Foxmask (59 page)

Skapti had wept all his tears. He laid Hogni down, covered his face with a cloak, and sat beside him, legs stretched out, eyes closed in complete exhaustion. For a long time nobody spoke. Then Einar told them it was time to relieve the fellows on guard, and Ranulf and Hjort went off to do it, while the others shifted and stretched and handed around a water bottle.

Thorvald rose to his feet, regarding his men. It was necessary to say something now, quickly, before their expectations formed into more than a general desire to retain him as leader. They wouldn't be pleased, not in the short term; too bad, they'd need to get used to accepting his decisions, even the ones that seemed wrong at first.

“Men?” he said quietly. Their heads turned; in an instant, he had their full attention. “I'll keep this short,” Thorvald told them. “We're four men down, and we still don't have the seer. I've no intention of losing any more of you; I'm going to need all the support I can get back at Council Fjord. I have every intention of capturing Foxmask. I will not sail home without him. I will not let Hogni's sacrifice, and Svein's and Alof's and Helgi's, be for nothing. It's been a high price to pay; I will accept no less than victory in return. Now here's what we're going to do. As soon as it's light enough, Paul will arrange two teams to bring Svein's and Helgi's bodies back down. Alof must be relinquished to the sea; he lies beyond our reach. The rest of you are heading straight back to the boats at dawn. Once our fallen comrades are safe on board, you're going home. There will be no more losses here. We must look to the future, a future in which all of you have a role in rebuilding this broken community.”

“Hang on,” said Skolli. “That doesn't make sense. How can the seer be taken if we just up and go? The Fool's Tide will stay calm until dusk tomorrow if it follows the usual pattern. We needn't give up before afternoon.”

“We're not giving up,” Thorvald said, feeling his lips stretch in a mirthless smile. “We're merely offering the enemy a little of his own favorite tactic: surprise.”

“You mean we hide the boats somewhere and come back in?” Paul asked.

“
You
don't,” Thorvald said. “You, and Einar, and Skapti, and the rest of you do just what I say. You turn your backs on the Isle of Clouds and sail home to Council Fjord. You quit this shore for the last time. I give you my word that you will never have to endure the hunt again.”

There was a silence while this sank in. Nobody seemed quite prepared to ask the obvious question. In the end it was Skapti who spoke, Skapti who still sat sprawled, eyes closed, beside his brother's body.

“And what'll you be doing?” he asked pointedly. “Planning a little solitary heroism? Think we'd let you get away with that?”

Thorvald smiled. “Me, a hero? Hardly. I have a plan. Sam and I will stay, with one boat. Paul's guess was half right. We'll hide, and wait. I've a good idea where the seer may be; I think I came close to finding him today, before the enemy took Svein and Hogni. But I plan no heroics, no solo cliff scaling,
no spectacular feats of arms, I assure you. Merely surprise. What the enemy will see is our departure, followed by a long period during which all is quiet. I plan to wait until they are quite certain we are gone and the seer is safe. I plan to wait until they come out into the open. Then I will capture the child and sail for home.”

“Hmm,” said Orm. “How long is a long period?”

“Until the day after tomorrow, if need be,” Thorvald said. “Until the enemy knows the Fool's Tide is no longer safe to cross.”

Einar whistled. “That's insane, Thorvald! Nobody gets over the Fool's Tide after the days of calm are past! Why do you think we only hunt once each summer?”

“Sam's a fine sailor,” Thorvald said with a great deal more confidence than he felt. “This is the only way. Now, those are my plans. And my orders. Collect our dead, see they reach the boats, look out for your comrades on the way down, and be off as early as you can. Knut will sail the
Sea Dove
. Einar will be in charge. There are to be no more deaths. Any questions?”

“I've got one,” Skolli said. “Don't you think the enemy will be watching us when we sail off? Counting boats, if not men? If you plan to get home, you'll need to keep one boat in the anchorage here; how can that be secret? They'll move down and slaughter the two of you the moment you make an appearance.”

“Sam's working on that,” Thorvald told him with more confidence than he felt. “While we've been up here, he and Knut have been exploring the shoreline, looking for other bays, trying to find the enemy's own craft. They've got to have one or two; how else do they fish? If we can, we plan to get away in one of theirs. As for staying unseen, there are only two of us, and we'll be careful.”

“Odin's bones, Thorvald,” Skapti growled, “first you say you'll lead us, and the next moment you're sending us all away and doing it on your own. Give us a chance, can't you? We want to help. We owe it to him,” he glanced at Hogni's still form, “and to the other lads we've lost. How can you do it, just the two of you? Sam's no fighter, for all he may think so.”

“You've got a job,” Thorvald told him. “You need to get Hogni home and make sure he's sent to greet the Warfather in the way he'd want it done. Same for the others. Besides, you're one of my leaders. The fellows will need you on the boats, and on the other side. Those are my orders, Skapti.”

“We'd all stand and fight beside you, if you'd let us,” Einar said. “But staying after the water changes, that's madness. Won't you think again?”

“It's the only way,” Thorvald said. “I never thought my heart would dictate
my path for me, but this time it's giving me a sure message. I'll take Fox-mask and I'll bring him back. Not by battle, not by hunting, not by cleverness. Just by waiting. You must trust me.”

“We do,” said Einar heavily. “What about Asgrim? What do we tell him?”

“Tell him whatever you like,” Thorvald said. “The truth would be good. Tell him a Ruler of these isles will never again attempt to buy peace at the price of a girl's life. Tell him there are going to be changes.”

“You'll stay on, then?” Skapti's voice was still hoarse with weeping. “Even after this?”

“First I have to deal with Foxmask. Afterward there will be time to speak of other things. Now rest, and think of home. Those of us who have led you will stand guard awhile and keep vigil for our fallen brothers. Tomorrow you leave this shore for the last time. That is my promise to you.”

Then the men lay down, or settled with their backs against the rocks, and Thorvald and Skapti kept watch at the south end while Einar and Orm stood at the north. The moon passed across, remote and pale, and it seemed at times a faint music echoed from her cool, distant form, not so much a song as the memory of one, an eerie, half-caught vibration of the air, subtle, beguiling, frightening in its power. The song crept into the head of every man there, touching his dreams, sifting his thoughts, making him sigh or moan or stop his ears with his fingers. Some of the younger men wept, afraid; others comforted them with muttered words. Wieland had his hands over his face, though he sat still as a stone.

At the southern guard point, Skapti stared out into the night, silent. As for Thorvald, who stood close by, his mind was a turmoil of dark thoughts. He was a leader after all; it seemed he was wanted, respected, loved even. That set a warmth to the heart, a flush to the cheek; it put fine words on the lips, words that paid fitting tribute to the men's loyalty. And he could take Foxmask. He knew it, not with his intellect but deep in the belly, as an animal knows its chosen prey. He could and would succeed; all that he needed was patience, and Sam's ability to get them across the Fool's Tide. Of course, there was the possibility that Sam and Knut had not found a vessel for the taking. If that were so, he'd have to use one of their own, a small one, and hope the enemy wasn't counting. They would manage, one way or another.

It was not this part of it that clawed at his mind and would not let him savor the joy of knowing he was, after all, accepted and valued for what he was among this fellowship of men. It was
afterward
that troubled him. He knew how he wanted it to be: himself as leader, supported by the wisest of them, Einar, Orm, Wieland, a council that would govern fairly. Peace, prosperity,
attention to the best practices for fishing and farming, a treaty with the Unspoken; later on, better ships, trade with the Light Isles and farther afield . . . Oh yes, he had no trouble seeing his future and theirs, a bright prospect stretching before them. He could do it; they could do it.

There was just one flaw in that enticing picture. He was Asgrim's son: Somerled's son. While that gave him some kind of claim as Ruler, it also stamped him with his father's legacy. Somerled had acquired power of this kind in the Light Isles, and used it to kill, to destroy, to ride roughshod over what had existed there since ancient times, for no better reason than his own quest for absolute authority. Somerled had come here and sought power again under a different name. As Asgrim, he had led his people into a spiral of loss and defeat, heartbreak and waste. Thorvald was that man's son. He was made in Somerled's mold; he had felt it in his blood, this darkness, this fierce urge for recognition, for control. It had made him blind to Creidhe's peril. It had made him cruel to his mother. At heart, he was just like his father: give him enough power and he might well kill and wreck and burn just as Somerled had done. Who was to say he might not play cruel games with folks' lives just as Asgrim had done, the man who had sold his own daughter? Sula had been Thorvald's half-sister: strange, to think of that. And the boy, what had they said his name was, Erling? A kind of brother. He had never had a brother, nor a sister. He did not suppose the lad had lasted long, here in the harsh environment of the Isle of Clouds. Not if he was a dreamer as they'd said. The natives would have made quick work of him. But the child he had stolen away still lived. Thorvald sensed it. He thought he had heard it, a tiny sound from that cave this afternoon, like a sleepy sigh. He was sure it was not a bird; he was sure it was not his imagination. Death had intervened before he could investigate further; Thorvald's curiosity had killed Hogni, immobilized as the big man was by the need to hold the rope firm. Thorvald had made his comrade into a standing target.

So, he had to go on. He owed it to Hogni; he owed it to all of them. He had to go on, and if he turned into his father all over again, he'd just have to hope that someone had the gumption to finish him off before he did too much harm. Or that he would know when to end it himself. He had no loyal friend to send him off into exile when he grew into a danger. Sam would go home. Creidhe was dead. He was alone among his men, alone with the prospect of a power that thrilled and terrified him. How can a man not become his father? How can he find the strength to deny the blood that courses through his veins, dark and compelling, tugging at the mind, filling the heart, polluting the spirit? Without Creidhe to steady him, without Sam to anchor him, how could he ever travel this path and not lead them all into darkness?

Set your quill down, Brother; cover your ink pot.
This text is graven on the heart
With knife and blood
.

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

A
s the light began to fade on the second day, Creidhe forced her cramped limbs to obey her and moved to gather their meager supplies together. It had been quiet for a long time; only the piping songs of birds could be heard above the sound of the waterfall. Today no stones had fallen, no careless boot had disturbed the crumbling rocks above their cavern. She had heard no shouting, no whispers, no furtive exchanges. Nothing: it was as if the Isle of Clouds were deserted save for herself and the child. Her heart was faltering and a chill had possessed her, though she kept her expression calm for Small One's sake. If what her dreams told her was truth, she knew she would have to make her own way out of this precarious hiding place; she would have to ensure the child climbed safely back along the impossible ledge across which Keeper had brought them. The supplies must also be transported out. If he did not return, she must do it. If he did not return, her heart would break.

She'd had plenty of time to imagine a future on the island, just herself and Small One, braving the winter storms, the hunger, the loneliness. She had considered the alternative: giving the child up for the ritual maiming that would probably kill him. Increasingly, that had been on her mind. It could never be; she would not allow it. Creidhe drew a deep, shuddering
breath, and closed her eyes.
I know now. I know why you fight so fiercely for him. And if I must, I will do what you did. He deserves no less
. A lonely life; a hard life. She had been so lucky, so rich in comforts. Last spring, before she stepped onto the
Sea Dove
and into a different world, she'd have been shocked to think of spending two days and a night quite silent in a tiny cave, using a bucket to relieve herself, eating nothing but a mess of cold fish that was definitely past its best. At home, she had taken her soft woolen blankets for granted. She had prided herself on the fine meals she had cooked to please her father, never really thinking just how fine it was to have flour and butter and vegetables at hand whenever you wanted them.

Small One was ready. He had folded his blanket neatly and put on his shoes. He watched her solemnly, a wary expression in his deep green eyes. The low light of late afternoon crept through the cavern's opening, touching his pale features with the semblance of a healthy color. Creidhe had spent some time working on the child's hair, having little else to keep her hands busy, and now it stood out from his fragile skull in a fine, dark nimbus. She noticed that Small One had replaced the scraps of weed and little feathers she had combed out.