Foxmask (72 page)

They packed the raft with oil-soaked cloth, with dried bracken, with anything that would burn fast and hot. They waited on the shore in a place where the current would carry this small craft away, waited until the sun dipped below the edge of the world and the sky turned to the blue-white glow of the summer night. They were all there, all who had survived the last hunt: Orm, Einar and Wieland; Skolli the smith and Knut the fisherman with the incomer Sam by his side; the younger fellows, Ranulf, Thorkel, Paul, and more. Breccan was not present, nor the wounded Niall, who could not yet be moved. Creidhe, too, had remained in the shelter, but the other women stood by their men, grave and quiet. Hogni's wife, flanked by her sons, stood with Skapti and Thorvald, close by the place where her husband lay ready.

Now it was time. Skapti should have spoken the words of farewell, but when it came to it, he seemed unable to summon the power of speech. His mouth worked, his eyes filled with tears, his broad, strong features crumpled with sorrow. So it was Thorvald who spoke.

“Go forth, warrior, on your last journey.” He did not cry out. His tone was not grand and ringing, but quiet, respectful, intimate: it was as if he spoke to Hogni alone, directly, honestly, as to a dear friend. Around him on the shore men swallowed, scrubbed their cheeks, blew their noses. “You were ever brave and strong, honest and forthright. You taught us well; we all had bruises to prove it at one point or another. You gave all that you had for us; all that you were. Rest now, secure in your brother's love, in the love of your woman and your sons. Go now on your journey, borne on the wind from the islands. Go straight to the god's right hand, for you died as you lived, a true son of Thor. Know that in this place your children will grow in peace and security, for we will make a new world for them, all of us together: a world in which such seasons of blood and sorrow cannot come again. Now it is time to say farewell. Come!” Thorvald glanced at Skapti, and at Einar, and at the two young lads of seven or eight who stood wide-eyed by their mother's skirts. They all moved forward and set hands to the raft, easing it down into deeper water; the sea washed to their knees, to their thighs, and the little boat was free to go.

“Careful,” Thorvald said to the smaller boy, who stumbled in the halflight, in danger of falling in the chill water. “Here, take my hand.”

Skapti gave one final heave, and as the raft began to drift out to sea, the others waded back to the dark sand of the tidal flats where Orm now stood with a lighted torch, and the archer, Paul, by his side. But Skapti stood with the sea around his knees, watching as the little raft bore his brother away, farther and farther from the shore, westward on his last, long journey.

Then Paul fitted a certain arrow to the string, and drew the bow strongly, and Orm touched the brand to the tip of the arrow, setting it aflame. The bowstring twanged; the arrow arched through the air, out over the sea, winging swift and true. A flicker, a flaring, and at once the raft was engulfed in fire, robing the fallen warrior in a garment of light. Hogni burned long; they watched him pass down Council Fjord, a glowing vessel of flame, toward the hidden shapes of the Troll's Arch, and Dragon Isle, and out into the grip of the Fool's Tide. They watched until the raft shrank to a pinprick of light in the summer twilight, then winked out altogether.

The children were shivering, yawning, worn out by the strangeness of it all. Their mother shepherded them close; when Thorvald spoke to her she looked him straight in the eye, as if assessing the worth of this man for whom her husband had given his life.

“He was a brave man and a good one,” Thorvald said quietly. He looked at the two boys. “We'll make sure you are provided for, all of you,” he added, not sure how this would be done, but knowing that from now on such things would be his responsibility, and that he must learn quickly. “Now you should rest and get warm. There's a fire in the sleeping quarters, up yonder.” That building had once been the meeting hall of the Long Knife people, in a time before the hunt. It would be satisfying to restore it to its original purpose.

“We will go home,” Gerd said. Her weary features were full of courage; it was the same look Hogni himself might have given at such a moment. “Tonight, to Brightwater. Tomorrow, to Starkfell. We have been long enough away; there are stock to tend to.”

Thorvald was about to protest that it was night, and a long walk, and a dangerous path. But he bit back his words; all around him the men were settling small packs on their backs, fastening cloaks tighter, and picking up staves to aid the climb. And Skapti now came out of the water, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and took the hands of the small boys in his own.

“Time to go,” said the big guard. “If that's all right with you.”

“Of course,” Thorvald said. “Of course you must go. Take what time you require. But don't forget that I need you here, Skapti. I rely on you to help me and advise me. I'll be calling a council before next full moon, and I want all the men to come.”

“I'll be there.” Skapti's eyes were bright.

“And in the meantime, all of us must think of the future, of what there is to do, and how best to accomplish it. We'll all play a part in that. I'm sorry Hogni isn't here to see it, bitterly sorry.”

“He sees it,” Skapti said. “Make no doubt of that. Now we'd best be off. Come on, lads, step lively.”

Asgrim's tale was not quite finished. Thorvald and his party remained at Council Fjord for a few days, waiting until Niall was well enough to be moved. Some of the men, those with no families, stayed on to help. Most set off for their homes, to tend to farm or boat or other livelihood, and to spend time with their kin before the long work of rebuilding the broken community began in earnest. On the second day, Thorvald was sitting outside the shelter with Sam and Knut, working on some improvements to the
Sea Dove's
sail, when Paul came running into the encampment, stumbling over his words in his haste to impart some news. He did not seem distressed, merely overexcited. They sat him down, gave him ale, waited as he got his breath back. The other men, alerted, gathered around to hear what he had to tell.

Paul's family lived in an out-of-the-way place, a tiny settlement on the northwestern margin of the Isle of Storms, set on a clifftop high above the sea. He'd headed off that morning, planning to reach the farm before dusk and give his mother a surprise. He'd taken a cliff path for much of the journey; it wasn't the safest way, but it was definitely the quickest, and Paul knew the terrain well. That was how he'd seen it: Asgrim's boat.

“He was sailing north,” the archer said, “and making good progress. From his position, I reckon he must have been holed up at Little Bay, and headed out this morning. Probably aiming for the outer islands; only a scattering of folk there, and perhaps he thought they'd take him in, since they know little of what happens in these parts. The wind was favorable. He'd got around the northern edge of the Fool's Tide, and the weather was set fair. Me, I'd have liked to make use of my bow to pick him off cleanly, but Thorvald had given him an undertaking, and besides, he was probably out of range. Out of harm's way. Or so I thought.” He took a swig of his ale and wiped his mouth with his hand.

“What happened?” Knut asked eagerly, for all sensed some wonder here, some dark conclusion. It could be seen in the teller's eyes.

“Strangest thing I've ever seen,” Paul said in a tone suddenly hushed
with awe. “Calm sea, steady breeze, boat under perfect control. Then there were . . . there were hands, or arms, or . . . I don't know what to call them, but they were there, all around his boat, dragging, pulling. I heard him cry out. It was a little enough sound in all that ocean. And then . . . and then they broke the boat apart under him, tore it up, shredded it to fragments. Last thing I saw was a . . .” Paul gulped, “a woman, something like a woman, reaching up and putting her arms around his neck, only it wasn't like a wife does to her husband, you take my meaning, but more like an executioner with a victim . . . she was choking him even as she bore him under . . . A moment later, all there was to see was little bits of wood floating on the surface. Perfect calm.”

For a little, all were silent. The image in their minds robbed them of words.

“The Seal Tribe,” Knut said eventually, his voice shaking. “They came for him.”

“Of course, his wife was one of them,” said Paul, nodding. “Retribution, that's what it was. Look what he did to his own daughter. Her daughter. Had to catch up with him some time. All the same, I regret that arrow. There'd have been satisfaction in that.”

Thorvald shivered. It was just, perhaps; on the other hand, he would not wish such an end on any man. The islands, it seemed, delivered their own punishments, in their own time.

A cottage was provided in Brightwater, roomy and dry. There was a tiny, private chamber for Creidhe, not much more than a storage corner, with a shelf for sleeping. Gudrun had offered her a bed, and so had Jofrid, a Jofrid not yet restored to joy, for her losses would shadow her always, but at least a young woman who now had hope in her eyes. Wieland stayed close, watching over his wife like a hen with a lone chick. But Creidhe would not go with the women of the village. So she was lodged with Breccan and Niall, and with Thorvald and Sam, until it was time to move on. Niall ran a fever, and between them Breccan and Creidhe were kept busy sponging his burning body, administering drafts, and making sure visitors made as little noise as possible. Thorvald had a lot of visitors, for all the respite he had decreed before his council. Men sought his advice on their sheep, their boats, their sons living in the far islands. They told him of their wives' anxieties, their children's fears. They asked him to speak at an old man's burial rite. They talked of building a temple, of refurbishing the council house, of seeking to emulate
the
Sea Dove
's neat construction in the making of boats, if only they could procure the timber. Some of them began to talk of trade and of treaties. Thorvald listened, commented and praised them for their initiative. He offered grave advice. Sam watched him with wonder. Was this the same man who had raged against the dark heritage of his blood, back home in Hrossey? Was this the lad who had barely known what he was doing when he borrowed the
Sea Dove
and its hapless master and set off on that foolhardy journey into the unknown?

Sometimes Brother Niall was lucid, though he lay weak as a new lamb, his face dewed with sweat. When those times came, Breccan and Creidhe rested, and it was Thorvald who sat by his father's side, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth, holding his hand and speaking in a low voice. At such times an expression could be seen on Niall's face that was quite new to him. He had ever worn a mask, knowing it could not protect him from the world's barbs, but recognizing it could at least conceal the way they wounded him. If he had felt love before, and perhaps he had done, long and faithfully, that mask had hidden it well. Now he set such artifice aside. It was wondrous indeed to see the gaze his single eye turned on his newfound son, and the reflection of that gaze in Thorvald's own eyes.

Niall wanted to go home. He wanted his quills, his inks, his parchments; he wanted the quiet of the hermitage, the empty sweep of hillside under the pale sky. He talked about the cow, the chickens, the little garden Colm had made.

“Soon,” said Breccan. “When you are well again.”

Sam had nearly finished provisioning the
Sea Dove
for her journey home to the Light Isles. The Long Knife people were generous; the boat would make this trip far better supplied than she had been on her wild voyage from Stensakir. They would take a different course this time, Sam said: more east than south at first, to skirt the shores of the Northern Isles before the run home. Knut was coming, not simply because, without Thorvald, Sam would not be able to manage the craft in open seas, but for change, adventure, opportunity. The young fisherman's eyes were bright with anticipation. In a day or two they would be ready.

There had been some discussion among the Long Knife people about Creidhe. At least four of the unwed men had made careful inquiries as to whether the fair-haired woman was planning to remain in the islands and, if so, whether it was really true that she was not betrothed to either Sam or Thorvald, but no more than their friend. The answer seemed to depend on who was asked. They gave up approaching Sam, who nearly bit their heads
off with his curt response that Creidhe was going home with him, of course, and they should know better than to ask him such a stupid question. And Skapti, quizzed on the subject when he returned to Brightwater, seemed to believe there was an understanding between the girl and Thorvald, which their new leader had stated in no uncertain terms when he bargained for her release among the Unspoken. Word of this spread quickly and the men stopped asking. However, Skapti himself was heard to comment that if Creidhe was indeed Thorvald's sweetheart, the two of them had evidently had a falling out, for the girl was a shadow of herself, picking at her food, wan and exhausted, and she never exchanged so much as a word or two with Thorvald, though there were many times when his eyes followed her with a certain expression in them that the big warrior thought he knew well enough. He'd been that way inclined himself for a little. He knew how foolish that was now, a bit like a stray dog looking at a princess. Besides, he'd Hogni's family to worry about, Gerd and the lads. There was no time for dreams. He was sorry the girl looked so sad. There was a tale there that nobody knew, nobody but Creidhe herself, and she had it locked up tight.

“Father?” Thorvald asked as he sat by the pallet while all the others slept.

Niall moved his head a little so he could read his son's features. “What is it?”

“Breccan said you can be moved in a day or so, now the fever's broken. He must go back to the hermitage, at any rate; he has to resume tending the stock, the boys can't be spared any longer. But—”