Foxmask (58 page)

“Skapti . . .” Briefly, they had forgotten a man lay dying before them.

“What is it, brother?”

“Getting . . . cold . . .” Hogni whispered. Tremors ran through his limbs, more frequent now, a twitching, shuddering sign of what was to come. His skin was gray and slick with sweat, the eyes already sunken. His teeth chattered.

“Here.” Wieland stood behind Thorvald, a thick woolen cloak in his hands. Thorvald took it, spread it over the dying man.

“Thorvald . . .” breathed Hogni. “Got to . . . forgive . . . got to . . . change . . .”

But Thorvald could not reply. A darkness had come into his mind, a churning chaos of fury and hurt and disappointment and grief that stopped his tongue and made him rise and turn away, walking to the rim of the hollow to stand alone, looking out into the night. His father had lied to him. They had all lied to him. He had believed these men trusted and respected him, he had believed they thought him worthy of the leadership that had so oddly fallen his way. He had been naïve, stupid, deluded. He had been a fool, blinded by his little successes with the ropes, the spears, the fine speeches of hope. He was misguided and selfish, just like his father. How could he have forgotten Somerled's tale, a tale of single-minded ruthlessness, of fierce ambition and bloody carnage? Somerled had murdered his own brother for leadership; he had come close to destroying Nessa's people so he could set a
crown on his own head. Somerled might have a new name now, but he was the same man. Thorvald kicked savagely at the rocks. People didn't change. They couldn't. He'd been a fool to believe his father would ever recognize him publicly, an idiot to think Asgrim could ever love him. The man had never cared about kin. He didn't know what love was. He'd probably forgotten Margaret the moment their little encounter was over, their casual little encounter that had, so unfortunately, spawned a luckless son with no more value in the world than his father. For a son
was
his father: there was no escaping it. Hadn't he demonstrated that today, with three men out there broken on the slopes of the Old Woman, and a good soldier lying here in the throes of a slow death by poison? He was cursed by the gods; he had known it the moment his mother told him the truth, and he knew it now, bitterly, finally. He had failed Creidhe, he had failed the men, and he had failed himself. His mission here was nothing but a lie.

“Thorvald?”

“Leave me alone!” he growled, not turning to see who it was that spoke.

“Thorvald, you must come back. You must hear us.”

“What's the point?” Thorvald snapped. “What can any of you have to say to me?”

“Every man deserves a hearing,” Wieland said quietly, stepping into view. “Hogni's dying, and he wants his leader by his side.”

“I am no leader,” Thorvald said fiercely. “You all knew that. You all knew why Asgrim brought me to the encampment. It was a sham, a device to divert me from his real game. He is your leader, not I.”

Wieland looked at him, somber-faced. “That's just where you're wrong,” he said. “Come back, and we'll explain it to you. Don't let Hogni die with the memory that you turned your back on his brother, Thorvald. He needs to see your strength, and your recognition of his. Come on, man.”

They'd gathered in close again; there was a space on the rocks among them where it was clear Thorvald was expected to sit, not far from where Hogni now lay with his head on his brother's lap and his eyes closed. From time to time his body twitched and jerked as the poison worked deeper, and Orm and Einar moved in to hold the thrashing limbs, lest the big man harm himself or others.

“Hurry up,” Skapti whispered, looking up at Wieland. “He needs to hear it, and we don't have long.”

“We want to tell you what's in our minds,” Wieland said, eyes on Thorvald. “You haven't understood, you've got it wrong. We're not denying the truth, and we're not making excuses. Yes, we did know what Asgrim intended
for the girl, and we didn't like it. But we didn't know your friend, she was a stranger to us, and it's a lot easier to sacrifice a stranger than one of your own, that's the honest truth.”

“Sounds as if sacrificing his own wasn't a problem for the Ruler,” Orm put in. “Can't credit it, myself; that he'd give them his own daughter.”

“Thorvald,” Wieland went on, “you have to understand how it's been for us. All I can tell you is my own small part of the story. I don't like to speak of it, but I see I must tonight. It's the only way I can explain to you. Been married six years; my wife's called Jofrid, Orm's sister she is, lovely girl. Been sweethearts since we were twelve years old. Wed the year before the first hunt. Jofrid loves children; the other women are always asking her to help with theirs, she's good with them. Quiets the fractious ones, charms the shy ones. The autumn after the first hunt, we were expecting a child of our own, our first. I'd made the cradle, Jofrid sewed a lot of little things, we could hardly wait. The night she gave birth, the voices came; they sang our son's spirit away, and he was born dead and cold. That was the punishment for our failure in the hunt.

“The next season it was Hjort's wife who lost a child, and Einar's daughter gave birth to a weak, deformed infant that died soon after. The year of the third hunt, Jofrid was pregnant again. I begged Asgrim to let me take her away, try to sail east to other shores so she could bear the infant in safety. The Ruler wouldn't let us go. Boat didn't belong to me, after all; besides, he needed every able-bodied man for the hunt. So we stayed, and it happened again. The first time we'd cried together, and hoped for another chance. The second time, Jofrid went quiet. Didn't want to talk about it, not to me, not to the other women. She might have talked to the Christians, but Asgrim wouldn't let them anywhere near the place. That fellow Niall had challenged him more than once, and he didn't like his authority questioned. Jofrid changed. It was like having a ghost in the house. She packed away the cradle, she folded the little garments and put them in the bottom of a chest. It was as if our child had never been.

“We failed again in the fourth hunt. Three babes died that year, all sung away before the sun rose on their second day. Jofrid attended those childbeds, but I did not get the story of them from her. She was closed in on herself, frightened to speak, frightened even to think. She wouldn't care for other women's children anymore; she didn't even want to look at them. Then there was the fifth hunt, a year ago. The pattern was the same. We came back fewer, and without the seer. And by late autumn, Jofrid had another child in her belly.”

Wieland paused; his voice had faltered here and there, as though he would weep if he could. A man was dying; other sorrows must be put aside for now. “They say your friend, Creidhe, was the one who delivered my son safely,” he went on in a voice no louder than a whisper. “Saved him, when he would have been strangled by the cord. Saved him, so that the Unspoken could come and sing him to death in Jofrid's arms. My boy, my little son. And I could not be there by my wife's side to dry her tears and to grieve with her. I could not protect her, I was powerless to keep death away from my own children.” Now Wieland could not hold back his tears; he fell silent, his features working. Orm reached out and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

“I do not tell this to excuse what we did.” Wieland fought for control and found it, squaring his shoulders, dashing the tears from his cheeks, where five neat, parallel scars marked the years he had endured the hunt. “We all know it was inexcusable, a cruel violation of the laws of hospitality and those that should protect the innocent. I tell it only to explain that we are real men, with real hearts. We have our wives and families, our sweethearts, our old folk. We have our fishing boats, our sheep, our small fields. At least, we had those things: not much perhaps, but all we needed for content. That's all we ask for now: the life we once had, and our belief in ourselves. The chance to see our little ones grow up.”

“I don't know why you're telling me this.” Thorvald heard his own voice as if it were a stranger's, harsh and cold. “It's nothing to do with me. What small significance I may have had in this power game of Asgrim's died with Creidhe. I am no part of this.”

“Wrong . . . Thorv . . . wrong . . .” It was Hogni who spoke, eyes still closed, hand clutching his brother's so hard the knuckles were white.

Thorvald moved to kneel by the dying man; here, at least, he must make pretense a little longer that he still had a part to play. “What is it, Hogni?”

“You . . . lead . . .” Hogni gasped. “You . . . win . . .”

“How can I lead?” Thorvald asked quietly, taking the big guard's hand again. “I'm nobody. My leadership is based on a lie. I'm nothing.”

“You . . . lead . . . Promise me . . .” Hogni forced his eyes open; dying he might be, but their expression was fiercely challenging. “Promise!”

Thorvald's heart clenched tight; the blood thundered in his temples. “How can I promise?” he whispered.

Hogni's eyes closed. He said no more.

“One thing.” Thorvald found his voice again. He looked at Skapti, who held his brother cradled in his strong arms. Skapti's eyes were red and
swollen; moonlight showed the streaks on his broad face. “I forgive your brother for what he did, Hogni. Skapti has performed terrible acts, it is true. That it was at Asgrim's bidding does not excuse him. Creidhe was very dear to me; she was a part of me. Her loss weighs heavily on me, and on Sam. But Skapti has paid a high price, and will pay it until the day he dies. He need not bear the burden of my hatred as well. I forgive him. He has my friendship; indeed, he never lost it.”

Skapti gave a big sigh, and a nod. Hogni did not respond; for a moment, Thorvald thought he had slipped away from them in silence. Then his eyes snapped open again, eerie in the pale light, harsh and commanding. “You . . . lead . . .” he said clearly. “Promise . . .”

Thorvald was mute. He would make no promises he could not keep.

“We need you, Thorvald,” Einar said. “We can't do this without you.”

“Me?” Thorvald snapped scornfully. “Asgrim's puppet, whom all of you led along with your lies? I don't think so.” Curse it, he was sounding like a petulant child deprived of a treat. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? What more could they want from him?

“Thorvald,” Orm said, rising to his feet, “you're the best leader we ever had. You're our only chance of winning this.”

“Our only hope of getting rid of Asgrim,” Einar added.

“Lead us tomorrow,” put in Wieland, “and lead us afterward. We're sick of being too scared to say no. Help us find Foxmask, and then help us find what we once had and lost.”

“Thing is,” Skapti said, as his brother slumped, limp and pale, against his broad chest, “we never had hope until you came.”

“But—”

“Oh, it started the way you said, you and Sam being kept there to stop you interfering. But we soon saw what you were. You made time for us. You cared about us. You were clever, and not slow to share what you knew. You had ideas, you saw far ahead. You stood up to him, to Asgrim. There's only one other man ever did that, the whole time he's been Ruler. You stood up to Hogni and me, even though you knew we could beat you to a pulp. You're our leader, Thorvald. You have to go on.”

There was a muted chorus of agreement: whispers, murmurs, nods. Not too loud: they were on the island, in the night, and not one of them had forgotten the enemy.

Thorvald felt glad of the dim light, for he could tell his cheeks had flushed scarlet in a lamentable lapse of self-control, and tears pricked his eyes. “How can you say that?” he burst out. “I'm just like him! I'm no better
than Asgrim! I promised you minimal losses, and we've already had three men killed. We sit this moment by the deathbed of our finest. And we still don't have the seer. So far, I've done a pretty poor job.” Nonetheless, he felt a warmth creeping back with painful slowness to some inner part of him: his heart, perhaps.

“Thing is,” said Skapti with a note of apology, “none of us really believed that part, minimal losses and so on. Proper battle, men do die. You'd never manage it without some casualties. Sounded fine, though; gave us courage. We trust you, Thorvald. It's the second part of the promise that matters. Find the seer. Lead us tomorrow, take Foxmask, and then come home and put things right. Say you'll do it. It's what he needs to hear.”

At that moment Hogni began to convulse again, this time more wildly, and Thorvald found himself leaning across the violently arching body while Einar held the poisoned man's legs and Skapti, sobbing, made his embrace of support into one of control, pinioning his brother's arms to his body. By the time the spasm was over, Thorvald realized he could no longer stem the flow of his tears. He lifted one of the big guard's hands and held it to his own wet cheek.

“Hogni,” he said quietly, “I hope you can hear me. I don't know if I can do a good job. I think I might be just like Asgrim all over again. Chances are I will be. All I can say is, I promise to give it my best effort. I hope that's enough for you. And you're a lucky man. You've got the finest brother and the most loyal set of comrades a fellow could ever hope for. Rest well now, big warrior. Thor waits for you; his call rings strong in your ears. Rest now.”

They took their turns then, one by one, in between the cruel convulsions that twisted Hogni's body ever more strongly, to say their good-byes with a word, a touch: all simple, all powerful, each one a blessing in its own way. When they were finished, they sat again, silent in their circle, and at last the spasms died down, and Hogni lay still and quiet as a sleeping child in his brother's arms. The moon was past full, but bright and cold; it shone on the dying warrior's strong, blunt features and softened the pain in his small eyes, the deep furrows of endurance around his tight mouth. It looked down in silence on the moment when the mouth relaxed at last, and the eyes grew fixed, and the hands opened, gently releasing their grip on his brother's.