Foxmask (56 page)

Over the edge, hands and feet searched, groping, clutching for purchase, the rope not taut yet, but held firmly from above. Thorvald knew Hogni could support his weight in case of a sudden fall, and that the three men had the strength to haul him back up. That did little to still his thumping heart or steady his breathing as he climbed cautiously down the vertiginous, damp cliff face. He went to the west side of the waterfall, avoiding the slickest patches. It was not possible to be covert here. Pebbles fell, small pieces of crumbling stone dislodged under finger or toe to hurtle down to the rock shelves far below. Perhaps this was a stupid idea. Very likely it was. On the other hand, if the enemy were as clever as Thorvald suspected, he might well choose to hide his treasure in this unlikely and inaccessible part of the island. So, keep moving, down and carefully down again, feeling the rope paid out from above, finding a crevice for the toe, the root of a tenacious plant for the stretching hand, and searching, searching across the expanse of uneven rock for any sign of a cave or hollow large enough to house anything more than a gull's nest. And listen: for behind the cries of birds, the plashing of the waterfall, the thunderous beating of his own heart, there must be clues. A child's whisper, a muted footstep, a chink of metal: if his intuition served him right, surely those who lay hidden somewhere within this desolate rock wall must reveal themselves in some small way, if only he had his ears open to it. Just a little longer . . . just a little . . . He clung to the rocks, still as a dead man, waiting.

The Journey lay spread out on the ground, jewel-bright colors glowing dimly in the faint light from the cavern's narrow opening. Creidhe had not intended to look at her work before the hunt was over, for to look was to picture
the images she had not made, the terrible things that had lodged in her mind and refused to go away. But it was a long day, and the enforced silence made the time pass still more slowly. She could not tell stories, or sing songs, or even move about very much for fear of revealing her presence by a footstep, the rustling of clothing or some accidental piece of clumsiness. And they could hardly sleep the whole day away; that was to invite a wakeful night in which the fears that already beset Creidhe were likely to redouble themselves through the time of darkness.

Small One worried her. It was not that the child was likely to give them away by making noise; he was, if anything, unnaturally obedient to Keeper's request, uncannily understanding of what was required of him. It was the look of utter sadness on his strange, small face that wrung her heart, a grief that seemed to go beyond the fear of being hunted and caught, the terror of knowing Keeper was out there in a battle so unequal it seemed impossible that he would survive it yet another year. Small One's eyes held all that and more; there was something stronger there, a sorrow as deep as the message of joy and wonder she had heard in his song. His eyes told a tale that had nothing at all to do with being six years old and shut up in a cave in the semidark and not allowed to talk. There were ancient things in this small seer's mind, tides of the spirit that Creidhe knew were beyond her comprehension. All that she could do was try to comfort him, and hope in that to find a little reassurance for herself.

So they studied the Journey, using hands and eyes to exchange a kind of commentary. Small One had traced with his fingers the tales Creidhe had told before: Eyvind the warrior and his clever friend Somerled; Eyvind earning his wolfskin and later becoming a leader of men. Then there was the tale of little Kinart, whom the Seal Tribe had taken and drowned. Maybe. And Creidhe and her sisters; Creidhe leaving home, sailing away; Creidhe upsetting a boat, and reaching the Isle of Clouds. Small One's hands rested softly on the dark wools that made the island's picture, the seal-gray, the deep green, the dusky violet. Now he had reached the place where his own image was shown, little more than a pair of eyes in the shadows. He laid his fingers there, then pointed to himself. Creidhe nodded.
Yes, you are here in the Journey. I could not make the island without putting you there
.

The child found Creidhe's image in the embroidery, a limp figure sprawled over an upturned boat. In this depiction, pale hands stretched up from the water to guide the battered craft to shore. Small One smoothed the golden hair of the woolen figure with his fingers, then reached to stroke Creidhe's long plait, which hung forward as she bent to peer at the Journey. Creidhe nodded again, knowing what would be next.

Small One's hand moved across the stitches Creidhe had made since she reached the island: himself in doglike form; the dead skulls with their silent, screaming mouths; the mist, the rain, a little fire with a cooking pot beside it. He glanced up at her, eyes wide. His hand reached out again, touching the empty linen beside those last images as if he were searching for something. He gestured to the cave's opening, where a mellowing of the light suggested the sun was sinking toward the western ocean; looked at her, face as anxious as a chastised puppy's. There was no need at all for words. His message was clear.
Where is he? Where is my brother? Why haven't you put Keeper in your web
?

And when she could not answer, not so much because of the need for silence as because she had no answer she could give him, Small One became more agitated than she had ever seen him before. Still without a sound, he tugged at Creidhe's bag, tried to pull out the roll of cloth where her wool and needles were stored, and when he could not, he mimed for her what she must do.
Now, do it now, put my brother in your picture, now, today!
His eyes were terrified, his mouth quivering, his hands frantic as they tried to show her what he wanted. Creidhe reached to take his hands in hers, but Small One pulled away violently. Creidhe's own heart was thumping. She motioned to the cave opening, tried to show him,
I can't see to sew, there isn't enough light in here
, which was undoubtedly true. But it was not the real answer. She could not give him that.
I will not make the next part, for in it I see death. I know Keeper was wrong when he said I had the power to change the future with my needles and my colored wool. That cannot be so, how could it be? If I thought it was true, I would have made his image long ago. I would have shown him well and smiling, with one hand in mine, the other in yours, Small One. But I will not sew anymore, for what would creep onto the linen would not be that fair image but another, darker one. It would grow there despite me
. Indeed, it was right before her now, even with her eyes open. How could this hunt end without a loss that would tear her heart in two? Creidhe felt hot tears well from her eyes and roll down her cheeks; she tried to blink them back, but they would not obey. She covered her face with her hands; this was no good at all, she was the grown-up here, and should be strong. A moment later, she felt Small One edge onto her lap and put his arms around her neck. She took her hands down to hug him in return, and when she did, she could feel that he, too, was weeping, his frail body shuddering in great, convulsive gasps, but still without a single sound. He wept as if his whole spirit were filled with grief. Creidhe cradled him, rocking in place, longing for words to
comfort, for a little song, for the knowledge of what was wrong, so that she could help him. That other night, when he had sung the moon's stately dance across the sky, Small One had seemed powerful, old and wise. Now, huddled in her arms, he was a miserable, lonely child. Creidhe held him close, shut her eyes tight and prayed to the ancestors with all her will.
Please make this right. Please make this as it should be. Don't let Thorvald kill Keeper. And don't let Keeper kill Thorvald. And please let the child be happy, however things turn out. He doesn't deserve this; he's only little
.

In time, Small One fell asleep against her breast, his eyelids heavy with tears, and she wrapped him in blankets and settled him as comfortably as she could. Then Creidhe moved closer to the entry, watching the light change as the sun sank toward the west. She willed Keeper to hear her silent message.
Your brother loves you; you are everything to him. And I love you. I wish I had told you. Please be safe, wherever you are. Every moment I hold you in my heart. Know that; know it deep inside you
.

The light outside was orange, then red. Gulls exchanged echoing cries; there was a faint, watery music from the stream that tumbled down the cliff face not far from their hiding place. Creidhe sat very still. Her breathing slowed; her heart became steady. She would not help either Keeper or Small One by working herself up into a state of panic. She could not influence what happened now. She had promised to guard the child, and she could do no more than that.

There was a sound outside, above the cave entry, and a stone came bouncing down not two strides before her face. Creidhe sucked in her breath in alarm. Silence now. Perhaps it had been nothing but a natural crumbling of the cliff's already decaying surface. But no: now she heard a definite movement above, like a boot slipping, and a whole shower of pebbles cascaded past the opening. Creidhe froze. To move back, deeper inside, was to risk being detected by making some slight noise. To stay where she was meant being seen instantly if there was indeed a man on his way down here on some kind of search mission. It was most certainly not Keeper, who could traverse any kind of terrain with the sure-footed stealth of a wild creature.

Another small stone. The sounds from above had ceased. With painful slowness, Creidhe eased back on all fours, creeping toward the shadows of the inner cavern where the child lay sleeping. Where the child now rolled over restlessly, rubbing his eyes in his dreams, and gave a soft whimper before settling again into fitful slumber. So faint, so small a sound: so deadly a clue. Who was out there? Had they heard Small One's cry? In the half-
darkness Creidhe's fingers stretched to grasp the twine-bound hilt of the knife Keeper had given her and, clenching her teeth in a strange mixture of anger and sheer terror, she crouched in place, waiting.

There was a shout from the clifftop, harsh and wordless, a cry of pain. The rope jerked violently, then steadied. Thorvald clung on, heart thumping. A moment later a voice came from above, Paul's voice, yelling,

“Get back up here quick!”

He obeyed. The note of horror in those shocked words allowed no other course. He climbed, slipping, fumbling, doing his best to minimize his reliance on the man who held the rope; who knew what was going on up there? For all his efforts, Thorvald lost his grip once, and dangled for the terrifying space of three heartbeats high above the wild seas at the cliff's base. The rope held firm; thank the gods for Hogni.

“Quick, hurry!” the voice yelled once more, and Thorvald lunged for the root of a clinging bush, caught, gripped tight, and began to haul himself up again. Heart hammering, body running with sweat, he clambered up the last few feet and edged onto the level ground where his companions stood. Only they didn't stand, not anymore. Svein was sprawled facedown on the rocks, motionless save for a little twitching of the hands. There was a long, pale arrow lodged in his back. Paul was fitting a new arrow to his own bow, hands shaking, as he stared away across the sloping grassland before them, where it seemed nothing stirred. And Hogni, now fumbling to unfasten the rope that still bound him to Thorvald, was gray-faced and shivering.

“What—?” Thorvald began, untying his own end of the rope and dropping to his knees beside the wounded man. He turned Svein over, and knew immediately that it was too late: this warrior had death in his eyes, and nothing could bring him back. Behind him, Paul was loosing arrows methodically and cursing under his breath.

Hogni knelt down on Svein's other side, reaching to close the eyes whose stare had become suddenly fixed and opaque. “Thorvald?” the big warrior whispered.

Thorvald felt himself go suddenly cold, a chill that seized him bone deep. He looked across the fallen man's body; took in Hogni's small, terrified eyes, the tremor in his strong hands. Just below the shoulder, the point of a slender shaft emerged from Hogni's chest; this finely crafted missile had
pierced his heavy leather tunic as easily as a sewing needle through fine wadmal cloth. Thorvald rose slowly to his feet. He forced himself to walk around, to see the other end of the long dart protruding from Hogni's back; to observe the dark, oily coating that still smeared its graceful form along with the big man's blood. Svein had died quickly, in the space of that frantic struggle back up the cliff. Hogni had been hit, yet Hogni had held the rope, he had covered his comrade and followed his orders, even with the knowledge that he held death in his body.

“Got Svein in the heart.” Hogni's voice was a hoarse thread of sound. “Paul winged the fellow, I think. Heard a cry, then he bolted away again.” His speech began to falter. “Get . . . shelter. Need . . . talk . . . brother . . .”

“Maybe we can do something,” Thorvald said, trying to recall anything he had ever learned about poisons and their antidotes. “I can get the dart out; maybe if we cut the wound, then bind it tightly, and—”

“Not a hope,” Hogni wheezed. “Not this stuff . . . seen it before . . . bit of time, not a lot . . . walk down now, while . . . can . . . Skapti . . .”

Thorvald's heart shrank. There was no point in disputing what must be truth.

“We should remove the dart, at least,” he said. “That will make you more comfortable. Here—”

“No!” gasped the wounded man. “Don't touch it . . . wait . . . Skapti . . .”

“Very well,” Thorvald said, his heart thumping. “We'll wait for your brother. Can you walk, Hogni?”

“Strong enough . . .” the big guard whispered.

“Paul!” Thorvald called. “Come on, we have to get him to shelter. Svein must be left for now. And we'll just have to hope those wretches are content with the damage they've done. By all the gods, they'll pay for this tomorrow. Come now,” speaking to Hogni, who had risen to his feet and, swaying, placed one arm around Thorvald's shoulders and the other around Paul's, “let's find our comrades before the light goes. It grieves me to leave a fallen warrior behind, but we've no choice.”