Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

“No? It’s pretty simple, just a way of making sure your enemy can’t throw too many of these back at you if you miss. Keep the pin in place to hold the head on the shaft like this, see, until you’re ready to throw, but leave it loose enough to be easily knocked out. Then, just before you throw, remove the pin.”

  “Spear without a head never killed a man,” observed bristle-bearded Orm, looking at Thorvald blankly. “Unless you got him in the eye, maybe.”

  “Watch this,” Thorvald said. The finished spears were propped against a low stone wall; he chose one he had put together himself, one with a good weight to it. There was a target set up for testing the weapons’ balance before they were deemed complete: a man of straw, with an outer skin of coarse sacking. Someone had used colored clay to draw on rough features, staring dark eyes and a grinning mouth.

  Thorvald took the pin from the spear, making sure they could all see what he was doing. He lifted his arm, balancing the weapon, took aim, and threw. There was a whistling sound, and a thud.

  “Told you,” said Orm glumly. “Falls off.”

  But others were running to the straw man, pointing and exclaiming.

  “See! Straight into the target, and then shaft and point come apart.”

  “Like magic,” said Ranulf, with an edge in his voice. “Uncanny.”

  “All the same,” Wieland spoke up, coming closer and thrusting his finger into the hole the weapon had made in the straw man’s chest, where the heart would have been, “he’s not likely to return too many of these, not if he needs to find the heads and put them back together before he can throw.” He looked at Thorvald, eyes narrowed. “How does it work? How does it hold together?”

  Thorvald managed a smile. “Not by witchery, I can assure you. It’s all in the movement forward. While the spear travels quickly, its very force holds the head in place. It is only when the weapon finds its mark that the two separate. After the battle, it is possible to retrieve the parts and make these spears anew. It’s simple enough, but it will slow your enemy in the initial phase of the attack and give you an advantage.” They gazed at him silently; he thought he detected a slight change in their eyes. “Want to try it?” he asked.

  From then on they started putting the pins in differently, so they were easier to remove. At Thorvald’s suggestion, Ranulf and Svein fetched the stocks from storage and spent some time modifying those as well. Buoyed by his small success, Thorvald went on doggedly with his questions.

  “What weapons does the enemy have? We seem a bit short on swords, knives, even thrusting-spears. This stuff’s all very well for the first stage, but what about after you move in?”

  Silence again, not unfriendly exactly, simply blank. Einar, who had first greeted them at Blood Bay, was the oldest of the men and the most ready to contribute more than a grunt or a sigh. He looked at Thorvald, eyes narrowed, jaw set tight, then turned his attention back to the bowstring he was testing. Not to answer seemed a kind of defense, a protective wall they had learned to build around themselves. They were not stupid: Thorvald had seen how quickly they could learn, once their interest was sparked. Wieland, in particular, a youngish man with close-cropped hair and sad eyes, seemed ready to embrace new ideas. This was more like a deeply formed resistance, as if somewhere within them lay a belief that their lot could not alter, no matter how hard they tried. That infuriated Thorvald: it was pointless, time-wasting, and he determined to change it even if it took him all summer. He would work on the men first, and then concern himself with their leader. These fellows needed help; for now, his own quest must take second place. Besides, what better way to show his father his own mettle, his own qualities, than by throwing himself into this endeavor? If it was his father.

  “Do these enemies have axes? Swords?” he asked them. “Or is it some impregnable fortress we’re supposed to be attacking?”

  A long pause. Perhaps, thought Thorvald, he had got it wrong, and the islanders were just very slow thinkers. “It would help,” he added, summoning his last shreds of patience, “if I knew what we were up against.”

  Orm cleared his throat. “Ask the Ruler,” he mumbled. “Best if he explains it to you.”

  “The Ruler isn’t talking to me these days,” Thorvald said. “Why can’t you tell me?”

  They glanced at one another, their eyes furtive, fearful.

  “Spears of living bone,” someone whispered.

  “Poison darts,” hissed someone else.

  “Stones,” muttered another, and several nodded assent. “Big rocks, hurtling through the air; took a man’s head off, last summer.”

  “Wind, waves, tides,” said Orm. “The enemy’s got what we haven’t got: sorcery. But we shouldn’t be telling you. Ask Asgrim. He knows. The Ruler knows what to do.”

  “Anyhow, what do you mean?” someone challenged, voice rising in distrust. “It would help, you said? Help who? Help what?”

  Thorvald found himself suddenly without an answer, for he could not say what was in his head: If I knew the truth about this situation, I could help you to win your war. And after that, another thought, though where it had come from, he did not know. I could lead you.

  “Never mind,” he said casually. “It’s none of my business, of course. I’m only passing through, after all.” The pretense of nonchalance didn’t seem to be working: now the lot of them were staring suspiciously. “Let me show you a way you can fit more arrows into these quivers. Did you say poison darts? Ever thought of trying a bit of the same yourselves?”

  He knew, of course, that Asgrim was watching him. Asgrim watched everyone. That was not unreasonable, for Thorvald in his turn watched this grim chieftain. He learned the Ruler’s daily habits, his disciplines, his ways of making sure the men remained a little wary, a little frightened, so they did not think to question his orders. He noted the differences between the one group, more ready with talk and smiles, set to work exclusively on the boats at the far end of the bay, and the others, Einar and his fellows, united in their reticence and that set, grim expression. Thorvald wondered if they could see only death in their future: he had gleaned enough information to know that many were lost each time they confronted this strange enemy. Between keeping an eye on the Ruler and trying to get it across to these men that nothing was going to change unless they grappled with a few new ideas, his days were pretty full. As time passed he found his mind dwelling less on Somerled and on questions of character, his own, his father’s, and more on practicalities such as ensuring the men knew basic techniques for stemming the flow of blood or refletching an arrow. Oddly, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  It had been almost two turnings of the moon since they came there. Thorvald knew all the men’s names now, and he had learned a little about the individuals to whom the names belonged, but not much. It was as if they found the exchange of words somehow pointless. He had not been able to lighten the look of despondency all of them seemed to wear, as if their efforts were doomed to inevitable failure. To change that look became something of a quest for him, for he did not like to see men sunk in despair thus, especially when a great part of the cause seemed to be no more than poor leadership.

  He worked on them one at a time. Wieland might have seemed the obvious one to target, for this young man watched with attention when Thorvald was explaining something new, and could occasionally be seen showing the others different ways to bind on an arrowhead or to balance a shield. But Wieland was a reserved man. His habit was to watch and not to speak. So it was to Skolli the smith that Thorvald went first, knowing that, even in times of despair, a craftsman has his pride. He stood in the doorway of the little forge, watching with folded arms as the smith hammered a lump of rough iron into the leaf shape of a spearhead. Skolli used the tongs to lift the darkening metal and plunged it into a barrel of water. Steam arose.

  “You worked here all your life?” Thorvald asked casually.

  Skolli gave a grunt, turning the iron in the water. “Council Fjord, Blood Bay, outer isles.”

&nb
sp; “How did you learn the trade?”

  “My father.” The spearhead came out of the barrel and was laid back on the anvil and inspected closely. “He came from over the sea. Always complaining. Said the iron in this place was poor quality, second-rate stuff. I see it’s true. Your own weapons are fine. Superior. Give me a bit of that to work with and I’ll turn out something a man can be proud of.”

  Thorvald was encouraged by the smith’s readiness to talk. “Of course,” he said, offhand, “if these islands had a trading arrangement, say with my home islands or with those that lie to the north of them, you could have as much top quality iron as you wanted. Has the Ruler investigated that?”

  “Huh,” Skolli grunted, laying the finished piece to one side and stooping to wipe his brow with a grimy rag. Sweat was pouring off him. “Trade? Who’s got time to think of that, with the hunt hanging over us? A man doesn’t think of trade when he’s struggling for survival. Not that a few decent weapons wouldn’t help; you’ve got that much right.”

  “So, no chance of improving on the materials,” Thorvald said, seating himself on the bench by the door. The heat from the fire was intense; he eased the cloak off his shoulders. “But how about the design? I don’t know much, but I did work with men who had been in a Jarl’s personal guard, and I have a few ideas . . . Of course, you’d need to tell me if they weren’t practical. I think, with this iron and your skills, we could produce a different kind of spearhead, one more suited to this terrain . . .” He picked up a charred twig and began to draw on the bench, ready for Skolli’s scorn, or his silence. “Two kinds, maybe, one with a flange around here, and the other very long and narrow, easy to thrust, easy to withdraw. Longer, lighter shafts for these ones, so the fellows can carry them readily across country. What do you think?”

  “Interesting.” Skolli took the twig from Thorvald’s hand, rubbed out the diagram and started again. The look in his eye surprised and heartened Thorvald; this had indeed sparked his attention. “I could angle the flanges down and leave a ridge along the center, that would give it a bit more weight for throwing,” the smith went on. “That one would have the removable pin, the other would be fixed in place, for hand-to-hand combat—not that we see much of that on the island.”

  There was a pause as Skolli mused over his drawing.

  “The island?” Thorvald queried.

  “The Isle of Clouds,” said Skolli absently. “That’s where it is. The hunt. Here, I think I’ve got it. What do you think of that?”

  “Excellent,” Thorvald told him. “When can you make a trial batch?”

  “Tomorrow. I’d want to work on this design a bit first, make sure it’s just right. You get the fellows busy on the shafts—Hjort’s your best man for shaping the wood, and that young fisherman, Knut, isn’t bad either. And work out how to test them. Set something up so the difference is plain; new version, old version. It can be hard to convince the fellows to change their ways.”

  “What about Asgrim? Can he be persuaded to change his ways?”

  “Don’t know,” mumbled Skolli, who was drawing again. “Nobody ever dared to try.”

  The new designs were good. Tested on the run, and against stationary targets, and by men of different heights and builds, they proved superior in every way, and once Einar had given them the nod of approval it did not take so long for the others to agree, and to slap Skolli on the back and congratulate him for his work. Skolli told them that although the making was his, the idea was Thorvald’s. At the time, nobody commented. But Thorvald detected a subtle change from that point on. They were reluctant to let him take the lead in the rehearsal of actual maneuvers; indeed, they seemed to do very little battlefield training. But they began to listen seriously to his advice on weaponry and on tactics, and occasionally one of the more confident men, Einar or Orm, would offer an opinion or acknowledge the sense in Thorvald’s suggestions.

  He began to glean information. On his own, Einar was prepared to speak more openly of what was to come; and one morning on the tidal flats below the shelter, Thorvald found the older man walking by the water, his boots setting their prints beside the delicate markings of gull and tern, and he asked him direct.

  “Skolli tells me the hunt will take place on the Isle of Clouds.” From here, the shape of the western isle could be clearly seen out beyond the mouth of the fjord, its cloud-shawled slopes dark and mysterious across the silvery expanse of water. “I can see the difficulty you face in leading the men; they seem defeated, and they don’t train as warriors should who are heading into such a challenge. Asgrim doesn’t make it easy for you.”

  Einar glanced at him, frowning. “You should be careful what you say, Thorvald. There’s no special treatment for incomers here. The Ruler doesn’t care for talk of that kind.”

  Thorvald spoke calmly. “I mean no criticism of the Ruler, nor of you. I see both of you trying to do what must be done under considerable difficulty. I don’t want to be forward, but I do believe I could contribute something, if you’d let me.”

  Einar said nothing. He lifted his brows in question, expression wary.

  “Would you allow me to take the men through some exercises in battlecraft? Perhaps discuss with you and Orm some ideas for organizing their working day better, so all of them are fully tested in both body and mind? I think, if we could do that, if we could occupy them better so they didn’t have time to let their fears overwhelm them, perhaps we could change the way they think about this—this hunt.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. I believe it, Einar. But I can’t do it without more information. I need you to tell me about the hunt, or battle, or whatever it is. Who is the enemy, what weapons does he have, what advantages? Tell me about the terrain and the difficulties you’ve encountered there. Tell me how soon we have to be ready. Tell me why the men are so despondent, so terrified they can’t work properly. Tell me that, and I will help you change things.”

  Thorvald waited somewhat nervously. This had been quite a risk. Of all those here, Einar was the one who seemed to have the men’s trust. He was the closest thing they had to a true leader. Asgrim could not be counted. He made his own rules and took no heed of others’ opinions. As Ruler he was ineffectual, insulated from his men’s concerns by his own arrogance and by the two hulking guards who shadowed him, their very presence striking fear into all. A chieftain could not lead properly if his men did not know him. He could not lead well if his men were scared of him. Perhaps that was what had gone wrong for Somerled before, in the Light Isles. Thorvald’s stomach twisted into a knot. He could help his father win this war, he was sure of it. But perhaps his father was beyond helping, beyond reaching. Perhaps Asgrim did not want a son.

  “Difficult,” Einar said in an undertone. “Asgrim prefers us not to talk about it. Certainly not to incomers. You’d need his approval to do what you say. Can’t act without him, not unless you fancy a beating from Hogni or Skapti, or both.”

  “Well, no.” Thorvald thought of the two bodyguards with their menacing eyes and their thick, muscular necks. “But I can’t let things go on like this either. It’s not right.”

  “Why would you care?” Einar asked blankly.

  “Because . . .” Momentarily Thorvald was at a loss. “Because they’re good men, all of them, and I don’t like to see good men give up. That’s all the answer I have for you.”

  “Mmm,” Einar said, looking at Thorvald with a somewhat different expression on his weary features. “I suspect you don’t know what you’re taking on, but I salute your courage. And some help certainly wouldn’t go amiss. Still, there’s a right way and a wrong way to go about these things. I won’t go against the Ruler’s commands. I haven’t survived five trips to the Isle of Clouds by being stupid.” His hand moved to touch the parallel scars on his cheek. Thorvald had learned already that these were a badge of honor, one new line earned each time a man got through the hunt and returned to tell the tale. Five was the highest number borne, sign of a veteran warrior. �
��A couple of things you need to know,” Einar went on. “It’s not so much about winning a battle as staying alive while we find what we’re looking for.”

  Thorvald’s heart quickened: real information at last, something he could use. “And what is that?” he asked.

  “A child,” Einar said with some reluctance. “A prisoner.”

  “One of your own? Kept captive by the tribe that lives there?”

  “The fact is,” Einar said, “it’s less a tribe of warriors than a force of nature, an enemy that uses sorcery and tricks to fend us off. There’s only a certain amount spears and arrows can achieve, when all the enemy needs to do is open his mouth and the men’s bowels turn to water.”

  “What do you mean?” This was strange indeed. A child! What child could possibly merit the loss of so many lives, the expenditure of so much effort? There was a tale here, and he must have it.

  “Said more than I should already,” Einar muttered. “If you want the story about the hunt, you must get it from Asgrim. After that, come and talk to me again.”

  Thorvald was silent. Half of the story was almost worse than nothing. He had hoped for better than this.

  “And,” Einar went on, turning back toward the shelter, “I’ll have a word with some of the others, Orm in particular. We know you’ve got new ideas. We know you want to help. But the fellows might take a bit of persuading. You’ll understand that when Asgrim tells you about what we’re facing here. If we look as if we’ve given up before the battle begins, there’s a good reason for it. You’d be taking on quite a job.”

  “Not I, we,” Thorvald corrected him. “We’ll be taking on quite a job. A challenge.”

  “We’ll see,” said Einar.

  There had been scant opportunity to talk to Sam. The fisherman worked a long day, either on shore refurbishing the beached vessels or out in the fjord gleaning the men’s supper from an ocean full of tricks and surprises. At night they all slept in the one long building, on the raised earthen platforms to either side. Conversation was never private there, and always interrupted with plaintive calls to shut up, couldn’t they, and let a fellow get some sleep.