Foxfire (59 page)

S
ORIG HAD GIVEN DARAK the information he needed—and with it, his first real hope of rescuing Keirith.

“Just ten miles downriver,” he'd whispered, pounding Darak's knee in his excitement. “I passed it on my way to Little Falls. I remember because it reminded me of the channel between Stag's Leap and Eagles Mount.”

Mikal had suggested stealing coracles from the village, but Darak feared that might give away their intentions. And navigating the river in the dark would be dangerous for hunters who had never handled the tiny boats before. In the end, they marched the ten miles, arriving at the narrows just after dawn to begin their feverish preparations. By midmorning, they were ready.

As ready as they could be. Crouched behind a boulder on the northern shore, Darak now saw only the flaws in the plan that had so excited him.

They had chopped down pine spars to leverage boulders into the channel, but most simply piled up along the base of the southern hill. Those that had reached the water disappeared into the depths. With its shallow draft, the warship could skim right over them and escape unscathed.

But even the most accomplished steersman would need steady hands and steadier nerves to navigate between the rocks that dotted the channel. Their best hope—their only hope—was to drive the ship onto them. And pray that the steersman panicked when the flaming arrows descended on his ship.

Darak had cautioned all his men to direct their fire away from the pavilion where Sorig swore the Vanel's son would be seated. But if the boy became restless, wanted to stretch his legs or simply chat with the captain . . .

He shook his head, trying to dismiss his gloomy thoughts.

“Darak?”

He glanced over his shoulder and found Mikal watching him.

“Anything wrong?” Mikal asked.

“Nay. Just . . . thinking it through. Again.”

“We've done everything we can.”

But was it enough?

He glanced upriver, reassured by the sight of Kelik calmly inspecting his arrows. To him, Darak had entrusted the critical task of killing the steersman. Even if Kelik missed his shot, the steersman would surely guide the ship away from Sorig's archers, bringing it close to the jagged rocks near the northern shore—and to the men waiting nearby. All they had to do was snatch the boy when the ship foundered and kill any of the surviving warriors.

If the ship foundered. If Geriv sent a dozen warriors instead of a hundred. If the boy didn't drown. Or crack his skull.

He examined the southern hill, relieved that the brisk easterly breeze carried away any telltale threads of smoke. At least they had been able to use deadwood for the archers' fire; given their limited supply of pitch, they had no choice but to tap the pines for their sticky sap.

Recalling the sight of the men hacking at the trees with daggers and axes, Darak winced. He had sprinkled water on the roots of the injured trees and sliced open his forearm to make a blood offering for the three pines they had chopped down. He prayed that his tree-brothers understood his need and accepted his sacrifice.

His gaze snapped to a pale smear moving among the greens and browns and grays. A hand waving back and forth.

The ship had been sighted.

He took a deep breath and began his preparations: stringing his bow, settling his quiver more firmly in the crack between two rocks, choosing an arrow. As he drew it from the quiver, it slipped from his shaking fingers and clattered onto the pebbles. Cursing softly, he retrieved it.

He wiped his hands on his thighs, remembering too late that his breeches were even damper than his palms. Mikal, their strongest swimmer, had barely managed to fight his way across the river. Even clinging to the rope Mikal carried across, Darak's muscles were aching by the time he reached the northern shore. But he took comfort in knowing that the Zherosi would have to fight that relentless current under fire.

He peered around the boulder and discovered the ship closing fast, square sail bellying in the breeze. In spite of his anxiety, he marveled at the way the sleek vessel skimmed over the water. Recalling the sickening rise and fall of the currachs he had sailed in when he had begun his search for Keirith all those years ago, his stomach lurched. Then lurched again when he contemplated what failure today meant.

He heard a faint shout and tensed before realizing the captain was simply calling out an order. As the ship veered south, the captain's hand came up, waving the ship north again.

He flexed his fingers, relaxing his grip on the bow. Tried to ignore the fierce tattoo of his heart. Told himself this was just another hunt.

A low rumble made him jerk his head to the right. Freed from their imprisoning ropes, the pine spars caromed down the slope of the southern hill.

Shouts erupted onboard. Men leaped up, gazes riveted on the spars. But the captain—damn him—might have been carved from stone, left arm outthrust as he guided the ship through the channel.

As the spars rolled harmlessly into the shallows, a fiery star arced down from the hill, trailing smoke behind it. A group of warriors rushed to the railing as the arrow cleaved the water in front of the ship and died.

Two more arrows etched fiery paths across the sky. A tiny orange flame blossomed on the sail, then another.

Darak drew his bowstring back to his ear, took aim on the broad chest of the captain, and let fly. The outthrust arm jerked up as the arrow struck the man's shoulder. Cursing, Darak drew another arrow and loosed it, baring his teeth in a ferocious grin as it struck home. The captain staggered back, the hand that had pointed the way now clutching the shaft of the arrow. Moments later, the ship veered away from the southern hill.

Slaves clambered up the mast, beating at the flames with cloths. Others hurled buckets of water at the sail in a futile attempt to quench the resinous fire. Darak ignored them, picking out a man with a bronze helmet, another in leather armor. He heard Mikal laugh as a warrior toppled over the side. Laugh again as another sagged against the railing.

Flaming shreds of sail drifted onto the deck. Slaves howled as they beat at their naked necks and shoulders. Warriors stamped on the fiery wisps, only to scream like the slaves as sparks shot upward, feeding on their flaxcloth khirtas.

Beneath the awning of the pavilion, he caught a flash of movement. A slender figure racing toward the steps to the main deck, only to be yanked back by a brown hand.

Relief turned to dismay as he realized the steersman was correcting his course. The ship skimmed toward the center of the channel, narrowly avoiding the rocks that would have ripped it open.

“Take him out!” he screamed.

If Kelik heard, he gave no indication. He pivoted slowly, tracking the passing ship with his arrow. Then his hands moved in such a blur of motion that Darak never knew how many arrows he released.

As the ship glided toward his hiding place, he glimpsed the steersman slumped across his giant oar, but his gaze was held by the gap between the vessel and the closest rocks. Thirty paces? Twenty? The ship could easily slip past them, unscathed.

An arrow clattered against the boulder, and he flinched.

Fifteen paces.

A wall of wood filled his vision.

Ten.

Five.

He closed his eyes. And heard a low groan that crescendoed into a horrifying shriek of rending wood.

He had always hated the Zherosi ships. Giants hewn from the dead bodies of countless tree-brothers. Monstrous beings that had carried his son and countless others to slavery or death. But as he watched the rocks rip open its side and water pour into the jagged wound, he couldn't help recalling his first impression: a sleek, graceful bird flying over the water rather than cleaving a path through it.

And now it was dying, timbers splintered, mast leaning drunkenly toward the shore, tattered sail flapping desperately. Lurching from rock to rock in its death throes.

The screams of men jolted him from his thoughts. Flailing limbs churned the river white as men fought to keep afloat. A few clung to planks and other pieces of wreckage as the current swept them downriver. A line of slaves bobbed past and vanished under the water; gods, they must have roped the rowers together. Corpses floated past as well, hair streaming around them like seaweed. Others were wedged between rocks or sprawled atop them, limbs splayed in the abandonment of death.

Mikal and his men splashed into the river, methodically dispatching the warriors crawling onto the shore and floundering in the shallows. Realizing they needed no help to complete their grisly task, Darak's gaze sought the pavilion.

A slender figure clung to the railing. Clad only in a loincloth, it had to be a slave. But where was the boy?

Kelik was already loping up the shore. Darak paused to snatch up his coil of rope before racing after him. He slowed to scan the dead and dying, praying that none of the beardless young faces belonged to the Vanel's son.

With the coiled rope slung across his chest, he braced himself for the shock of the cold water and waded into the shallows. Fighting the current was useless; he and Kelik would have to ride it downriver to reach the wreck and—please, gods—the boy.

His heart raced when he spied a figure clinging to a boulder. It could be any Zheroso, of course, but this one was staring up at the slave still dangling from the railing of the pavilion. Kelik had spied him as well, and was fighting his way toward him. He was within arm's reach when the river swept him past and slammed him into a rock. He slid under the water, then came back up, scrabbling for a handhold.

Praying he was unhurt, Darak took a deep breath and gave himself to the river.

The force of the water knocked him off his feet. When he surfaced again, he saw the boy lift one arm to gesture to the slave. Without both hands gripping the rock, he began sliding into the water. Desperately, he tried to claw his way back to safety, but each time he managed to pull himself up, the river tugged him down.

His hands slapped against rock. He flung an arm around it, gasping for breath. Then he launched himself toward another rock. Another pause to gather his strength. Another leap toward a safe handhold. Crawling through the water rather than swimming, but each lunge brought him closer.

He shook his wet hair out of his eyes, gauging the distance. Then he hurled himself through the water, pulling hard for the boulder. The current lifted him, and he flailed helplessly. Then the river flung him against the boy.

He caught a brief glimpse of wide brown eyes as the boy slipped. Flinging one arm around the boulder, Darak grabbed for him. His fingers brushed a slippery braid. Before it could slide through his fingers, he twisted the braid around his wrist, hauled the boy out of the water, and braced him against the boulder.

For a moment, he could only hang there, breathless and panting. The water pounded his back as fiercely as the boy's heartbeat thudded against his chest.

He was even younger than Darak had expected. No older than Rigat. Handsome enough in a girlish way with those dark, feathery lashes and finely sculpted cheekbones. Blood oozed from a scrape on his forehead, but he had no other visible wounds. A chain of braided bronze circled the slender neck. A small medallion dangled from it, bright against the brown of his tunic. An amulet, perhaps. Or just something he found pretty.

Pretty was the word for him. Pretty and soft. Not a warrior, that much was certain. Skinny as he was, this boy had never wanted for food or clothing, never shivered in the cold or sweated on a forced march. And likely the only men he had seen die were those sacrificed on an altar.

Until today.

He wondered if he should rouse him, make certain he was Geriv's son. But his strength was waning, and he wasn't sure he could drag an unwilling captive to shore. Realizing he would never manage to rope them together, he simply tightened his grip on the long braid and slipped into the water.

An anguished cry made him glance back to discover the slave screeching something in Zherosi. Still screeching, he dropped into the water and bobbed up, coughing.

Darak lost sight of him after that; he had enough to do to hang onto the boy without worrying about his slave, too. He gave up any attempt to steer them toward the shore and simply fought to keep their heads above water.

His body slammed painfully against a rock and for a moment, he lost his grip. He flung an arm around the boy's neck, praying he didn't choke him to death as their bodies plunged downriver.