Foxmask

  Sam caught Thorvald late one afternoon, when the weapon makers were packing up and the fishermen bearing the day’s catch back to the shelter. Rain was starting to fall in heavy, spattering droplets; in these isles, one could have all four seasons in a single day. Sam bore a damp-looking sack on his shoulder; he stood by the pathway in the dark sand, his guileless blue eyes shadowed with anxiety. He was looking thinner; older, somehow.

  “Good catch?” Thorvald asked.

  Sam regarded him in silence.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve developed it too,” exclaimed Thorvald in mock alarm. “The inability to speak, I mean. It’s driving me crazy. But then, your lot do talk, don’t they? I’ve seen them.”

  “Thorvald.” Sam put the sack down. He sounded alarmingly serious.

  “What? What’s bothering you?”

  “You shouldn’t need to ask that,” Sam said.

  “Well, come on then. What is it?”

  Sam sighed. “Can’t you count? Haven’t you noticed the season passing? Don’t you know how long we’ve been here?”

  Thorvald stared at him. What was this all about? “I told you this would take time,” he said carefully. Sam’s placid features looked almost angry; for him, this was most unusual. “I have to assess the situation, work out what the man’s up to. It’s not so easy to talk to him—”

  “Have you forgotten about Creidhe? She’s all by herself, and nobody will tell me when we’re going back there. What if she comes to some harm? I mean, we just went and left her—”

  Thorvald could not stop his brows from rising in disbelief, though he was doing his best to be understanding. “Is that what this is? Creidhe will be fine, Sam. She did say she didn’t mind us going, don’t you remember? Creidhe’s a strong girl. Besides, what’s to harm her back in that village? She’s got all the things she likes—women’s company, domestic comforts, time to weave and sew and potter about the house. I expect by now she’s organized the whole community to her own design. She’ll scarcely have noticed we’re gone. Don’t bother yourself about Creidhe.”

  “I do bother myself,” Sam said doggedly, “and so would you if you could think beyond your own little world for a moment or two.”

  Thorvald did not reply. His friend had never spoken thus to him before.

  “If that sounds bad, I’m sorry for it, but it’s the truth,” Sam went on, his cheeks flushing red. “There’s something going on here that I don’t like, and I don’t want to be part of it. Mending a boat or two is all very well, helping these fellows haul in their catch and so on, but they’re scared, scared out of their wits, and if you think Creidhe’s safe from harm, making herself at home among these folk and forgetting all about her family and friends, you’re just plain stupid. Some of the stories I’ve heard here would curdle your guts.” His tone fell to a whisper as men passed close by, on their way to ale and supper. “That fellow, Asgrim, he’s up to no good. I know he might be your father, and you might not like me to say this, but I have to. He’s got them eating out of his hand, but it’s not like the way folk are with Eyvind at home: not from respect. These men are frightened of the Ruler, and no wonder.”

  Thorvald found his voice. “What do you mean, stories?” Maybe Sam knew more of this odd tale about a captive child and sorcerous powers. “What have they been saying?”

  “They want to go home, like us. But they can’t. They’ve got wives in the settlements but they don’t see them. Only in winter. He won’t let them go.”

  “It’s a war,” Thorvald said, frowning. “Men don’t take little trips home in a war.”

  “That’s another thing. There’s some kind of battle coming up, some kind of test. Nobody says, when we win, or even if we win. It’s more, If I die, tell Helga there’s a bit of silver hidden under the hearthstone, or, If I die, you can have my second best net. It doesn’t sound good. These fellows are no more warriors than I am, Thorvald. I didn’t come here to fight.”

  “We are improving,” Thorvald offered. “The group I work with has made big advances, both in skills and the standard of weapons. You may not need to be a warrior, Sam. Perhaps none of your fishermen need be a part of it.”

  “Heard what happens when a fellow tries to leave?” Sam asked heavily.

  Thorvald waited.

  “Asgrim makes all the rules here. A game, isn’t that what he said before? Some game. You know what happened to those two that were walking over to the settlement next to Creidhe? A quick death and a quicker consignment to the sea, that was the price for their mistake in nearly letting her fall. It wasn’t even their fault. Of course, if Asgrim decides you’re too useful to get rid of, there’s a beating instead, bad enough to stop you disobeying again, not bad enough to cripple you, since cripples can’t fight. The two big fellows, Skapti and Hogni, do the dirty work for him. I don’t want Creidhe staying on these islands, Thorvald. I think we should go home.”

  “Of course,” Thorvald said after a moment. “But there’s the question of the Sea Dove.”

  “Surely we’ve earned the price of a bit of wood by now,” Sam said. “We need to ask for it at least.”

  “So ask.”

  “Me?”

  “Why not?”

  “You ask. This is your trip, not mine. Ask for wood, ask if he’s your father, ask why he takes a whip to fellows who just want a peaceful life with their nets and their family. You brought me and Creidhe into this; now it’s for you to get us out.” Sam’s voice cracked; he sounded quite unlike himself.

  “I have a suggestion,” Thorvald said. “What if you go back with your wood, see if all’s well with Creidhe, and get started on the repairs? I’ll come later, after—”

  “After the battle? You want to be in it?”

  “We’ve worked hard; these men have learned a lot. They can win, with what I’ve started, with what I can still do between now and midsummer. From what I’ve heard, it sounds as if all they have to do is retrieve one prisoner from over there. That can’t be so impossible.”

  Sam shouldered the bag of fish and turned up the path toward the shelter. “Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” he asked over his shoulder. “Can’t drag yourself away, not even with Creidhe’s life at risk. If you’re looking for proof of whose son you are, maybe you’ve found it.”

  “Oh come on, Sam,” Thorvald protested. His friend’s odd behavior was making him increasingly uneasy. “Creidhe’s life at risk? Hardly. If you weren’t sweet on her yourself, such a notion would never have occurred to you.”

  “Just ask him,” Sam growled. “Ask him tonight.”

  There was a simple pattern to that last part of the day, between dusk and bedtime. The season had indeed advanced and the working day was long. Sleep came quickly on the heels of supper. A sunken hearth ran down the center of the big hut, with a rudimentary opening above that dispelled some but not all of the smoke. A couple of lamps would be lit, and the men would gather around the fire where one or two cooked the day’s catch, generally in the form of a kind of fish stew containing a generous share of small, sharp bones. There might be a shred or two of vegetables in it, onion mostly, if someone had brought across a supply from one of the settlements. A pair of skinny lads ran between with messages sometimes. Thus one fellow learned of his mother’s death from a spring chill, and another that his cow had produced twin calves, one male, one female. Neither man asked for leave to return home. There was no leaving: not until the hunt was over.

  While supper cooked, there was some talk. Mostly it was the fishermen who exchanged comments, always concerning the day’s work, the catch, the weather, perhaps a joke relating to an obscure point of net-mending. Thorvald had noticed Sam’s popularity among this group, and he had observed, as well, that Sam was always very careful, giving nothing away, asking no probing questions. It came to him that perhaps he had underestimated his friend.

  The weapon makers spoke little. Already weary by the time they made their way up to the shelter, they sat hunched and silent, and when supper w
as ready, ate with no apparent enjoyment. To work, to feed, to sleep seemed no more than necessary steps in an existence set out for them in unchanging, joyless inevitability. Night after night Thorvald had sat among them and wondered if, given sufficient time, he, too, would become like this: no better than a beast yoked to a heavy load, obedient to the whip and the master’s call. He shuddered. Not true; already he was making them change. He was showing them new tricks, new ways. He would awaken a spark of something in their dull eyes no matter what it took; he would make his mark before he left here.

  Asgrim’s habit was to come down from his hut just in time to eat. There were no formal tables here, no benches, just the long earthen platforms that served as bed, seat and storage for a complement of close to thirty men. The only one to dwell outside this dark, smoky hall was the Ruler himself. Then there were his two personal guards, Hogni and Skapti, biggest and most silent of all. Broad-shouldered, stone-faced, they were brothers, and took it in turns to spend the night on duty outside the Ruler’s hut.

  Many times Thorvald had thought to seat himself close to Asgrim and engage him in conversation as casually as possible, to glean what clues he could as to the strange patterns of life and conflict in these islands. There were so many questions to be answered: what was the nature of this enemy, exactly? What numbers did they have? Did they truly use sorcery to aid their assaults, or was that account merely a product of superstitious fear? Why were Asgrim’s forces gathered here in a single place, sitting targets should the Unspoken move on them from the sea, as was said to be their habit? And why weren’t the men supposed to talk about it?

  All he needed to do was be there at the right time and ask. But somehow, wherever he placed himself, Asgrim was always on the other side, or farther down the hall, and seated between taller, bigger men so that Thorvald could not attract his attention. And with so many men gathered in so small a space, and sleep the foremost thought in all their minds, it never seemed possible to squeeze past the others and seek out the Ruler; indeed, there was something about the thick, smoky, defeated feeling of those silent suppers that quashed the urge for independent inquiry almost before one felt it.

  Thus Thorvald had let time pass: too much time. He did not think he had wasted it entirely. Over his bowls of tasteless stew he had done a great deal of observation. He knew now which men had Asgrim’s favor: Orm, Skolli and Einar. He knew which ones the Ruler watched with a little frown on his brow: Svein, Wieland and, rather oddly, Sam, who as far as Thorvald could see had not set a foot wrong since they got here. The man who had been beaten for stealing no longer attracted Asgrim’s attention; one lesson seemed to be enough.

  Tonight there was no choice. A pox on Sam and his silly anxieties. If Thorvald didn’t broach the question, his friend would probably do it for him, and get them both sent straight back before Thorvald could finish what he was doing; before he found out what he wanted to know. Tonight, then, he must confront Asgrim and hope he had the skill to make the man answer him.

  He waited. They sat; they cooked and ate the meal; they unrolled bedding, took off boots, settled in huddled heaps on the earthen shelves. One or two went outside to relieve themselves, and Thorvald slipped out behind them. Asgrim was on his way up to his solitary hut, the looming forms of Hogni and Skapti on either side. It was raining; in the west, lightning speared the dark sky, and after it there was a fierce, low rumbling like the angry voices of earth giants: Who dares disturb our slumber?

  “I want to talk to you,” Thorvald said crisply, stepping out of the darkness into Asgrim’s path. An instant later Hogni had him in a hold that did something exceedingly uncomfortable to his neck, while Skapti, breathing heavily, waved the point of a thrusting spear a handsbreadth before his eyes.

  “Ah, yes,” Asgrim observed easily, coming to a halt. The rain had increased to a steady, drenching downpour. “Thorvald. You’ve been quite a busy fellow.”

  Hogni moved one hand slightly: pain lanced through Thorvald’s neck and into his head, the kind of pain that suggests unconsciousness is not far off.

  “You kill men for daring to speak to you?” he gasped, trying to recall if Ash had ever taught him how to get out of such a grip. “No wonder your army is so small.” The spear point was so close to his face, he could see every pockmark in the iron, every drop of rain running across the dark metal. He would not close his eyes.

  “Should I retain you, do you think?” Asgrim’s tone was light. The spear point trembled.

  “Depends on what you want,” Thorvald wheezed. Ah, he remembered now: the bluff, then the knee, that was the trick. “To win your war, or merely to keep things the way they suit you.” His whole body went suddenly limp; for an instant, no more, surprise unclenched Hogni’s hands, and in that moment Thorvald rolled, striking his captor hard in the back of the knee with a well-placed kick. Hogni howled; Skapti thrust wildly with the spear.

  “Not quite quick enough,” Thorvald said breathlessly from where he now stood on the path behind the Ruler. “You’d want to counter that with a low, sweeping blow and follow up with your boot. If you like, I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  There was a roar from the two guards as they closed in from either side, teeth clenched, features contorted in identical grimaces of furious frustration.

  “That will be all, men,” Asgrim said calmly. “No likelihood of disturbance in such weather; this rain seems fit to drown us all. Go to your beds, now.”

  “But—” Skapti began, his eyes flicking toward Thorvald and back again.

  Asgrim looked at him.

  “Yes, my lord,” Skapti muttered. Hogni was flexing his fingers in a manner that suggested he had unfinished business with Thorvald, and it didn’t include lessons in hand-to-hand combat. The two bodyguards turned without another word and were gone into the night.

  “Well,” Asgrim said coolly, “I don’t imagine your plan was to stand here in the rain all night. Follow me.”

  Inside, the Ruler’s hut was comfortable without ostentation; the practical, solitary quarters of a seasoned war leader. It housed a stone table, two small benches, a sleeping platform where bedding was neatly rolled. There was a hearth with the remnants of a fire. Asgrim stirred the embers, set on dried cow dung, lit oil lamps with a taper. The light revealed further details: it seemed the Ruler was a man of learning, for there was a roll or two of parchment laid away in a niche beside knife, sword and bow. Asgrim fetched ale in a stoppered flask and poured it into a pair of crude clay cups.

  “Sit down, Thorvald. Get your breath back.”

  Thorvald sat. Now that he had his chance, he wasn’t sure where to begin. Get this wrong and he’d be thrown out with not a single question answered. Asgrim’s face was shuttered, his eyes unreadable. Still, he had asked Thorvald in.

  “A long time ago,” Thorvald said, “you explained a process to me. Question for question, answer for answer. I have many questions, and little information to give that can be of any interest to you.”

  Asgrim gave a murmur that might have been agreement. He seated himself opposite Thorvald, a cup between his hands.

  “How do we play this game?” Thorvald asked. “Perhaps you should begin, since we’re on your territory. What do you wish to know of me?”

  Asgrim’s thin lips twisted in a smile. “I see you have learned something after all. Well done. Why are you here, and what do you seek?” The question was rapped out, sudden as a blade in the dark.

  Thorvald’s heart thumped, then quieted in obedience to his will. “I believed I might have kinfolk here. I was told of a man who sailed to isles such as these, a Christian monk who spent many seasons away, and returned crazed by what he had experienced. I determined to voyage here and learn what it was that could confound even a man of faith. I hoped at the same time to discover whether my kin had indeed traveled this way, and what had become of them.”

  “Your companions?”

  “As I said, one came because the boat is his and I needed him to sail it. The other accom
panied us uninvited.”

  “So you told me.”

  “It’s the truth. I have no reason to lie to you. Indeed, I’m here tonight because Sam wants to leave. He wants his length of wood so he can go back and start mending the Sea Dove.”

  Asgrim nodded slowly. “And you?”

  “That’s three questions.”

  “Answer, and you shall have three of your own.”

  “It’s a long-winded way of exchanging information on the eve of a battle. No wonder—” Thorvald fell silent at the look in the Ruler’s dark eyes. This was a man who dispensed life and death as easily as he poured ale. “Very well,” Thorvald said. “I would prefer to stay on a while. I’ve been trying to work with the men, to improve the weapons and the way they use them. There’s a lot more I want to do here. I think I can help you. But not without better information. The men don’t talk much.”

  “The men obey. An army must obey.”

  “How long have you been fighting this war? How many battles have you actually won?” Thorvald forgot to be cautious. “These men are worn down, defeated before they even begin. They can see only failure. You can’t get the better of your enemy like that—”

  Asgrim raised his hand again. “Are these your questions?” he asked smoothly.

  To his annoyance, Thorvald felt a flush rising to his cheeks. He took a mouthful of the ale: it was of considerably better quality than the watery brew served down in the shelter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would be grateful if you would explain to me the nature of this enemy you call the Unspoken: his numbers, his location, his manner of attack. I cannot help you effectively unless I know that. Sometimes I hear of a battle and sometimes a hunt; how are the two connected? Who is the child we seek? I understand we have to travel out to the Isle of Clouds. Why is it we are so ill-prepared for close combat? These men don’t practice with sword or thrusting spear unless I make them. They seem to think it’s pointless.”