Foxmask (24 page)

“Such as Ruler.”

Asgrim nodded. “Indeed, though not a leader such as we appoint from among the Long Knife people. Foxmask does not bring his folk forth to war. He sings his wisdom: they listen, and follow the path he decrees.”

“It sounds harmless enough,” Thorvald observed, thinking that, indeed, it sounded not so very different from the ways of Nessa's people, another ancient race of island dwellers. Such folk cling to the lore of earth and sky, ocean and fire. Privately, he thought them doomed to be overrun some day by people more flexible in their ways, more amenable to change. This was not a sentiment he would express before his mother. He would not speak of it to Eyvind, who, Norseman though he was, was fiercely committed to the preservation of his wife's ancestral culture. He had never aired his views to Creidhe, a child of two races.

“Harmless it was,” Asgrim said, “until Foxmask died. That was some time ago. I was a young man then, my son and daughter mere children. It is the custom of the Unspoken, after such a death, to select another to take the seer's place. That they do with some ceremony. But this time there was no suitable candidate. There is a circumstance of birth by which Foxmask is chosen; a test follows to determine his aptitude. If no member of the tribe fits this mold, the Unspoken are without ancestral wisdom, without the guidance they need to lead their lives, to survive in this harsh realm. There was no visionary among their own, not this time; and so they sought elsewhere.”

“I see,” Thorvald said softly, never taking his eyes from Asgrim's hard features, his tight mouth. “A child? This is what you spoke of, the stealing of children?”

Asgrim shook his head. “We did not know why they had begun to attack, to sink our fishing boats, to raid our coastal dwellings, to howl their songs in the night and fill our heads with evil dreams. We called for a council; I sailed to the shore of the Isle of Shadows, with two others, and entreated the Unspoken to sit down with us and explain themselves, to try for an agreement. They drove us off with hurled stones and arrows of bone, with witching music that set our minds full of foul visions. After that we prepared ourselves for war. We countered their raids as best we could; I taught my own folk what I knew of battlecraft, and we tried to protect our fields, our stock, our boats. We lost many good men. The pity was, I did not understand what they wanted until they took her.” The Ruler's control was slipping now; his voice shook, and lines of pain bracketed the severe mouth.

“Your daughter?” Thorvald ventured.

Asgrim nodded. “My only daughter. Not as seer: Foxmask must be of their own people. They stole my girl away by night. We could not fetch her back: wind and tide defeated us time after time. They used her, Thorvald. Waited only until she had her first bleeding, then passed her from man to man, so that the child she bore would be the son of each of them, the true offspring of the tribe. That is the hideous practice they follow. Sula bore a son for them, and died of it. Little matter to the Unspoken. They had their seer: Foxmask was reborn.”

Thorvald cleared his throat. He had come here in search of answers; this was almost more answer than he was ready to hear. No wonder the Ruler seemed a little odd at times. This was a weight of grief and guilt to rival the burden Somerled had borne with him from the Light Isles.

“I'm sorry,” he said, knowing any words he might summon would be inadequate. “You pursue this war now for the sake of vengeance? To make them pay for your daughter's suffering?”

Asgrim gave the bleakest of smiles. “No, Thorvald. I've no wish for more men to die simply so I can be at some peace with my conscience. My daughter is gone; no amount of blood-letting can bring her back. If it were up to me, I would seek to negotiate, to make terms for truce. Indeed, I have already attempted that and will do so again. It is not I who desires to continue this conflict, but the others: the tribe of the Unspoken.”

“But why? They have what they wanted, their seer—”

“Not any longer. For a little, there was peace of a kind, a peace that simmered
with unease. Then, suddenly, Foxmask was gone. Stolen. The seer was removed to a place where only the boldest or most foolish could seek him. He was encircled by a barrier of protection only the cleverest and most devious could penetrate. It is so to this day. The Unspoken cannot fetch him back: the place where he is kept is forbidden to them. To set foot there is to transgress their oldest law. Foxmask himself lies above and beyond law; he may set his foot where he chooses. They say he still lives, somewhere on that western isle, and since their attacks on us are based on that belief, we must honor it, though his survival would be something of a miracle. The island is perilous, surrounded by the most treacherous of waters, studded with tricks and traps, a place we dare visit but once a summer when a particular conjunction of wind, tide and time occurs. And yet we must attempt it. Until we fetch him back, the Unspoken punish us by stealing our hope: by robbing us of our newborn.”

“What? But that's outrageous! How can you stand for that? Surely your warriors can prevent it, it would be easy—”

“This is a matter that goes beyond the merely physical,” Asgrim said levelly. “It cannot be halted by sword or spear. A curse has fallen upon the Long Knife people. There is no longer a need for the Unspoken to set foot on our land, or to raise a hand against us. The voices come, howling in the night. In the five years since Foxmask was taken, not one of our infants has lived to see a second sunrise. Unless we return the seer to his true home, our folk are doomed.”

Thorvald could think of nothing to say. He had hoped to hear of weapons tonight, of campaigns, of strategy and advantage. To that kind of conversation he could have contributed much. This, this seemed like something from an ancient tale, part truth, part bizarre imagining. And yet it was conveyed as baldly as if Asgrim had been presenting him with tomorrow's plan for combat training. “Who took the seer away?” he asked. “And who guards him now?”

“Who took him? A meddling fool who should have known better. That was a dark day. We had believed the time of death and suffering over at last. That it was one of our own who betrayed us cut very hard. Because of him, Sula's sacrifice was in vain. To the Unspoken this punishment is appropriate, I suppose—their child is taken, so they will rob us of ours, each and every infant, until we find Foxmask and return him to his true home. Without their seer the Unspoken are a dangerous force indeed. Without his control, their wild music wreaks such havoc as could drive us all mad. They cannot govern themselves, it seems, unless this living heart beats again to the pattern of
their ancient lore, safe in the midst of their strange circle. I have witnessed this myself, in my futile efforts to treat for peace. There is one elder of the Unspoken who, in the past, was his people's voice at the council, and spoke wisely, wild man though he is. Given the right conditions, covert meetings can be arranged between this elder and myself; there are rules to be followed, and it's somewhat risky. I've been there once or twice with Skapti. Through this man I was informed of Sula's fate, of the stealing away of Fox-mask, of the curse they had laid on us until the child was returned. The end is very close for us if we cannot achieve that soon. This is the purpose of our preparations, Thorvald: to travel to the Isle of Clouds, to do battle, to rescue this visionary and take him back where he belongs.”

“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.