Authors: Juliet Marillier
The three teams met at a certain point high on the flank of the Old Woman, where the ground levelled slightly. A grassy hollow behind low, tattered bushes allowed a gathering place; on either side they posted men with bows at the ready. Clouds were massing overhead now. The sun was here, then gone, here, then gone, as fickle as a bored young wife. Thorvald's group had reached this designated meeting place first. Hogni asked Einar how they had done it, and Einar said, rubbing his back, “Don't ask.” It had been a case of going one by one, using decoys, and climbing rather faster than any of them was accustomed to. Even the smith, Skolli, was panting, and he had a chest on him like a stout ale barrel.
It was time for a quick exchange of what information they had gleaned. Thorvald spoke first.
“They were overlooking us, at a vantage point above a big overhang. They hurled stones; as you see, we're three men down, but Egil and Ranulf are unharmed, and should be on the way back by now. We don't know if Thorkel was just stunned, or more seriously injured. The fellows down at the boats will do what they can for him. I expected the enemy to follow the stones with arrows, but they didn't press their advantage. By the time we got up to the place where they'd been, there was nobody there. No sign but boot marks on the earth. Hogni?”
Hogni grimaced. “Nearly lost Wieland. Saved by the rope. Fellows did well. Came up the steep way, stiff climb. Nothing else to report. No sign of the enemy. Only thing is, I'd say they've got something down in those caves to the south that they don't want us laying hands on. The path Wieland was testing was greased slick as a lump of raw blubber. Why bother with that spot, well off the beaten track, unless it leads somewhere special?”
“These folk aren't stupid,” Einar said. “Some of the traps must be randomly placed. I mean, what've they got to hide except the seer? I don't buy your argument, Hogni. It's too obvious.”
“All the same,” put in Thorvald, “the information could be useful. We must consider every possibility, however slight the evidence. Thank you, Hogni. Skapti, what about you?”
Skapti was looking ill at ease. “We're all here, no losses, no injuries. Nothing to report, except . . .” The big man hesitated.
“Except what?” snapped Thorvald.
“Well, we did find an old hut that looked like a good hideout, sheltered and dry, with a spring near at hand and an outlook down to the anchorage. I'd have expected them to make use of it. There's precious little in the way of hospitable corners in this accursed place. But if they'd been there, they'd done a good job of covering their tracks. There was just one thing left behind.”
“What?” Thorvald was growing impatient; the sun was well past its midpoint and they had made very little progress.
Hjort opened his mouth to speak, but Skapti was quicker.
“Small scrap of wool from a tunic or cape,” he said. “There'd certainly been someone there.”
There was a short pause, then Thorvald said, “Thank you. I can use this information. Now, men. We don't have much to go on. There hasn't been an attack as such; I don't count the defensive measure of the rock fall. We
haven't even seen the enemy, far less encountered them. Any theories as to why they didn't attack us down at the bay, while we had our hands busy hauling up the boats? What are they waiting for?”
There was silence for a while. Thorvald could almost see his men thinking.
Einar spoke, his scarred features grave. His fingers twisted the shell necklace he wore, perhaps a charm of protection. “Looks to me as if they plan to wear us out first, then attack when we're at our weakest. I'd predict they move on us just before dusk.”
Hogni nodded. “Got to attack sooner or later; just a matter of time.”
“No mist today,” observed Orm. “No rain. Other times, they've always attacked in the mist. When it comes down, it's as if they can still see and we can't. Took three of our men with those narrow bone spears last year. Drove four of our fellows off a ledge in the second hunt. Unusually fine today; that's why they're holding back. Should give us an advantage.”
“Anyone else?” Thorvald was thinking fast, adapting his plans by the moment. Nobody spoke. “Very well,” he said, “we've been through this before, but maybe we need to rethink it. Your estimate of the enemy's numbers isâthirty? Forty?”
“More of them than us,” Einar said. “We've lost a good number of men every year since this began; the enemy just keeps on going. Plenty of them, that's plain.”
“What's the biggest number of them you've ever seen together?” Thorvald asked. “I know their manner of attack is informal, secretive; still, I need some idea.”
“Thing is,” said Skapti, “they're very quick. Like something not quite human. You'll see one of them dart across between the rocks, or scuttle off over the cliff face, or dive under the water, but as soon as you see him, he's gone.”
“Mostly, all we see is the spears and arrows coming out of the mist,” added Orm. “The island protects these folk. It hides them.”
“I understand that,” Thorvald said, “and I know they don't engage you in hand-to-hand combat; from what you've told me, they've developed techniques that make that unnecessary, impossible even. The terrain most certainly aids them, I see that for myself. Now answer me something. Is it fair to say you've never actually seen more than one or two of these tribesmen at a time? Cast your memory back. Think carefully, and be quick about it, we need to move.” He looked around at the circle of men where they sat on the rocks or squatted on the grass. They were good fellows, loyal and courageous.
A pity they were not just a little more clever. He could almost wish Asgrim were here.
“What about the voices?” someone asked. “The voices come from all around; more voices than we've got men, women and children on the Isle of Storms.”
Thorvald was about to reply that nobody ever got killed by a voice, then recalled what he had been told about the Unspoken and the deaths of the newborn. “You are warriors,” he said. “Shut out the voices; they are no more than devices conjured to unman you and make you forget your own strength, your own courage. Shall I tell you what I believe?” There were nods, encouraging grunts. “I think it very possible this enemy's numbers are far less than you imagine. I see it in their manner of attack. They are nimble and fit, they know the island, they are clever and well prepared. By means of these qualities, and with the aid of the weather, they can succeed in repelling your conventional attacks indefinitely, though I suspect you greatly outnumber them. I wonder why they do not simply go to ground and wait until the Fool's Tide forces us home. For some reason, this enemy continues to harry us as best he can. Now, men, I've made it plain to you already what we must do here. We will not allow this pattern to continue. We will turn this hunt on its head. We'll use these tribesmen's own tactics against them. Small groups, three or at most four, staying under cover, looking for anything these people may have left behind: weapons, clues, the wherewithal to make their traps. They must eat and sleep somewhere, they must leave traces of fire, unless they gobble their fish raw from the sea. Be vigilant; be watchful for any sign at all. Split up now and follow your leaders' directions. Any of the enemy you find, capture if you can. We want the seer, and only these people can tell us where he is. If you have to kill, kill. Press onward across the island and work as a team. Cover your comrades. You're looking for the enemy, and you're looking for Foxmask. Don't lose sight of who's doing the hunting here. Einar, Hogni, Skapti, you'll each appoint two other leaders from your groups as we planned, and split the men up.”
“What about you?” inquired Hogni in simple curiosity.
“I'll be on my own,” Thorvald said tightly. “And there's just one more thing.”
They waited.
“We're not going back to the boats at dusk. We're staying up here.”
“
What!
” someone burst out, and the others hushed him, but there were looks of shock and alarm all around.
“We always stand offshore overnight,” Svein said in a horrified whisper. “Nobody sleeps on the Isle of Clouds.”
“And so,” Thorvald said, “what territory you gain on the first day must be traversed again on the second. No wonder you've never found the seer. And I didn't say anything about sleeping. We'll leave the fellows guarding the boats, and any wounded. The rest of us will gather up here. Those are my orders. Einar knows this, as do your other leaders. They've all agreed to it. If you want to win, you stay on shore. The enemy seems to like surprises. We're going to surprise him tonight. Now go. We meet back here at dusk.”
There wasn't much to go on: two tiny clues, and his own growing conviction that, bizarre as it seemed, they were dealing here not with a whole tribe of savage warriors but, at most, a mere handful. It did not make much sense, considering the massive losses of earlier years. But superstition and fear can play a large part in such conflicts, and the more Thorvald considered the unfolding of the day, the more he convinced himself that he was right. This enemy was exceedingly clever. He had made excellent use of the advantages he had: speed, mobility, the terrain and, in other hunts, the natural propensity of the Isle of Clouds to attract mist, rain and high winds. Very probably, the only thing that had limited his assaults today was the clear weather. The Long Knife people had undertaken hunt after hunt despite their losses, their lack of cohesion as a fighting unit, their lamentable weapon handling and the misguided leadership of Asgrim. This dogged persistence had not served the Ruler's people well. The enemy knew how to use his wits. The only way to defeat him was to do the same. Numbers didn't matter here.
Thorvald reviewed the day. So far, they had lost no men: a considerable improvement on Asgrim's record to date. They had traversed a substantial part of the island: that, too, was pleasing, but insignificant unless they pressed the territorial advantage by remaining on shore overnight. They had not found Foxmask. Without that, in the final analysis, they had achieved nothing. So, a couple of clues and a hunch. Very well, he would work on that.
Some time later, when the sun was already low in the west and a faint, bright haze hung over the sea, not so much a mist as the ghost of one, Hogni's group of three men encountered Thorvald at a spot where the southern cliffs crumbled away alarmingly and a little spring sent a long, graceful plume of water down to the distant rocks below. On the banks of this streamlet,
mosses and small creeping plants swathed the damp stones, and from time to time tiny birds darted down to scoop up a beakful of the clear water before launching themselves skyward once more. Thorvald was lying on his belly, close to the edge, peering down over the rock face. When he heard the others approaching, he wriggled back to safety.
“Anything?” he asked.
Hogni squatted down beside him, a solid figure in his worn leather garments, which had perhaps once been a uniform of some kind. “Saw one of them,” he said. “Not so far from here. He led us a chase, kept us running. He didn't fire, though he had a bow and quiver on him. Young fellow, wild-looking. Thought we had him cornered once, but he disappeared among the rocks, and we couldn't find exactly where he'd gone in. Caves, tunnels, place is riddled with them. Think you may be right; these folk are trying to wear us out before they strike.” Hogni glanced up at the sky. “Need to be soon, though. Day's passing.”
“Maybe they'll attack at night,” Svein offered. “They know the place, after all, and it's not as if it gets really dark this time of year.”
“What about you?” Hogni asked, small eyes intent on Thorvald. “No prizes for guessing why you're over here; those were my own thoughts entirely. Seen anything? Heard anything?”
“Not a whisper,” Thorvald said. “All the same, I think you were right. There are caves of some sort down there, and they warrant inspection. The question is, how? After what happened with Wieland, we'd be stupid to trust the ledges, and the cliff face looks like it's falling to bits.”
“Ropes,” Hogni said. “We've got a couple. I could hold you, if you're willing to try. Of course, if they're in there, it'll be a bit like dangling a chicken leg in front of a starving dog. I know which end of the rope I'd rather be on.”
Thorvald considered the options. The light was dimming; still, there would be time. It was a high risk, but if his instincts had served him well, this could be the turning point. “One try, I think,” he said. “I've never acted as bait before; it'll be a first. All I want to do is look, this time. We need to be reasonably sure the seer's in there before we spend time worrying about how to get him out.”
“Funny,” remarked Hogni. “Just a boy, isn't he? Foxmask, I mean. Boys are noisy; I know it. Got a couple of my own, not that I've seen much of them in a long time. And this one's what, six, seven years old? How do they keep him quiet, that's what I want to know?”
“Not an ordinary sort of child,” said the fourth man, Paul. “He's a seer, after all. They say he's half a boy and half a creature; that he changes himself
by sorcery. That's what the name means: Foxmask. He hides himself by turning into an animal.”
“A fox?” Thorvald queried, brows raised. “Not much of a disguise. In these parts he'd have more luck as a mackerel or a puffin.”
“It's an old name,” Svein said. “Another fellow had it before him. Goes back a long way.”
“Still,” Hogni said doggedly, checking the rope he had fastened around his waist, “it's a fact, children aren't naturally quiet. If he's there, you should hear something. Keep your ears open. Now come on, men. Svein, you anchor the end of the rope. Paul, keep your bow drawn and your eyes open, and tell me the instant you see anything. We're exposed to attack here, and that fellow went to ground not so far away. We'll give this one shot.”