Foxmask (40 page)

“When
all
are dead?” she asked him, alarmed by the grim finality of his tone.

“Asgrim's men. When all are gone, there can be no more hunt. We are in peace then, Small One and I; then I make his life for him.”

“Here, on the island?”

“There is nowhere else.” He came to lift the sleeping child from her knee; she felt the inadvertent touch of his hands as if it were a lick of flame, and saw his face change at the same moment. Small One's presence, she thought, was in some ways a blessing.

“Will you show me tomorrow, as you said?” she asked. “The island, the other tribe, and what happens when hunt time comes?”

“If you are strong enough. I would not weary you.”

“I'm used to walking,” Creidhe said. “I'll be fine.” She rose to her feet and a wave of giddiness swept over her. The fever, after all, was not so long past. “Fine . . .” she murmured as her knees buckled under her.

He was very quick. He laid the child down on the blankets, took two strides back, and caught her before she hit the ground. She felt herself picked up bodily and placed on the warmth of a folded woolen cloak. Her vision
was behaving oddly; the walls of the hut seemed to be slowly moving above her, and the firelight's glow on the creviced surfaces of the massive cornerstones made patterns of light and dark, forms of men and beasts, an ancient dance from somewhere in their monolithic memory. Keeper's features were blurred; he leaned over her, and she thought she could see the ocean in the depths of his eyes.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Thought I was all right . . .”

“Shh.” He settled himself beside her, cross-legged, and reached to put a blanket over her, up to the chin. “Tired. My fault. I asked too much.”

“No,” she said softly. “My fault. I did not see, at first, how much you love him. How much you loved her. Sula. These are her shoes, aren't they?”

“Yours now,” said Keeper. “Tomorrow I walk with you, show you my place. Sleep now.”

She waited for him to move away, to settle on the other side, across the fire, or down by the entry. But he stayed where he was, quiet beside her, sitting straight-backed in the half-dark. Creidhe closed her eyes. She was indeed weary, and yet sleep seemed far off, for her mind was full of questions, and her heart, for some reason, was thumping as if she had run a race. She tried to think of calm things: a gull gliding on currents of air, the tiny bright jewels of heart's-eye blooming in the fields at home, her mother's voice telling her all would be well . . . No, that would not do; there were tears in her eyes again, brimming over to roll down and lose themselves in the tangle of her hair. And now a hand reached to brush the tears away, so lightly she might have thought it was no more than a whisper of breeze, save that it was his hand, and she felt it in every corner of her body. She held her breath. His fingers moved to touch her hair, stroking it back from her brow, gentle, careful. Slow, sweet. She breathed again, and sighed, and, against the odds, was immediately claimed by sleep.

How are you supposed to feel when the prize you deserve falls into your lap, and you discover the cost of it is beyond what you are able to pay? How can you go on, knowing your opportunity to shine has been bought with your best friend's life? The day after Asgrim gave them the news of Creidhe's death, Thorvald went back to the Ruler and told him he was not prepared to lead the men, that it seemed to him there were others apter for that role; Einar, for instance, or Orm. He did not in fact believe this, but forced himself to say it, if only to deny that part of him that still cried out,
Yes! This is your
time!
For it seemed to Thorvald that was a part of him which would better have been strangled at birth.

“After reflection,” he said, keeping his gaze steady on Asgrim's impenetrable dark eyes, “I think it inappropriate that Sam and I should play any part in this. Creidhe would not have wished us to exact revenge at the cost of your men's lives, nor our own. Besides, it was not the tribe on the Isle of Clouds that killed her, but the Unspoken. Why should we do battle to retrieve their seer for them when they have acted with such savagery against us? It makes no sense. We will go home.”

In the back of his mind, perhaps he expected Asgrim to put up some argument, to beg.

“Very well,” the Ruler said. “If you're sure. I'm disappointed, I have to say. I thought better of you, Thorvald. Still, we have managed without you before, and will do again, I suppose. I fear the losses will be great. This news will dishearten the men. And you may have trouble persuading Sam.”

“That's not your problem,” said Thorvald. “Sam will come around. Not so long ago he couldn't wait to be off home.”

That day he avoided the others as much as he could, speaking little, staying behind in order to go through his meager belongings in half-hearted preparation for departure. Hogni was hanging around, not working with the men, not on duty either, leaning morosely in a corner of the shelter, then sitting outside on the rocks with his arms around his knees, his big-jawed face like a sad dog's. Finally Thorvald felt compelled to go out and ask him what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Hogni grunted, brows knitting in a scowl.

The bodyguard was a man of intimidating size and manner, but Thorvald saw the lost look in his small eyes. He sat down by Hogni's side. “All the same,” he said, and waited.

Hogni's hands were restless, fingers drumming on knees, then twisting together. Thorvald watched the men down by the shore, practicing with knives; he felt curiously detached from it, now that he had decided not to go on after all. Nonetheless, he noticed how much Wieland's skills had developed; his throw was vastly improved and he was beginning to demonstrate real style. And Orm wasn't looking half bad, either. He'd just given Hjort quite a fright with the accuracy of his aim.

“M'brother,” Hogni blurted out suddenly. “Skapti. He's gone all funny. Quiet. Not like himself. Something's eating him and he won't talk about it.”

Thorvald had suspected something of the sort; it had been visible in Skapti's demeanor last night.

“Mmm,” he said. “Awkward for you.”

“Not right.” Hogni scratched his boot sole on the earth, scattering small pebbles. “Something's not right. Never known him like this before. Almost never.”

“Did you ask him straight out what the trouble was?”

“Tried to. Nothing, he said. It's bothering me, Thorvald. I don't like the look in his eye. Hunt coming up, all of us need to be our best. You'd agree with that.”

A chill passed over Thorvald, like a breath of cold wind that trembled through the bones and was gone. Perhaps it was a premonition, but of what, he did not know. He drew a deep breath. This was not his place; these were not his men. He had been foolish to think he belonged here. The hunt was Asgrim's business.

“Thing is,” said Hogni gruffly, “I thought Skapti might talk to you. He thinks a lot of you. Looks up to you. He might tell you what he won't tell me.”

Thorvald opened his mouth to say no, there wouldn't be time, for he was going home tomorrow. He met the anxious, close-set eyes of the guard, saw the mournful expression on the big, bony face. Somehow the words just could not be spoken, for they seemed yet another betrayal.

“Skapti looks up to me?” he croaked. “I shouldn't think so. He could squash me with his little finger.”

“Been good working with you. All of them agree. Not the jumped-up incomer we thought at first. Skapti too. Said you've got brains and guts. Will you talk to him?”

“I'll try.” There was simply no way to refuse.

“Knew I could count on you,” Hogni said, a grin stretching his mouth to reveal two rows of crooked, broken teeth. He had fought more than his share of battles.

Anything that was to be done must be done today: not only talking to Skapti, which Thorvald thought privately would not be much help at all, but also convincing Sam that they must follow the original plan and head for home while the weather was set fair. Sam could now be seen among the warriors, trying his hand with the spear. The fisherman's amiable features were set in a hard, fierce expression quite alien to him. His eyes were red and swollen. There would be a few sore heads today; they had drunk late into the night while Thorvald sat on the clifftop alone. In the morning Einar had roused them at the usual time, no concessions, and they'd been out working soon after
without complaint. These men were learning discipline. Some among them were learning leadership. All the same, Thorvald reminded himself, it was Asgrim who was their chieftain, not him. Asgrim had said they could manage. Thorvald was dispensable. He would go, then, and if he never did see the force he had trained win its battle, so what? He had been foolish to get involved, foolish to start caring so much, to think there might be a place for him here. Stupid and arrogant. The gods had demanded a terrible price for that arrogance, a price he would spend the rest of his life paying for in guilt and sorrow. He must return and tell Eyvind and Nessa their daughter was lost because of him. He must tell Margaret what his pride and ambition had wrought. No amount of brains and guts was going to help with that.

Sam seemed to be making sure he was never alone today. If he was not throwing knives with Orm, he was rehearsing a cliff-scaling exercise with Wieland, injured foot or no. Knut and several of the other fishermen were involved in that as well; of the entire complement of men, the only ones not engaged in some practice for the hunt were those who had taken a boat out to catch something for the communal supper. And Skapti. The Ruler had come down to watch, shadowed by Hogni now; he stood close by the knife throwers, expression grim, making a comment now and then. The men seemed nervous in his presence and were doing less well than before. Thorvald itched to go down and join them, to reassure and encourage them, but he did not. If Hogni was on duty that meant Skapti was on his own somewhere. He set off to find him.

Instinct carried him to the selfsame clifftop where he had kept vigil last night, alone with his grief. It wasn't hard to spot Skapti, a veritable giant of a man. The guard stood perilously close to the edge, staring out to the west. Thorvald's heart skipped a beat; a vision of Creidhe was before his eyes, Creidhe with her gaze locked on the Isle of Clouds and her feet slipping on the cliff path. He approached with caution.

“Skapti,” he said quietly, coming up to seat himself on the rocks not far from the warrior. “Sit down, man, you're scaring me. Come on, sit by me awhile.”

Skapti growled something exceedingly coarse that equated to,
go away
. Thorvald stayed where he was, saying nothing.

“I mean it,” Skapti snarled after a little. “I've got nothing to say to you. I'm sorry the girl died, and I'm not going to say any more about it. Now leave me alone. If I decide to take a quick jump into the waves down there, it's surely none of your concern.” He took a step; his boot was overhanging the edge. Thorvald swallowed.

“It is, though,” he said in a reasonable attempt at an everyday tone. “Haven't we been training the men for the hunt all season, you and me and Hogni? You're telling me you don't care if you live long enough to see that good work come to fruition? Come on, Skapti, I'm counting on you. Who else has a chance of taking in a raiding party unscathed? We need your team on one flank and Hogni's on the other. There's nobody else the men trust for the job. You can't just throw that away.”

Skapti teetered on the cliff edge, putting out an arm for balance. His face went suddenly white. Several options flashed through Thorvald's mind, none of them promising. It had been all very well to grab Creidhe and drag her to safety. Creidhe was a girl and narrow-waisted. This giant would pull him over bodily, merely by leaning a little too far.

“Tell you what,” Thorvald said. “I'll make a deal with you. Talk first, just a bit, then I'll go off and leave you. What you do after that's your own choice.”

Skapti made an unintelligible sound.

“Thing is,” said Thorvald in casual tones, “you'll have to sit down first. Watching you wobbling on the edge there is making me seasick. Come on, man, sit down here by me. That's it. That's the way.” He heard his own breath expelled in a sigh as the warrior stepped away from the brink and moved to slump down on the rocks. Skapti, too, was breathing heavily, and his complexion had a greenish tinge.

“Bet Hogni sent you up,” the bodyguard ventured, scowling.

“I did speak to him, yes, but it was my own idea to talk to you. The hunt's getting close; if you're angry, or sick, or not satisfied with something, I need to know about it, so I can help.”

“Not what I heard.”

“Oh?”

Skapti shook his head. “Asgrim says you're going home. Says you don't want to lead us anymore.” He turned suddenly to fix his small eyes fiercely on Thorvald's. “Is it true?”

“How can I stay?” The words burst out angrily, against Thorvald's better judgment. “Creidhe's dead. She's dead because I was over here doing this and not looking out for her. I have to go home. I have to go back and tell her father. In its way, that will be worse than any battle. He's a formidable man. You'd admire him, I should think.”

“Oh? What is he, a chieftain, some kind of king?”

“Not exactly. A leader of men, certainly. He was once a Wolfskin, back in Rogaland. That carries a certain reputation. I don't know if you—?” He
broke off. It was clear Skapti knew exactly what a Wolfskin was, and found it more than impressive.

“That explains it.” The big warrior nodded, eyes full of sorrow and something new, which Thorvald could not quite read. “A Wolfskin's daughter. No wonder.”

“No wonder what?” asked Thorvald, ice trickling down his spine.

“Nothing,” Skapti mumbled, looking at the ground.