Foxfire by Barbara Campbell Read Free Book Online

memories of home. She choked down another mouthful and forced herself to stop.
    The boy showed no such restraint. Hearing his frantic gulps, she grabbed the back of his tunic and yanked him away from the water.
    â€œNo more. Or you’ll be sick.”
    Already, whispered commands urged them to move on. She paused long enough to fill her waterskin, then offered her arm to the old woman. Together, they picked their way across the stream. By the time they reached the other side, her right foot was numb from the water seeping between the seams of her shoe. Careless. She should have repaired it before the battle.
    One step. Then another.
    Crawling up the opposite slope. Weaving along the trail. Peering into the darkness in search of obstacles: tree roots that trapped a foot, vines that ensnared an ankle. Always she had thought of the forest as a friend. Tonight, it had turned against her.
    The night was waning when the line slowed again. Her gaze sought Temet, but he was lost among the dark figures in the clearing. He would be giving orders, sending some to guard the trail behind them, posting others as sentries around their makeshift camp.
    When no one approached her to stand watch, relief quickly gave way to guilt. To assuage it, she forced herself to walk among the villagers, offering water to those who were still awake, pulling mantles around those who had fallen into exhausted sleep.
    Behind her, footsteps crunched on dead pine needles. She turned, automatically reaching for the hilt of her sword, and recognized Temet. Gheala’s uncertain light leached the color from his fair hair and reduced his eyes to hollow, black pools. He gripped her shoulder briefly—a comrade’s touch rather than a lover’s—and carefully lowered himself to the ground.
    Stronger than the sharp tang of his sweat was the smell of fresh blood. Ignoring his whispered, “Leave it,” her fingers sought his thigh and came away damp. Only since joining the rebels had she learned that blood looked black in the moonlight.
    She cut a strip of doeskin from her tunic and offered a silent apology to her mam. As a child, she had complained endlessly about the tedium of sewing. If she’d known then that she would be stitching bodies instead of tunics, she would have kept her mouth shut.
    The bag with the medicinal supplies her mam had so carefully packed was lost. She still had her bone needle and sinew in her belt pack, but Gheala’s waning light was too feeble to allow her to stitch the wound now. She could only wad the old bandage over the gash and bind it with the strip of doeskin.
    Temet was as silent and unmoving as a boulder as she tied the makeshift bandage. After their victories, he would come to her, hot and fierce. Lovemaking offered a welcome release after the chaos of battle—for them and all those with partners—and a triumphant declaration of life. But there would be no passion tonight. The lucky ones would huddle with their lovers, grateful to be alive and to share each other’s warmth. The rest could only hope for sleep to banish despair.
    She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. He shifted slightly so he could put his arm around her, careful of her wounded arm and bruised ribs. Were all big men so gentle? Perhaps that’s what had drawn her to him—that same combination of strength and gentleness that her father possessed.
    â€œHow long do we have?” she whispered.
    â€œDawn.” The subtle shift of his body told her he was scanning the sky. “The rest of the rear guard will have joined us by then.”
    â€œThe rest?”
    â€œMikal caught up with us at the stream.”
    She’d been too grateful for the water to notice.
    â€œThey’re still following us,” he said.
    Panic surged, but she fought it back.
    â€œMikal said they’d camped for the night, but they’ll be back on our trail at daybreak.”
    â€œThey might give up.”
    â€œNot