one moves until we know what's happening.”

As they scattered up the sides of the hills, Darak trotted along the trail until it plunged into the valley. Waving the Chatterer off to his right, he strung his bow and nocked an arrow. Then he crouched behind a fallen tree and waited.

As the three men struggled up the rise, he glanced up and discovered that Cleft Chin had changed position, maneuvering along the ridge so he could watch both him and the valley below.

But, of course, he was one of the older recruits. Most were as young as Sorig, but there were a dozen or so like Cleft Chin—grown men, wise in the ways of the forest—who seemed to have joined because they wanted to fight for the cause, not enjoy an adventure.

The red-haired scout had already passed when Darak rose. The other two shied like startled deer. The sudden rustling of leaves made the lad—Owan, he conceded reluctantly—skid to a halt.

“Are you being followed?”

Owan shook his head.

“Catch your breath. Then tell me what happened.”

It came out in bits and pieces. As one lad paused for breath, another took up the story. But their information was clear enough. A full komakh. More than one hundred strong. Heading due south. No sign of Sorig's scouts. The column had stopped at the western entrance of the valley and sent eleven men ahead.

Clearly, despite Rigat's confidence, the orders for a truce had not reached these troops. More likely, the queen had never sent them.

“You're sure of the numbers?” he asked.

The small lad with the birthmark on his cheek nodded. “We climbed a hill. And counted as they passed through a big clearing.”

“You did well. All of you.”

Grins split their sweat-streaked faces at the praise.

“What should we do?” Owan asked. “Divide our force and catch them between us?”

“Better to take the high ground and shoot from there,” Birthmark argued. “Once they're in the valley—”

“They're trapped,” Darak said. “So why would they come into the valley?”

“They don't know we're here,” Birthmark said. “They couldn't have seen us.”

“And if they did,” Broken Nose added, “they might think they can trap us.”

“Aye,” Darak conceded. “But only if they have another force behind us.”

Three heads jerked east, then slowly turned back to him.

“They wouldn't venture so far from Little Falls unless they were hunting us.”

Three heads bobbed in agreement.

“So. Chances are they know we're here. Or at least they know the direction we're heading. Which means someone betrayed us.”

“Who?” Birthmark demanded. “We haven't ventured near a village in a sennight.”

“A hunter could have seen us,” Owan said. “And told his chief. If his chief sent word to the Zherosi—”

“It would take days,” Birthmark argued.

“And he wouldn't know for sure that we'd continue west,” Broken Nose said.

Unless the informant was one of their own. Someone who knew the location of the Gathering and the route they were taking to reach it.

Darak silenced the boys with an impatient wave. “If the Zherosi know we're here, they also know our strength. They'd never come after us with a force only a little larger than ours. There has to be another column somewhere.”

Owan nodded. “Behind us, you said.”

“If they were counting on us going through the valley.”

“You think . . .” Broken Nose licked his lips uncertainly. “You think the column meant for us to see them? To draw us into a trap?”

“It's possible.”

“What should we do, Spirit-Hunter?” Owan asked again. And again, the three faces lifted to his, eyes wide and trusting.

He thrust aside his frustration and gathered his thoughts. On a forced march from Little Falls, the Zherosi would have had no time to flank them, but if they had known about the route for days, they could have set up an ambush. With three or four hundred men, they could encircle the entire area. But they had never sent such a force against the rebels.

Every moment he delayed, the net was closing.

“We move north.”

“North?” Birthmark echoed.

“If they think we might scatter, the logical direction for us to go is south. To draw them farther away from their fortress. So we'll go north.”

And pray the Zherosi weren't waiting for them.

 

 

 

He sent some of the older recruits to scout ahead and guard their flanks. Cleft Chin and five others made up the rear guard. He remained with the main group, comprised of the newest and least experienced recruits, hoping his presence would ensure calm.

The first few miles were the worst: starting at every cracking twig, every rustle in the underbrush; struggling up steep rises and slipping, sliding down the other side; always pushing the pace, exhorting stragglers, and glancing back over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit.

The afternoon was waning when Cleft Chin caught up with them. Darak led him away from the others, who slumped to the ground, heads bowed in exhaustion.

Cleft Chin sank onto a fallen log and took a deep swig from his waterskin. “They're following us. No more than a few miles behind.”

“Damn.”

“They have a guide. One of our people.”

Which explained how the Zherosi had been able to pick up their trail so quickly.

“How many?” Darak asked.

“About two hundred.”

More than twice their number—and experienced troops, not raw recruits.

“It's either west or east, then,” he said, thinking aloud. “I chose poorly last time. What would you do?”

Cleft Chin looked startled at being asked his opinion, but said, “East is safer. We know the territory. West . . .” He frowned. “No way of knowing where Temet is. Or whether another Zherosi column might be blocking the way to Black Hill. I just wish we knew what their objective was. If they're striking the other bands, too, we should head east. But if they just want you, we should go west. Try to link up with Temet before they cut us off.”

Darak nodded; he'd come to the same conclusion. But he was reluctant to endanger the others if he was the target.

“What if we sent the main body east? While I go west with a small group. Five or six men. Come the gloaming, we might manage to slip past the Zherosi and get word to Temet.”

“Sorig wouldn't like putting you at risk.”

“Sorig isn't here.”

“Do you think he was captured? Tortured to reveal our plans?”

“I don't know. I say we split up.”

With obvious reluctance, Cleft Chin nodded.

“You'll lead the main body,” Darak said.

“I'm staying with you.”

“I need an experienced man. One who won't panic—”

“Holtik is just as experienced. The others respect him.”

“I don't even know—”

“The heavy-set man. Sharpening his dagger. The others'll follow him.”

“I want—”

“I'm staying, Spirit-Hunter.”

Darak frowned. “Aye, so you've said. Why?”

“Sorig told me to guard your back. I thought I could do that best in the rear guard. But now . . .”

“All right. Let's tell the others.”

Cleft Chin hesitated. “For what it's worth . . . I'd have gone north, too.”

While Cleft Chin gathered the rest of the band, Darak considered Sorig's order again. Against his will, he recalled all the times Sorig had slipped away from the circle of villagers who had gathered to hear the great Spirit-Hunter speak.

Or it might mean Sorig had used those moments to pass information to someone. And if Cleft Chin was in league with him, he was more likely to put a dagger in his back than guard it.

 

 

 

In the end, only three others went with them, and he let Cleft Chin choose them. All were experienced hunters, young and strong, if not the best at hand-to-hand combat.

“Gods willing, we won't have to fight,” Cleft Chin said. “Stamina and a knowledge of the forest will serve us better.”

Bear was a huge man with beetling brows. Save for his blue eyes, the Dark One could easily be mistaken for a Zheroso. Freckles was the youngest, the fastest runner among them according to Cleft Chin—and a girl.

Her fierce eyes reminded him of Faelia, her stubborn chin of Griane. Her frown dared him to choose someone else, and he was tempted to do just that. Reluctantly, he accepted her, assuaging his doubts by reasoning that she might be safer with him than with the main group. Faelia would shudder at that kind of thinking, but the instinct to protect a woman was too ingrained to slough off now.

They quickly discovered that the Zherosi were still following them, but the forest was too dense to see whether the entire force was on their trail. They tried to disguise their path, splashing through shallow streams, leaping from rock to rock or balancing on fallen logs to avoid leaving footprints. But the effort sapped their strength and slowed them down—and speed was critical if they hoped to outrun their pursuers.

No one spoke, even during their brief stops to rest and refill their waterskins; they needed all their energy for the hunt. That was how he thought of it, only instead of being the hunters, they were the prey.

After nearly two moons tramping from village to village with Sorig, Darak prided himself on regaining much of the physical strength he'd lost during his years as chief. But the flight from the valley had left the muscles in his calves and thighs burning. After five more miles, he no longer trusted himself to sit when they stopped for rest for fear his trembling legs would refuse to support him when he tried to rise. Each rasping breath clawed at his chest, forcing him to stop at every hilltop until the ache eased.