Foxmask (47 page)

“We've brought a contribution for your supper,” Breccan said, “and it's heavy. Please take it; you're welcome to it, whether our request is met or not. Preparation for war makes hearty appetites, I'm sure.”

“Thanks,” grunted Hogni. “Here.” Meat and cheese were borne away by eager hands. “I'll go and find Thorvald for you, ask him what he thinks. You stay here, and no funny business.”

“Funny business?” Niall's brows lifted extravagantly. “I wouldn't know where to start.”

Skapti remained, spear point trained on Niall's heart. His expression, though, had altered. “Thorvald a friend of yours?” he asked diffidently.

“Not exactly. A connection, one might say. A friend of a friend. Good warrior, is he?”

“The best,” said Skapti simply. “The best we ever had. Fine leader: hard but fair, you know? Clever. And not afraid to put himself on the line. The sort of man you'd follow anywhere.”

Niall could not reply.

“Interesting,” said Breccan into the silence. “An incomer, too. That's a turn of the tide.”

“You could say that,” Skapti muttered. “Not so much of a turn that we've started letting priests into the camp, though. Don't think you're suddenly welcome here.”

“Ah, well,” said Breccan, smiling, “one always lives in hope. What about the other lad, Sam, isn't it?”

“He's all right. Good on the boats. Useful.”

“I pray,” Breccan was suddenly serious, “that he, and you, and all of them come through this summer safely, my friend. These are testing times. You will have heard that we, too, suffered a loss.”

“That's nothing to do with me.” Skapti's mouth closed like a trap, and his small eyes became distant.

They waited awhile. Now that the group of men near them had dispersed, it was possible to see ahead down the track to the bay where Asgrim had his shelter and outbuildings, his safe strand for boats, his flat ground for the rehearsal of war. There were men training there now, shooting arrows at straw targets. Niall watched them. There was quite a lot of noise: shouting, laughing. Nonetheless, the activity was disciplined. The red-haired man moved among them, encouraging, making suggestions, demonstrating. It was clear from the way men stopped to listen to him, attentive and serious,
from the way they gravitated toward him, from the way they glanced over to check if he was watching before they loosed the bowstring, that he was a leader. It could be seen immediately in his stance: upright, relaxed, confident, yet always finding time to listen when they had something to tell him, always ready with a word of praise when they had earned it. Niall watched him, and presently saw the message delivered, and the young man turn his head to look back up the hill to the place where they waited by the path. The hair was Margaret's, deep auburn, glossy and well kept. The dark, wary eyes, scrutinizing, assessing, calculating, those were the mirror of his own.

“All right?” murmured Breccan, behind him.

Niall nodded. He would have to summon the capacity for speech now, for the young man was coming up the hill toward them, the second bodyguard at his side. Behind him the games of war went on. There was no sign of Asgrim.

“Good day to you,” the red-haired man said, stopping on the path before them, his expression neutral. His features were pale and intense, the jaw firm, the mouth thin-lipped. He wore plain, serviceable clothes, woolen tunic and breeches, light leather boots, a good belt; as leader, he seemed to have few pretensions. “Hogni tells me you brought us meat; thank you for the gift, the men are becoming weary of fish. We don't allow visitors to the camp. I thought Asgrim had made that clear.” He glanced at the two boys. “Off you go, lads,” he said, the tone somewhat kinder. “Take a bite to eat, then see the Ruler. He has messages for you.” This time the boys obeyed instantly, slipping away without a word. “Well, now,” the young man went on, looking the two hermits over with a keen eye, “I see what you are, and wonder if perhaps I've been less than courteous. Still, rules are rules, and it's close to hunt time. My name is Thorvald. I can't welcome you to the camp. I will ask you why you're here. It's a long way just to deliver a bit of mutton the lads could have carried. Your names?”

“I am Brother Breccan and this is Brother Niall. We do have an errand here. We wish to report an unlawful killing. Our young companion, Colm, was set upon as he traveled this way a few days since, and done to death, his body left out on the hillside unattended.”

Thorvald frowned. “I'm sorry to hear that. I respect your kind; we have folk such as yourselves in my homeland, men of wisdom and learning. This is regrettable. But it's Asgrim you should report it to, not me. I am war leader here. I am not Ruler.”

No
, thought Niall, heart beating fast,
but you should be
. “We know that,” he said, finding his voice with some effort. “But it's you we've come to speak to. We had cause to provide shelter to your friend, Creidhe, just before she
was taken. We offer our sympathies to you. Her abduction was a terrible blow; if there's the slightest possibility she can be brought back, be assured we will do all we can to help you. Creidhe spent a few days with us, and we spoke at some length. There were certain matters . . .” It was not possible to go on. As Niall spoke, the young warrior's control had slipped badly, his pale face turning still whiter, his eyes betraying an anguish that awoke Niall's own memories, painfully.

“I see you do not yet know the full story,” Thorvald said quietly. “I have to tell you that Creidhe is dead. The vessel of the Unspoken capsized into the Fool's Tide. I'm told she herself made that happen. All on board were drowned.” His dignity was astonishing; he spoke with courteous restraint, making a valiant effort to mask his own evident distress. Niall's heart had turned cold at the news. If intellect had taken precedence over feelings, as was habitual for him, he might have believed death a better ending for that lovely girl, so full of vitality and warmth, than what awaited her among the Unspoken. The heart, however, had involved itself despite him. This was a grievous blow.

“I'm so sorry,” Breccan said, his ruddy features creased with distress. “I can hardly believe this. Such a lively, courageous young woman. We should speak more of this—”

“I think not,” Thorvald said. “This is past. The hunt comes soon, a matter of only days. That will take all our will, all our energy. What point can there be in going over what has already occurred? That would only awaken unrest and undermine our confidence. You think to offer prayers, maybe, for those who are lost. Prayers change nothing. We have a task before us here, and our minds must be on that alone.” Niall could see how much this speech cost the lad; Thorvald's knuckles were white, even as his voice sounded with level assurance.

“We have made our own prayers,” said Breccan. “What we had in mind was more along the lines of advice. Advice, and information.”

“Thorvald?” Skapti hissed. “Ruler's on his way up.”

It was true; Asgrim could be seen approaching up the path, his dark features thunderous.

“Yes,” Thorvald said absently. “Yes, thank you. Advice? What kind of advice does a priest give a soldier? To beg forgiveness from the gods at the moment the spear takes him in the heart?” His tone was bleak, too bleak for a young man, but Niall did not miss the spark of interest in his eye.

“Don't dismiss us lightly,” Niall said in a whisper. “We can help you. You may be in danger here, more danger than you realize.”

And at that moment Asgrim strode up to them grim-faced, his knife in his hand.

“Skapti! Hogni!” he snapped, and the two guards fell in on either side of the hermits, weapons at the ready. “I'll handle this, Thorvald,” the Ruler went on smoothly. “I know these men; they are meddlers and troublemakers, for all the gifts they bring. They have nothing of value to us. I'll see them escorted on their way. Go on, son; the men need you back there.”

Thorvald's eyes were still intent on Brother Niall's; there was a question in them. “These men have a murder to report,” he said, “and perhaps something about Creidhe as well. I think we should hear them, troublemakers or not. We can hardly assess the information they bring if—”

Asgrim's brows crooked in a frown. “A murder, you say? How unfortunate. Very well, I will allow them a hearing, in private, in my quarters. If there's anything that concerns you, I will let you know. That seems fair. Off you go now, I can hear Einar calling you. They seem to believe they can't manage without you.”

Thorvald stood his ground. “I'd like to speak with these men myself,” he said.

Asgrim's little smile did not reach his eyes. “This is not relevant to your role here, Thorvald. I will deal with it. Later, perhaps, you may get your chance. I hope you understand me.”

For a moment Thorvald looked him straight in the eye, unmoving. Then he said, “Very well,” and turned away, heading back to the men.

“Hogni, Skapti,” the Ruler's voice was sharp, “take these two to my quarters. Then stand guard outside. They're not to speak to anyone, and no one's to speak to them. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

But when they reached Asgrim's hut, that was not quite the way of it. Breccan was taken to the anteroom, where he sat quietly on a bench while Skapti loomed in the entry, leaning on his spear. Hogni ushered Niall inside the inner chamber and the Ruler followed. Hogni went out; the door closed firmly. This, it seemed, was to be a private audience for one.

“Well now.” Asgrim's voice was a mockery of an affable host's; his eyes were venomous. “Here you are in the middle of my encampment, in express defiance of my orders that you stay away from any settlement of the Long Knife people. I did not take you for a fool,
Brother
. Yet this seems an act of utter stupidity. You've seen the forces we keep here; they're extremely well armed, and their orders don't include being kind to priests. Oh, I expect you have a small weapon about you somewhere, hasn't that always been your
way? I thought of asking my guards to search you, but I decided against it. Nasty injuries only complicate things. Besides, I don't believe you're here as an assassin; aren't you sworn to remain outside the affairs of men? A vow of inaction? No, I think you're here for information. Unfortunately I have none to offer. You'll leave, the two of you. You'll leave promptly, and you won't come near this place, or my men, again. Is that understood?”

There was a brief silence. Niall held himself straight and kept his eyes on Asgrim's. His fingers touched cold iron within the folds of his robe; he could indeed kill, should he have the inclination. He had been better taught than the Ruler could possibly imagine.

“The boy's dead,” he said evenly. “Colm. That lad's been with Breccan since he was a child. He was outside all this, an innocent. You can't pin that killing on the Unspoken; what possible reason could they have for it? It's your work, Asgrim. Colm was silenced. You know what I'm talking about. What were you planning—a neat trade with your enemy, to let you off another summer of pointless losses? Was that in your mind the moment the girl stepped on shore with her head of hair the color of ripe barley? I'll wager your men came running to you then. They'd have seen the opportunity as you did. Another chance. You failed the first time; your son made sure of that. At twelve years old he was more man than you'll ever be. You lost that chance. Now here was another girl, one you knew you must make completely sure of.”

“Where is this going, Niall?” Asgrim asked wearily. “What do you hope to achieve here? To persuade the Long Knife people that their best hope lies in hunt after hunt, season after season of bloody mayhem? This is pointless.”

“And so,” Niall went on as if the Ruler had not spoken, “you removed her companions as swiftly as you could, you confined her to the settlement with Gudrun as watchdog, and you set up a deal. Unfortunately, it seems the girl proved somewhat more courageous than anyone anticipated, and the result was death for her, and another failure for you. You've demonstrated your ineptitude twice over. That's not counting the hunt, an exercise in futility if ever I saw one.”

“There's not a single one of my people would not support what I did,” Asgrim said, “and you know it. You've been here long enough to understand how it is. Confronting me in some misguided attempt to goad me into an admission of guilt is a waste of time. I don't deny what you set out. We do what we must for survival here. Some actions seem cruel; they are for the greater good.”

“Your record so far has hardly proven that.”

“You think you could do better?” There was an edge to Asgrim's voice now; of the two men, it was the other who had stayed calm and controlled.

“I know so. I told you that last time, when it was your own daughter's life in the balance.”

“Huh! A weakling priest whose whole existence is based on standing by to watch while others do the hard work, take the hard decisions? I know about you, Niall. I know more about you than anyone on the islands. I remember the day you came here.”

“I, too. Perhaps we have not changed so very much since then. The welcome, I recall, was less than warm.”

“You certainly weren't much of a priest then, and I doubt that's altered over the years. You don't need to tell me why you're here today, I know already. You want to see the boy. Thorvald, I mean. Tell him tales about me, my wickedness, my evil ways; persuade him not to help me. Is that it?”

“He and his friend deserve the truth. I imagine they bear quite a burden of guilt that the girl was lost.”

“Guilt, guilt, we all carry that, it's part and parcel of man's very existence. In Thorvald's case, Sam's too, it's working itself out very conveniently in aggression. You can't see them. Thorvald's busy. He's proven more than useful to me. With him in charge, we've a chance this season, a good chance. I need him for the hunt. You can't talk to him.”