Foxmask (21 page)

“Never mind,” he said casually. “It's none of my business, of course. I'm only passing through, after all.” The pretense of nonchalance didn't seem to be working: now the lot of them were staring suspiciously. “Let me show you a way you can fit more arrows into these quivers. Did you say poison darts? Ever thought of trying a bit of the same yourselves?”

He knew, of course, that Asgrim was watching him. Asgrim watched everyone. That was not unreasonable, for Thorvald in his turn watched this grim chieftain. He learned the Ruler's daily habits, his disciplines, his ways of making sure the men remained a little wary, a little frightened, so they did not think to question his orders. He noted the differences between the one group, more ready with talk and smiles, set to work exclusively on the boats
at the far end of the bay, and the others, Einar and his fellows, united in their reticence and that set, grim expression. Thorvald wondered if they could see only death in their future: he had gleaned enough information to know that many were lost each time they confronted this strange enemy. Between keeping an eye on the Ruler and trying to get it across to these men that nothing was going to change unless they grappled with a few new ideas, his days were pretty full. As time passed he found his mind dwelling less on Somerled and on questions of character, his own, his father's, and more on practicalities such as ensuring the men knew basic techniques for stemming the flow of blood or refletching an arrow. Oddly, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

It had been almost two turnings of the moon since they came there. Thorvald knew all the men's names now, and he had learned a little about the individuals to whom the names belonged, but not much. It was as if they found the exchange of words somehow pointless. He had not been able to lighten the look of despondency all of them seemed to wear, as if their efforts were doomed to inevitable failure. To change that look became something of a quest for him, for he did not like to see men sunk in despair thus, especially when a great part of the cause seemed to be no more than poor leadership.

He worked on them one at a time. Wieland might have seemed the obvious one to target, for this young man watched with attention when Thorvald was explaining something new, and could occasionally be seen showing the others different ways to bind on an arrowhead or to balance a shield. But Wieland was a reserved man. His habit was to watch and not to speak. So it was to Skolli the smith that Thorvald went first, knowing that, even in times of despair, a craftsman has his pride. He stood in the doorway of the little forge, watching with folded arms as the smith hammered a lump of rough iron into the leaf shape of a spearhead. Skolli used the tongs to lift the darkening metal and plunged it into a barrel of water. Steam arose.

“You worked here all your life?” Thorvald asked casually.

Skolli gave a grunt, turning the iron in the water. “Council Fjord, Blood Bay, outer isles.”

“How did you learn the trade?”

“My father.” The spearhead came out of the barrel and was laid back on the anvil and inspected closely. “He came from over the sea. Always complaining. Said the iron in this place was poor quality, second-rate stuff. I see it's true. Your own weapons are fine. Superior. Give me a bit of that to work with and I'll turn out something a man can be proud of.”

Thorvald was encouraged by the smith's readiness to talk. “Of course,”
he said, offhand, “if these islands had a trading arrangement, say with my home islands or with those that lie to the north of them, you could have as much top quality iron as you wanted. Has the Ruler investigated that?”

“Huh,” Skolli grunted, laying the finished piece to one side and stooping to wipe his brow with a grimy rag. Sweat was pouring off him. “Trade? Who's got time to think of that, with the hunt hanging over us? A man doesn't think of trade when he's struggling for survival. Not that a few decent weapons wouldn't help; you've got that much right.”

“So, no chance of improving on the materials,” Thorvald said, seating himself on the bench by the door. The heat from the fire was intense; he eased the cloak off his shoulders. “But how about the design? I don't know much, but I did work with men who had been in a Jarl's personal guard, and I have a few ideas . . . Of course, you'd need to tell me if they weren't practical. I think, with this iron and your skills, we could produce a different kind of spearhead, one more suited to this terrain . . .” He picked up a charred twig and began to draw on the bench, ready for Skolli's scorn, or his silence. “Two kinds, maybe, one with a flange around here, and the other very long and narrow, easy to thrust, easy to withdraw. Longer, lighter shafts for these ones, so the fellows can carry them readily across country. What do you think?”

“Interesting.” Skolli took the twig from Thorvald's hand, rubbed out the diagram and started again. The look in his eye surprised and heartened Thorvald; this had indeed sparked his attention. “I could angle the flanges down and leave a ridge along the center, that would give it a bit more weight for throwing,” the smith went on. “That one would have the removable pin, the other would be fixed in place, for hand-to-hand combat—not that we see much of that on the island.”

There was a pause as Skolli mused over his drawing.

“The island?” Thorvald queried.

“The Isle of Clouds,” said Skolli absently. “That's where it is. The hunt. Here, I think I've got it. What do you think of that?”

“Excellent,” Thorvald told him. “When can you make a trial batch?”

“Tomorrow. I'd want to work on this design a bit first, make sure it's just right. You get the fellows busy on the shafts—Hjort's your best man for shaping the wood, and that young fisherman, Knut, isn't bad either. And work out how to test them. Set something up so the difference is plain; new version, old version. It can be hard to convince the fellows to change their ways.”

“What about Asgrim? Can he be persuaded to change his ways?”

“Don't know,” mumbled Skolli, who was drawing again. “Nobody ever dared to try.”

The new designs were good. Tested on the run, and against stationary targets, and by men of different heights and builds, they proved superior in every way, and once Einar had given them the nod of approval it did not take so long for the others to agree, and to slap Skolli on the back and congratulate him for his work. Skolli told them that although the making was his, the idea was Thorvald's. At the time, nobody commented. But Thorvald detected a subtle change from that point on. They were reluctant to let him take the lead in the rehearsal of actual maneuvers; indeed, they seemed to do very little battlefield training. But they began to listen seriously to his advice on weaponry and on tactics, and occasionally one of the more confident men, Einar or Orm, would offer an opinion or acknowledge the sense in Thorvald's suggestions.

He began to glean information. On his own, Einar was prepared to speak more openly of what was to come; and one morning on the tidal flats below the shelter, Thorvald found the older man walking by the water, his boots setting their prints beside the delicate markings of gull and tern, and he asked him direct.

“Skolli tells me the hunt will take place on the Isle of Clouds.” From here, the shape of the western isle could be clearly seen out beyond the mouth of the fjord, its cloud-shawled slopes dark and mysterious across the silvery expanse of water. “I can see the difficulty you face in leading the men; they seem defeated, and they don't train as warriors should who are heading into such a challenge. Asgrim doesn't make it easy for you.”

Einar glanced at him, frowning. “You should be careful what you say, Thorvald. There's no special treatment for incomers here. The Ruler doesn't care for talk of that kind.”

Thorvald spoke calmly. “I mean no criticism of the Ruler, nor of you. I see both of you trying to do what must be done under considerable difficulty. I don't want to be forward, but I do believe I could contribute something, if you'd let me.”

Einar said nothing. He lifted his brows in question, expression wary.

“Would you allow me to take the men through some exercises in battlecraft? Perhaps discuss with you and Orm some ideas for organizing their working day better, so all of them are fully tested in both body and mind? I
think, if we could do that, if we could occupy them better so they didn't have time to let their fears overwhelm them, perhaps we could change the way they think about this—this hunt.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. I believe it, Einar. But I can't do it without more information. I need you to tell me about the hunt, or battle, or whatever it is. Who is the enemy, what weapons does he have, what advantages? Tell me about the terrain and the difficulties you've encountered there. Tell me how soon we have to be ready. Tell me why the men are so despondent, so terrified they can't work properly. Tell me that, and I will help you change things.”

Thorvald waited somewhat nervously. This had been quite a risk. Of all those here, Einar was the one who seemed to have the men's trust. He was the closest thing they had to a true leader. Asgrim could not be counted. He made his own rules and took no heed of others' opinions. As Ruler he was ineffectual, insulated from his men's concerns by his own arrogance and by the two hulking guards who shadowed him, their very presence striking fear into all. A chieftain could not lead properly if his men did not know him. He could not lead well if his men were scared of him. Perhaps that was what had gone wrong for Somerled before, in the Light Isles. Thorvald's stomach twisted into a knot. He could help his father win this war, he was sure of it. But perhaps his father was beyond helping, beyond reaching. Perhaps Asgrim did not want a son.

“Difficult,” Einar said in an undertone. “Asgrim prefers us not to talk about it. Certainly not to incomers. You'd need his approval to do what you say. Can't act without him, not unless you fancy a beating from Hogni or Skapti, or both.”

“Well, no.” Thorvald thought of the two bodyguards with their menacing eyes and their thick, muscular necks. “But I can't let things go on like this either. It's not right.”

“Why would you care?” Einar asked blankly.

“Because . . .” Momentarily Thorvald was at a loss. “Because they're good men, all of them, and I don't like to see good men give up. That's all the answer I have for you.”

“Mmm,” Einar said, looking at Thorvald with a somewhat different expression on his weary features. “I suspect you don't know what you're taking on, but I salute your courage. And some help certainly wouldn't go amiss. Still, there's a right way and a wrong way to go about these things. I won't go against the Ruler's commands. I haven't survived five trips to the Isle of Clouds by being stupid.” His hand moved to touch the parallel scars on his
cheek. Thorvald had learned already that these were a badge of honor, one new line earned each time a man got through the hunt and returned to tell the tale. Five was the highest number borne, sign of a veteran warrior. “A couple of things you need to know,” Einar went on. “It's not so much about winning a battle as staying alive while we find what we're looking for.”

Thorvald's heart quickened: real information at last, something he could use. “And what is that?” he asked.

“A child,” Einar said with some reluctance. “A prisoner.”

“One of your own? Kept captive by the tribe that lives there?”

“The fact is,” Einar said, “it's less a tribe of warriors than a force of nature, an enemy that uses sorcery and tricks to fend us off. There's only a certain amount spears and arrows can achieve, when all the enemy needs to do is open his mouth and the men's bowels turn to water.”

“What do you mean?” This was strange indeed. A child! What child could possibly merit the loss of so many lives, the expenditure of so much effort? There was a tale here, and he must have it.

“Said more than I should already,” Einar muttered. “If you want the story about the hunt, you must get it from Asgrim. After that, come and talk to me again.”

Thorvald was silent. Half of the story was almost worse than nothing. He had hoped for better than this.

“And,” Einar went on, turning back toward the shelter, “I'll have a word with some of the others, Orm in particular. We know you've got new ideas. We know you want to help. But the fellows might take a bit of persuading. You'll understand that when Asgrim tells you about what we're facing here. If we look as if we've given up before the battle begins, there's a good reason for it. You'd be taking on quite a job.”

“Not I, we,” Thorvald corrected him. “
We'll
be taking on quite a job. A challenge.”

“We'll see,” said Einar.

There had been scant opportunity to talk to Sam. The fisherman worked a long day, either on shore refurbishing the beached vessels or out in the fjord gleaning the men's supper from an ocean full of tricks and surprises. At night they all slept in the one long building, on the raised earthen platforms to either side. Conversation was never private there, and always interrupted with plaintive calls to shut up, couldn't they, and let a fellow get some sleep.

Sam caught Thorvald late one afternoon, when the weapon makers were
packing up and the fishermen bearing the day's catch back to the shelter. Rain was starting to fall in heavy, spattering droplets; in these isles, one could have all four seasons in a single day. Sam bore a damp-looking sack on his shoulder; he stood by the pathway in the dark sand, his guileless blue eyes shadowed with anxiety. He was looking thinner; older, somehow.

“Good catch?” Thorvald asked.

Sam regarded him in silence.

“Don't tell me you've developed it too,” exclaimed Thorvald in mock alarm. “The inability to speak, I mean. It's driving me crazy. But then, your lot do talk, don't they? I've seen them.”