Foxmask (25 page)

Hogni grunted and spat on the ground. There was no telling if this signified agreement or derision.

“Thing is,” Wieland said diffidently, “there's not much of it. Hand to hand, I mean. Even on the island. Not much close work. We never get the chance.”

“Not that we wouldn't welcome it, if it came to that,” Orm put in, scratching his chin. “But . . .”

“Mostly arrows,” Knut said. “Took out six men last time. Then there's the spears, and those other things . . .”

“This time,” Thorvald made his tone confident, strong, the voice of a leader, “we'll have better spears and better arrows. And we'll know how to use them. This time we'll attack with our wits as well as our weapons. We'll take the battle right up to the enemy. This time we'll be ready.”

“So who's going to fight Hogni, then?” One of the fishermen spoke up. There was a general muttering, a little laughter, a nudge here, a gesture there. At least this had their interest. “And when are we starting?”

Hogni rose to his feet. He was a head taller than anyone else, and built like a plow ox. “Why not now?” he inquired, looking straight at Thorvald.

“Why not indeed?” Thorvald gazed back steadily. “And since I was silly enough to come up with the idea, I suppose the first challenger has to be me. I just hope you don't kill me. Skolli's got a new batch of spearheads cooling up in the smithy, and I'd like to be here tomorrow to see if they're any good. Well, now.” He summoned a nonchalant grin, though his heart was racing; Ash's tuition may have been thorough, but there were limits to what one might achieve against an opponent of such daunting size. “Shall we start?”

It was not necessary to win, only to survive. That was just as well. His escape the other night had owed as much to lucky timing as anything, and Thorvald was uncomfortably aware of it. He was no more than average as a fighter; he had got by so far on his ability to learn quickly and his talent for observation.

It was clear from the way Hogni flexed his arms and bent his knees in preparation that this giant had no intention of letting him off lightly. The men formed a circle around the two combatants. Thorvald caught a glimpse of Sam at the rear, propped on another fellow's shoulder and pale as goat's milk. Orm was taking wagers; men jostled to get a better view. If he were to die today of a cracked skull or a snapped neck, Thorvald thought as he eyed the bodyguard's massive arms, his formidable shoulders and little, vindictive eyes, at least he would have achieved one of his goals. This had woken them up; it had kindled a spark within them. That was exactly what he needed. He could use this, if he came out of it in one piece.

It was important, he told himself as Hogni moved in, dodging low then levering up with a punishing shoulder, it was important to keep it going long enough to show a modicum of strength and skill; to provide excellent entertainment, so the men were both diverted and heartened. It would be good, he
mused as Hogni threw him painfully down on knee and elbow, jarring every bone in him, it would be good to appear to be winning at some point, just to maintain a little credibility. He rolled, twisted, came up on his feet and managed a kick or two; Hogni grunted in surprise, perhaps pain, and took a step back. The main thing, Thorvald told himself as his opponent locked his hands together and prepared for a crippling, hammer-like blow to Thorvald's neck and shoulder, the main thing, apart from not dying, of course, was that Hogni must win. The way this was going, that part of it wouldn't be a problem.

He parried the blow with his left arm; it was a bone-breaker, and he reeled away, fighting to keep a steady footing. Hogni roared and charged at him with head lowered, a battering ram of sheer muscle. The crowd howled with excitement.

Thorvald jumped. The maneuver was not in Ash's repertory: it came in a flash, the only possible option. He sprawled awkwardly on Hogni's back, his legs around the bigger man's neck, his face level with the fellow's buttocks and staring into the tightly packed group of onlookers. Hogni straightened, hands fastening like clamps around Thorvald's crossed ankles. Thorvald squeezed his thighs together and prayed. He was hanging now, his head against Hogni's odiferous trousers, his arms flailing for purchase. He could hear Hogni wheezing, gasping, struggling for air as his assailant's legs pressed ever tighter against his neck.

The noise from the crowd was deafening. Some of them had started a rhythmic chant,
Hog-ni, Hog-ni
, but others shouted encouragement, “That's the way, youngster!” and helpful suggestions, “Sink your teeth in, lad!”

Hogni shook him, setting his teeth rattling. Hogni turned, spinning him, hazing his head with dizziness.
Hold on, hold on
. . . Hogni's grip was weakening, Thorvald could feel the fingers starting to loosen, he could hear the whistle of Hogni's agonized attempts to draw breath. The big man would be red in the face by now, close to passing out. Hogni staggered; the ground lurched below Thorvald's head.

Now was the time. Thorvald slackened the death grip his legs had on Hogni's neck, grabbing his opponent's belt to keep himself from falling. A moment, that was all that was needed: the bodyguard might be brutish in appearance, but he was a skilled fighter. Hogni sucked in a single, shuddering breath and whirled in place again, then with a deft twist of the arms, a stylish flick of the huge hands, he plucked the smaller man from his back and launched him through the air to land, with a painful thud, flat on his back in the very center of the circle.

“Ouch,” said Thorvald after a moment. “I think you may have broken something.”

A chorus of cheers erupted, and a renewal of the war cry:
Hog-ni, Hogni
. Many hands dragged Thorvald to his feet, dusted him off, ruffled his hair and slapped his shoulders. Men like a good loser.

Straightening up, Thorvald found himself looking directly into the eyes of the warrior who had, inarguably, been the outright victor in this contest. Hogni's face was an alarming shade of crimson; sweat streamed down his broad brow. He was beaming.

“Not a bad trick, that,” he observed, putting out a large hand. “Not bad at all for a runt of an incomer. Couldn't hold it, though, could you?”

Thorvald shook the hand; even after that bout, Hogni's grip was crushingly strong. “Ah, well,” he said, grinning back, “there'll be other chances. I don't suppose you'd teach me that lock you used on me the other night, would you?”

As the sun slipped down toward the margin of sky and sea, Keeper sharpened his spears: heart of ancient tree, laid at his feet by ocean's giving hands; splinter of bone, carven from a great, dead giant of the deep, taken with a prayer. Some were iron-tipped, wrenched from the bodies of those who would sully his shore and steal the precious thing he guarded. Small One feared the smell of iron; while Keeper scraped away, smoothing the metal, the other watched from between the stones, a pair of bright eyes in the shadows.

“It is not the spear that kills,” Keeper said. “Man's hands kill, holding the spear. Only tools, these.”

Small One made no answer; his was a different kind of wisdom. Over the years, Keeper had learned to touch the edge of it, no more than that. He understood, at best, the mystery of Small One's gift, and the peril it carried with it.

The spears were propped in a line against the moss-cloaked rock wall; the setting sun touched them with a blood-red gleam. He had prepared them lovingly, to make of each death an act of cleansing, a sacrament, a cry of truth. Thus had he sworn, long ago, and he would keep faith until the day he died.

In the shadows, Small One shivered.

“Come,” Keeper said. “Fire; food.” He held out a hand, encouraging, and after a little, the other crept forth and came to wait by the fire pit, still trembling in sudden bursts, as if shaken by some unseen force. Keeper stirred the
embers, remade the fire; the fish he had caught at first light lay ready, weed-wrapped, beside the flat cooking stones.

As dusk fell, the flames set a warmth on Small One's anxious features, and the shivering ceased. Under his breath, Small One began to hum, and the fire burned deep ocean green, and summer sky blue, and dark as the flank of an ancient whale. The stones grew hot. When they were ready, Keeper set the fish to cook on top, covered with ash and earth. The hum grew slowly to a song. The sky dimmed, and against the gray of the spring night faint stars appeared, distant, solitary, sweet as the notes Small One threw up to them, call and echo, question and dazzling, perfect answer.

Three eggs today: a bountiful harvest.
After breakfast, this slow calligraphy.
Memory stirs, cruel as a knife
.

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

S
ome days, the Journey flowed under her fingers, so that it seemed to make itself. If she squeezed her eyes almost shut, she could see its figures moving, changing, living a life of their own within the confines of its narrow borders, its dyed-wool landscape, and yet possessing a freedom beyond that offered to folk who walked their way on solid earth and breathed plain air. Some days, she was too dispirited to attempt so much as the threading of a single bone needle, the fashioning of a solitary stitch.

They hadn't come. Asgrim had promised, and they hadn't come. Creidhe knew she was behaving like a child thwarted of some long-anticipated treat, but she could not shrug off the gloom that had settled over her, nor the anger that went with it. Asgrim had been kind to her, taking time from his busy day to sit down and tell her everything Thorvald had been doing: rebuilding walls knocked down by winter storm, helping ferry much-needed supplies to isolated communities, digging drains. That had made her smile; Thorvald possessed a certain sense of his own importance and was not known to be especially forthcoming where he felt himself overqualified for a task. Such hard and basic work would be good for him.

Their piece of wood was already more than earned, Asgrim had assured
her, and the young men simply helping with some final duties before returning to collect her and tend to the
Sea Dove
. They had made themselves well liked with their easy manner and general willingness. Both had mentioned her often, with evident concern and obvious affection. Asgrim had undertaken to let them know she was quite well and perfectly safe. A pity she had had to witness what she did with Jofrid; it was a difficulty caused by the other tribe, a scourge and a sadness, but not something visitors need concern themselves with. The Long Knife people were used to it. Some day they would find a solution. She must forget that, put it behind her. It could be no more than two days, at most three, before Thorvald and Sam returned, Asgrim had said. Creidhe would be doing him a personal favor if she would keep Jofrid company for that small time, and perhaps stay on while her young friends were mending their boat. Gudrun would like that, too, and the other women. They had become fond of her.

So she had waited, two days, three, walking to the western end of the settlement each morning, eyes scouring the hillside in vain for signs of life beyond straggle-coated sheep and scrawny goats. Asgrim departed, on his way back to wherever they were; his bodyguard, a very large man, padded silently at his side. This fellow had looked Creidhe up and down thoroughly and expertly with his small eyes, as if she were a prize heifer or likely breeding sow, until Gudrun scolded him out of her cottage. Now he was gone, and the Ruler with him, and it was not two days or three, but seven, nine, fifteen, another full turning of the moon, and Thorvald still did not come back. Sitting in the workroom, plying distaff and spindle as Jofrid combed the fleece in preparation, Creidhe was forced to recognize what it was she felt. Thorvald had not met up to her expectations. He had been unkind to her, and to Sam. They were both used to that; it happened often, and could be excused because Thorvald did not understand how it made them feel. He had left her behind. She could forgive that as well; Sam had known how ill at ease she was, his concern could be seen in his eyes, but Thorvald had believed her blithe assurances that she didn't mind a bit. This time, however, Thorvald's selfishness could not be explained away. She had tried to do just that; indeed, she realized how many times she had made excuses for him, had justified what he did, simply so she could go on believing him perfect. The days passed and Thorvald stayed away. Yet he was free to return: Asgrim had told her so. That could only mean one thing. Thorvald didn't care a bit how she felt. Indeed, he probably hadn't given her a single thought since he walked away that morning with his staff in his hand and his eyes fixed on his personal quest. Not only did he disregard Creidhe herself, but her whole family,
and Sam's livelihood, and everyone who waited, back in Hrossey, to know if the three of them lived or died. What about Margaret? Had he spared any thought for her, for the pain and guilt she might be feeling, knowing that it was her action that had sparked this journey? Creidhe was forced to reassess Thorvald, and the result left her somewhat dissatisfied, not just with the object of her affections, but with herself as well.

“You look angry,” Jofrid said softly, easing the oily tangle of uncarded wool through the wide comb.

Creidhe set the spindle turning, drew the twist of fiber between her fingers. The good thing about spinning was that, once you had the knack of it, you didn't need to think; your hands simply went ahead and did the work.

“Not angry, just a bit sad. I want to go home. I don't understand why Thorvald and Sam aren't here.”

A flicker of expression crossed Jofrid's pale features, and died. Jofrid had barely begun to talk, so long after that terrible night of loss. Her voice was an apologetic whisper, her whole demeanor one of exhausted defeat. She clung to Creidhe's side like a wan shadow. It had become habit for the two of them to work together in the mornings; for Creidhe to sit in Jofrid's cottage and sew in the afternoons, while Jofrid tended to her stock, or sometimes just sat in silence, watching. Returning to Gudrun's for supper and sleep had become a relief. Big, dour Gudrun had mellowed somewhat; there was a reluctant kindness in her terse comments, her attempts at special cookery.