Foxmask (20 page)

The music rose to a screaming, a frenzied wailing that tore at his heart. Small One cried out in his dreams, and Keeper lay down by him, curving his body to accommodate his, stretching an arm across in protection. He waited. At length the voices faded and were gone, their harvest complete until the next time, and the next. How many seasons, how many children for the Long Knife people? He would not think of that. What had befallen Asgrim's folk was their own doing; their own folly had made it so.

Small One moaned again, shifting in the darkness.

“I'm here,” Keeper whispered. “Sleep. You are safe. I will always be here.”

With whom shall a man keep faith?
A silent god, an absent brother?
Into the void the heart cries, enough
.

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

T
hey were camped at the head of the long western fjord, at a place where there had once been a settlement with turf-roofed huts and a substantial hall suited to councils and gatherings. Though it was not so far from Bright-water, it might have been another land, so different was the pattern here. Many men were staying in the encampment and sleeping communally in the hall. Their days were employed in what appeared to be preparations for war. There was a rule nobody broke: no leaving without Asgrim's consent. As it was, nobody ever asked to go anywhere. There was an unvoiced understanding that trips out of camp happened only when the Ruler had business to be done. Generally, two or three men stood guard on the single track eastward, just to be sure. Thorvald came to understand that, from early spring to midsummer at least, these islanders had no contact at all with their wives and children, their old folk, their home communities. This was necessary because of the hunt.

The days were spent in refurbishing boats, fashioning weapons, preparing the accoutrements of combat. They were all kept busy, though Thorvald watched the pattern of it with a critical eye, seeing much room for improvement. He kept quiet, for now. As for the Ruler, he stalked about the encampment
inspecting the men's work, always shadowed by one or other of his big bodyguards. Thorvald almost never heard Asgrim praise his warriors' efforts. His criticisms, on the other hand, were sharp and wounding. The Ruler seemed on edge, as if waiting for something. He kept himself to himself, sleeping apart in a hut reserved for the purpose, taking his meals for the most part in silence. He would appear in the evenings to give brisk orders for the next day's work. The pair of formidable warriors who served as his personal guards were an additional spur to obedience.

Asgrim's rule was absolute, and he did not hesitate to enforce it by physical means when necessary. Once, a fellow was caught helping himself from the ale keg. Thorvald did not witness the punishment, but whatever it was, the culprit was unable to stand straight for three days afterward. The two men deemed responsible for Creidhe's near fall from the cliff path had never reappeared. When Thorvald asked after them, Orm muttered something about the mouth of the lake and a certain precipice, and then retreated into tight-lipped silence.

Asgrim or no Asgrim, they needed materials to patch up the
Sea Dove
. It seemed appropriate, therefore, simply to do as they were bidden. As soon as he made his background known, Sam was put to work mending the small boats drawn up on the tidal flats below the shelter. There was a reasonable supply of wood: lengths of pine and ash, other bits and pieces, some already shaped, some just as the tide had delivered them. Sam found friends of a sort and set to his tasks willingly, observing to Thorvald that it shouldn't be long at all before they were headed for home with the
Sea Dove
as good as new. The mast was going to be a challenge, but he'd spotted a piece he could work with; he'd made a mark on it, just to be sure. Once these poor excuses for boats were watertight, he'd ask politely for what he was owed, and that would be that.

It was not so simple for Thorvald. Back home in Hrossey he had moved in his mother's circle and that of Eyvind and Nessa, the group that maintained the order and culture of the Light Isles. He was used to the open discussion of strategy, the planning of endeavors in trade or alliance, the airing of matters of justice and law. Debate excited him; ideas intrigued him. Here, there was no possibility of that. These islanders were no more than simple farmers and fishermen; they never questioned the Ruler's judgment and apparently never sought to know more than the little he chose to tell them.

It was evident that part of the rule Asgrim imposed on them related to the keeping of secrets. Sam appeared to be chattering away all day, and his fellow workers answering readily enough, yet at suppertime Sam had nothing
to tell but tales of wind, tide and improbably large codfish. For Thorvald, making conversation with these men was like blundering through a maze full of blind corners and dead ends. He needed to know what this was all about. He wanted to know. As the son of this man who called himself Ruler, there could be a place for him here, a place and a purpose, if he did things right. It was clear to him the way they were going about their work was less than efficient, and he had ideas on how they could fix that. But these people were universally dour, sad and silent, and he could not work out how to break through the barrier they set around themselves.

Many days passed and still Thorvald had gleaned little information as to the nature of the hunt they spoke of. He had worked alongside the men on the preparation of weapons and had moved through the steps of battle, watching how they went about it, storing away what he learned. He wanted to talk to Asgrim. It seemed ever more probable that this tight-lipped autocrat was Somerled; his ruthless authority and caustic tongue underlined it. In his mind, Thorvald placed the man in the tale Margaret had told him, a story of cruel conquest and coldblooded fratricide, and found Asgrim fitted there too well. And there was the manner, guarded, evasive, cryptic. In that, and in the watchful, dark eyes, Thorvald saw, uncomfortably, a reflection of himself.

He planned to ask Asgrim a few penetrating questions, without quite stating the truth of his mission here. He would make sure he obtained answers that proved it one way or the other. If Somerled had become Ruler of the Isles, he had done better for himself than anyone would have expected. He had forged a life; he had made himself once more a leader of men. On the other hand, the flaws in Asgrim's leadership became clearer to Thorvald every day. He itched to step in, to start making changes. All he needed was an explanation. If the Ruler would just tell him exactly what this hunt entailed, he was sure he could offer many helpful suggestions, starting with something that would wake these would-be warriors out of a state of mind that seemed to accept defeat before battle was ever joined. But Asgrim chose to make himself unavailable. He had shown no inclination, after that first meeting, to engage either Thorvald or Sam in conversation, and Thorvald began to believe they would simply earn their wood and go back to Blood Bay with no more said. His frustration grew. He needed to learn whether Asgrim was worthy to be told the truth. After a while, he began to suspect that perhaps Asgrim knew it already and had chosen not to recognize it publicly. The Ruler was definitely avoiding him.

Meanwhile there was work to be done, and at a certain point Thorvald
found he simply could not let them continue to do it so badly. If Ash had taught him anything it was to make best use of what you had, whether it be raw materials or talent and enterprise. Besides, their attitude was irritating him. Why bother fighting at all if you didn't believe you could win?

They were finishing off a batch of spears. The shafts had been hewn with axe, adze and knife from the limbs of a great, dead ash, a treasure of immense worth cast up in spring storm and weathered until another spring. The spearheads were of iron. The upper reaches of this island held bog ore, and on the hillside above this sheltered cove a small forge worked night and day. Its glowing fire, fueled by dung and peat, was the beating heart of this settlement of men.

These were throwing spears, the points long and slender, some leaf-shaped, some triangular and barbed. They were cruder than the ones Eyvind's men used back in Hrossey, the quality of the metal inferior, the shape without refinement; still, they were capable of damage, if used skilfully. Thorvald was shaping the end of a shaft, where the spearhead would be pinned in place. Today they had made ten or more, and arrows as well. His adze moved carefully, smoothing the wood.

“I've noticed,” he observed casually, “we're concentrating on these, and the arrows. Yet you have a big supply set by already. Lose a lot, do you?”

The man next to him gave a grunt of assent. Others nodded, their hands never pausing in the steady work.

“Of course,” Thorvald went on, “you know about loosening the pin?”

They looked at him without comment, hard faces expressionless.

“No? It's pretty simple, just a way of making sure your enemy can't throw too many of these back at you if you miss. Keep the pin in place to hold the head on the shaft like this, see, until you're ready to throw, but leave it loose enough to be easily knocked out. Then, just before you throw, remove the pin.”

“Spear without a head never killed a man,” observed bristle-bearded Orm, looking at Thorvald blankly. “Unless you got him in the eye, maybe.”

“Watch this,” Thorvald said. The finished spears were propped against a low stone wall; he chose one he had put together himself, one with a good weight to it. There was a target set up for testing the weapons' balance before they were deemed complete: a man of straw, with an outer skin of coarse sacking. Someone had used colored clay to draw on rough features, staring dark eyes and a grinning mouth.

Thorvald took the pin from the spear, making sure they could all see what he was doing. He lifted his arm, balancing the weapon, took aim, and threw. There was a whistling sound, and a thud.

“Told you,” said Orm glumly. “Falls off.”

But others were running to the straw man, pointing and exclaiming.

“See! Straight into the target, and then shaft and point come apart.”

“Like magic,” said Ranulf, with an edge in his voice. “Uncanny.”

“All the same,” Wieland spoke up, coming closer and thrusting his finger into the hole the weapon had made in the straw man's chest, where the heart would have been, “he's not likely to return too many of these, not if he needs to find the heads and put them back together before he can throw.” He looked at Thorvald, eyes narrowed. “How does it work? How does it hold together?”

Thorvald managed a smile. “Not by witchery, I can assure you. It's all in the movement forward. While the spear travels quickly, its very force holds the head in place. It is only when the weapon finds its mark that the two separate. After the battle, it is possible to retrieve the parts and make these spears anew. It's simple enough, but it will slow your enemy in the initial phase of the attack and give you an advantage.” They gazed at him silently; he thought he detected a slight change in their eyes. “Want to try it?” he asked.

From then on they started putting the pins in differently, so they were easier to remove. At Thorvald's suggestion, Ranulf and Svein fetched the stocks from storage and spent some time modifying those as well. Buoyed by his small success, Thorvald went on doggedly with his questions.

“What weapons does the enemy have? We seem a bit short on swords, knives, even thrusting-spears. This stuff's all very well for the first stage, but what about after you move in?”

Silence again, not unfriendly exactly, simply blank. Einar, who had first greeted them at Blood Bay, was the oldest of the men and the most ready to contribute more than a grunt or a sigh. He looked at Thorvald, eyes narrowed, jaw set tight, then turned his attention back to the bowstring he was testing. Not to answer seemed a kind of defense, a protective wall they had learned to build around themselves. They were not stupid: Thorvald had seen how quickly they could learn, once their interest was sparked. Wieland, in particular, a youngish man with close-cropped hair and sad eyes, seemed ready to embrace new ideas. This was more like a deeply formed resistance, as if somewhere within them lay a belief that their lot could not alter, no matter how hard they tried. That infuriated Thorvald: it was pointless, time-wasting, and he determined to change it even if it took him all summer. He would work on the men first, and then concern himself with their leader. These fellows needed help; for now, his own quest must take second place.
Besides, what better way to show his father his own mettle, his own qualities, than by throwing himself into this endeavor? If it was his father.

“Do these enemies have axes? Swords?” he asked them. “Or is it some impregnable fortress we're supposed to be attacking?”

A long pause. Perhaps, thought Thorvald, he had got it wrong, and the islanders were just very slow thinkers. “It would help,” he added, summoning his last shreds of patience, “if I knew what we were up against.”

Orm cleared his throat. “Ask the Ruler,” he mumbled. “Best if he explains it to you.”

“The Ruler isn't talking to me these days,” Thorvald said. “Why can't you tell me?”

They glanced at one another, their eyes furtive, fearful.

“Spears of living bone,” someone whispered.

“Poison darts,” hissed someone else.

“Stones,” muttered another, and several nodded assent. “Big rocks, hurtling through the air; took a man's head off, last summer.”

“Wind, waves, tides,” said Orm. “The enemy's got what we haven't got: sorcery. But we shouldn't be telling you. Ask Asgrim. He knows. The Ruler knows what to do.”

“Anyhow, what do you mean?” someone challenged, voice rising in distrust. “
It would help
, you said? Help who? Help what?”

Thorvald found himself suddenly without an answer, for he could not say what was in his head:
If I knew the truth about this situation, I could help you to win your war
. And after that, another thought, though where it had come from, he did not know.
I could lead you
.