Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “May the ancestors guard you, dear one,” Creidhe whispered. “May they watch over you every moment, and bring you back safely to us.”

  Keeper bowed his head, lifting her hands to touch them briefly with his lips. “Good-bye, Creidhe,” he said softly. “Know that, whatever happens, you have brought joy to my island, a joy I did not know was possible. Now I will go.” And abruptly, so abruptly it stopped her heart, he released her hands, turned, and was gone.

  She would not weep, not even with the warmth of his body still imprinted on her flesh, not even with the taste of his kiss still fresh and urgent in her mouth. She would not weep, because of Small One. Creidhe settled on the blanket and gathered the child onto her lap, where he nestled close, his head against her breast, one small hand grasping her hair. She felt the quick thud of his heartbeat, saw the emptiness in his eyes, a sorrow he would not give voice to, for he had promised to be good and quiet and, like his kinsman, Small One kept his promises. Creidhe thought of those other years, when he had been younger and had done this quite alone.

  “Well, now,” she said, “we don’t have to be completely quiet until sunset. That’s good. I thought I might tell you a story, one my sister Brona sometimes tells, about a warrior who went out to slay a big earth-troll and found a lot of new friends on the way, very strange friends. Would you like that? Good. It happened like this . . .”

  At midsummer, the nights were short indeed in the Lost Isles. The men stood by the sea, waiting for the moment when the sun would emerge from his place of hiding below the eastern rim of the world, and it would be light enough to know if Einar had been right. Thorvald could feel his heart thumping in anticipation; it was necessary to remind himself that he must stay calm, whatever happened. A leader who could not control his own feelings had no hope of controlling his men. He breathed slowly, looking out over the gray expanse of water that lay between this western shore of the Isle of Storms and the distant, shadowy mass of the Isle of Clouds. Nearer at hand, across the sheltered waters of Council Fjord, he could see the two islets that lay by the fjord’s opening; the steep, spiked ridge of Dragon Isle and the squat form of the Troll’s Arch. Beyond them spread the Fool’s Tide, where Creidhe had drowned.

  The pale sky flushed suddenly with rose, and with a deep orange, and with bright gold.

  “Here we go,” muttered Einar, gaze intent on the water that lay below them, the sea path from this shore to that cloud-wreathed isle in the west.

  Asgrim said nothing. He stood by Thorvald’s side, arms folded, mouth tight. Thorvald could imagine what the Ruler was thinking: Another dawn, another chance. Maybe this time, this year it will be different. Maybe we will win, and the time of suffering will be over. Let it be today. And with that thought, another to rein it in: Perhaps we will lose again. Has not that been the pattern of this five times over? I do not want to watch my men die. I cannot bear to fail again. Let it not be today. It seemed to Thorvald that would be the manner of the Ruler’s thinking. As for himself, his thoughts were orderly now. His mind held all his strategies, his plans, his knowledge of men and terrain and task. He had answers for whatever the Isle of Clouds could throw at them. He had confided in Einar and in Orm. He had told Hogni and Skapti as much as they needed to know. His final strategy was a desperate one, and to this only Sam was a party. It would be put into place if all else failed; with luck, there would be no need to take such a risk.

  The sky brightened. One bird sang; another answered. Above them, light blossomed, and the chorus of chirps and whistles became a swelling, wordless anthem to the dawn. Another night was past; a new day was come. The waters of the Fool’s Tide turned from slate to pearl to the pure, pale blue-green of a duck egg. For a little, the small knot of men stayed silent, frozen in place by the immensity of the moment. Then Asgrim drew a long breath and let it out in a great sigh, and Einar, with a fierce grin creasing his scarred features, said, “Looks like we’re on, men.”

  After that, things followed a well-rehearsed pattern, every aspect in accordance with Thorvald’s meticulous planning. The rest of the men were waiting by the boats, which were already packed in preparation, for Einar had predicted this would be the day on which the rare lull in the waters of that roiling strait made the Fool’s Tide briefly navigable to skilled sailors. The men did not need to be told the signs were good; they saw it in the eyes of their leaders, and hastened to launch their collection of small craft in the predetermined order. Most of these vessels could hold two or three men at best, and for each boat Thorvald had designated a leader. These were the most level-headed of the group: Orm, Wieland, Einar, Skolli. The Sea Dove could carry a far larger complement, and on her Thorvald would travel with Sam, Knut, Hogni and Skapti and several other men.

  Asgrim was not coming. The Ruler, in a decision that had shocked them all to silence, had announced that, this summer, he was entrusting the mission to Thorvald, as a father might to a son. His own presence would only confuse the chain of command. He knew Thorvald’s battle plans and thought them sound. He would wait at Council Fjord for their return, and ensure preparations were made to tend to any wounded. It was best that way.

  This had made jaws drop in amazement. In Thorvald’s case it had also caused a wave of feeling, which he fought to suppress. Asgrim’s recognition flooded him with warmth. It vindicated his actions and gave him back his identity. But beneath the surge of joy other, cooler impulses remained; for him, it would ever be rare for the intellect to be entirely overruled by the heart. Asgrim was cruel and unpopular. He did have good reasons for the way he ruled, but after the hunt those reasons would cease to exist. As a war leader, Asgrim was inept. He had proved it five times over. As chieftain of the Long Knife people he was scarcely better. Folk were unsettled, fearful, restless. They did not trust their Ruler. His recognition of his son did nothing to alter that. After the hunt, Thorvald thought, there would be changes. The Long Knife people must have just rule, genuine peace, a voice in the making of decisions and judgments. These men, Einar, Wieland, Knut, these decent, courageous men did not deserve a tyrant. No bond between father and son was more important than setting that to rights.

  But first, this strange battle must be won. Two days, they would have, and the night between; two days until the waters of the Fool’s Tide began to shift and stir once more, and its erratic currents to tear and suck at any craft a foolish sailor thought to steer across its turbulent surface. Two days, the seer captured, and a minimum of losses: that was what Thorvald had promised them. If he did not make good that promise, he told himself as they launched the Sea Dove into Council Fjord, he deserved nothing from Asgrim and nothing from the men. If he could not achieve victory, he did not deserve to be their leader.

  At first they rowed; the waters of the fjord were sheltered from the prevailing winds, and progress under sail was erratic and sluggish. Once past the arms of land that jutted out westward, once level with the Troll’s Arch and the monstrous, jagged shape of Dragon Isle, they felt their sails filled by a kindly wind, a wind such as Thorvald had not known before in the Lost Isles, steady and warm from the east. The prows of their vessels split the ocean smoothly, a creamy wake trailing behind. There was no longer a need for oars. The Fool’s Tide stretched placid and gleaming around them, resting, sleeping, holding its breath to let the intruders by. Now that they were on the sea, there were few birds about; the gaggles of gulls that formed a daily escort to the fishing boats of the Long Knife people were nowhere to be seen. Without the harsh, small music of their cries the air seemed empty, the high clouds more distant; and when Thorvald looked back, the tall shape of the Isle of Storms, with its bare-topped crags and its sheer, rough-hewn cliffs, was receding as if into a dream. And before them in the west, closer and closer in its soft violet and shadow-gray and deep impenetrable green, loomed the mysterious form of the Isle of Clouds.

  ELEVEN

  I copy the psalms: my penmanship is satisfactory.

  Year by year I set them down, in this quiet house
. I write, I eat, I sleep.

  Today, within me something stirs and shivers. A dark change beckons.

  De profundis clamavi ad te Domine . . .

  MONK’S MARGIN NOTE

  It had been a night of no sleep. Now, standing immobile against the rock wall, shadow on shadow, Keeper watched them come. All was in readiness. After five hunts, he scarcely needed to think what must be done; his every sense was tuned to the dance of protection and survival, combat and death. Somewhere deep within himself, he had locked them away, his little one, whose frail form he could still feel in his arms, his goddess, whose sweet kiss he could still taste on his lips. They were not forgotten, but set apart until the days of the hunt were over once more and he could allow them back into his thoughts. Today, tomorrow, all was fleetness of foot, sharpness of eye, quickness of wit and a faultless aim. Today, tomorrow, one warrior must become an army.

  The wind was favorable to Asgrim’s men. The small boats were making good speed across the deceptive calm of the Fool’s Tide and would reach his island when the sun was high. It was one of those rare, fine days that came from time to time in summer, white clouds scudding high across blue sky, and a real warmth in the air. There would be no rain today. That made Keeper’s task more difficult; mist and rain gave him advantage, for he knew the island’s treacherous slopes as a child knows his mother. Of the skulls he had kept, close to half had been those of men who died, not from his own spears and arrows, his own traps, but by falling from a cliff path or walking into a deep, sudden hole in the rocks. Where he could, he had retrieved their remains. Asgrim’s men had warm cloaks, leather boots and sheepskin jackets. They had spears and knives. Nothing could be wasted on the Isle of Clouds.

  When they were close, but not so close that they would see him, Keeper moved to a different vantage point, where he had a supply of arrows ready. He narrowed his eyes, looking out through a slit between the rocks that sheltered this cup-like retreat some way above the landing place. There was one boat in particular he watched, one that stood out by its sheer size alongside the low, simply constructed vessels of the Long Knife people. This boat was sturdy, well made, a craft any fisherman would be proud to call his own. There were several men on board. Keeper knew every one of his enemies by name, for he had lived among them until he was twelve years old. As the boat came closer, he identified Hogni and Skapti, who towered above the rest. Knut was on board, and others he recognized. They were lowering the sail now, taking up the oars to guide their vessel into the narrow bay. And, after all, he did not know them all by sight. The tall, fair fellow who was giving the orders was a stranger to him. The one who stood in the bows, spear in hand, scanning the rocks above the shore for signs of life, had hair as red as a winter sunset, and a look of fierce determination on his face. They were come, then; Creidhe’s friends had made the choice to be his own enemies. He could not allow himself to dwell on this. They were here, and if they crossed his path they would die.

  Last year, Keeper had attacked the moment Asgrim’s forces came within range, taking five men with his arrows before the invaders had completed the ascent to the level ground above the shore. This year, his plan was to wait. He never took the same path twice; surprise was one of his principal weapons. He would track them until they split up, as they surely must if they intended to search for Small One. He would follow one group, then another, and let the island play its part. At nightfall they would retreat to the boats. The Long Knife people were afraid to stay on the Isle of Clouds after dark. Tomorrow they would try again, until the moment when they must sail for home before the lull on the waters was replaced by the surging turbulence that was the strait’s usual pattern. He would pick off as many as he could today. He knew them; they were a dispirited crew, easily frightened, easily confused. By tomorrow he would have trophies to add to his collection, and the enemy would be much weakened. Then it would just be a matter of cleaning up.

  He watched. His hands ached to pick up the bow, to sink an arrow in the broad back of Skapti or the strong chest of Einar, who was assembling a small group of men beyond the rocks there. Keeper’s gaze sharpened. This was a departure from the usual way of things for Asgrim’s forces. They seemed to be organizing themselves, forming up into three parties, and at the same time there were men posted at strategic points, armed with bow or thrusting-spear. The look on their faces was different too. Keeper sensed danger in those set jaws, those fierce eyes. Danger and challenge. Where had that come from? No time to ponder; he must move, quickly and invisibly, following one or other of their small squads, whichever looked most threatening. They were leaving men to guard the boats; the big, blond fellow was among those staying behind. Creidhe had said he was a fisherman; that was his boat. Before, they had never set a watch on the shore.

  The groups moved off, fanning out across the hillside. They went cautiously, some prodding the ground for traps, while others covered their comrades with shields and weapons facing outward. The shields were new; in earlier hunts, they had borne no more than two or three between them. Someone had been busy. Keeper watched; in a moment, he would follow. His eyes were on the red-haired man. Creidhe had said, Thorvald is no warrior. It was evident that Creidhe had got it wrong. Keeper could see that in an instant. It was Thorvald whom they followed, Thorvald to whom they glanced for direction. Keeper could guess who had planned this careful advance, this ordered defense. It was not Asgrim who had changed the expressions on their faces. Creidhe’s friend was not only a warrior today, he was the battle leader. And the Ruler was not here.

  Keeper moved. He went by cliff face and tunnel, by rock cleft and shingly slope, ducking, sprinting, clinging, dodging. Year by year, season by season he had practiced his shadow-swift navigation of the rocky, precipitous terrain. He passed over it like a ghost, like a breath of wind.

  Skapti’s party went around the northern side of the island, skirting the cliffs, looking in holes and fissures and caverns. Hogni’s group set off to the southeast. Here the hillside offered a broad view of the isles where the Unspoken had their strange dwellings. And Thorvald’s warriors, with Einar in the lead, went up the center, still under shields, still bearing their weapons as if, at long last, they had learned how to use them. They reached a ridge part way up the steep, grass-covered fells skirting the Old Woman. There they dropped behind the cover of a rocky outcrop, perhaps to plan their next move. The advance had been well executed, smooth and orderly. But Keeper had been quicker. He was poised, now, far above where they lay believing themselves concealed. Here, in this cleft of the rocks, he had throwing spears and the darts he had coated with a poison gleaned from a certain rare shellfish. Those had been a gift; the island had provided him with its own forms of assistance. He judged the enemy would come on upward, taking their time, perhaps spreading out farther to check for possible hiding places. If they investigated the caves on the northern side they would find a few surprises. They would not reach the hidden chamber on the southern side, where his two precious ones were hidden. He had made quite sure of that.

  They’d avoided the more obvious of his traps so far; that showed more intelligence than he’d expected. Clearly, this Thorvald thought he was clever. Keeper would let him go on deluding himself awhile. Then he would show the red-haired man what a fool he was to believe any man could outwit the Isle of Clouds.

  “Stay down,” Thorvald hissed. “If they’ve got any sense, they’ll wait until we’re spread out as far as possible and then strike. What’s the likelihood of sending a couple of men up the gully there and having them cover us with their bows from the top?”

  “I’ll go,” someone volunteered.

  “I’ll come with you,” said a second man.

  “Go on then,” Thorvald whispered. “Slowly. When you get up there, crouch down behind the big rock and keep a sharp lookout. If anything moves, shoot it.”

  “What if it’s him?” someone asked. “Foxmask?” This was a young voice, with an uneasy note in it.

  “That’s hardly
likely,” said Thorvald. “They’ll have him under lock and key somewhere, chained up in a cave or bolted into a hut. Anything that moves is the enemy. Apart from us, of course. Now go.”

  The two men wriggled away, keeping low as they clambered up the cleft in the rocks. The others waited in silence. When the climbers were perhaps two thirds of the way up, there came a rattling, rolling sound from higher on the hill, and a shower of small pebbles cascaded down over Thorvald and Einar and the rest of their party. They put their shields up to cover their heads, or crouched with arms protecting skulls as the trickle of gravel became a shower of stones and then a thundering rain of rocks, from fist-sized pieces to great chunks heavy enough to crush a fellow’s head. The noise was deafening; Thorvald thought he could hear a voice in it, a growling like a sleeping giant abruptly awoken: Who dares set foot on my island? And he heard a cry of pain as well, from one of the two men caught in the gully. At least one of the missiles had found its mark.

  The flood of stones dribbled to a halt; one or two small pebbles still rolled crazily down the hillside.

  “Keep down,” Einar said in an undertone. “After that they’ll expect us to back off. Egil, get up there fast and see who’s hurt. Thorvald? What do you want to do?”

  “Where do you think they are?” Thorvald ventured a quick look over the rocks that concealed them, turning his head to scan the hillside above. There were many vantage points up there, clumps of tortured bushes, grotesque rock piles, tricky undulations of the land. It was not possible to tell where the enemy was hiding, but one thing was certain: that had been no natural rock-slide.

  “Einar?”

  It was one of the younger men, Ranulf. His face was pale as milk and his voice shook.