Foxmask (33 page)

I won't die. I refuse to die
. Clambering up seemed beyond her. All the same, she must try, for escaping the chill clutch of the water was surely her best chance of survival. Climb up, cling on with the aid of those shreds of rope, and she had at least some chance. One hand . . . two . . . one foot . . . by all the powers, her body would feel the aftermath of this if she came through it alive . . . now pull . . . it was too hard, she would never be able to haul her own weight up . . . draw breath, once, twice . . . now, a gentle wave, coming from behind her, lifting her in its kind embrace, and a last, wrenching effort . . . grasp, twist, quick now, arms and legs through the ropes, heart thundering, quick, grip on while you can . . . and then the sheer weight of complete exhaustion . . . the wondrous, solid bulk of the boat's hull beneath her . . . the lulling rock of the swell . . . the bone-deep cold . . . the darkness . . .

Something had changed since Asgrim's return. Thorvald sensed it, though he could not quite put his finger on what it was. The Ruler seemed edgy, distracted; he strode about the encampment, up to the forge, along to the boats, but it seemed to Thorvald that most of the time Asgrim was not really seeing what was before him. There was a brooding look in those dark eyes, a frown on the pale brow that suggested the Ruler's mind was much taken up with other matters, secret matters. Skapti had not returned with him this time, and when Hogni asked where his fellow guard had gone, Asgrim snapped that Skapti was off on personal business and would return all in good time. That momentary loss of control, so unusual in this man, interested Thorvald. It seemed to him Asgrim was waiting for something. There had been talk of negotiations. Had Skapti been dispatched to the realms of the Unspoken to treat for peace? Most unlikely: the Ruler had said the enemy spoke only to himself. Besides, such dealings would require subtlety, cunning and cleverness. The bodyguard possessed all three qualities in the arena of combat, but he was no diplomat.

In Skapti's absence, Einar took his place as personal guard, since Hogni could hardly be on duty day and night. Now Hogni, too, began to wear a frown; he missed his brother, and it showed, for all his pains to conceal such weakness. The men began to whisper, and the talk was of some kind of agreement, a treaty; maybe they would not have to fight, but could go home at last. Asgrim was saying nothing. He paced and scowled and, quite clearly, waited.

Thorvald found himself growing irritated. While Sam had been working frantically to undo the botched repair on the
Sea Dove
and restore her to
something like her old condition, he himself had been putting in long days on Asgrim's behalf. Einar's warning had done nothing to change his approach: a leader was useless if he did not earn his men's respect. If there was a personal risk involved, so be it. When he was not ordering the rehearsal of battle, coaching, encouraging, sometimes bullying to get the results he wanted, he was talking to the men: finding out as much as he could about the Isle of Clouds and the campaigns they had undertaken there, working out how they might achieve decisive victory where before there had been only numbing defeat. When the long day was over and the last lamp quenched, and the ill-assorted group of men snored in the half-light of the pale summer night, Thorvald lay wakeful, his head full of plans, schemes, strategies. There was much to lose here; if they failed in yet another hunt, he doubted these men would have the heart to try again. That meant this must be perfect to the last meticulous detail. Once they reached the Isle of Clouds, he must be prepared for anything.

And he would be. They would be. It was unfortunate that Asgrim seemed incapable of showing a genuine appreciation of their efforts; he remained grimly detached. As chieftain here, Thorvald thought, it was time the Ruler demonstrated some real leadership. If Margaret's account was accurate, Somerled had been misguided and cruel, but he had been a real leader. He had achieved things. Asgrim's lack of support dampened the men's enthusiasm and sapped their confidence. It came to Thorvald that, very soon, he must confront the Ruler openly; must ask him the question straight out. Surely, as a son, he could count on his father's full support in this endeavor. Perhaps all Thorvald needed to do was tell him the truth.

They made a map with wet sand, Orm and Skolli describing the contours of the island, its narrow coves, its one towering crag, its cliffs and outlying skerries, while Thorvald constructed it with careful fingers. Wieland prepared the mixture so it would hold its shape without crumbling. Knut, biting his lip in concentration, added detail in the form of small stones, twigs and greenery as instructed. Others stood around them in a circle, scratching heads or chins. Many were perplexed by what seemed a childish game, but as the Isle of Clouds took shape, complete with its caves, its rocky outcrops, its places of concealment and its places of danger, they began to nod and make suggestions: wasn't there a spot near the cliff there where a waterfall came down, and a hollow close by where two men could crouch under cover? The holm at the western end should be bigger, the channel splitting it from the main island narrower. There were rock stacks here and here, where gannets
roosted. Yes, that was it. Odin's bones, the construction was a marvel: all it lacked was the breath of life to make it perfect.

“Now show me,” Thorvald said, when all was fashioned to his satisfaction. “Where is the settlement of this nameless tribe that dwells on the Isle of Clouds? It's clear that we have only one possible landing place, and that severely limits our initial options. Einar tells me they sometimes attack as soon as you set foot on shore. But not always; some years, they've waited until you progressed to a point well inland. Where, exactly?”

“Don't know about a settlement,” said Orm, squatting to peer more closely at the sculpted sand. “We never found one, nor much sign of habitation beyond the traps they set for us. You'd think it would be here.” He motioned toward the westward end of the island, between the landing place and the sharply rising ground a short way inland. This was the only place where there seemed to be sufficient level ground for dwellings to be built, though they would have little shelter from the fierce lashing of westerly gales. “Where else, unless they dwell in the sea? There's not a hut, nor a hovel, nor any boats to be seen in those parts. Tumbledown ruin or two, that's all.”

“What about these caves?” Thorvald queried. “They must live somewhere. Other concealed places on the island? Don't they have a child there? They must make fires. Have you seen any signs of smoke?”

Einar shook his head. “Only the mists they conjure up, to lead a fellow off his path and over the cliffs.”

“I see,” said Thorvald after a moment. “Then which direction do they come from when they attack? Maybe that is a clue. We must get this into our heads in a new way this summer; we need to reach a better understanding of the enemy before we go in. I intend to minimize casualties. We're going to win, and we're going to do it with as few losses as possible. Now let's run through the pattern of last year's hunt again. Orm?”

“It was bloody slaughter,” Orm grunted, his eyes fixed on the shape they had made, elegant, ephemeral.

Thorvald waited, but nobody seemed to have anything to add. He drew a deep breath and let it out again. “Step by step, that's what I need,” he told them calmly. “I know it was bad. I know it was frightening, and that many of your comrades were killed. That's why we need to fix in our minds just how it unfolded, so that we can avoid making the same errors next time.” He looked up, alerted by some change in the quality of their silence. A circle of faces gazed down at him where he knelt by the sand map on the level ground above the shore: Orm's, grim with the memory of loss; Knut's, younger, lips curved in a tentative smile, for he had enjoyed his task as helper here;
Wieland's, scarred, sad, resigned; many men, all of them watching him, all of them seeking something, a solution, a way out. He could give them that, if only he could make them understand.

“There may not be a next time.” The Ruler had come up quietly; now he stood in the circle, shadowed by the larger form of Hogni behind him. Hogni craned to see what Thorvald had made; Asgrim's glance flicked over it dismissively.

Thorvald rose to his feet. Sudden anger possessed him, and he struggled to appear calm. “Yes, I heard talk of a treaty. That surprised me. Had I suffered such reversals, such losses over the years, my mind would be set on vengeance, not truce. There is a chance to defeat this enemy once and for all, to show him you are warriors of skill and courage. A red-blooded man does not shrink from such an opportunity, but strides forward to meet it.”

“It seems to me,” mused Asgrim, his dark eyes now fixed on Thorvald, his expression impossible to read, “that there may be a little self-interest here. You've done a good job, nobody's questioning that. All the same, one struggles to understand why. It's a lot for an incomer to take on himself.”

Thorvald felt a flush rising to his cheeks, for all his efforts to contain his anger. Words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them. “What did you expect? That this
incomer
would stand by and see your men blundering their way toward yet another bloody defeat? That I would amuse myself tinkering with ill-fashioned spears and poorly strung bows, knowing all the while that the whole venture was headed for certain disaster? If that was what you thought, I can't imagine why you brought us here. You should simply have given us our piece of wood and waved us good-bye.” His foot moved, trampling the little isle of sand into an amorphous heap; a general sigh went around the circle.

“You didn't need to wreck it,” Knut said, outraged. “After all that work.”

“Indeed.” Thorvald heard the chill in his own voice. He could not remember being so angry for a long time, not since the day Margaret gave him the letter and changed his world. “The work has been for a purpose, and the purpose is victory and self-respect. After that comes the peace these men crave. Is it so hard for you to comprehend that a man may wish to put his talents to such a use, to lead others toward that goal?”

There was a frosty silence. After a little, the men started to edge away down to the shore or up to the sleeping quarters, with not a word said. Thorvald's heart was beating like a drum; he was caught between fury and fear. The Ruler's face was pale, his jaw tight. Probably nobody had ever spoken to
him thus before. Thorvald held himself still, keeping his eyes on Asgrim's, waiting for a stinging volley of retaliatory words.

“You will never do that again.” The Ruler's voice was deathly quiet. “If you feel you must express doubts as to the quality of my leadership, you'll do it in private. I will listen, as long as your arguments are based on fact and not ill-considered outpourings of emotion. You know less of the mastery of men than you think, if you imagine such an exchange will not damage your reputation among them. They know me. They trust me. I am one of them. You are young, untested, untried. You've kept them occupied during a difficult time, and that has been useful to me. But you have not fought alongside them, you have not suffered and wept with them, laid brother, father, comrade in cold earth beside theirs. You have not endured the wrath of the Unspoken. You have not seen the light go out in a child's eyes on the very day he first draws breath. How can you know what they want? You cannot even begin to understand how it is for them.”

Thorvald felt as if Asgrim had struck him in the face. Hogni stood at a little distance, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Farther away, the men's voices could now be heard as they went into the shelter.

“You're wrong,” Thorvald said. He was unable to keep his voice from shaking. “It is at just such an extreme that good strategy and sound technique come into play. At such a time, when men risk becoming swamped in a tide of emotions, an incomer is exactly what you need. I stand outside this; I see it with clear eyes and can devise the necessary solutions. Give up and make a truce, and your men may survive a little longer, until the next time these other tribes decide to turn on you. Mount a solid attack, planned with precision and executed with discipline, and they can win back both peace and their belief in themselves. You would lead a stronger people forward on these isles of yours if you could do that. I believe I can make that possible for you.” More words trembled on his lips,
Don't you know I am your son? Don't you see how we can change the future, make it good at last?
He bit them back.

“You speak with some passion,” said Asgrim, “for all your talk of standing outside. I fail to comprehend your reasons for this dedication to a stranger's cause. You've worked very hard this past season; I've observed that. Your friend too”—he glanced along the shore to the place where Sam still labored on the
Sea Dove's
hull—“but his passion I do understand; the boat is his livelihood. You are more of an enigma. It seems that no sooner do you set foot on this shore than you are striving to control our endeavor, to
prove you know better than we do how we should live our lives. Did they cast you out of the Light Isles for meddling?” The Ruler's dark brows arched in query.

Thorvald flushed again. “Since we are on that tack, I have a question for you. Are you not, also, an incomer? Is not each of you a refugee from some other place, come to this shore to forget? The Lost Isles: a realm where a man can put his past life behind him, his errors, his misdeeds, the crimes he committed, the good deeds he never managed to do, all of that conveniently set aside now he lives where his past cannot pursue him. Surely only the youngest among you were born and bred in these islands. The tongue you speak is our own; your manner of life does not suggest to me an exile of many generations. It seems to me the Long Knife people are outsiders here just as I am. I'm only trying to help you. How dare you judge me?” He found he was shivering. The conversation was slipping from his grasp, something he had been at pains to prevent.