Foxfire (74 page)

“You gave your word!”

For a moment, Rigat thought the boy was accusing him. Then he realized he was speaking to his father.

“I said my army would leave after we conducted the search. And it will.”

“That's trickery.”

“That's war! Did you expect me to waste time with a siege? Sacrifice half my troops on an assault?”

“They've done nothing to deserve this.”

“They sheltered rebels. Rebels who repeatedly attacked the forces of Zheros.” As the boy continued to protest, he said, “Enough, Skalel! I've given my orders.”

“Then I respectfully request permission to accompany Jonaq.”

“Permission denied.”

“Please, Father. I beg you not to do this.”

The Vanel eyed his son coldly. “If you cannot remain silent, I will have you escorted from the field.”

During the prisoner exchange, he'd had little time to observe the boy. Korim, that was his name. Clearly, he was better suited to be a priest than a warrior. He had probably dreamed that the Zherosi and the children of the Oak and Holly could live together in harmony. As Rigat had once dreamed. But he was wiser now, and after today, Korim would be, too.

Rigat watched Jonaq lead his men up the slope. Contrary to what the boy thought, the men inside the hill fort deserved their fate. They had humiliated the Trickster's son. They had cursed him and hurled rocks at his head. If they had caught him, they would have ripped him apart with their hands. Let them save themselves if they could.

The last man scrambled over the barrier of rocks. From the Death Hut came the hoarse jeers of the crows. They were drowned out by a shouted command in Zherosi and answering shouts in the tribal tongue. And then the screams.

The Vanel brought his sword down. A kankh blew. With well-ordered precision, the Zherosi warriors ringing the hill fort trotted up the slope with scaling ladders, shields upraised to protect them from arrows. The shields proved unnecessary; the defenders were too busy fighting the warriors already inside the fort to notice those planting ladders against its walls.

Belatedly, a few arrows arced over the earthworks, a few spears thrust wildly at the new wave of attackers. One ladder swayed and toppled, but warriors continued to scramble up the others and leap onto the ramparts.

Rigat found himself praying to the Maker, silently exhorting the defenders. Then the shouting ebbed and the clang of metal became sporadic, and he stopped.

A profound silence hung over the hill fort. It was broken by a triumphant cry and voices shouting the Vanel's name. The troops took up the cry. In moments, the entire valley rang with the man's name. The Vanel accepted the acclamation with the same detachment he had manifested during the battle, but a shudder racked his son's skinny body. Rigat was surprised to discover a similar shudder coursing through his, a continuous tremor that made his legs shake.

The kankh sounded again. The few surviving warriors straggled down the slope. The Vanel's expression brightened when he saw Jonaq. Blood ran freely from the wounds in his arms, but he was smiling.

As the Vanel congratulated him and gave orders to slaughter the sheep for a celebratory feast, Rigat's gaze returned to the hill fort. They were dead—all of them. Slaughtered as surely as the sheep would be. Rothisar who had always sneered at him, Madig who had been the first to turn on him, old Trath who used scowls and cuffs to disguise an embarrassingly good heart.

They would all die, he realized. The women, the children, the old folk. How would they survive without the hunters and fishermen who lay dead inside the hill fort? Without the sheep that gave them wool and milk and meat? Come the winter, they would starve. Why hadn't he thought of that?

“And on the morrow,” the Vanel was saying, “I'll lead two komakhs back to Little Falls. You take the third and hunt for the remaining villagers.”

Jonaq saluted smartly. “Yes, Vanel.”

“I want the Spirit-Hunter's family alive.”

“And the others? The women and older children would be useful as slaves.”

“Kill the men and boys. Take only the strongest women. As for the rest, either kill them or leave them to starve. It makes no difference to me.”

Jonaq jerked his head toward Othak. “What about him?”

Othak seemed to have succumbed to shock, standing numbly between the two guards who gripped his arms. As the Vanel's cold gaze raked him, he gave a soft whimper.

Rigat forced himself to concentrate, to master his trembling legs, to remember why he was here.

He stepped out of the portal, directly in front of the Vanel. Jonaq stumbled backward, one hand groping for the hilt of his sword. Korim gasped. The Vanel went rigid. The other officers were still snapping orders to subordinates, calling for healers, and organizing litters to carry the wounded down from the hill fort.

“You know who I am,” Rigat said.

“I know who you claim to be.”

With the same detachment the Vanel had shown during the battle, Rigat sent his power lancing through the man's spirit, driving him to his knees.

He waited for the Vanel's silent assent.

The Vanel held up a hand, but it took several attempts before he managed to gasp, “Jonaq! Sheathe your sword.”

With obvious reluctance, the younger man obeyed. Only then did Rigat withdraw from the Vanel's spirit. By now, the other officers had noticed his presence. Noticed, too, that their commander was on his knees.

“I am Rigat. The Son of Zhe and newly-crowned king of Zheros.”

Ignoring the shocked murmurs and incredulous stares, he turned to Othak. The priest shrank back, but his face held the same malevolence Rigat remembered.

“It's the day of judgment, Othak.”

“Only gods have the right to judge men,” Othak declared, his voice surprisingly strong despite its tremor.

“I
am
the son of a god. In Zheros, he takes the form of a winged serpent. Here, he's called the Trickster.”

Othak's eye widened. “You're a liar! A liar and an abomination!”

The simmering power leaped. Rigat smiled and unleashed it.

Othak screamed as it hurtled into his spirit. Wrenching free of the guards, he took two tottering steps before collapsing. With brutal efficiency, Rigat crushed the pitiful barriers Othak erected, driving hard and fast into the hidden places where all his secrets lurked.

He touched Othak's lingering fear of his brutish father and the helpless terror of cowering in their hut, trying in vain to ward off the leather belt, the upraised first. He touched the shame of failing so many of his early tests as Gortin's apprentice, and his envy of Keirith, doubly blessed with a natural gift and his father's love. Keirith who had everything he lacked until the gods finally smiled upon Othak and cast his competitor out of the tribe.

He touched the pride that blossomed when he became Tree-Brother, and the satisfaction of having better, stronger men defer to him. The hunger for women, never satisfied, as each tentative advance was met by rejection—until the tribe fled Eagles Mount for a new village, where no one remembered the shrinking boy with the watchful eyes and the bruised face.

He saw the dark-haired girl, barely thirteen, who was impressed by Othak's title and flattered by his attention. The frustrating summer of awkward kisses and inept fumbling. The evening he could bear it no longer and took her, one hand covering her mouth to muffle her screams. And all the other evenings when he discovered the pleasure—hotter and sweeter than lust—of watching someone cower before him, and the unexpected joy of enforcing his will with his leather belt, his upraised fist.

He touched the ever-present fear of a Zherosi attack and the dread that he might prove to be a coward in battle. He touched the shock of that first meeting with Keirith after so many years, the bitter humiliation of knowing Gortin still favored him, and the growing frustration that the old man would never, ever die and he would always remain in his miserable shadow.

The excitement of planning the murder. The terror that he would be discovered. The suspicion that Mother Griane knew, but could say nothing, for he knew her secret—that her adored youngest son had used his power to render Madig an idiot.

The delicious agony of the knife plucking out his eye. The triumph of finally becoming Tree-Father. And the incomparable satisfaction of driving out Keirith's brother while the family of the great Darak Spirit-Hunter stood by, helpless.

Rigat touched every secret, shameful place in that quailing spirit and watched its owner writhe on the ground at his feet, as helpless as his family had been. Abruptly, he withdrew from Othak's spirit, soiled by the contact.

“He calls the Son of Zhe an abomination,” he declared for the benefit of those watching. “For that alone, he deserves to die. But his spirit has been tainted by a lifetime of crimes against his people.”

Murder. Rape. Envy. Lust. He listed them all, speaking in the tribal tongue so Othak would understand, trusting to Korim's frantic translation to carry his words to the Zherosi.

“You spread lies about me. About my mother. And because you suspected Gortin wanted to name my brother Tree-Father, you killed him.”

Othak screamed a denial. Rigat ignored it.

“You hoarded the herbs my mother gave Gortin. The ones to help him sleep. So you could blame her if anyone questioned his death. I saw it when I touched your spirit, Othak. I saw everything.”

“Please . . .”

“I know what you are. I know what you've done. Now is the time of reckoning.”

He pointed his forefinger at the ground and slashed it through the air. The long grass parted. The earth cracked open, spraying clods of dirt onto Othak's shoes. Rigat closed his hands into fists and pulled. The grass rolled back as neatly as if he had turned down the sheet on his bed in Pilozhat. But it was not earth that filled the fissure, but a dense thicket of vines and thorn bushes, barely visible through the sickly ocher haze of Chaos.

“Merciful gods,” someone whispered. “What is that?”

“That,” Rigat replied in Zherosi, “is the Abyss.”

As one, they stumbled back. The Vanel halted after one step and sharply ordered his men to stand fast. Their bodies trembled with the desire to escape, but they obeyed, fingers sketching frantic signs of protection.

Othak scuttled away, but at Rigat's command, the guards seized his arms and dragged him to the edge of the fissure.

A sudden movement within the tangled foliage drew everyone's gaze. A single vine slid free. Its tiny brown leaves rustled as it snaked between the finger-length thorns and shriveled berries that studded the branch of the thorn bush. With mesmerizing slowness, it slithered from one branch to another, climbing skyward as if seeking the light of the true sun.

The leading end of the vine reared up. All along its length, yellow dots appeared on the leaves, shimmering like tiny stars. In perfect unison, the stars winked out, then reappeared.

Behind Rigat, a man gasped. “Blessed Womb of Earth, protect me. They're eyes.”

Under the intent gazes of those tiny yellow eyes, a shriveled berry near the end of a branch swelled into a round, purple mass. A slender filament snaked out, and then another, quivering like an insect's antennae. The branch sagged under the weight of the expanding berry, but still it grew, until the center of the fruit split open with a wet slurp.

Othak screamed. Screamed again when five hand-sized petals peeled back from the core. Tiny spikes lined the perimeter of the petals, miniature fangs enclosing a gaping red mouth. The filaments waved liked beckoning arms, the knobby protrusions on their ends like upraised fists. The petals twisted, following the vine that rose out of the fissure to turn its yellow-eyed gaze on Othak.

The smell of urine filled the air. With supreme satisfaction, Rigat watched the stain spread down the front of Othak's robe.

“Do you admit your crimes?”

“Aye! I'm sorry. For everything.”

“Will you beg for your life?”

“Aye! Please!”

Rigat walked slowly around the portal and signaled the guards to release their prisoner. Othak pressed his forehead against Rigat's foot, begging for mercy, gasping out incoherent pleas, promising to perform any penance, to do anything Rigat wanted.

Rigat bent down to rest his palm against the lowered head. Othak raised his tear-streaked face. Snot leaked from his nose and he snuffled hopefully.

“You may perform your penance in Chaos.”

Confused by his gentle tone, Othak just stared at him. Rigat waited until horrified understanding dawned. Then he called on his power and shoved Othak into the fissure.

It was as easy as pushing Seg.

He allowed himself a moment to savor Othak's scream, to watch the vine ensnare his flailing limbs, and the five hungry mouths close around his arms and legs and head. Then he snapped the portal shut.

The air was thick and charged with the remnants of the portal's energy, thicker still with the stink of fear. They were all staring at him, some with terror, others with loathing.

The Vanel's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Rigat let his power brush the man's spirit.

The Vanel's fingers clenched convulsively. Then he let his hand fall.

“Now, Vanel,” Rigat said. “It's your turn.”

Too late, he realized he'd misjudged the boy. With a strangled cry, Korim unsheathed his sword and lunged at him. Only the Vanel's hand, whipping out at the last moment to seize his forearm, stopped the thrust.