Foxmask

  “Forgive me,” Thorvald said, wondering if he had missed something, “is there yet another tribe on this Isle of Clouds whom you must fight to reach the seer? Isn’t this Foxmask still quite young? Wouldn’t it be easy to go and get him, tricky currents notwithstanding?” Already, he could see himself sailing there, accomplishing the task with ease, returning triumphant to set all to rights. Sam would help him; Sam liked children.

  “Easy? No, Thorvald, it is far from easy. For five summers my men have pursued the hunt, on those few days each year when conditions make it possible. Our losses have been severe. The one we seek is guarded by an elemental force of great strength. You would not call such a task easy if you knew the Isle of Clouds.”

  “Asgrim,” Thorvald asked with some hesitation, for there were further secrets here, old hurts that ran very close to the bone, “who was it that stole Foxmask away? And why?”

  At that moment the howl of the wind and the drumming of the rain were joined by a rapping at the door and the sound of a loud, hoarse voice: Skapti’s, or maybe Hogni’s. “My lord! A messenger, my lord!”

  After that, things moved very quickly. Two rain-soaked men were admitted and conversed briefly, breathlessly and inaudibly with the Ruler as their clothing dripped onto the floor around them. Skapti stood by the half-open door, glaring at Thorvald. All that could be heard of the message was a woman’s name, Jofrid, and something about being early. Whatever the meaning of the messengers’ words, it brought a look to Asgrim’s face that Thorvald found disquieting: the furious glare of a man thwarted in some long-held plan. An instant later the Ruler could be seen to draw a deep breath and force his expression to calm. He was rapping out orders even as he reached for his cloak, his heavy boots, his sword and spear.

  “Skapti!”

  It seemed the guard was to accompany Asgrim wherever he was going on this night of screaming wind and drenching rain. The Ruler was heading out the door before he remembered Thorvald. He turned.

  “I’m called away, as you see. I’m sure I need not tell you that what we discussed isn’t for open airing. The men know of it, but we don’t speak of it; such talk only unsettles them. Now, Thorvald. Somewhat to my surprise, the men do appear to be responding to your efforts at training them. That can only be to our advantage in the hunt. I want you to continue, though in my absence it’s Einar who’s in charge. If you can work with him, so much the better. As for Sam, see if you can persuade him to stay on a bit. He’s a big, strong fellow. I’m sure you understand how useful that might be. Give him my guarantee he’ll get home safely when all this is over.” With that, Asgrim vanished into the night, shadowed by the looming form of his bodyguard. The messengers looked at one another, pallid and wheezing. Both seemed fit to drop with exhaustion right where they stood.

  “Come on,” Thorvald said to the two men, moving to snuff the lamps and damp down the small fire. He was tempted to stay in the hut to investigate what further secrets Asgrim’s private quarters might reveal. On the other hand, Hogni was around somewhere, and Thorvald could still feel the imprint of large fingers on his neck. “You need a bite to eat and a warm place to sleep. Follow me.” It did not feel at all odd to be assuming a kind of responsibility. Indeed, it seemed to Thorvald entirely appropriate.

  There was no need to talk to Sam, for the very next day Sam came back early from the boats with his arms around the shoulders of two other fellows and his right foot swollen up so badly they had to cut his boot off. An anchor had fallen, or been dropped: a nasty accident. Sam was considered to have been extremely lucky. There were no broken bones as far as anyone could tell, but the injury was painful and he could put no weight on the foot. Orm applied the pungent green salve that seemed to be a universal remedy; Hjort wrapped a length of cloth around the injured extremity. Sam took his misfortune with a good will, as he did most things. It did not need to be spelled out that there would be no walking back to Brightwater, let alone Blood Bay, for quite some time. It was almost as if the fates were conspiring to keep them at the encampment; the timing of the accident made Thorvald uneasy, but he said nothing of that to Sam. In his turn, Sam did not ask Thorvald about the night before, and Thorvald welcomed his restraint. He was far too busy for explanations.

  With Asgrim away and Skapti with him, a brief opportunity presented itself. Hogni remained in camp, and Hogni’s attitude to Thorvald could not be described as cordial. Hogni’s role was critical, and time was short.

  There were three ways of tackling this. One, Thorvald could wait for Hogni to challenge his authority, fight as well as he was able, and hope to salvage some kind of reputation from it. If he survived. Two, he could ignore the look in Hogni’s small, angry eyes, and offer to share a few of the tricks he’d learned from Ash, with him as well as the rest of them. That might perhaps win the bodyguard over. There was another choice, and that was the one Thorvald took: the first step in a strategy that, if he played it right, would carry him all the way to the Isle of Clouds.

  They had a good stock of the new thrusting spears now. The first type was based on a model Thorvald had seen Eyvind using, the blade an elegant leaf shape with a ridge down the center and what might be called wings at the base. This could be inserted effectively and withdrawn with relative ease. The second was narrower, a long triangle with a very precise tip. Thorvald had explained the particular advantage this offered at close quarters when one’s opponent was wearing protective clothing, such as a mail shirt. This had drawn blank looks. Or a leather jerkin, Thorvald had added, like the garments Hogni and Skapti possessed. He demonstrated how the spear point could be inserted neatly into a vulnerable spot, its small head being designed for that purpose. Of course, a man needed to develop some skill in its use. He would show them.

  A day or two after Asgrim’s departure, Thorvald made a request of Hogni. Before he did so, he made sure everyone was within earshot. The men needed practice at hand-to-hand combat, he said, to sharpen them up for what lay ahead and to test the weapons properly. You couldn’t expect your enemy to stand still like a straw man. Everyone knew Hogni and Skapti were the best among them at close fighting. Hadn’t Thorvald witnessed it himself, not so long ago? Indeed—he rubbed his neck ruefully—he’d taken away more than one little reminder. The men laughed. So, he told them, from now on they should have a few bouts every day, in pairs, and watch one another and learn. Since Hogni was a talented fellow, he should be first to demonstrate what he knew.

  Hogni grunted and spat on the ground. There was no telling if this signified agreement or derision.

  “Thing is,” Wieland said diffidently, “there’s not much of it. Hand to hand, I mean. Even on the island. Not much close work. We never get the chance.”

  “Not that we wouldn’t welcome it, if it came to that,” Orm put in, scratching his chin. “But . . .”

  “Mostly arrows,” Knut said. “Took out six men last time. Then there’s the spears, and those other things . . .”

  “This time,” Thorvald made his tone confident, strong, the voice of a leader, “we’ll have better spears and better arrows. And we’ll know how to use them. This time we’ll attack with our wits as well as our weapons. We’ll take the battle right up to the enemy. This time we’ll be ready.”

  “So who’s going to fight Hogni, then?” One of the fishermen spoke up. There was a general muttering, a little laughter, a nudge here, a gesture there. At least this had their interest. “And when are we starting?”

  Hogni rose to his feet. He was a head taller than anyone else, and built like a plow ox. “Why not now?” he inquired, looking straight at Thorvald.

  “Why not indeed?” Thorvald gazed back steadily. “And since I was silly enough to come up with the idea, I suppose the first challenger has to be me. I just hope you don’t kill me. Skolli’s got a new batch of spearheads cooling up in the smithy, and I’d like to be here tomorrow to see if they’re any good. Well, now.” He summoned a nonchalant grin, though his heart was racing; Ash’s tuition may have been
thorough, but there were limits to what one might achieve against an opponent of such daunting size. “Shall we start?”

  It was not necessary to win, only to survive. That was just as well. His escape the other night had owed as much to lucky timing as anything, and Thorvald was uncomfortably aware of it. He was no more than average as a fighter; he had got by so far on his ability to learn quickly and his talent for observation.

  It was clear from the way Hogni flexed his arms and bent his knees in preparation that this giant had no intention of letting him off lightly. The men formed a circle around the two combatants. Thorvald caught a glimpse of Sam at the rear, propped on another fellow’s shoulder and pale as goat’s milk. Orm was taking wagers; men jostled to get a better view. If he were to die today of a cracked skull or a snapped neck, Thorvald thought as he eyed the bodyguard’s massive arms, his formidable shoulders and little, vindictive eyes, at least he would have achieved one of his goals. This had woken them up; it had kindled a spark within them. That was exactly what he needed. He could use this, if he came out of it in one piece.

  It was important, he told himself as Hogni moved in, dodging low then levering up with a punishing shoulder, it was important to keep it going long enough to show a modicum of strength and skill; to provide excellent entertainment, so the men were both diverted and heartened. It would be good, he mused as Hogni threw him painfully down on knee and elbow, jarring every bone in him, it would be good to appear to be winning at some point, just to maintain a little credibility. He rolled, twisted, came up on his feet and managed a kick or two; Hogni grunted in surprise, perhaps pain, and took a step back. The main thing, Thorvald told himself as his opponent locked his hands together and prepared for a crippling, hammer-like blow to Thorvald’s neck and shoulder, the main thing, apart from not dying, of course, was that Hogni must win. The way this was going, that part of it wouldn’t be a problem.

  He parried the blow with his left arm; it was a bone-breaker, and he reeled away, fighting to keep a steady footing. Hogni roared and charged at him with head lowered, a battering ram of sheer muscle. The crowd howled with excitement.

  Thorvald jumped. The maneuver was not in Ash’s repertory: it came in a flash, the only possible option. He sprawled awkwardly on Hogni’s back, his legs around the bigger man’s neck, his face level with the fellow’s buttocks and staring into the tightly packed group of onlookers. Hogni straightened, hands fastening like clamps around Thorvald’s crossed ankles. Thorvald squeezed his thighs together and prayed. He was hanging now, his head against Hogni’s odiferous trousers, his arms flailing for purchase. He could hear Hogni wheezing, gasping, struggling for air as his assailant’s legs pressed ever tighter against his neck.

  The noise from the crowd was deafening. Some of them had started a rhythmic chant, Hog-ni, Hog-ni, but others shouted encouragement, “That’s the way, youngster!” and helpful suggestions, “Sink your teeth in, lad!”

  Hogni shook him, setting his teeth rattling. Hogni turned, spinning him, hazing his head with dizziness. Hold on, hold on . . . Hogni’s grip was weakening, Thorvald could feel the fingers starting to loosen, he could hear the whistle of Hogni’s agonized attempts to draw breath. The big man would be red in the face by now, close to passing out. Hogni staggered; the ground lurched below Thorvald’s head.

  Now was the time. Thorvald slackened the death grip his legs had on Hogni’s neck, grabbing his opponent’s belt to keep himself from falling. A moment, that was all that was needed: the bodyguard might be brutish in appearance, but he was a skilled fighter. Hogni sucked in a single, shuddering breath and whirled in place again, then with a deft twist of the arms, a stylish flick of the huge hands, he plucked the smaller man from his back and launched him through the air to land, with a painful thud, flat on his back in the very center of the circle.

  “Ouch,” said Thorvald after a moment. “I think you may have broken something.”

  A chorus of cheers erupted, and a renewal of the war cry: Hog-ni, Hogni. Many hands dragged Thorvald to his feet, dusted him off, ruffled his hair and slapped his shoulders. Men like a good loser.

  Straightening up, Thorvald found himself looking directly into the eyes of the warrior who had, inarguably, been the outright victor in this contest. Hogni’s face was an alarming shade of crimson; sweat streamed down his broad brow. He was beaming.

  “Not a bad trick, that,” he observed, putting out a large hand. “Not bad at all for a runt of an incomer. Couldn’t hold it, though, could you?”

  Thorvald shook the hand; even after that bout, Hogni’s grip was crushingly strong. “Ah, well,” he said, grinning back, “there’ll be other chances. I don’t suppose you’d teach me that lock you used on me the other night, would you?”

  As the sun slipped down toward the margin of sky and sea, Keeper sharpened his spears: heart of ancient tree, laid at his feet by ocean’s giving hands; splinter of bone, carven from a great, dead giant of the deep, taken with a prayer. Some were iron-tipped, wrenched from the bodies of those who would sully his shore and steal the precious thing he guarded. Small One feared the smell of iron; while Keeper scraped away, smoothing the metal, the other watched from between the stones, a pair of bright eyes in the shadows.

  “It is not the spear that kills,” Keeper said. “Man’s hands kill, holding the spear. Only tools, these.”

  Small One made no answer; his was a different kind of wisdom. Over the years, Keeper had learned to touch the edge of it, no more than that. He understood, at best, the mystery of Small One’s gift, and the peril it carried with it.

  The spears were propped in a line against the moss-cloaked rock wall; the setting sun touched them with a blood-red gleam. He had prepared them lovingly, to make of each death an act of cleansing, a sacrament, a cry of truth. Thus had he sworn, long ago, and he would keep faith until the day he died.

  In the shadows, Small One shivered.

  “Come,” Keeper said. “Fire; food.” He held out a hand, encouraging, and after a little, the other crept forth and came to wait by the fire pit, still trembling in sudden bursts, as if shaken by some unseen force. Keeper stirred the embers, remade the fire; the fish he had caught at first light lay ready, weed-wrapped, beside the flat cooking stones.

  As dusk fell, the flames set a warmth on Small One’s anxious features, and the shivering ceased. Under his breath, Small One began to hum, and the fire burned deep ocean green, and summer sky blue, and dark as the flank of an ancient whale. The stones grew hot. When they were ready, Keeper set the fish to cook on top, covered with ash and earth. The hum grew slowly to a song. The sky dimmed, and against the gray of the spring night faint stars appeared, distant, solitary, sweet as the notes Small One threw up to them, call and echo, question and dazzling, perfect answer.

  SIX

  Three eggs today: a bountiful harvest.

  After breakfast, this slow calligraphy.

  Memory stirs, cruel as a knife.

  MONK’S MARGIN NOTE

  Some days, the Journey flowed under her fingers, so that it seemed to make itself. If she squeezed her eyes almost shut, she could see its figures moving, changing, living a life of their own within the confines of its narrow borders, its dyed-wool landscape, and yet possessing a freedom beyond that offered to folk who walked their way on solid earth and breathed plain air. Some days, she was too dispirited to attempt so much as the threading of a single bone needle, the fashioning of a solitary stitch.

  They hadn’t come. Asgrim had promised, and they hadn’t come. Creidhe knew she was behaving like a child thwarted of some long-anticipated treat, but she could not shrug off the gloom that had settled over her, nor the anger that went with it. Asgrim had been kind to her, taking time from his busy day to sit down and tell her everything Thorvald had been doing: rebuilding walls knocked down by winter storm, helping ferry much-needed supplies to isolated communities, digging drains. That had made her smile; Thorvald possessed a certain sense of his own importance and was not known to be
especially forthcoming where he felt himself overqualified for a task. Such hard and basic work would be good for him.

  Their piece of wood was already more than earned, Asgrim had assured her, and the young men simply helping with some final duties before returning to collect her and tend to the Sea Dove. They had made themselves well liked with their easy manner and general willingness. Both had mentioned her often, with evident concern and obvious affection. Asgrim had undertaken to let them know she was quite well and perfectly safe. A pity she had had to witness what she did with Jofrid; it was a difficulty caused by the other tribe, a scourge and a sadness, but not something visitors need concern themselves with. The Long Knife people were used to it. Some day they would find a solution. She must forget that, put it behind her. It could be no more than two days, at most three, before Thorvald and Sam returned, Asgrim had said. Creidhe would be doing him a personal favor if she would keep Jofrid company for that small time, and perhaps stay on while her young friends were mending their boat. Gudrun would like that, too, and the other women. They had become fond of her.

  So she had waited, two days, three, walking to the western end of the settlement each morning, eyes scouring the hillside in vain for signs of life beyond straggle-coated sheep and scrawny goats. Asgrim departed, on his way back to wherever they were; his bodyguard, a very large man, padded silently at his side. This fellow had looked Creidhe up and down thoroughly and expertly with his small eyes, as if she were a prize heifer or likely breeding sow, until Gudrun scolded him out of her cottage. Now he was gone, and the Ruler with him, and it was not two days or three, but seven, nine, fifteen, another full turning of the moon, and Thorvald still did not come back. Sitting in the workroom, plying distaff and spindle as Jofrid combed the fleece in preparation, Creidhe was forced to recognize what it was she felt. Thorvald had not met up to her expectations. He had been unkind to her, and to Sam. They were both used to that; it happened often, and could be excused because Thorvald did not understand how it made them feel. He had left her behind. She could forgive that as well; Sam had known how ill at ease she was, his concern could be seen in his eyes, but Thorvald had believed her blithe assurances that she didn’t mind a bit. This time, however, Thorvald’s selfishness could not be explained away. She had tried to do just that; indeed, she realized how many times she had made excuses for him, had justified what he did, simply so she could go on believing him perfect. The days passed and Thorvald stayed away. Yet he was free to return: Asgrim had told her so. That could only mean one thing. Thorvald didn’t care a bit how she felt. Indeed, he probably hadn’t given her a single thought since he walked away that morning with his staff in his hand and his eyes fixed on his personal quest. Not only did he disregard Creidhe herself, but her whole family, and Sam’s livelihood, and everyone who waited, back in Hrossey, to know if the three of them lived or died. What about Margaret? Had he spared any thought for her, for the pain and guilt she might be feeling, knowing that it was her action that had sparked this journey? Creidhe was forced to reassess Thorvald, and the result left her somewhat dissatisfied, not just with the object of her affections, but with herself as well.