Foxmask (14 page)

“And ours to you,” Thorvald said, matching the coolly courteous tone in which the fellow had addressed him. “You are the man they call Ruler of the Isles?”

“My lord,” Orm spoke quickly, his tone apologetic, “these are the two travelers who landed at Blood Bay. The woman—”

“You can leave us now.” The Ruler spoke without emphasis. A moment later the islanders were gone; obedience was evidently automatic and instant. The bodyguard made no move. “Please, be seated.” The Ruler motioned to a stone bench, and sat down himself on the one opposite. “Your names?”

Sam opened his mouth, but Thorvald was quicker. “We are from the islands to the southeast, which some call Orkneyjar, and some the Light Isles,” he said, never taking his eyes off the Ruler's. “As we told those who brought us here, we were blown off course, and our boat is damaged. I am Thorvald; my friend here is Sam.”

“Sam Olafsson of Stensakir. The boat's mine, and I'm keen to get her mended and sail for home. We were hoping—”

The Ruler lifted a hand; Sam fell silent. “And you?” the Ruler queried, his eyes intent on Thorvald. “His brother? That seems unlikely. His deckhand? I think not; your manner of speech suggests at least a rudimentary education. Your friend here gives his father's name with pride. Why do you not do the same?”

“From you,” Thorvald replied, his heart racing, “we have heard neither name nor lineage. The title of Ruler was not given you in the cradle, I imagine.” Sam jabbed him sharply in the ribs; he ignored it. “As for me, I am my own man and go my own way. I need no other identity.” He wished it were true; life would be so much simpler.

“I am Asgrim,” said the Ruler. “We are of all kinds here. We call our home the Lost Isles: a place of fugitives and outcasts, men who see the world beyond these shores through a veil of bitterness and mistrust. Not content with that, we war with one another.”

Rapidly, Thorvald rethought what he had been about to say. “Asgrim,” he mused. “A fine Norse name. Were your antecedents from that land? How long have folk dwelt in these parts? Where we come from, the existence of these isles is no more than the subject of conjecture: a thing of legend almost.”

Asgrim steepled his fingers, his dark eyes intent on Thorvald's face. “Einar mentioned your fondness for questions,” he said mildly. “I have some for you, and before you answer them, you'd do well to note who I am and what power I wield here. The Long Knife people obey me in all things. But for my guidance they would have perished long ago. This is an unforgiving land, and we are not its only dwellers. My people have much to contend with. They have learned to play a single game only, one they must play for survival: my game. While you remain here, you will do the same. The weak or disobedient cannot survive in such a place. Now answer me. Why have you come here? What do you want?”

There was a brief pause. “Sam spoke the truth,” Thorvald said. “We're here quite by chance; there was a storm, and our boat was carried to this shore despite our efforts to turn her back eastward. As for what we want, we made that plain yesterday: enough wood to mend the
Sea Dove
so we can leave here.”

“We understand wood's in short supply,” Sam put in. “That's no surprise, it's the same at home. We'll work at whatever you want doing until we earn the price of what we need. I've got tools; I can do the fixing, it's just the materials—”

Asgrim raised a hand again, cutting Sam's words short. “Yes, I heard the tale. Fishing, wasn't it? And I was told enough to recognize that you, at least, are no more than you seem. These folk know their own kind. But you,” turning to Thorvald, “you are another matter. Tell me, why would you bring a woman on such an expedition? A woman of exceptional beauty, and very young at that? I can think of only one reason, and it does not match what I read of you, nor of your friend here. Is the girl indeed only with you to warm your beds at night, each in turn?”

Sam flushed scarlet. “You insult her, and you offend me, my lord, with such a suggestion. Creidhe's a good girl; there's nothing of that sort going on, nothing at all, and I hope you make your men aware of it, because if anyone lays a finger on her—”

“Sam,” Thorvald warned, and Sam's torrent of words subsided to an angry muttering.

“I have heard no answers as yet,” Asgrim observed coolly. “The girl is this man's sweetheart, maybe, that a simple question provokes such a flood of emotion. She is comely, no doubt of it, shapely and fair. Such a woman cannot fail to draw the eye. Who is she?”

“A childhood friend, my lord.” Thorvald found himself somewhat taken aback at the repeated emphasis on Creidhe's looks. He had never thought of
her in those terms. Exceptional beauty? Hardly. Creidhe was—well, she was just Creidhe. He decided truth was the best option here. “She is sixteen years old, of high birth, and not yet promised to any man. Untouched.”

“And it'd better stay that way,” growled Sam.

“But, my lord, to be quite honest with you,” Thorvald went on, “the girl did not accompany us with our consent. Creidhe stowed away on our boat; by the time we found her, the storm was already bearing us far from our home shore. We had no choice but to bring her here with us. You know women; once they take an idea into their heads, there's no gainsaying them. Creidhe thought it would be an adventure, I suppose.”

“Really?” Asgrim's dark brows rose in derision. “A fishing trip? The women of your island must indeed be short of diversions.”

Thorvald managed a nonchalant shrug. “She's young,” he said. “She hardly knows what she's doing sometimes.” The sight of Creidhe on that little ledge, arms outstretched, eyes blind to the world, was imprinted starkly in his mind.

“So I've been told,” Asgrim observed. “An incident on the way here, and the woman nearly lost. That was very careless. I questioned those who accompanied her; there has been appropriate punishment. Such visitors are rare on our shores and must be protected.”

“Punishment?” Sam sounded quite taken aback. “It wasn't their fault. Creidhe did it herself. It was like something took hold of her, something none of us could see.”

“Indeed. It does seem to me the young woman is more than a little capricious: wayward, one might say. She presents a danger to herself, or to others.”

“Oh no!” Sam said anxiously. “Creidhe's a good girl, a reliable girl. Great little spinner and weaver, wonderful cook, the sort any man'd want for his wife.” He caught Thorvald's penetrating look and blushed violently. “It's this place,” he added with a note of apology. “Getting to her, you know, the strangeness and all. I mean, how does a peaceful cove earn the name Blood Bay?”

“A simple matter of whales,” Asgrim said mildly. “In past times, the men of that settlement prided themselves on the size of catch they could herd into the shore with their curraghs: the sand has run red in many a season. These days we are occupied with other pursuits; there has been no whale harvest for over five years. As for Creidhe, we must ensure she is kept safe. She's a creature of rare loveliness and, if you speak truth, remarkable skills as well. A prize indeed. Fortunately this settlement is well protected, and there are women here, company for your little friend when you move on.”

There was a brief silence.

“Move on,” Thorvald said eventually. “Move where?”

Asgrim stretched, arms linked behind his head. “You know,” he said expansively, “I don't think you've answered a single one of my questions. Fortunately, the young lady was a great deal more communicative. Shall we continue this in the morning, when you've had some time to think? It grows late, and you've had a long day. Let it not be said that the Ruler of the Isles has forgotten what it means to be a good host.”

He gave a single sharp clap of the hands, and there was the sound of men approaching, vessels clinking, and a smell of roast meat.

“Just a moment,” Thorvald said as a chill of misgiving went down his spine. “You've spoken to Creidhe already? Why didn't you tell us that? What kind of game are you playing here?” Odin's bones, perhaps Asgrim knew the truth about this quest already; Creidhe might have told him everything. But no, Creidhe would be true to her word. If there was one thing you could say about her, it was that she was completely trustworthy. She'd have kept quiet, true to her promise.

“What, still more questions?” The Ruler gave a thin-lipped smile. “It's quite a simple game, Thorvald. Not beyond you, I'm sure. Information is exchanged, question for question, answer for answer. Don't they do that where you come from? The other part is easier still. You want something, and I can give it to you. But you must earn it. As this is my domain, you will earn it on my terms. I'm told you have some skill in the arts of warfare. We can use that; indeed, it's precisely what we need. But you will find the kind of battle we wage here strange and frustrating, for all is at the mercy of wind and tide, and the uncanny powers of our enemies lie beyond the reach of spear and knife. We have the smallest margin of time to act; that requires the planning to be meticulous.”

There were islanders coming in now, bringing jugs, cups and platters of mutton and boiled fish.

“Tell us,” said Thorvald urgently, “tell us more. Who are these enemies, and where do they live? Why do you war with them? What is the nature of their attacks?”

“Perhaps,” observed Asgrim, “you will learn patience during your stay with us, Thorvald. I hope you do. This constant questioning could soon grow wearying. Come, have a bite to eat, a little to drink, and let us speak no more of this until morning.”

“Still,” Thorvald was taken aback to hear Sam speak up, for their host's tone had grown dauntingly chilly, “I'd feel better if I knew Creidhe was well.
I take it the women won't come here for their supper; that doesn't seem to be your way. But, you understand, she's a girl, and we're responsible.”

Asgrim had walked over to the stone table where the dishes were set; he was using a small, sharp knife to slice off strips of meat and lay them neatly on a platter to the side. Most of the men who had walked with them from the bay were in the hall now. Suppertime it might be, but there was no sense of conviviality; all were silent and grim-faced. Thorvald could not see the man who had walked in front of Creidhe that morning, nor the one who had followed her.

“Rest assured, lad,” Asgrim addressed Sam with a quirk of the lip that might have been a smile, “there can be no safer place for your friend in these isles but here at Brightwater. Don't distress yourself. She has a warm hearth, good food and female companionship in abundance. I imagine it's a great deal more comfortable than your boat. Trust me. The girl's a treasure, and I know how to look after precious things. Now eat, drink; we've work ahead of us, and you need your strength.”

Much later, as the two of them settled in the narrow chamber they had been allotted for sleeping, Sam hissed to Thorvald, “Did you hear what he said? Arts of war? Why did you tell them that anyway, about every lad in the Light Isles being a fighter before he's twelve years old? You know what'll happen now. We'll end up in their front line, and be stone dead before it's summer.”

“Shh,” whispered Thorvald. “Keep your voice down, there's men sleeping on the other side of that partition, and I'll bet he's ordered them to report every single thing they hear. Maybe I did exaggerate just a bit.”

“A bit? I may be handy with my fists when pushed, but I'd be precious little use with a sword in my hands. Arts of war? Only art I know's throwing out a net and hauling it in again.”

“It's all right, Sam. I know what I'm doing.”

There was a pause.

“Could've fooled me,” Sam muttered.

Thorvald made no response.

“You think it's him?” Sam asked.

“I don't know.” That was a lie, of course; he was almost sure, as sure as one could be after so short a time. Not that the man resembled himself in any way that was obvious, save perhaps the eyes. It was more a feeling, not the calling of the blood he had imagined, but a recognition at once more alarming and more heady. This man had hidden depths; he harbored secrets, plots and plans. Thorvald would uncover them; he would find out what lay
behind that mask of austerity and control. Asgrim intrigued him. The whole place intrigued him: an island of sorcerers and freaks, a war waged against an enemy with powers beyond the merely physical, a hunt that must be carried out at precisely the right time—there was indeed a quest for him here, a challenge far beyond what he had envisaged. And he would do it; he could show this fellow Asgrim, who might or might not be his father, what stuff he was made of. They would achieve victory together perhaps: like and like.

“It's an opportunity,” he said softly, not sure if Sam was still awake. “A chance to find out what kind of man this is. Maybe he's my father, maybe not. Maybe I'll tell him and maybe I won't. We've got to earn our wood anyway. Going farther afield is good. I can talk to people, find out who came to these parts back then. Anyway, it sounds as if they really need us, half-baked warriors or not. It sounds as if we can help them. It's a strange place, an interesting place. I want to find out more.” He rolled over, knowing sleep would be a long time coming.

“Thorvald?” came Sam's whisper in the darkness.

“What?”

“What if the two of us get killed and Creidhe's left here on her own?”

“Trust me,” said Thorvald. “It'll be fine. Now go to sleep; you heard what the man said—we're going to need our strength.”

The light was fading. Margaret sat before the loom, shuttle idle in her hands, the fine-woven strands in their subtle shades of gray and dun blurring before her weary eyes. It was too late for work; she should give up the pretense and go to bed. Yet she sat on, staring blindly at the woolen web and picturing another, a bold swathe of blue and red, and her niece's small, deft hands moving like graceful birds across its flawless surface. Why couldn't she weep, as a normal woman would? Why did it all just build up and build up inside her, when already her heart bore a lifetime of burdens? By all the gods, it was a long punishment she had been set for her one error. On days like today, it seemed to her a doom that was forever.