Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “Thorvald,” Wieland went on, “you have to understand how it’s been for us. All I can tell you is my own small part of the story. I don’t like to speak of it, but I see I must tonight. It’s the only way I can explain to you. Been married six years; my wife’s called Jofrid, Orm’s sister she is, lovely girl. Been sweethearts since we were twelve years old. Wed the year before the first hunt. Jofrid loves children; the other women are always asking her to help with theirs, she’s good with them. Quiets the fractious ones, charms the shy ones. The autumn after the first hunt, we were expecting a child of our own, our first. I’d made the cradle, Jofrid sewed a lot of little things, we could hardly wait. The night she gave birth, the voices came; they sang our son’s spirit away, and he was born dead and cold. That was the punishment for our failure in the hunt.

  “The next season it was Hjort’s wife who lost a child, and Einar’s daughter gave birth to a weak, deformed infant that died soon after. The year of the third hunt, Jofrid was pregnant again. I begged Asgrim to let me take her away, try to sail east to other shores so she could bear the infant in safety. The Ruler wouldn’t let us go. Boat didn’t belong to me, after all; besides, he needed every able-bodied man for the hunt. So we stayed, and it happened again. The first time we’d cried together, and hoped for another chance. The second time, Jofrid went quiet. Didn’t want to talk about it, not to me, not to the other women. She might have talked to the Christians, but Asgrim wouldn’t let them anywhere near the place. That fellow Niall had challenged him more than once, and he didn’t like his authority questioned. Jofrid changed. It was like having a ghost in the house. She packed away the cradle, she folded the little garments and put them in the bottom of a chest. It was as if our child had never been.

  “We failed again in the fourth hunt. Three babes died that year, all sung away before the sun rose on their second day. Jofrid attended those childbeds, but I did not get the story of them from her. She was closed in on herself, frightened to speak, frightened even to think. She wouldn’t care for other women’s children anymore; she didn’t even want to look at them. Then there was the fifth hunt, a year ago. The pattern was the same. We came back fewer, and without the seer. And by late autumn, Jofrid had another child in her belly.”

  Wieland paused; his voice had faltered here and there, as though he would weep if he could. A man was dying; other sorrows must be put aside for now. “They say your friend, Creidhe, was the one who delivered my son safely,” he went on in a voice no louder than a whisper. “Saved him, when he would have been strangled by the cord. Saved him, so that the Unspoken could come and sing him to death in Jofrid’s arms. My boy, my little son. And I could not be there by my wife’s side to dry her tears and to grieve with her. I could not protect her, I was powerless to keep death away from my own children.” Now Wieland could not hold back his tears; he fell silent, his features working. Orm reached out and put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

  “I do not tell this to excuse what we did.” Wieland fought for control and found it, squaring his shoulders, dashing the tears from his cheeks, where five neat, parallel scars marked the years he had endured the hunt. “We all know it was inexcusable, a cruel violation of the laws of hospitality and those that should protect the innocent. I tell it only to explain that we are real men, with real hearts. We have our wives and families, our sweethearts, our old folk. We have our fishing boats, our sheep, our small fields. At least, we had those things: not much perhaps, but all we needed for content. That’s all we ask for now: the life we once had, and our belief in ourselves. The chance to see our little ones grow up.”

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me this.” Thorvald heard his own voice as if it were a stranger’s, harsh and cold. “It’s nothing to do with me. What small significance I may have had in this power game of Asgrim’s died with Creidhe. I am no part of this.”

  “Wrong . . . Thorv . . . wrong . . .” It was Hogni who spoke, eyes still closed, hand clutching his brother’s so hard the knuckles were white.

  Thorvald moved to kneel by the dying man; here, at least, he must make pretense a little longer that he still had a part to play. “What is it, Hogni?”

  “You . . . lead . . .” Hogni gasped. “You . . . win . . .”

  “How can I lead?” Thorvald asked quietly, taking the big guard’s hand again. “I’m nobody. My leadership is based on a lie. I’m nothing.”

  “You . . . lead . . . Promise me . . .” Hogni forced his eyes open; dying he might be, but their expression was fiercely challenging. “Promise!”

  Thorvald’s heart clenched tight; the blood thundered in his temples. “How can I promise?” he whispered.

  Hogni’s eyes closed. He said no more.

  “One thing.” Thorvald found his voice again. He looked at Skapti, who held his brother cradled in his strong arms. Skapti’s eyes were red and swollen; moonlight showed the streaks on his broad face. “I forgive your brother for what he did, Hogni. Skapti has performed terrible acts, it is true. That it was at Asgrim’s bidding does not excuse him. Creidhe was very dear to me; she was a part of me. Her loss weighs heavily on me, and on Sam. But Skapti has paid a high price, and will pay it until the day he dies. He need not bear the burden of my hatred as well. I forgive him. He has my friendship; indeed, he never lost it.”

  Skapti gave a big sigh, and a nod. Hogni did not respond; for a moment, Thorvald thought he had slipped away from them in silence. Then his eyes snapped open again, eerie in the pale light, harsh and commanding. “You . . . lead . . .” he said clearly. “Promise . . .”

  Thorvald was mute. He would make no promises he could not keep.

  “We need you, Thorvald,” Einar said. “We can’t do this without you.”

  “Me?” Thorvald snapped scornfully. “Asgrim’s puppet, whom all of you led along with your lies? I don’t think so.” Curse it, he was sounding like a petulant child deprived of a treat. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? What more could they want from him?

  “Thorvald,” Orm said, rising to his feet, “you’re the best leader we ever had. You’re our only chance of winning this.”

  “Our only hope of getting rid of Asgrim,” Einar added.

  “Lead us tomorrow,” put in Wieland, “and lead us afterward. We’re sick of being too scared to say no. Help us find Foxmask, and then help us find what we once had and lost.”

  “Thing is,” Skapti said, as his brother slumped, limp and pale, against his broad chest, “we never had hope until you came.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, it started the way you said, you and Sam being kept there to stop you interfering. But we soon saw what you were. You made time for us. You cared about us. You were clever, and not slow to share what you knew. You had ideas, you saw far ahead. You stood up to him, to Asgrim. There’s only one other man ever did that, the whole time he’s been Ruler. You stood up to Hogni and me, even though you knew we could beat you to a pulp. You’re our leader, Thorvald. You have to go on.”

  There was a muted chorus of agreement: whispers, murmurs, nods. Not too loud: they were on the island, in the night, and not one of them had forgotten the enemy.

  Thorvald felt glad of the dim light, for he could tell his cheeks had flushed scarlet in a lamentable lapse of self-control, and tears pricked his eyes. “How can you say that?” he burst out. “I’m just like him! I’m no better than Asgrim! I promised you minimal losses, and we’ve already had three men killed. We sit this moment by the deathbed of our finest. And we still don’t have the seer. So far, I’ve done a pretty poor job.” Nonetheless, he felt a warmth creeping back with painful slowness to some inner part of him: his heart, perhaps.

  “Thing is,” said Skapti with a note of apology, “none of us really believed that part, minimal losses and so on. Proper battle, men do die. You’d never manage it without some casualties. Sounded fine, though; gave us courage. We trust you, Thorvald. It’s the second part of the promise that matters. Find the seer. Lead us tomorrow,
take Foxmask, and then come home and put things right. Say you’ll do it. It’s what he needs to hear.”

  At that moment Hogni began to convulse again, this time more wildly, and Thorvald found himself leaning across the violently arching body while Einar held the poisoned man’s legs and Skapti, sobbing, made his embrace of support into one of control, pinioning his brother’s arms to his body. By the time the spasm was over, Thorvald realized he could no longer stem the flow of his tears. He lifted one of the big guard’s hands and held it to his own wet cheek.

  “Hogni,” he said quietly, “I hope you can hear me. I don’t know if I can do a good job. I think I might be just like Asgrim all over again. Chances are I will be. All I can say is, I promise to give it my best effort. I hope that’s enough for you. And you’re a lucky man. You’ve got the finest brother and the most loyal set of comrades a fellow could ever hope for. Rest well now, big warrior. Thor waits for you; his call rings strong in your ears. Rest now.”

  They took their turns then, one by one, in between the cruel convulsions that twisted Hogni’s body ever more strongly, to say their good-byes with a word, a touch: all simple, all powerful, each one a blessing in its own way. When they were finished, they sat again, silent in their circle, and at last the spasms died down, and Hogni lay still and quiet as a sleeping child in his brother’s arms. The moon was past full, but bright and cold; it shone on the dying warrior’s strong, blunt features and softened the pain in his small eyes, the deep furrows of endurance around his tight mouth. It looked down in silence on the moment when the mouth relaxed at last, and the eyes grew fixed, and the hands opened, gently releasing their grip on his brother’s.

  Skapti had wept all his tears. He laid Hogni down, covered his face with a cloak, and sat beside him, legs stretched out, eyes closed in complete exhaustion. For a long time nobody spoke. Then Einar told them it was time to relieve the fellows on guard, and Ranulf and Hjort went off to do it, while the others shifted and stretched and handed around a water bottle.

  Thorvald rose to his feet, regarding his men. It was necessary to say something now, quickly, before their expectations formed into more than a general desire to retain him as leader. They wouldn’t be pleased, not in the short term; too bad, they’d need to get used to accepting his decisions, even the ones that seemed wrong at first.

  “Men?” he said quietly. Their heads turned; in an instant, he had their full attention. “I’ll keep this short,” Thorvald told them. “We’re four men down, and we still don’t have the seer. I’ve no intention of losing any more of you; I’m going to need all the support I can get back at Council Fjord. I have every intention of capturing Foxmask. I will not sail home without him. I will not let Hogni’s sacrifice, and Svein’s and Alof’s and Helgi’s, be for nothing. It’s been a high price to pay; I will accept no less than victory in return. Now here’s what we’re going to do. As soon as it’s light enough, Paul will arrange two teams to bring Svein’s and Helgi’s bodies back down. Alof must be relinquished to the sea; he lies beyond our reach. The rest of you are heading straight back to the boats at dawn. Once our fallen comrades are safe on board, you’re going home. There will be no more losses here. We must look to the future, a future in which all of you have a role in rebuilding this broken community.”

  “Hang on,” said Skolli. “That doesn’t make sense. How can the seer be taken if we just up and go? The Fool’s Tide will stay calm until dusk tomorrow if it follows the usual pattern. We needn’t give up before afternoon.”

  “We’re not giving up,” Thorvald said, feeling his lips stretch in a mirthless smile. “We’re merely offering the enemy a little of his own favorite tactic: surprise.”

  “You mean we hide the boats somewhere and come back in?” Paul asked.

  “You don’t,” Thorvald said. “You, and Einar, and Skapti, and the rest of you do just what I say. You turn your backs on the Isle of Clouds and sail home to Council Fjord. You quit this shore for the last time. I give you my word that you will never have to endure the hunt again.”

  There was a silence while this sank in. Nobody seemed quite prepared to ask the obvious question. In the end it was Skapti who spoke, Skapti who still sat sprawled, eyes closed, beside his brother’s body.

  “And what’ll you be doing?” he asked pointedly. “Planning a little solitary heroism? Think we’d let you get away with that?”

  Thorvald smiled. “Me, a hero? Hardly. I have a plan. Sam and I will stay, with one boat. Paul’s guess was half right. We’ll hide, and wait. I’ve a good idea where the seer may be; I think I came close to finding him today, before the enemy took Svein and Hogni. But I plan no heroics, no solo cliff scaling, no spectacular feats of arms, I assure you. Merely surprise. What the enemy will see is our departure, followed by a long period during which all is quiet. I plan to wait until they are quite certain we are gone and the seer is safe. I plan to wait until they come out into the open. Then I will capture the child and sail for home.”

  “Hmm,” said Orm. “How long is a long period?”

  “Until the day after tomorrow, if need be,” Thorvald said. “Until the enemy knows the Fool’s Tide is no longer safe to cross.”

  Einar whistled. “That’s insane, Thorvald! Nobody gets over the Fool’s Tide after the days of calm are past! Why do you think we only hunt once each summer?”

  “Sam’s a fine sailor,” Thorvald said with a great deal more confidence than he felt. “This is the only way. Now, those are my plans. And my orders. Collect our dead, see they reach the boats, look out for your comrades on the way down, and be off as early as you can. Knut will sail the Sea Dove. Einar will be in charge. There are to be no more deaths. Any questions?”

  “I’ve got one,” Skolli said. “Don’t you think the enemy will be watching us when we sail off? Counting boats, if not men? If you plan to get home, you’ll need to keep one boat in the anchorage here; how can that be secret? They’ll move down and slaughter the two of you the moment you make an appearance.”

  “Sam’s working on that,” Thorvald told him with more confidence than he felt. “While we’ve been up here, he and Knut have been exploring the shoreline, looking for other bays, trying to find the enemy’s own craft. They’ve got to have one or two; how else do they fish? If we can, we plan to get away in one of theirs. As for staying unseen, there are only two of us, and we’ll be careful.”

  “Odin’s bones, Thorvald,” Skapti growled, “first you say you’ll lead us, and the next moment you’re sending us all away and doing it on your own. Give us a chance, can’t you? We want to help. We owe it to him,” he glanced at Hogni’s still form, “and to the other lads we’ve lost. How can you do it, just the two of you? Sam’s no fighter, for all he may think so.”

  “You’ve got a job,” Thorvald told him. “You need to get Hogni home and make sure he’s sent to greet the Warfather in the way he’d want it done. Same for the others. Besides, you’re one of my leaders. The fellows will need you on the boats, and on the other side. Those are my orders, Skapti.”

  “We’d all stand and fight beside you, if you’d let us,” Einar said. “But staying after the water changes, that’s madness. Won’t you think again?”

  “It’s the only way,” Thorvald said. “I never thought my heart would dictate my path for me, but this time it’s giving me a sure message. I’ll take Fox-mask and I’ll bring him back. Not by battle, not by hunting, not by cleverness. Just by waiting. You must trust me.”

  “We do,” said Einar heavily. “What about Asgrim? What do we tell him?”

  “Tell him whatever you like,” Thorvald said. “The truth would be good. Tell him a Ruler of these isles will never again attempt to buy peace at the price of a girl’s life. Tell him there are going to be changes.”

  “You’ll stay on, then?” Skapti’s voice was still hoarse with weeping. “Even after this?”

  “First I have to deal with Foxmask. Afterward there will be time to speak of other things. Now rest, and think of
home. Those of us who have led you will stand guard awhile and keep vigil for our fallen brothers. Tomorrow you leave this shore for the last time. That is my promise to you.”

  Then the men lay down, or settled with their backs against the rocks, and Thorvald and Skapti kept watch at the south end while Einar and Orm stood at the north. The moon passed across, remote and pale, and it seemed at times a faint music echoed from her cool, distant form, not so much a song as the memory of one, an eerie, half-caught vibration of the air, subtle, beguiling, frightening in its power. The song crept into the head of every man there, touching his dreams, sifting his thoughts, making him sigh or moan or stop his ears with his fingers. Some of the younger men wept, afraid; others comforted them with muttered words. Wieland had his hands over his face, though he sat still as a stone.

  At the southern guard point, Skapti stared out into the night, silent. As for Thorvald, who stood close by, his mind was a turmoil of dark thoughts. He was a leader after all; it seemed he was wanted, respected, loved even. That set a warmth to the heart, a flush to the cheek; it put fine words on the lips, words that paid fitting tribute to the men’s loyalty. And he could take Foxmask. He knew it, not with his intellect but deep in the belly, as an animal knows its chosen prey. He could and would succeed; all that he needed was patience, and Sam’s ability to get them across the Fool’s Tide. Of course, there was the possibility that Sam and Knut had not found a vessel for the taking. If that were so, he’d have to use one of their own, a small one, and hope the enemy wasn’t counting. They would manage, one way or another.

  It was not this part of it that clawed at his mind and would not let him savor the joy of knowing he was, after all, accepted and valued for what he was among this fellowship of men. It was afterward that troubled him. He knew how he wanted it to be: himself as leader, supported by the wisest of them, Einar, Orm, Wieland, a council that would govern fairly. Peace, prosperity, attention to the best practices for fishing and farming, a treaty with the Unspoken; later on, better ships, trade with the Light Isles and farther afield . . . Oh yes, he had no trouble seeing his future and theirs, a bright prospect stretching before them. He could do it; they could do it.