Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “Shame on you!” Creidhe yelled at the bodyguard. “You’re nothing but Asgrim’s puppet, and Asgrim is not fit to hold the title of Ruler! How can you do this to me? I only came here by chance!”

  The big warrior strode toward the boat. For a brief, heart-stopping moment she thought he was coming to help her, to make them let her go. Then he and several others set their hands to the prow, pushing with all their strength. The low craft ground over the shingle and out into the water. The men of the Unspoken clambered in over the sides and took up their oars. They turned the vessel expertly and began to row steadily out into deeper water.

  One of her father’s early lessons had been in keeping calm in difficult situations. Creidhe sat quietly awhile, listing in her mind what advantages she had. She was not tied up. They were not holding her, not anymore: now that they had her safely in the boat, they probably thought any restraints unnecessary. After all, apart from her initial struggle and brief outburst, she had appeared compliant. She had her bag on her back, and in her bag were some useful items, only getting to them unobserved was not possible. Unfortunately there were seven of the Unspoken and there was only one of her, and now they were well off shore, and the small craft was bouncing and bucking in a distressingly familiar way, putting Creidhe sharply in mind of her arrival in these lonely isles.

  The mist was dissipating now, and as she looked westward, she saw it in the moment the veil parted, rising like a distant, lovely vision: the Isle of Clouds, still wearing its shawl of clinging damp, still somehow calling, crying out to her, Here! Here!

  And that, of course, was the answer. That was the one place where they could not follow, the one realm they could not enter to fetch her back. There she would be safe from Long Knife people and Unspoken alike. In order to make a southerly course to their home islands, these boatmen must first row out of the fjord, close to those two small isles, the tall, jagged one and the squat archway. They must skirt the edges of the Fool’s Tide.

  Very well; she would forget, for now, what she’d heard about the body of water separating that western island from the Isle of Storms; she would forget that no fisherman who valued his life went out that way, winter or summer. She would not dwell on the probability that the water would be freezing cold, save to ensure that her plan kept her in it for as short a time as possible. She would not think of sharks or sea serpents, nor of currents that might drag one down to the depths or sweep one away beyond the intended destination and over the rim of the world.

  She watched the sea. Gudrun’s brother had been drowned in the Fool’s Tide, just one of many men of the islands lost to its fickle currents, its capricious gusts of wind and sudden, sucking whirlpools. She watched the rowers, observing how they struggled to maintain a straight course. Even here, on the far rim of the sea path between the fjord and the Isle of Clouds, the current still drew them hard to the west, as if the Fool’s Tide were demanding a tribute, warning them that they were close enough for a toll to be exacted. She blessed the childhood summers in the Light Isles, when she had played in the lake waters with Eanna and Thorvald and learned to swim. Never mind that the lake waters had been warm and sheltered. She could do this. She had no choice.

  Behind them, the landing place had shrunk to a smudge at the foot of the steep, rock-layered cliffs. The small figure of Asgrim’s guard could be discerned on the shore, gazing after them. The boat was level with the tall, narrow islet; the crew were attempting to change their course, skirting the western margin of that island and making for the south. Out of the corner of her eye, Creidhe watched the movement of the oars. She sensed the pull of the current, recognizing the same tug, the same insistence she had felt as Thorvald and Sam had labored to bring the Sea Dove safely to shore against impossible odds. Had she been a wise woman steeped in ancient lore, as her sister was, she could have sought help from the powers beneath the surface, the Seal Tribe perhaps, for no doubt even here they had their dwelling places under the waves, and might come to the call of a priestess in time of direst need. Lacking those special skills, Creidhe made use of what she had. She judged her moment finely, waiting until the swell picked up and the men of the Unspoken were fighting hard against that strange current. One of them spoke harshly, snapping an order, and for just a moment the fellow who sat beside her was distracted. Creidhe stood up; the light-fashioned boat rocked violently. The men shouted; her guard sprang to his feet, grabbing for her arm as the vessel tilted in the swell. He was too late. Snatching a breath, Creidhe jumped.

  The sea’s touch was like a hard clamp around the chest, squeezing out the air; it was only after she struggled to the surface, gasping for breath, that she realized how cold it was. Already the current had carried her some distance away; now the tribesmen of the Unspoken were ignoring the danger and turning the boat to row hard after her. The vessel drew closer; Creidhe sucked in another desperate breath and dived, trusting the ocean to hide her, to carry her beyond her pursuers’ reach. By all the powers, this was a chill beyond any she had known before; no wonder so many had been lost in these waters. She held her breath as long as she could. Her skirts were dragging her down; she fought to shed the sheepskin boots. Her bag, not to be discarded, was like a leaden weight on her back. Again she sought the surface, coughing, choking, her hair plastered over her face. The boat was close by, and they gazed this way, that way, oars held poised, eyes ferocious: such a loss would be bitter indeed for the Unspoken, and more bitter still for Asgrim’s people. Her strength was already flagging; she could not keep this up for long. The current that carried her westward was pulling pursuit after her; that was not the way she had intended it to be. They still hadn’t seen her, though they were very close now, the blade of that first oar almost within reach of her hands . . .

  The water swirled, a gust of wind shivered the surface. Creidhe reached up and, grasping the oar shaft, tugged with all her might. Taken by surprise, the oarsman let go, and the length of pine tumbled into the sea. There was a shout, followed by a general movement to the side of the craft, which listed perilously. Clutching the oar, Creidhe gritted her teeth and gave herself up to the current, and the Fool’s Tide bore her away. Looking back, she watched what unfolded through scarce-believing eyes, for it had the quality of some ancient tale of nightmare deeds and monstrous consequences. A wave arose: not a big wave at all, quite a moderate swell of water, but moving as if guided by an inexorable will. The sky darkened; the wind began to howl. The water lifted the boat, slowly turned it and tipped it gently over, and the tribesmen of the Unspoken were cast out into the ocean. Creidhe did not see what happened to them after that. Maybe they drowned; certainly, they disappeared from view almost instantly. Maybe they swam toward the shore, but if they did, there was no sign of them. All she knew for a time was the thudding of her heart, the rasp of her breathing, the weight of her clothing pulling her down, the fierce pain in arms and hands as she clutched at the oar, desperate for its aid to keep her afloat long enough. The water pulled strongly now, its westward current moving her in a kind of helpless dance; here a circle widdershins, here a circle sunwise, here an arc, a loop, a spiral, as the shadowy form of the Isle of Clouds drew gradually nearer, and her body grew colder and colder, and her mind clouded and wavered, refusing to obey her will. She chanted to herself, over and over, a charm of survival: I won’t die, I won’t die.

  As the numb feeling spread through her arms and crept up her legs, so that she could not kick anymore, she recalled what Nessa had said after Kinart died. Creidhe had been very small herself, not quite four years old, but she remembered. Kinart had drowned: a simple matter of wandering off and not being found until it was too late. It was an accident, folk said. But Nessa was sure the Seal Tribe took her little son as the price for a favor they had once done her. If that were true, Creidhe wondered what it was she was paying for now. Her own foolishness, perhaps, in thinking her presence on this cursed voyage could have been of any assistance to Thorvald at all. Thorvald . . . she would never see him again,
nor her parents, nor her sisters . . . she would never go home . . . byalltheancestors, shewascold . . . maybeitwouldbe easier simply to let go, for this was really starting to hurt quite a lot, and nobody knew where she was, and all she wanted to do was sleep . . . easy really . . . just let go . . .

  Something loomed up beside her. Her heart contracted; she was suddenly, sharply awake, anticipating any moment the rending bite of some voracious sea creature. But no: what lay in the water by her was a familiar construction of wattles and hide, floating upside down, buoyed by trapped air and festooned with a network of tangled cords. The boat floated alone; no men, dead or alive, clung to its hull or lay twined in its ropes. None could be seen in any direction on this wide sea. Now the shore she had left seemed more distant than the graceful, cloud-capped shape of the isle to which she journeyed.

  I won’t die. I refuse to die. Clambering up seemed beyond her. All the same, she must try, for escaping the chill clutch of the water was surely her best chance of survival. Climb up, cling on with the aid of those shreds of rope, and she had at least some chance. One hand . . . two . . . one foot . . . by all the powers, her body would feel the aftermath of this if she came through it alive . . . now pull . . . it was too hard, she would never be able to haul her own weight up . . . draw breath, once, twice . . . now, a gentle wave, coming from behind her, lifting her in its kind embrace, and a last, wrenching effort . . . grasp, twist, quick now, arms and legs through the ropes, heart thundering, quick, grip on while you can . . . and then the sheer weight of complete exhaustion . . . the wondrous, solid bulk of the boat’s hull beneath her . . . the lulling rock of the swell . . . the bone-deep cold . . . the darkness . . .

  Something had changed since Asgrim’s return. Thorvald sensed it, though he could not quite put his finger on what it was. The Ruler seemed edgy, distracted; he strode about the encampment, up to the forge, along to the boats, but it seemed to Thorvald that most of the time Asgrim was not really seeing what was before him. There was a brooding look in those dark eyes, a frown on the pale brow that suggested the Ruler’s mind was much taken up with other matters, secret matters. Skapti had not returned with him this time, and when Hogni asked where his fellow guard had gone, Asgrim snapped that Skapti was off on personal business and would return all in good time. That momentary loss of control, so unusual in this man, interested Thorvald. It seemed to him Asgrim was waiting for something. There had been talk of negotiations. Had Skapti been dispatched to the realms of the Unspoken to treat for peace? Most unlikely: the Ruler had said the enemy spoke only to himself. Besides, such dealings would require subtlety, cunning and cleverness. The bodyguard possessed all three qualities in the arena of combat, but he was no diplomat.

  In Skapti’s absence, Einar took his place as personal guard, since Hogni could hardly be on duty day and night. Now Hogni, too, began to wear a frown; he missed his brother, and it showed, for all his pains to conceal such weakness. The men began to whisper, and the talk was of some kind of agreement, a treaty; maybe they would not have to fight, but could go home at last. Asgrim was saying nothing. He paced and scowled and, quite clearly, waited.

  Thorvald found himself growing irritated. While Sam had been working frantically to undo the botched repair on the Sea Dove and restore her to something like her old condition, he himself had been putting in long days on Asgrim’s behalf. Einar’s warning had done nothing to change his approach: a leader was useless if he did not earn his men’s respect. If there was a personal risk involved, so be it. When he was not ordering the rehearsal of battle, coaching, encouraging, sometimes bullying to get the results he wanted, he was talking to the men: finding out as much as he could about the Isle of Clouds and the campaigns they had undertaken there, working out how they might achieve decisive victory where before there had been only numbing defeat. When the long day was over and the last lamp quenched, and the ill-assorted group of men snored in the half-light of the pale summer night, Thorvald lay wakeful, his head full of plans, schemes, strategies. There was much to lose here; if they failed in yet another hunt, he doubted these men would have the heart to try again. That meant this must be perfect to the last meticulous detail. Once they reached the Isle of Clouds, he must be prepared for anything.

  And he would be. They would be. It was unfortunate that Asgrim seemed incapable of showing a genuine appreciation of their efforts; he remained grimly detached. As chieftain here, Thorvald thought, it was time the Ruler demonstrated some real leadership. If Margaret’s account was accurate, Somerled had been misguided and cruel, but he had been a real leader. He had achieved things. Asgrim’s lack of support dampened the men’s enthusiasm and sapped their confidence. It came to Thorvald that, very soon, he must confront the Ruler openly; must ask him the question straight out. Surely, as a son, he could count on his father’s full support in this endeavor. Perhaps all Thorvald needed to do was tell him the truth.

  They made a map with wet sand, Orm and Skolli describing the contours of the island, its narrow coves, its one towering crag, its cliffs and outlying skerries, while Thorvald constructed it with careful fingers. Wieland prepared the mixture so it would hold its shape without crumbling. Knut, biting his lip in concentration, added detail in the form of small stones, twigs and greenery as instructed. Others stood around them in a circle, scratching heads or chins. Many were perplexed by what seemed a childish game, but as the Isle of Clouds took shape, complete with its caves, its rocky outcrops, its places of concealment and its places of danger, they began to nod and make suggestions: wasn’t there a spot near the cliff there where a waterfall came down, and a hollow close by where two men could crouch under cover? The holm at the western end should be bigger, the channel splitting it from the main island narrower. There were rock stacks here and here, where gannets roosted. Yes, that was it. Odin’s bones, the construction was a marvel: all it lacked was the breath of life to make it perfect.

  “Now show me,” Thorvald said, when all was fashioned to his satisfaction. “Where is the settlement of this nameless tribe that dwells on the Isle of Clouds? It’s clear that we have only one possible landing place, and that severely limits our initial options. Einar tells me they sometimes attack as soon as you set foot on shore. But not always; some years, they’ve waited until you progressed to a point well inland. Where, exactly?”

  “Don’t know about a settlement,” said Orm, squatting to peer more closely at the sculpted sand. “We never found one, nor much sign of habitation beyond the traps they set for us. You’d think it would be here.” He motioned toward the westward end of the island, between the landing place and the sharply rising ground a short way inland. This was the only place where there seemed to be sufficient level ground for dwellings to be built, though they would have little shelter from the fierce lashing of westerly gales. “Where else, unless they dwell in the sea? There’s not a hut, nor a hovel, nor any boats to be seen in those parts. Tumbledown ruin or two, that’s all.”

  “What about these caves?” Thorvald queried. “They must live somewhere. Other concealed places on the island? Don’t they have a child there? They must make fires. Have you seen any signs of smoke?”

  Einar shook his head. “Only the mists they conjure up, to lead a fellow off his path and over the cliffs.”

  “I see,” said Thorvald after a moment. “Then which direction do they come from when they attack? Maybe that is a clue. We must get this into our heads in a new way this summer; we need to reach a better understanding of the enemy before we go in. I intend to minimize casualties. We’re going to win, and we’re going to do it with as few losses as possible. Now let’s run through the pattern of last year’s hunt again. Orm?”

  “It was bloody slaughter,” Orm grunted, his eyes fixed on the shape they had made, elegant, ephemeral.

  Thorvald waited, but nobody seemed to have anything to add. He drew a deep breath and let it out again. “Step by step, that’s what I need,” he told them calmly. “I know it was bad. I know it was frightening
, and that many of your comrades were killed. That’s why we need to fix in our minds just how it unfolded, so that we can avoid making the same errors next time.” He looked up, alerted by some change in the quality of their silence. A circle of faces gazed down at him where he knelt by the sand map on the level ground above the shore: Orm’s, grim with the memory of loss; Knut’s, younger, lips curved in a tentative smile, for he had enjoyed his task as helper here; Wieland’s, scarred, sad, resigned; many men, all of them watching him, all of them seeking something, a solution, a way out. He could give them that, if only he could make them understand.

  “There may not be a next time.” The Ruler had come up quietly; now he stood in the circle, shadowed by the larger form of Hogni behind him. Hogni craned to see what Thorvald had made; Asgrim’s glance flicked over it dismissively.

  Thorvald rose to his feet. Sudden anger possessed him, and he struggled to appear calm. “Yes, I heard talk of a treaty. That surprised me. Had I suffered such reversals, such losses over the years, my mind would be set on vengeance, not truce. There is a chance to defeat this enemy once and for all, to show him you are warriors of skill and courage. A red-blooded man does not shrink from such an opportunity, but strides forward to meet it.”

  “It seems to me,” mused Asgrim, his dark eyes now fixed on Thorvald, his expression impossible to read, “that there may be a little self-interest here. You’ve done a good job, nobody’s questioning that. All the same, one struggles to understand why. It’s a lot for an incomer to take on himself.”