“What?” Einar snapped, scowling.
“Didn’t you hear it?” Ranulf whispered. “The voice?”
“Shut up,” said someone else testily. “Of course we heard it. If we let that stop us, we’d never get anywhere. You have to learn to shut your ears in this place, or you’d go crazy.”
A gust of wind passed over them, full of the smell of the sea. Above, birds circled, screaming. Whatever had silenced the gulls that morning as the boats had set out on their venture, it had not stilled this island’s inhabitants, for the sky was alive with wings.
Egil crept back, expression grim. “Thorkel took a hit on the head; out cold, can’t see what the damage is. I’ll go back up and help get him down. Skolli’s all right, just shaken. Looks like they’re up yonder to the south, behind that outcrop, the one that looks like a fist. You’d never attack them there; they’ve got too big an advantage. Shall I go now?”
“Bring Thorkel down,” Einar said. “And be quick about it. You’ll need to carry him back to the boats, we can’t leave him here. Take him down, then get back up to us as fast as you can. Take young Ranulf with you, and watch out for traps on the way, they’re everywhere. Skolli will stay with us; we’re going on.” He glanced at Thorvald. “That’s unless you want to change the plan?”
Thorvald shook his head. “No. But not straight up, in full view. Egil’s right; that would be inviting attack. If I were the enemy, I’d plan to follow up with arrows, pick us off the instant we come into view. If Asgrim were here, what would you do next?”
“Retreat and regroup,” Einar said. “It makes sense. Moving up looks like suicide.”
“Mmm,” Thorvald said. “And retreating is just what the enemy expects us to do. Gather the men close. I have an idea . . .”
On the southern flank of the island, Hogni’s men edged their way along a narrow path, trying hard not to look down. The coastline of the Isle of Clouds was, if anything, more hostile to intruders than their own Isle of Storms, which had its share of heart-stopping precipices and needle-sharp rock pinnacles. At one point Wieland went ahead to test a promising-looking path, broader and more level, which seemed to lead straight to the high vantage point that was their goal. He had taken one step, two steps onto the flat rocks of the ledge when his foot slipped oddly, his arms flailed for balance, and in an instant he had slid off the path and over the edge, plummeting toward the frothing waves far below. He shouted, and the sound echoed strangely around the crevices and crannies in the rocks, as if a whole chorus of unseen men screamed in alarm together. Hogni braced himself. The rope around his waist, joining him to Wieland, snapped violently taut. Behind Hogni, two other men sprang to support and steady him, to share the weight. They caught their breath shakily, then hauled as they had practiced on the cliffs by Asgrim’s encampment. It was a quick, efficient job; soon enough, a white-faced Wieland emerged over the lip of the precipice to stand before them shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt. The ledge had been slathered with some substance that rendered it slick as a weed-covered skerry yet could barely be detected by the eye.
“So, not that way,” Hogni remarked. “I wonder what they’ve got hidden up there? All right, we take the long route. It’ll be ropes again at the end; looks like the only path to the top is straight up.”
They went on. In every man’s mind, though nobody said it, was the knowledge that it had been Thorvald who had insisted on the ropes. But for that, Wieland would be dead, and Jofrid would have neither babes nor husband at her hearth. One of the men was whistling under his breath, a furtive sound that was part defiant victory song and part the expression of a body trembling with nervous tension.
“Shut up,” hissed Hogni, and they moved forward in silence, each step cautious, every eye intent on the hillside above, the track before and behind, scouring the bare landscape for any sign of the enemy. It was clear their opponents had expected them to pass this way; it could be assumed, then, that warriors were waiting up ahead. Their own party was vulnerable here in single file, where well-aimed arrows could take them one by one. The ropes, then, would be something of a disadvantage.
“Quick as you can,” Hogni said. “As far as that rock that looks like an old crone with a big nose. That’s where we start to climb. Einar’s team will be well up the hill by now; we want to reach that upper ridge when they do, and check who’s seen what. Step lively.”
Skapti’s men took the northern route, avoiding the cliff paths, for on that side of the island they were scarcely navigable; it was considered less of a risk to make a way on open ground, sprinting from cover to cover and hoping all the time that the enemy was somewhere else. They made good progress, though the climb was taking its toll; their legs ached, and the farther they went with no sign of their adversary, the more jittery the men became. They had been ordered not to speak, and they followed their orders; only a fool would go out of his way to attract attention here. But a man could not silence his thoughts, and all of their thoughts were the same: It was there, by that patch of scree, we lost Kolbein last year. Over there where the bushes curl under the wind’s blast, we saw Havard die of a poison dart. That way lie the cliffs where four men fell to their deaths in the second hunt. Skapti saw what was in their eyes and was powerless to change it, for the same images tormented him: so many comrades lost, so many good men slain, and all for nothing. Beneath that litany of losses, for Skapti, another tune played: a song of blind obedience, of terrible guilt, of deeds done and lies told that weighed heavy on him. He blinked and set his jaw. He was a warrior, and today he was a leader. He had no time for this.
“Forward, men,” he hissed, and they moved on up the stark hillside. In this part of the island, the contours dipped into pockets here and there, places well shielded by rocks, where reasonable shelter might be found. There were remnants of stone walls and crumbling, derelict huts. They stopped in one such small refuge to catch their breath, leaving a man on watch outside; this might be a snug hiding place, but it was also an ideal spot to be cornered. The back door, if you could call it that, opened onto a sheer drop down a bird-thronged cliff to raging waters below. Skapti looked around for signs of the enemy; such a good bolthole would surely bear some clues, some evidence of tenancy. He performed a cursory search, but could see nothing. They sat a brief while, resting their legs, sharing the contents of a water skin, checking their weapons, whispering what words of reassurance they could find for one another. All agreed that, given the choice between this unsettling advance through a landscape which seemed, not deserted, but watching, breathing, waiting, and an open onslaught by armed warriors, they’d take the attack any day.
Time to move on. Skapti opened his mouth to give the order, then paused. One of the younger men, Hjort, was twiddling something between his fingers, a tiny scrap of cord or thread, which only caught Skapti’s attention because of its bright, unusual hue, a rich red-violet. Such an item seemed greatly out of place in this landscape of dun and gray and green.
“What’s that?” Skapti asked curtly. “Hjort?”
“Bit of wool, that’s all.”
“Give me a look.” Skapti took the little thread from the other man and held it up, feeling the softness and the regularity of the yarn. Sewing wool: a women’s thing, and dyed fine as any lady’s best. “Where’d you get this?”
Hjort was looking guilty now; he had no idea what had sparked this sudden interest. “It was just lying around. On the rocks over there.”
Skapti strode across the small shelter, peering at the rock shelves, searching for more clues, but there was nothing to be found. After a little, he said, “All right, not a lot here. We’d best be off if we’re to reach the top when the others do. Follow me.” He slipped the little scrap of wool into his pouch and, spear at the ready, walked out of the refuge, calm-faced. But inside, Skapti was less than calm. Guilt clawed at him, regret and confusion worried at his heart. This was something he could never show to Thorvald. It was a message from the gods, for him alone, to remind him
of the evil he had done. For he had seen what the other men had not noticed, or had not understood: a single, long thread of hair twisted around the flower-bright wool, hair that was as fair as ripe wheat in sunlight.
The three teams met at a certain point high on the flank of the Old Woman, where the ground levelled slightly. A grassy hollow behind low, tattered bushes allowed a gathering place; on either side they posted men with bows at the ready. Clouds were massing overhead now. The sun was here, then gone, here, then gone, as fickle as a bored young wife. Thorvald’s group had reached this designated meeting place first. Hogni asked Einar how they had done it, and Einar said, rubbing his back, “Don’t ask.” It had been a case of going one by one, using decoys, and climbing rather faster than any of them was accustomed to. Even the smith, Skolli, was panting, and he had a chest on him like a stout ale barrel.
It was time for a quick exchange of what information they had gleaned. Thorvald spoke first.
“They were overlooking us, at a vantage point above a big overhang. They hurled stones; as you see, we’re three men down, but Egil and Ranulf are unharmed, and should be on the way back by now. We don’t know if Thorkel was just stunned, or more seriously injured. The fellows down at the boats will do what they can for him. I expected the enemy to follow the stones with arrows, but they didn’t press their advantage. By the time we got up to the place where they’d been, there was nobody there. No sign but boot marks on the earth. Hogni?”
Hogni grimaced. “Nearly lost Wieland. Saved by the rope. Fellows did well. Came up the steep way, stiff climb. Nothing else to report. No sign of the enemy. Only thing is, I’d say they’ve got something down in those caves to the south that they don’t want us laying hands on. The path Wieland was testing was greased slick as a lump of raw blubber. Why bother with that spot, well off the beaten track, unless it leads somewhere special?”
“These folk aren’t stupid,” Einar said. “Some of the traps must be randomly placed. I mean, what’ve they got to hide except the seer? I don’t buy your argument, Hogni. It’s too obvious.”
“All the same,” put in Thorvald, “the information could be useful. We must consider every possibility, however slight the evidence. Thank you, Hogni. Skapti, what about you?”
Skapti was looking ill at ease. “We’re all here, no losses, no injuries. Nothing to report, except . . .” The big man hesitated.
“Except what?” snapped Thorvald.
“Well, we did find an old hut that looked like a good hideout, sheltered and dry, with a spring near at hand and an outlook down to the anchorage. I’d have expected them to make use of it. There’s precious little in the way of hospitable corners in this accursed place. But if they’d been there, they’d done a good job of covering their tracks. There was just one thing left behind.”
“What?” Thorvald was growing impatient; the sun was well past its midpoint and they had made very little progress.
Hjort opened his mouth to speak, but Skapti was quicker.
“Small scrap of wool from a tunic or cape,” he said. “There’d certainly been someone there.”
There was a short pause, then Thorvald said, “Thank you. I can use this information. Now, men. We don’t have much to go on. There hasn’t been an attack as such; I don’t count the defensive measure of the rock fall. We haven’t even seen the enemy, far less encountered them. Any theories as to why they didn’t attack us down at the bay, while we had our hands busy hauling up the boats? What are they waiting for?”
There was silence for a while. Thorvald could almost see his men thinking.
Einar spoke, his scarred features grave. His fingers twisted the shell necklace he wore, perhaps a charm of protection. “Looks to me as if they plan to wear us out first, then attack when we’re at our weakest. I’d predict they move on us just before dusk.”
Hogni nodded. “Got to attack sooner or later; just a matter of time.”
“No mist today,” observed Orm. “No rain. Other times, they’ve always attacked in the mist. When it comes down, it’s as if they can still see and we can’t. Took three of our men with those narrow bone spears last year. Drove four of our fellows off a ledge in the second hunt. Unusually fine today; that’s why they’re holding back. Should give us an advantage.”
“Anyone else?” Thorvald was thinking fast, adapting his plans by the moment. Nobody spoke. “Very well,” he said, “we’ve been through this before, but maybe we need to rethink it. Your estimate of the enemy’s numbers is—thirty? Forty?”
“More of them than us,” Einar said. “We’ve lost a good number of men every year since this began; the enemy just keeps on going. Plenty of them, that’s plain.”
“What’s the biggest number of them you’ve ever seen together?” Thorvald asked. “I know their manner of attack is informal, secretive; still, I need some idea.”
“Thing is,” said Skapti, “they’re very quick. Like something not quite human. You’ll see one of them dart across between the rocks, or scuttle off over the cliff face, or dive under the water, but as soon as you see him, he’s gone.”
“Mostly, all we see is the spears and arrows coming out of the mist,” added Orm. “The island protects these folk. It hides them.”
“I understand that,” Thorvald said, “and I know they don’t engage you in hand-to-hand combat; from what you’ve told me, they’ve developed techniques that make that unnecessary, impossible even. The terrain most certainly aids them, I see that for myself. Now answer me something. Is it fair to say you’ve never actually seen more than one or two of these tribesmen at a time? Cast your memory back. Think carefully, and be quick about it, we need to move.” He looked around at the circle of men where they sat on the rocks or squatted on the grass. They were good fellows, loyal and courageous. A pity they were not just a little more clever. He could almost wish Asgrim were here.
“What about the voices?” someone asked. “The voices come from all around; more voices than we’ve got men, women and children on the Isle of Storms.”
Thorvald was about to reply that nobody ever got killed by a voice, then recalled what he had been told about the Unspoken and the deaths of the newborn. “You are warriors,” he said. “Shut out the voices; they are no more than devices conjured to unman you and make you forget your own strength, your own courage. Shall I tell you what I believe?” There were nods, encouraging grunts. “I think it very possible this enemy’s numbers are far less than you imagine. I see it in their manner of attack. They are nimble and fit, they know the island, they are clever and well prepared. By means of these qualities, and with the aid of the weather, they can succeed in repelling your conventional attacks indefinitely, though I suspect you greatly outnumber them. I wonder why they do not simply go to ground and wait until the Fool’s Tide forces us home. For some reason, this enemy continues to harry us as best he can. Now, men, I’ve made it plain to you already what we must do here. We will not allow this pattern to continue. We will turn this hunt on its head. We’ll use these tribesmen’s own tactics against them. Small groups, three or at most four, staying under cover, looking for anything these people may have left behind: weapons, clues, the wherewithal to make their traps. They must eat and sleep somewhere, they must leave traces of fire, unless they gobble their fish raw from the sea. Be vigilant; be watchful for any sign at all. Split up now and follow your leaders’ directions. Any of the enemy you find, capture if you can. We want the seer, and only these people can tell us where he is. If you have to kill, kill. Press onward across the island and work as a team. Cover your comrades. You’re looking for the enemy, and you’re looking for Foxmask. Don’t lose sight of who’s doing the hunting here. Einar, Hogni, Skapti, you’ll each appoint two other leaders from your groups as we planned, and split the men up.”
“What about you?” inquired Hogni in simple curiosity.
“I’ll be on my own,” Thorvald said tightly. “And there’s just one more thing.”
They waited.
&nbs
p; “We’re not going back to the boats at dusk. We’re staying up here.”
“What!” someone burst out, and the others hushed him, but there were looks of shock and alarm all around.
“We always stand offshore overnight,” Svein said in a horrified whisper. “Nobody sleeps on the Isle of Clouds.”
“And so,” Thorvald said, “what territory you gain on the first day must be traversed again on the second. No wonder you’ve never found the seer. And I didn’t say anything about sleeping. We’ll leave the fellows guarding the boats, and any wounded. The rest of us will gather up here. Those are my orders. Einar knows this, as do your other leaders. They’ve all agreed to it. If you want to win, you stay on shore. The enemy seems to like surprises. We’re going to surprise him tonight. Now go. We meet back here at dusk.”
There wasn’t much to go on: two tiny clues, and his own growing conviction that, bizarre as it seemed, they were dealing here not with a whole tribe of savage warriors but, at most, a mere handful. It did not make much sense, considering the massive losses of earlier years. But superstition and fear can play a large part in such conflicts, and the more Thorvald considered the unfolding of the day, the more he convinced himself that he was right. This enemy was exceedingly clever. He had made excellent use of the advantages he had: speed, mobility, the terrain and, in other hunts, the natural propensity of the Isle of Clouds to attract mist, rain and high winds. Very probably, the only thing that had limited his assaults today was the clear weather. The Long Knife people had undertaken hunt after hunt despite their losses, their lack of cohesion as a fighting unit, their lamentable weapon handling and the misguided leadership of Asgrim. This dogged persistence had not served the Ruler’s people well. The enemy knew how to use his wits. The only way to defeat him was to do the same. Numbers didn’t matter here.
Thorvald reviewed the day. So far, they had lost no men: a considerable improvement on Asgrim’s record to date. They had traversed a substantial part of the island: that, too, was pleasing, but insignificant unless they pressed the territorial advantage by remaining on shore overnight. They had not found Foxmask. Without that, in the final analysis, they had achieved nothing. So, a couple of clues and a hunch. Very well, he would work on that.
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