Foxmask

  Asgrim had not come down yet. Hogni, too, was absent. Gods, they looked bad: Einar grim, Skolli glaring into his ale cup, Wieland pale and exhausted. As for Sam himself, the expression on his face could only be described as furious. Clearly, a day’s rehearsal with the tools of combat had done nothing to damp down his rage. Of course, most of them had been up drinking late into the night, Thorvald reminded himself as he sat down by Skapti on the earthen shelf. Still, he felt distinctly uneasy. It was becoming ever plainer that the sorrow, the disapproval, the animosity were directed squarely at himself.

  Little was said until the suppertime stew had been ladled from the great iron pot, the hard loaves split and shared. Thorvald found the food impossible to get down; his stomach was churning. Beside him Skapti ate stolidly. It was Einar, the senior among them, who broke the awkward silence.

  “So, Thorvald. Asgrim tells us you’re off home in the morning. Walking out on us.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Sam snarled under his breath.

  Thorvald said nothing; what was the point? They could not understand his reasons.

  “We couldn’t believe it,” Wieland burst out, surprising Thorvald, for this was a reserved man, a man of very few words. “That you’d turn against us right at the end, abandon us just like that. Especially now. How could you?”

  “I mean,” Skolli put in, “we know about the girl, terrible thing, upset all of us, that did. But I’d have thought that would make you keener to go on. Makes you one of us, in a way.”

  “That’s just it,” Orm said. “Now you know how we feel. We’ve all lost someone: friend, brother, father. Infant in the cradle. Look at Wieland there, his last was taken only this spring, the child they say your girl helped to birth. Sounds like she did her best for us. Why can’t you?”

  “Thought better of you,” growled Knut, the young fisherman. “Thought it was going to be different this time. Just goes to show, you can’t trust an incomer.” There was a general rumble of assent; its tone was ominous.

  “Anyway,” Sam said, “if I won’t go, you can’t go. Did you think of that?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I suppose I need to explain,” Thorvald said reluctantly. He had gone through this twice already; he felt a profound desire for it all to be over, and the Sea Dove on her way home, even though that voyage could only end in pain. “I don’t expect you to understand. It’s just—it’s just—” He made himself stop and draw breath; they were angry, and there were a lot of them. This was not a moment to come out with some rambling, scattered statement about his own feelings. It was time to demonstrate some real leadership, if he were still capable of it. He rose to his feet, spread his hands. “You know,” he said, “when I first came here I didn’t know what to make of you. So much strength, so little application; so much potential, so little will to develop it; so much ability, so little cohesion. There were leaders among you, but they were too dispirited to lead. There were skilled fighters wasting their time on guard duty. There was intelligence, but you weren’t using it. I saw an army without hope. Nonetheless, I saw an army.”

  The men were quite silent now.

  “Well,” said Thorvald, turning his head to meet each of them in the eye. “Look at you now. What a team! What a fighting troop! You’ve got cunning, cleverness and skill; you’ve got cooperation and discipline and the will to go on. You’ve got what gets a man up at dawn uncomplaining and out onto the practice field, even when his head aches fit to split asunder.” There was a faint ripple of laughter. “You’ve got leaders like Einar here, and Skapti and Hogni, who’ll drill you until you’re half dead on your feet, and stand by you through thick and thin. You’re not a dejected rabble anymore, you’re a force to be reckoned with. You’ve got what you never had before: the will to win. I didn’t give that to you, you did it yourselves, by hard work and determination.”

  There was a moment’s pause, then an outbreak of applause and a muted cheer. Thorvald noticed Asgrim and Hogni standing in the doorway, watching. Then Einar spoke.

  “Well said. It’s true, we’ve a far better chance this hunt, and we know it. And it looks like we’ve no choice but to put it to the test, since there’s no possibility of a truce now. But you underestimate yourself, Thorvald. There’s only one thing different this year from last year and the one before; that’s you. Without you, we’d have been the same—what was it you said—?”

  “Dejected rabble,” put in Skolli.

  “Exactly. You can’t leave us now. You’re the one who turned us around. You’re the one with all the bright ideas—attack from three points at once, doctor the weapons, disable the traps. We can’t do it without you.”

  “Told you,” Skapti murmured at Thorvald’s side.

  “Stay till after the hunt,” Einar urged. “Then we’ll load up your boat for you, and the two of you can be off home if that’s what you want.”

  “Or you can stay,” Skapti said, eyes flicking nervously in the general direction of Asgrim.

  “Or you can stay,” agreed Einar gravely. “What do you say, man?”

  There was a chorus of voices then, and many men pressing forward, each to make his own personal plea to Thorvald, all of them with that same look in their eyes, a look that made it starkly clear to him that what he had wrought here was far bigger than he had ever imagined. He had put hope in their hearts, had shown them a future without fear. Now he was taking it away again. He had not realized how closely he himself was bound up in their vision; had not dreamed of it until Skapti had uttered the fateful words, If you go off home, there’s no hope of changing things after. These men saw a future in which Asgrim was no longer leader. It was a future in which his own part was critical. It came to him that Asgrim would be a complete fool to let him stay.

  Thorvald raised a hand, and the hubbub quieted. “You forget, maybe,” he said, “that a friend of mine was drowned here. I take the responsibility for that on my own shoulders. I should have protected her and I did not, for my mind was all on our own work here and I had forgotten her. It’s my duty to take the news of her death home to her kin as soon as I can. That is the main reason why—”

  “We understand your grief, Thorvald.” Asgrim had stalked over to the top of the central hearth and now stood there wrapped in his dark cloak, his gaze sweeping them all. Total silence had fallen. “All of us have felt something of the same. In the Lost Isles, bereavement is our daily bread. But let us be practical. Your young friend is gone; we cannot bring her back. You’ve been away from home a long time, more than a season now. What difference can it make to Creidhe’s family whether you bring them this sad news now or after midsummer? None, I think. Let me add my own voice to those of the men. You speak only truth, and you speak with a rousing voice, a young man’s voice. We have sore need of true battle leaders here, those who can carry us forward with hope and purpose. Earlier, I accepted your decision to leave us, since I could hardly compel you to stay. But I regret that I did so. Can I not press you one last time to remain with us until after the hunt? We need you, Thorvald, you and Sam.” The Ruler gave a cursory nod in Sam’s direction. “Stay with us. Avenge your friend. Help us capture Foxmask. This, I believe, is the reason the gods sent you to the Lost Isles on the breath of the east wind. This, I am convinced, is your quest.”

  A cheer went up, louder this time. Someone put a cup in Thorvald’s hand. He had the curious sense that he was no longer in control of his own life, that some malign force had taken over and was playing games calculated only to wound him, and to highlight his weaknesses. He wanted so badly to say yes, and he knew he must not.

  “I don’t—” he whispered.

  Asgrim’s dark gaze met his across the fire. “Please, son,” said the Ruler. “Do this for me.”

  Thorvald felt his heart stop altogether and his breath cease. Despite himself, he gave a half-nod; it was enough. It was only after the men began to cheer again fit to lift the roof off the shelter, that the steady thud in his
chest resumed, and he sucked in his breath and stared back at Asgrim, wondering if this was just another cruel trick. The Ruler smiled, the merest twist of the lips. He said something more, but Thorvald missed it, for he was enveloped in a huge bear-hug—Skapti—followed by several vigorous slaps on the shoulder and a number of friendly punches in the arm, as all came to offer their heartfelt thanks. Tight-lipped Wieland had tears in his eyes. Hogni was beaming. Einar wanted to sit down then and there and discuss a tactical plan he’d been working on. Orm wanted to drink with him. And Skolli, it seemed, had a gift: a gift that had waited for this moment.

  “From all of us,” the smith said gruffly. “Blade’s my work, of course; saved a bit of good quality ore for it, better than the usual. Einar made the hilt; narwhal tusk, that is. Knut did the binding, being handy with knots. The fellows made the cord, polished it up, fashioned the sheath and all. Hope you like it. Kind of a thank you. You didn’t have to help us. Would have given it, even if you’d left. Better like this, though. You can use it on the hunt. Should be good luck for you.”

  Odin’s bones, now he had tears in his eyes. What was wrong with him? The knife was perfectly crafted; it sat in his hand as if it were an extension of his arm, finely balanced, elegant and plain. The hilt was warm, the yellowwhite bone conforming cleanly to his palm. Even the sheath was a thing of beauty, the leather tooled in a pattern of vines and creatures. He had not known these men had such skills among them. Last spring, they could not have done this; a man worn down by loss, a man who believes himself a failure, has not the spirit to create lovely things. Was it true? Was it actually he who had changed them thus?

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I’ll bear it with pride; I’ll lead you with still greater pride. You’re fine fighters, and fine friends. Now, did someone say something about ale?”

  After that he allowed himself to drink, which he had not done earlier, but he kept it in check, for a leader cannot afford to lose control. Once he saw Sam watching him with a funny expression on his face, but he decided to ignore it. Sam had wanted to stay, hadn’t he? Well, it looked like they were staying, at least until midsummer. So Sam had got what he wanted; there was no reason for him to look so disapproving. As for the Ruler, Asgrim had called him son. Probably just another sort of game, that. It was one that two could play. First he would lead the hunt and win back Foxmask. After that, Asgrim was going to find the rules had changed.

  On a western shore in Hrossey, soon after sunset, three women stood quietly around a little fire. One was young, slender, pale. Her expression was remote and grave; her brown hair hung down her back in a severe plait. She wore a skirt and long tunic of plain gray, and a little leather bag around her neck. This was Eanna, priestess of the mysteries, sister of Creidhe. Her eyes were closed, her arms outstretched; the smoke arose before her, twisting in visions of past, present and possible future.

  Margaret and Nessa stood together, waiting. They had sought answers; whether Eanna could give them remained to be seen. The wise woman did not usually come down to enact her rituals here; she dwelt alone in her sacred place, and if folk wanted truth, they came to find her. But Nessa, who was Eanna’s mother, was now well advanced in her pregnancy, and this child could not under any circumstances be put at risk. The piercing desire of Nessa and Eyvind for a son was well known, although it was not something they spoke of openly. And that was not all. Nessa was the last princess of the Folk, the ancient race of the Light Isles. Had the coming of the Norsemen not changed the islands forever, the son of such a princess would have been king here, for thus was the royal descent of the Folk determined, through its female line. There were no longer any kings in the Light Isles; nonetheless, this child would be a potent symbol of survival for the old race and the old faith. Nessa had given up riding; she would not travel in a cart, either, and it was too far for her to walk to Eanna’s sanctuary. So the wise woman had come down to the shore not far from the family’s dwelling, and had chanted her invocation as the sun set in the western sea. They had chosen this spot for a reason. Nessa believed the child would be at risk from the Seal Tribe, the ocean-dwelling race that had snatched small Kinart from her. She feared that above all as the infant grew apace within her and could be felt kicking vigorously against the confines of the womb. She was not sure the Seal Tribe had been adequately appeased by the taking of her only son, though when they had helped her, all those years ago, they had seemed to do so willingly, for love of the islands. She feared for the unborn babe, and she feared for Creidhe. On this occasion it had not seemed appropriate to seek out the ancestors herself; Nessa knew she lacked the detachment to see the vision and unravel its meaning calmly and coolly. Her daughter was the priestess now, and Eanna would bear this burden for her.

  Margaret did not set much stock in gods, nor in ancestral spirits. On the rare occasions when she had requested their help, she had found the result less than useful. Besides, she thought grimly, watching as the wise woman raised her hands slowly toward the violet-gray sky, she suspected she would have made just as many errors in her life even if she had possessed faith, even if Freya or Thor or one of the others had decided to take a hand in her affairs. She seemed fated to get it all wrong. So most of the time she simply performed the tasks required to live a life: overseeing the fields, the barns and byres, the neat, orderly home, the vegetable patch; setting her skilful hands to spinning and weaving, embroidery and the fashioning of fine garments. Before, there had been Thorvald: both boon and bane, her only child, Somerled’s child. Now he was gone, and she could not believe the emptiness he had left behind him, a gaping hole that spoke a truth she had long denied: she loved her son, no matter who his father was. He was hers, a good boy, a fine boy for all his flaws. She did miss Creidhe, her golden girl, her sunny apprentice; but it was Thorvald’s loss that cut deepest. So she had come, not only to support her friend, but knowing that news of Creidhe was also news of Thorvald.

  Out of sight, over a rise of ground, Ash and Eyvind were waiting to accompany them home. The wise woman’s rituals were not for men, though long ago, so long it seemed another life now, Eyvind had come very close, when Nessa and the old priestess, Rona, had sheltered him. Ash had been looking tired this morning. Margaret suspected he had not been sleeping. Perhaps she kept him awake, the way she paced in the night, her memories tormenting her. There was a solution of sorts, a simple one; these last dark times, she had found herself drawn toward it with an urgency she had never experienced before, not even in the early days of her widowhood, when she was little more than a girl. One would think the urgings of the flesh, the hot cravings of the body, would wither and die, denied so long. She was six-and-thirty, surely too old for passion, surely past being comforted so easily, with gentle hands and the hard, fervent body of a man. Nonetheless, the longing was there, and she seemed to be getting worse at smothering it. Stupid woman, she was, foolish woman with a grown-up son and a household to run, and a body that wasn’t admitting it was too late for everything to change. If she had not lain with Ash in all the eighteen years they had lived in the same house, why would she suddenly do so now? The answer came into her head instantly, quite uninvited. Because, after eighteen years, he is still there, and he still loves you.

  Eanna was emerging from her trance, moving her arms, her hands in slow gestures to awaken the clay self, humming a scrap of melody under her breath. Nessa was sitting on the rocks now; she grew easily tired, for the babe was large and she had ever been slight and frail in build. Eanna’s eyes snapped open: gray, wide, blind for a moment as she made the change from spirit-vision to ordinary sight. She blinked and bowed her head. Then, straight-backed, she sank to sit cross-legged by the small fire, and Margaret moved to pass her a cup of water. Nobody asked, What did you see? Answers to such questions come in their own time.

  Eanna drank deeply, shuddered, and cleared her throat. It is no easy matter to return from a profound trance; it exhausts the body and numbs the will.

  “This was confused,” sh
e told them eventually. “Many small images tumbled together. I could hazard a guess as to what was close to this time, rather than yet to come: Creidhe with a little ragged child on her knee, and colors in front of her, beautiful colors, as if all the hues of the four seasons rippled and changed around her, passing by. A man at her feet. Not Thorvald, not Sam, but another, wild-looking, though he sat quiet. They were alone; sea, sky and magic separated them from the world of men.” Eanna paused; she would not tell all, not even to her own mother. One must weigh the possible consequences of sharing such visions in their entirety. The seer bears a heavy burden.

  “Was Creidhe well? Did she look happy?” Nessa asked shakily.

  “Well enough. She looked tired, but not discontent. Thinner. The child was odd, a little birdlike creature.”

  Nessa nodded. “I, too, have seen that image.”

  Margaret did not speak; would not ask. She waited with her hands clenched together.

  “I saw nothing of Sam,” said Eanna. “Thorvald I saw, on a clifftop at night, weeping. And a white-haired man clad like a Christian priest. Darkness and light, a link of some kind . . . death and life in the balance. I saw men armed, and the spilling of blood.”

  “No sign, nothing to tell us when they will come home?” asked Nessa. “Not that I expect such neat answers; I have enacted this rite often enough myself to know its images are never easy to untangle.”

  “Folk singing at the birth of a babe,” Eanna told them in a whisper. “Not a joyous sound, but one fit to wrench the heart, an unearthly lament. Creidhe’s voice then, defiant, full of courage. And tears. That is all I can tell you. I felt Creidhe’s presence strongly. I know she has had no training in a wise woman’s arts, but it seemed to me she was trying to reach me, to tell me something. Perhaps that she loves us and holds us in her heart. Perhaps only that.”