Foxmask

  Keeper moved after a little, rolling to his back, ensuring Creidhe could rest her head on his shoulder and curl against him in what comfort was possible on the earth’s hard bed. He pulled the blanket up over her. And very soon she was sleeping like a child herself, her arm stretched across his chest, her hair a soft whisper against his skin, her lips curved in a secret smile. But Keeper was wakeful, staring up at the sky, and his thoughts were on tomorrow, and on next summer, and on all the years to come.

  Creidhe woke early. For a little she lay still, considering the sensations in her body, the satisfied aching that was an entirely new feeling, Keeper’s warmth against her, his breath against her brow, stirring her hair. He was sound asleep, curled around her as if in protection. It was cold in the hut; the fire had died down to a mound of powdery ash. And Small One was nowhere to be seen, his blanket scrunched in a heap, his boots set neatly by the wall in his own corner. Shivering, Creidhe crept from under the covers, careful not to wake Keeper, and struggled into her skirt and tunic, slinging a warm cloak over the top. She thrust her feet into the small boots that had once been Sula’s. There were embers still glowing beneath the blanket of ash; she blew them to life, setting sprigs of dry heather on top to catch the first small flames. There was a supply of driftwood at hand, and turf as well; Keeper was a good provider.

  She shuddered, thinking how it would have been if her visions had proved true and he had fallen to Asgrim’s forces in the hunt. How could she have managed, alone here with the frail child through the winter? The thought of that was terrifying. Keeper was a man, strong and capable, skilful and clever. Above all, he possessed a powerful will for his self-appointed mission. But he had been twelve years old when he came here, a child himself. How could one ever comprehend such fierce commitment, such single-minded dedication to this life of struggle and sacrifice? He had lived it alone, but for his small, silent kinsman: alone all these long years with the wind and storm, the stark cliffs and the pounding seas. Perhaps it was the blood he bore, his mother’s blood, that made such endurance possible. She had been of the Seal Tribe, that race held in both awe and fear by the folk of Creidhe’s homeland. The folk of the Seal Tribe were alien, with their ability to exist on land or in the ocean, their deep fear of iron, their bodies that were similar to those of men and women, yet subtly different. But for his strange, long fingers, his pallor and his deep, changeable eyes, Keeper seemed every bit a man; the joyful completion Creidhe had experienced last night as she savored every corner of his lean, muscular body, the way the two of them had fitted so perfectly together, moving as one, seemed to prove it without doubt. Perhaps he was more Asgrim’s son than his mother’s child, though he would never recognize that himself. It was not Keeper who was Other here, but Small One, the seer whose mother had borne the blood of both Seal Tribe and Long Knife people, and whose many fathers were the men of the Unspoken, those who would claim him as Foxmask and make him theirs forever by the act of ritual maiming.

  A chill passed through Creidhe as she knelt there. The fire had caught the kindling and was burning with a reassuring brightness, setting a warm, rosy light on Keeper’s pale features as he slept on. The hunt was over. They were safe for now, this small family so newly yet so unmistakably hers. But there would be other summers and other hunts. Right now, she would feel happier if Small One were back indoors where she could keep an eye on him. It must be freezing cold outside, and he hadn’t put his boots on. What was he doing?

  She went out into the morning. The mist clung low across the land; she could see for a certain distance, perhaps twenty paces, before the white curtains of damp veiled the hillside completely. Small One, in his doglike form, stood a little way down the slope, ears pricked up as if in anticipation. Creidhe opened her mouth to call him, then bit back her words as shock froze her in place. Emerging through the shreds of mist was a man, a tall, fair-haired man whom she recognized, though the broad cheeks and sunny smile that had marked Sam’s countenance in Stensakir were now replaced by a leaner, harder look, the look of a warrior. He had a spear in his hand, and it was plain from the way he gripped the shaft that he had learned how to use it. Small One turned tail and came pattering back toward her. And now, behind Creidhe and to the left, there was a tiny sound: a single footstep on the small stones of the hillside. She turned and met Thorvald’s gaze where he stood not four paces away, bow drawn, mouth set grim, dark eyes wide in chalk-white face, their shocked expression no doubt a perfect reflection of her own. For what was this feeling that surged through her, delight or anguish? Sweet reunion or sheer, mindless terror?

  They spoke as one, unsteadily, uttering each a single word: the other’s name. Behind her Creidhe could hear Sam striding toward them, less careful now to be quiet; she could hear Small One’s little, quick feet. An instant later Keeper was in the doorway of the hut, a look on his face that silenced all of them, for he had the appearance of some ancient, terrible force of nature, dark and implacable. He was completely naked, without weapon or defense, and yet Creidhe saw Thorvald take a step backward. At that moment the image seized her once more, chill and inevitable: it was not yesterday, in the hunt, it was now, this morning, it was true after all, the terrible vision the ancestors had shown her. One night, she had been given, and now the dark thing would unfold, and Small One would be taken. . . . Thorvald’s grip on the bow had not wavered for an instant, not even at that moment of heart-stopping recognition. Now she saw his fingers move slightly, preparing to release the arrow straight into Keeper’s chest. Now she saw the subtle movement of Keeper’s right hand, where he held a little loop of leather, a single round stone, all there had been time to grab as he had awoken suddenly to danger. Behind her, Sam’s steps drew closer. Small One now scampered around Creidhe’s feet, apparently heedless of peril.

  Even the ancestors must be wrong sometimes, surely, surely they could not be so cruel? It must be possible to change things. Why else had she felt such compulsion to come on this voyage? Thorvald’s fingers tightened on the bowstring; Keeper’s hand came back, ready to release the missile. Creidhe’s voice was suddenly released.

  “No!” she screamed, and flung herself forward, oblivious to all but the need to stop them, to save them, to save all of them, whatever the cost. She felt herself moving as if on wings, as if on the breath of the west wind, her hands outstretched, her feet hardly touching the earth, such was her fierce urgency. Then there was a searing pain in her left arm, and a numbing blow to her head, and she sank into darkness.

  Thorvald was a leader. Even in such a moment, he would not allow himself to forget that. Creidhe lay crumpled on the stony ground. Blood flowed from her arm, where his own arrow had ripped her flesh, but it was that cleverly hurled stone that had felled her; she had taken the missile meant for him. Sam’s face was contorted with anguish, he was about to cry out. With a sharp, economical gesture, Thorvald silenced him. They had a moment to act, no more. For the enemy was off guard. As Creidhe fell, the fellow had uttered a terrible cry like a wild creature’s howl of pain, and leaped to her side, heedless of Thorvald and Sam closing in on him. Now he crouched over her limp form, cradling her head, his long fingers touching the place where the stone he had flung with his cunning sling of leather had struck her hard on the temple, raising a swollen, angry lump on the pale skin. His eyes seemed blinded by shock. His hands were visibly trembling, as if what he had done was the worst act of evil imaginable: as if he had brought down a goddess. Beside him the little dog stood watching, round-eyed and still.

  Thorvald glanced at Sam and gave a nod. Sam took two steps forward, and as the wild-looking fellow started, awareness returning suddenly to his strange eyes, and began to rise to his feet, the butt of Sam’s spear struck him on the back of the head and he sprawled senseless on the ground. The wind stirred his matted hair, its chill touch merciless in the cold, sharp light before dawn. The doglike creature moved closer, whining, and licked the fallen man’s white face.

  “Creidhe!” gasped Sam, cast
ing the spear down, rolling the warrior’s body away with his foot and kneeling to lift her in his arms. “Odin’s bones, she was alive all this time, and a prisoner here!” He put his fingers to her neck, and bent his ear to her mouth. “Sweet Freya be praised, she’s still breathing! Quick, we must stop this bleeding. What on earth did she think she was doing?”

  Thorvald blinked back sudden tears. She was alive. His heart was seized by such a confusion of feelings he could not begin to make sense of them. Easier, then, simply to do those things he knew must be done. Even now, even after this, there was still a mission, and he could not move on until it was completed. “The seer,” he croaked. “We have to find the seer . . .”

  “What?” Sam’s voice was a snarl. He was tearing a strip from his shirt, big hands deft, binding the slicing wound on Creidhe’s arm, taking off his cloak to wrap it around her shoulders. Her hair, unbound, flowed across his knees like a stream of gold.

  “We have to find him. He must be close. I’m not leaving here without him.” Turning his back, Thorvald stooped to enter the little hut, where a neat fire burned between stones. The interior was crude but bore signs of domesticity: there was fish ready for cooking, cloaks hanging from the walls, pots and pans. There was space for sleeping. He saw the way that was laid out, the tumbled blankets where it was clear two had lain but recently, and room for another on the far side, one that wore child-sized boots. He thought of Creidhe lying here at the mercy of that feral creature. All the evidence told him she had not only been captive in this hovel, but had been used: there was no doubt this primitive pallet had been the place where the fellow had had his satisfaction of her. Fury arose in him, nearly overwhelming the discipline he had learned to impose upon himself. He slung the bow on his back and drew the dagger from his belt. The enemy was only one. Deep inside him, he had sensed it all along. This man had condemned that honest soldier, Hogni, to a slow, cruel end by poison. This wretch had stolen Thorvald’s dearest of friends, Creidhe, his loyal shadow, whom he had disregarded so many years, had snubbed and snarled at, not recognizing how he loved her until he believed her dead. And all this time she had been here, alive, and captive to this spawn of evil. This wicked creature had taken her, he had despoiled her, he had treated an innocent girl like any common whore. And now he would die. How could it be otherwise?

  Thorvald stepped out of the hut. The fellow still lay motionless with the little dog standing anxiously by. Sam was wrapping Creidhe in his cloak. The expression on his face made Thorvald uneasy, for it was the look of a man who has made a decision and has no intention of having his mind changed for him.

  Thorvald knelt by the fallen warrior, knife in hand. This would be instant: a simple drawing of blade across throat, and he would be avenged for Creidhe, for Hogni, for Svein and Alof and Helgi, for all of Asgrim’s men who had died in the long years of the hunt. Easy: quick. The little dog whined again, staring at him with its odd, deep eyes in the neat, triangular face. By Thor’s hammer, it was like no dog he had ever seen in his life, nor like a cat, nor yet quite like any creature he could recognize. It was like something from a tale of magic and mystery, something that did not belong in the world of men, old, wise, strange beyond belief . . . Thorvald felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck and a chill course through him as he gazed into the liquid depths of those eyes. By all the gods, he had it, the victory was his . . . He found he had been holding his breath, and let it out in a long, gusty sigh. His hand, clutching the dagger, was shaking like a leaf.

  “Get on with it!” snapped Sam. “We’re off back to Council Fjord and then straight home. Creidhe’s hurt, and she’s cold, and I’m getting her back to the Light Isles if I die in the attempt. A pox on your seer. I’m not giving him an instant more of my time. If you’re going to finish that fellow off, just do it, will you, and let’s be away down to the boat, for there’s still a nightmare crossing ahead of us.”

  Sam was right, of course. By some miracle, Creidhe had been restored to them, and he had another chance to get things right, to tell her how he felt, to make up for his errors . . . They must get her to safety. He must act swiftly, and go. Thorvald looked down at the fallen man’s face, a strong, thin face marked by a hard jaw, a tight mouth still grim in unconsciousness, long dark lashes and unkempt hair. He laid his knife against the naked throat, the fine knife his men had made for him in token of his leadership, a sign of their respect and trust. What was he waiting for? He was a warrior, wasn’t he? This should be as easy as slaughtering a goat or sheep, easier in fact, since the victim lay passive, offering his flesh for the sacrifice. But Thorvald’s hand would not move. For in those grave, disciplined features was the shadow of another man’s face; this wild fellow bore the mask of Asgrim in the jaw, the cheek, the strength of the bones. This was the Ruler’s son. This was the youth who had stolen Foxmask long ago: the boy they said had been a dreamer, with no talent for the games of war. That boy had survived to become a man, and in the process had taught himself to be a whole army. Such was the strength he had possessed deep within: a fortitude to marvel at. Furious hatred and a reluctant admiration warred in Thorvald’s heart. For what he had done, this man deserved death. There was no doubt what Skapti or Einar or Skolli would have done here; would expect Thorvald to do. But his hand was frozen; he could not make the weapon do its work.

  “Come on!” yelled Sam, an edge in his voice.

  The doglike creature sidled closer. It was touching Thorvald’s knee; he could feel a faint shivering coursing through its body, almost like the movement of a body of water, a trembling, constant vibration. Thorvald knelt motionless with the knife in his hand. If this was Asgrim’s son, it was at the same time his own brother. He felt no bond of kinship; indeed, he felt disgust, loathing, and a will to make an end of the fellow and his acts of wanton violence. But he could not kill his own brother. To do so was to prove himself indeed no better than the wretched Asgrim who had sired the two of them, for was it not in penance for the act of fratricide that Somerled had been cast out of the Light Isles forever, to make his way by star and skerry to this distant corner of the world? Here he had wrought his accursed life anew as Asgrim, Ruler of the Isles.

  Thorvald slid his dagger back in its sheath and rose slowly to his feet. He was not his father. He was his own man, and would make his own choices. As for this half-brother who had caused such upheaval and loss, this savage creature who had stolen Creidhe from him, he must take his own chances.

  “Thorvald!” yelled Sam. “I’m leaving right now, and if you’re not at the boat by the time I’m ready to sail, Creidhe and I are going without you. I mean it.”

  He did, too; there was no denying the new note in his voice, a note of determination and of hope reborn, despite the voyage ahead. There was hope for himself as well, Thorvald thought, watching the strange, small creature as it nudged the fallen man with its nose and looked up as if for some reassurance. There were good grounds for hope. He had Foxmask. Astonishingly, Creidhe was alive. And across the Fool’s Tide, in Council Fjord, his men were waiting. The wind blew fiercely from the west, stirring the warrior’s wild, dark locks and touching his naked, white body with its chill fingers. He’d hardly needed to consider the knife, Thorvald thought; the weather would finish the fellow off soon enough if he was left out here.

  The little creature whined. Down the hillside Sam had disappeared into the mist, carrying Creidhe in his arms.

  “Oh, all right,” muttered Thorvald, not sure whom he was addressing. Over the time of preparation for the hunt he had become stronger. Last spring, he would not have been able to drag a grown man into the hut as he did now, without becoming breathless from the effort. He laid the fellow down in the spread blankets, trying not to think of Creidhe, for if he did that, his anger might get the better of him again. He covered the man up with what was at hand, cloaks, blankets, skins, other items of clothing. He laid some turf on the fire. That was enough; he owed the fellow nothing, brother or no brother. The lad had chosen to c
ome here, after all; let him take his chances on the Isle of Clouds, if he liked the place so much. As for the fierce tribe, the savage army Asgrim had believed he faced, one man, his own son, that was all it had taken, one man and the island. Thorvald would not tell the others the truth about that; why lessen what must be their joy at achieving the longed-for victory?

  Now he must go; Sam’s threats had not been idle ones. He stooped to gather up the small creature, but it had edged away now and was tugging at something that lay by the wall, a strap or belt. No, it was a bag, neatly packed and fastened shut: a familiar bag, the very one Creidhe had carried with her from the Light Isles, holding the unlikely and foolish items she had chosen to bring, notably her embroidery linen and colored wools. Who but a girl would think it appropriate to carry such trifles on a journey to the end of the world?