Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  Then Hogni gave a shuddering moan, and a great tremor passed through him, and Thorvald and Paul walked onward in the failing light, the big man staggering between them. As for the enemy who had stalked them, and shot his venomous bolts with such cruel and deadly effect, he had vanished as if he were no more than a shadow.

  Higher up, in the darkness of a shallow cave, Keeper sat alone. His arm ached where Paul’s arrow had torn his flesh; he had wrapped a strip of cloth around the wound, for he must leave no drop of blood behind him to reveal his passage across the hillside. He willed the throbbing pain into the back of his mind where such distractions belonged. It was essential to stay alert, to keep a step ahead.

  They had surprised him. They had come dangerously close to the place where his dear ones lay hidden. That man Thorvald was clever. Keeper’s hands had itched to take up his bow again, to loose a single shot and sever the rope on which Creidhe’s friend dangled from the clifftop near the secret cave. There would have been satisfaction in seeing the red-haired man fall; rock would have smashed him, sea taken him. Those who trespassed on this island, those who sought to harm Small One deserved no better. But Keeper could not shoot; with this slicing wound to the upper arm, his aim could not be relied on, and to attempt and miss would have been to expose himself to swift counterattack. Thorvald must wait.

  The men were gathered together now. He could hear them talking, and he could hear the sounds the wounded man was making. The poison could take a while if a warrior was strong. Keeper could attack tonight; the island would help him, sending voices in the darkness, using all its tricks and traps. But Asgrim’s forces were substantial and gathered together with sentries posted, and Keeper had made an error. He had allowed himself to be wounded. That would limit his ability to strike true and to maintain the assault once begun.

  So, not tonight, not against all of them at once. In other summers they had been easily frightened, quick to scatter, simple to pick off one by one as they fled. This year, Keeper could see it was different. This year they had a real leader: the incomer, the interloper, the arrogant Thorvald, meddling in a dispute that was none of his concern, and doing it with astonishing competency. Such a man cared nothing for Small One, save as a trophy of war, a prize to be won. And he cared nothing for Creidhe. He had treated her with contempt and was not deserving of her loyalty.

  Keeper narrowed his eyes in the half-dark, listening to the quiet voices of the men sheltering in the hollow below him. What would Thorvald do tomorrow? How would such a man proceed? He tried to focus on that, but his mind would not cooperate. He imagined, instead, Small One and Creidhe quiet in their little cave, hearing the sounds from outside, knowing someone was coming, holding one another close, frightened and alone. He remembered Small One’s last, clinging embrace. He felt Creidhe’s kiss, the wondrous, thrilling touch of her soft body against his, full of tenderness and promise. Keeper closed his eyes. He had sworn he would not think of them, not until it was over; the hunt required all his strength and all his will. Yet they were in his heart, filling it to bursting, driving out all else but the vision of a happiness he had never believed possible, and with it a fear redoubled.

  And after all, his answer was before him, his plan and his strategy. He must not attack, but set a guard. To kill in numbers was good, since it reduced Asgrim’s capacity for future hunts. But what was essential was to protect his treasure: to keep Small One safe, and to ensure Creidhe was not taken. Before first light he would station himself under cover near the southern clifftop, above the waterfall. If Thorvald returned there, Keeper would kill him. If others came with him, they too would die. There was only a day left, only one more day and the enemy would be gone. It would be the time of peace once more, and he could fetch his dear ones home.

  “How long?” asked Thorvald in an undertone. It was some time later; they had reached the meeting place well after the others, and now Hogni sat propped against a great stone, shivering in febrile bursts, while an ashen-faced Skapti sponged his brother’s forehead with a wet cloth. The others were gathered around, grim and quiet in the strange twilight of the summer night. Not all of the band was here, for Svein had not been the only loss. A man from Einar’s party had been felled by a cunning rope snare that tripped him. His long fall had ended abruptly on rocks an impossible distance below the spot where his companions stood shocked and helpless. And one of Orm’s group had stopped a spear: one of their own weapons returned to them by the enemy. Helgi had suffered a gurgling, choking death in his own blood. The men were silent; nobody was attempting to sleep. At either end of the hollow where they had come together, two patrolled with bows and throwing spears, though in the half-light finding a moving target would not be easy.

  Skapti had dealt with the poison dart. Hands protected from the venomous coating by a strip of thick wool torn from his own tunic, he snapped the fine shaft a handspan from his brother’s laboring chest and drew the other part out from Hogni’s back with an unpleasant sucking sound. Hogni did not cry out; he was a warrior and well practiced in endurance. Simply, his breathing squealed a little, and his big fists clenched tighter. Thorvald bound the wound: such a small puncture, yet enough to rob this stalwart giant of his share in the future they all longed for.

  Now they were waiting like ghosts gathered together in the twilight, without fire or shelter, without laughter or tales or a jug of ale to help them celebrate the lives and deaths of good men. Thorvald felt their eyes on him, and he imagined their thoughts: You did this. You killed him, with your fine battle plans, your little sorties of men, sent out like lambs to the slaughter. This was to be our great victory. Now Svein is dead, and Alof and Helgi. Now we must watch Hogni die. What right have you to think yourself any better than Asgrim?

  “How long has he got?” Thorvald asked again, from where he sat cross-legged by the dying warrior’s side. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do?”

  “He’s a big man, and the dart hasn’t drawn much blood,” Einar said under his breath. “That’s bad for him; means it’ll take longer. Some time in the night. Let’s hope the enemy doesn’t decide to attack.”

  “Isn’t there—?”

  Skapti shook his head. “A man doesn’t survive this,” he said, his voice harsh with grief. “Mostly, they go quick. My brother’s fighting it. It’s the only way he knows.”

  A convulsion passed through Hogni’s large frame; his arms flailed up and out, his back arched, his feet drummed on the earth. Then he was still again, his wheezing breath the only sound save the faint, high cries of night-hunting birds. It was evident from the smell that he had lost control of his bowels; Einar moved quietly to perform what cleaning was possible here in this confined space.

  “Thorvald?” Skapti’s voice was as small as a child’s, and held no trace of anger.

  “What is it?”

  “Could you ask the fellows to move away a bit? Not far; it’s just, there’s some things I need to tell him, before—some things I need to get out in the open, while he can still understand. Not you, Einar, you stay. Hogni? Can you hear me, lad?”

  “No need . . .” Hogni’s words came out on a hiss of labored air.

  “Yes, there is,” Skapti said soberly. “Got to tell you this or I can’t go on, so shut up, will you, and let me do it. Thorvald?”

  After moving the men away a little, Thorvald himself had stayed by Wieland and Orm, not quite out of earshot, but at least a respectful distance from the two brothers.

  “Need you close by,” Skapti said. “If you don’t mind.”

  Wordlessly, Thorvald returned to Hogni’s side. He held one of the big guard’s hands, Skapti the other, while Einar damped the cloth from a water-skin and touched it to Hogni’s pallid features.

  “I’ll be quick,” Skapti said. “You know how it’s always been,” glancing at Einar, “me and my brother, special guards to the Ruler, watching over him, attending to his business. Long time: since we were youngsters. The only thing is, there was more to it than that.
For me, that is. Special business: things you never knew about, Hogni. I don’t like keeping secrets, especially not from my own brother. Doesn’t sit well with me. But I did it. The stuff Asgrim made me do, I couldn’t tell you about; you’d have despised me. The first time, he persuaded me it was the right thing to do, so the attacks would end. ‘You’re my right-hand man, Skapti,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this for peace.’ So I did it, without telling, and it seemed all right, but it went wrong. After that he had a hold on me. He knew how upset you’d be if you found out I’d lied to you. And he told me it was right, what we did; that we needed to do it for the Long Knife people, for all the children we’d lost. He said we could bring the bad years to an end. The first time, with Sula, I believed him; the other things I did because he scared me into it. But the last time, when Thorvald’s little friend went, it was different. I felt sick; I felt like something dark and filthy had crept inside me. Knew then I’d been wrong. Wrong all along to do Asgrim’s dirty work, wrong not to tell you the truth, Hogni. The Ruler’s an evil man. I should have stood up to him.”

  Thorvald’s skin was crawling with horror, although he had only partly understood. Hogni lay quiet for now, eyes fixed on his brother’s strong-jawed face.

  “Put it into plain words, Skapti,” Thorvald said sharply. “What do you mean, the first time, the last time? First time for what, exactly?”

  Skapti bowed his head. “Thing is,” he said, “everyone thought Sula was abducted, stolen; they did wonder why Asgrim didn’t rush off after her, but he wasn’t a man you’d easily ask these things. I was the only one who knew he’d made a deal with the Unspoken; the only one save Asgrim himself and the girl’s brother, young Erling. The Ruler’s daughter wasn’t captured, she was sold. Asgrim traded her to the enemy for a promise of peace.”

  There was utter silence. Thorvald could see from the look of revulsion on Einar’s face and on Hogni’s that neither had known this fact about the man they had followed as Ruler and battle leader. Farther back, where the other men sat huddled by the rocks, there was not a sound. Thorvald was certain they had heard every word. He summoned the strength to ask the question that must come next.

  “And Creidhe?” He could not keep his voice quite steady.

  “You see,” Skapti said, openly weeping now, “I’d started believing it was the right thing, almost. Asgrim’s good at bringing you around to his way of thinking. He locked his son up, wouldn’t let the lad go off after Sula. The boy nearly went crazy. Good boy; bit of a dreamer, though, never liked fighting, couldn’t handle a weapon to save himself. Everyone thought he’d end up a hermit, like those fellows up the hill. Finally he was let out, too late for the girl, but he took himself off to find her all the same, moment the weather allowed it. Thing was, while the Unspoken had her, we did have peace for a bit. And it was good. We’d almost forgotten how good it was. Then the boy took Foxmask, and it all started again.”

  “Tell me about Creidhe,” Thorvald said, struggling for calm.

  “We knew the moment she set foot on the island. The hair, you see. They made her cover the hair up; had to wait, so Asgrim could make a deal for us, be quite sure they’d leave us alone once they got what they wanted. Kept her a while, till he could arrange another meeting with the enemy.”

  Thorvald sat motionless as a chill ran slowly through him, a cold realization that made a mockery of all his own efforts at leadership here. He could not speak.

  “Got you and Sam out of the way,” Skapti went on. “Then he had his meeting, gave them his terms, got their agreement, set up a time and place. Told me what I had to do. In the end the girl made it easy for me, went out walking with just a priest for company. I was there. I made sure the Unspoken had her safe, watched them head off in the boat. She called out to me, asked me to help her. Already, I knew in my heart it was wrong. We all want peace, but not at that cost. Such a sweet girl, and so brave. Would’ve made a fine little wife for some lucky man. When I saw her tip up the boat and get away from them . . . when I saw her go under the water . . . I knew I’d done an evil thing. I’d been wrong the first time, wrong the second. Wrong when I killed a young fellow who was on his way to tell you the truth, Thorvald. Slaying a man in battle’s one thing. Cold-hearted murder’s different. The gods gave me a sign today, reminded me what sort of a wretch I am. Better I’d let Asgrim make an end of me than hand over an innocent girl to those savages, not once but twice. Better I was never born than do the things I’ve done.” Skapti scrubbed a big hand across his wet cheeks. “Now I’ve told you, brother. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve that. Just wanted you to have the truth before you go. Brothers shouldn’t have secrets.”

  Thorvald was looking at Einar now; Einar met his gaze with an expression in which regret, apology and helplessness were all present.

  “You knew,” Thorvald whispered. “You all knew from the start what he intended for Creidhe, and none of you attemptedtos to stop it. You accepted my help, you befriended me and Sam, and all the time you were party to Asgrim’s plotting . . . By all the gods, I can scarcely believe this, and yet I must. I see the truth in your face, Einar; I hear the unmistakable ring of it in Skapti’s voice. I suppose the injury that prevented Sam from walking back to Bright-water was no accident either. Perhaps you did not understand what Asgrim had done to his own daughter, but every one of you was complicit in Creidhe’s capture.” There was more, but he bit back the words, for he was still their leader, and a leader does not lose control. You never wanted my help, and neither did my father. He kept me in the encampment merely so that I could not know what he intended for Creidhe until it was too late. He lets me lead you now only because Creidhe outwitted him and I became suddenly useful.

  “Skapti . . .” Briefly, they had forgotten a man lay dying before them.

  “What is it, brother?”

  “Getting . . . cold . . .” Hogni whispered. Tremors ran through his limbs, more frequent now, a twitching, shuddering sign of what was to come. His skin was gray and slick with sweat, the eyes already sunken. His teeth chattered.

  “Here.” Wieland stood behind Thorvald, a thick woolen cloak in his hands. Thorvald took it, spread it over the dying man.

  “Thorvald . . .” breathed Hogni. “Got to . . . forgive . . . got to . . . change . . .”

  But Thorvald could not reply. A darkness had come into his mind, a churning chaos of fury and hurt and disappointment and grief that stopped his tongue and made him rise and turn away, walking to the rim of the hollow to stand alone, looking out into the night. His father had lied to him. They had all lied to him. He had believed these men trusted and respected him, he had believed they thought him worthy of the leadership that had so oddly fallen his way. He had been naïve, stupid, deluded. He had been a fool, blinded by his little successes with the ropes, the spears, the fine speeches of hope. He was misguided and selfish, just like his father. How could he have forgotten Somerled’s tale, a tale of single-minded ruthlessness, of fierce ambition and bloody carnage? Somerled had murdered his own brother for leadership; he had come close to destroying Nessa’s people so he could set a crown on his own head. Somerled might have a new name now, but he was the same man. Thorvald kicked savagely at the rocks. People didn’t change. They couldn’t. He’d been a fool to believe his father would ever recognize him publicly, an idiot to think Asgrim could ever love him. The man had never cared about kin. He didn’t know what love was. He’d probably forgotten Margaret the moment their little encounter was over, their casual little encounter that had, so unfortunately, spawned a luckless son with no more value in the world than his father. For a son was his father: there was no escaping it. Hadn’t he demonstrated that today, with three men out there broken on the slopes of the Old Woman, and a good soldier lying here in the throes of a slow death by poison? He was cursed by the gods; he had known it the moment his mother told him the truth, and he knew it now, bitterly, finally. He had failed Creidhe, he had failed the men, and he had failed himself. His mission h
ere was nothing but a lie.

  “Thorvald?”

  “Leave me alone!” he growled, not turning to see who it was that spoke.

  “Thorvald, you must come back. You must hear us.”

  “What’s the point?” Thorvald snapped. “What can any of you have to say to me?”

  “Every man deserves a hearing,” Wieland said quietly, stepping into view. “Hogni’s dying, and he wants his leader by his side.”

  “I am no leader,” Thorvald said fiercely. “You all knew that. You all knew why Asgrim brought me to the encampment. It was a sham, a device to divert me from his real game. He is your leader, not I.”

  Wieland looked at him, somber-faced. “That’s just where you’re wrong,” he said. “Come back, and we’ll explain it to you. Don’t let Hogni die with the memory that you turned your back on his brother, Thorvald. He needs to see your strength, and your recognition of his. Come on, man.”

  They’d gathered in close again; there was a space on the rocks among them where it was clear Thorvald was expected to sit, not far from where Hogni now lay with his head on his brother’s lap and his eyes closed. From time to time his body twitched and jerked as the poison worked deeper, and Orm and Einar moved in to hold the thrashing limbs, lest the big man harm himself or others.

  “Hurry up,” Skapti whispered, looking up at Wieland. “He needs to hear it, and we don’t have long.”

  “We want to tell you what’s in our minds,” Wieland said, eyes on Thorvald. “You haven’t understood, you’ve got it wrong. We’re not denying the truth, and we’re not making excuses. Yes, we did know what Asgrim intended for the girl, and we didn’t like it. But we didn’t know your friend, she was a stranger to us, and it’s a lot easier to sacrifice a stranger than one of your own, that’s the honest truth.”

  “Sounds as if sacrificing his own wasn’t a problem for the Ruler,” Orm put in. “Can’t credit it, myself; that he’d give them his own daughter.”