A commotion stirred the men milling around in the Pit. “Rangers!” a voice rang out. “Attend!” Murmuring, the men gathered as Genfawr, captain of the rangers who patrolled the West Branch of the Gate, strode among them with an expression of official urgency. “You’re all to report to Lysalfheim at once.” With that he departed, ignoring the questions and groans of displeasure in his wake.
“Something’s not right,” Bren said softly.
“Aye,” Othin said. He picked up his sword and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Halstaeg left.”
The two men fell in behind the others as they began to move inside. Bren gestured to the wineskin in Othin’s hand. “You might want to lose that.”
The men in front of them began to file into a tunnel. Sensing the gravity of whatever would cause Halstaeg to call the rangers to a meeting in the middle of a tournament, Othin pulled the cork and took a long drink, and then turned and handed it to Tasn, who walked behind him. “Pass this around. It needs to disappear.” The Southlander took it with a nod.
The King’s Citadel stood in the center of Merhafr, which over the centuries had grown beyond the original walls and now included a second ring that formed a semicircle from the northern side of the harbor to the Taeson River that bounded the city to the south. Leagues of crypt-like passages wound beneath the city, linking the major points and other, shadier locations known only to thieves, spies, murderers and lovers.
As the rangers moved through the tunnel that joined the arena to the citadel, others came from adjoining passages and merged into the ranks. They talked quietly of the tournament, the lines at the citadel forge, and the weather. Some speculated as to why they were being called. It was worth knowing. The high constable of the King’s Rangers would put his weight behind just about anything if it suited him.
The tunnels widened, and the men climbed the steps into the familiar corridors of the Rangers’ Square, a dense yet comfortable hive of rooms, baths, kitchens and training yards in which the rangers lived between patrols. The garrison was strategically positioned on the eastern side of the citadel closest to the gates. Lysalfheim Hall, named after a midwinter constellation which aligned with the upper three points of the Gate pentacle, was used by the rangers for meals, companionship, gatherings and official meetings.
The warriors fell silent as they entered the hall. On one side was a massive stone hearth with an oak mantel carved into elaborate hunting scenes with horses and hounds. Above the hearth hung a large painting of the rangers’ coat of arms: a sword and arrow crossed over a pale moon with an embossed interlocking pentacle spanning the diameter. Beneath it, in Old Dyrregian, was the motto: We keep the balance when the gods turn away.
Above, from rafters darkened to black by centuries of wood smoke, crystals arranged as the stars in the midwinter sky turned and glittered in the light sifting in through windows that looked out over yards and gardens. A central glass dome with high curved rafters illuminated the center of the hall.
Chairs and benches were scattered around tables and firepits. Ornate wood and iron racks held torches, weapons, cloaks and casks. Statues of the Old Gods adorned alcoves in the walls: Balder, a sun god of hope; Freya, a beautiful goddess of fertility, gold and war; Hel, keeper of the realms of the dead; Thor, a god of war and thunder; and others Othin didn’t know. The hall appeared to have been cleaned and straightened in a hurry; the chairs sat at cocked angles and there were remnants of food and spills on the tables.
A gray and black-striped cat wandered along the wall with a bony scrap in its mouth. As the men poured in, the cat vanished through the open door to the kitchen.
Through a tall arched entrance on the other side of the hall, Lord Halstaeg strode in accompanied by his son Straelos, Captain Genfawr of the West Branch and Captain Ageton of the North, to whom Othin reported. Genfawr was dressed in formal attire; Ageton in the travel-worn shades of the road. His cheeks were ruddy and his blond hair, thinning on top and braided long in the back, crept from its bounds. Behind them came two more men: Lord Coldevin, Master of Arms for the Dyrregin Guard, and Captain Ingvar, his first in command, whom Othin had fought earlier in the day. A bruise from Othin’s fist swelled and colored on Ingvar’s cheekbone.
“What are they doing here?” someone muttered. The Dyrregin Guard didn’t attend the rangers’ meetings as a rule.
With closed faces the commanders moved into the center of the hall beneath the dome. Halstaeg lifted his chin and glanced around as if to size up the assembly. Dispensing with formalities, he said, “It has come to our attention that a band of ruffians attacked Fjorgin near the ruling seat of Earticael. They killed a woman from the House of Minos. A royal. It is claimed they were Dyrregian.”
The rangers stirred. Two centuries ago, after the Sie War in which Dyrregin was finally forced to give up Tower Sie, Fjorgin and Dyrregin drew up the Njorth Treaty, a pact of peace between the realms. Old tensions still stretched across the sea like a drawn bow, causing trouble now and then—but it was dealt with swiftly. The bigger question, which lay on every face there, was why the rangers had been called from a tournament for this news. It would normally be the Guard’s concern.
Halstaeg continued: “Lord Coldevin has dispatched a company to Fjorgin to discover the truth and, if need be, bring these men to justice; however, the seriousness of this claim has us looking to our borders. Reprisal is likely.”
Someone asked, “How was the woman killed?”
Halstaeg and Coldevin exchanged glances. In his gravelly voice the master of arms said, “They raped and beheaded her. So it is claimed.”
The hall erupted in outrage. “That’s a lie!” someone called out.
“Blaming us to hide the crime!” said another.
Othin rubbed his face. He had seen enough of what men were capable of to believe almost anything; though he had to admit, this smacked of the kinds of exaggerations the winds created as they blew old hatred over the waters.
“Until we find out,” Halstaeg said, “we must concern ourselves with what the Fjorginans believe is true. Loyalty to Earticael is patchy; there are lords who may act without the king’s knowledge or consent, lords who hold grudges that precede his rule.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a thin scroll. “As we are not at war, as yet, we don’t want to raise alarm in the populace by sending guardsmen on anything but routine missions. Through peace and war, you men are familiar and know our lands as no others, save wardens. Our duty calls.” His gaze settled on Othin briefly.
Bren leaned close. “He’s going to reassign patrols. Doesn’t look good for you, lad.”
“Nor you,” Othin returned, gazing ahead. Closest to the fire, a statue of his namesake Othin, the Allfather, wanderer, warrior and poet, stood in his alcove, hood cocked over one eye, ravens perched on his shoulders and wolves sitting at his feet. Briefly, Othin considered a prayer, thinking the tricky god might favor love over duty. But why complicate things? The wine he had drunk soured in his stomach as Halstaeg uncurled his paper and began to call out names.
“Heige of Sibor. Egil of Tak Lear…”
Bren was right. Othin had not only manned the coastal patrol for eight suns, he had served in the Skolvarin Guard four suns prior to enlisting with the rangers, defending the southern coast from invasion by the Catskolls. Halstaeg gave him the Thorgrim patrol to expand his experience and close a gap, but the assignment came with an understanding.
“Prederi of Merhafr. Giles of Dovrar. Bren of Ottersun…” Halstaeg paused, taking a breath. Othin closed his eyes and bowed his head as the commander finished, “Othin of Cae Forres. You men come with me. The rest of you stay alert. We keep the balance when the gods turn away.”
“We keep the balance when the gods turn away,” Othin repeated with the others, reciting the rangers’ motto. He fell in line as Bren put a comforting hand on his back.
As he strode from the hall to receive his orders, Othin envisioned Millie the last time he saw her, kneeling in her garden with her boot
s in the mud, her smock clinging nicely to her waist and hips as she leaned forward to pet the cat.
Three days. A war fought over a woman could go three suns as easily. Or three hundred.
~ * ~
A cacophony of talk, laughter, clinking mugs, shuffling chairs and music filled the low-ceilinged, smoke-blackened room of the Full Moon, a tavern in view of the King’s Citadel. In the center of the room, a fire blazed in a pit ringed in stones. Rangers and guardsmen filled the benches around, eating and drinking with abandon on the last night before the rangers chosen for the coastal patrols rode out of the city.
Bren slapped a card on the table. Painted in bright colors, it had a sky blue background and a golden eagle perched in a crag. “Hah!” the red-haired ranger barked, leaning forward at his companions with a grin. “I out-see you and out-travel you.”
Prederi, Tasn, Heige and three other rangers threw down their cards. One card showed a wolf; another, a hare. Heige, a blond warrior and adept archer, held a card with a mountain cat. He flicked it across the table with a scowl.
Othin put his frog card onto the deck and reached for his whisky. It was not his night for wildcards or wine, not here in this place so aptly named for the moon under which he had planned to spend in Millie’s arms. Lord Coldevin didn’t believe the episode in Fjorgin would come to war after two centuries, even given the violence done to one of their women in Dyrregin’s name. Othin had doubts. All he could imagine was what he would do if something like that happened to Millie. It wouldn’t end with justice to the perpetrators.
If nothing else, he could dedicate himself to his new assignment with the intention of preventing such things here.
The musicians in the corner of the tavern responded to a shout by tearing into a merry tune about a mouse and a grain bin. Men began to clap to the sound of flute, drums and fiddle. Someone at the next table stood up and shoved another from his chair, planting his rump on the floor. Heige and Bren jumped up to intervene.
Othin sipped his whisky, his forehead comfortably buoyant. He lost count of how many glasses he had put down. Not enough to ease his lust, unfortunately.
The tavern doors swung open, letting a blast of cold, damp air into the room. A woman entered, cloaked with her cowl down, hiding her face. By her side was a man dressed in plain clothes of expensive weave in deep colors of fine dyes. A nobleman and his lady. Othin returned his attention to his drink. Such folk would avoid most of Merhafr’s taverns, but the Full Moon, frequented by rangers and guardsmen and in close proximity to the citadel, was not one of them.
Bren returned to the table and picked up his mug. Tasn said something about the weather. He pushed the scattered cards together and began to throw them sloppily by the edges to shuffle them. Bren slammed his mug on the table, splashing ale. “Och,” he said to Othin, leaning forward. Tasn tossed a card before Othin, face down. “Still skulking over your woman?” He cast a look over his shoulder. “Plenty of women here would bed you tonight, my friend.”
Othin took a drink and said nothing. He pried up the edge of his wildcard to reveal the head of a hooded crow.
The nobles who had just entered now stood between the musicians and a row of casks. A woman clad in a scanty red scarf edged in shining gold and green threads sauntered around the musicians and approached the nobleman with a sultry smile. As his gaze moved over her, she took his hand. Firelight glistened on her breast and caught in the dark curls of her hair. The nobleman could have his pick of women in court, but coming here for his fun wouldn’t expose him to politics and talk.
The noblewoman who had accompanied him didn’t respond as he vanished with the prostitute up a flight of stairs tucked into the murk on the far side of the room. Strange. Why would she suffer being brought on such a mission and then abandoned to a tavern full of drunken warriors? Now alone, she cast her gaze around the room as if looking for someone. A tall captain of the Dyrregin Guard named Diderik, a blademaster with whom Othin trained occasionally, approached her with a raised brow and a respectful tilt of his head. She smiled beneath the edge of her hood, raising the hackles on Othin’s neck.
Then she laughed, ending all speculation.
Othin put his drink down and pushed himself from the table in a half-drunk but eerily alert daze. Ignoring his companions’ comments, he moved through the crowd and approached Lord Halstaeg’s daughter in no good mind.
“Othin!” she piped, pushing back her hood. Her blond hair was bound lightly on the nape of her neck, tendrils carefully draped on her shoulders. She smelled of gardenia, an expensive fragrance made in the south. “What a surprise!”
“Lady Rosalie,” he said in a low voice. “Should your father hear of this—”
She silenced him with a “Tsk!” and tossed her head, making sure to include Diderik and whoever else might be watching with a look of confident poise. Like a gap in a swordsman’s guard, Diderik’s expression showed he was not comfortable with Othin’s arrival. Few guardsmen missed a chance to woo Halstaeg’s daughter, and by the forces of bad rumor Othin stood in their path like a wolf. Well over twice her age, Diderik won her attention occasionally by his position in the ranks. But the sinewy blademaster couldn’t compete with her latest interest. She knew Othin would be here and now expected him to escort her home.
With an ostentatious air of distress, Rosalie continued, “I was returning from a supper with my cousin. He wanted to come here and”—she waved a hand in the direction of the stairs—“he abandoned me.” Her eyes, brownish green like a garden pond, brightened with foolish hope. “I did want to see you, Othin, ere you ride.”
Othin had more whisky in him than honor, but not so much that he didn’t consider the danger of a royal woman exposing herself, given what had happened in Earticael—or that she had put him in a position where he had to consider it. As Diderik cleared his throat and turned to leave, Othin gripped the man’s shoulder. To Rosalie he said, “You shouldn’t be here, milady. You must return at once to the citadel.” He touched the captain’s gaze with a knowing plea.
“You can’t order me about!” Rosalie complained a bit too loudly. Several men turned to see what was happening.
Diderik was not one to pass up an opportunity. “Come milady,” he said with gracious formality, his dry glance clearly revealing his understanding that the rumors he had heard of Othin’s romantic entanglement were exaggerated. He took her by the arm.
“But I—” she protested.
“Ranger Othin is right,” the guardsman said, herding her toward the door. “This is no time for you to be out. Your father would not approve.”
Making a personal note to repay the blademaster with a fine favor the first chance he got, Othin headed back to his seat. He paused by the casks, where he plucked up an unused glass and filled it with whisky. As he returned and slid onto the bench, the rangers sat with their cards in hand, looking down, and up, and at each other, pursing their lips, raising their brows and holding in wisecracks.
Othin took a long draught, half draining his glass. Then he picked up his card and tossed the gray and black crow into the center of the table. “Trickster,” he said. “I win.”
The rangers roared with laughter. “That’s our war god,” Bren said, throwing his card on the table. The others followed suit.
“Right,” Tasn said. “What’ll it be now?” He gathered the cards and mixed them up.
“Forest,” Heige suggested. He took a long drink from his mug.
“What kind of forest?” Prederi said.
“Och! Who knows? Any forest.”
“Graebrok,” Othin put in, leaning against the wall.
Bren laughed. “Graebrok is haunted by ghouls. We’ve no cards for those.”
“Pah,” Tasn smiled. “Graebrok it is.” He began to deal.
The night wheeled away in a blur of music, voices, faces, fire, smiling barmaids, painted animals and the glint of light on the surface of drinks until, at the arrival of Captain Ingvar and his ugly bruised face, the range
rs staggered into the street. The moon was past high, and stars glittered on a bitter chill. Too drunk to stand, Othin leaned on Bren and Prederi, who put their shoulders under him on either side and half dragged him along. His head spun in great, sweeping arcs that caused the stones, trees, windows and roofs to slam over and over into the ground.
“Bloody hell,” Bren laughed, half singing. “Ageton’s going to eat our balls”—he belched—“for breakfast.”
“Sod ‘im,” Othin slurred. “Putting me on the coastal patrol had to be his idea.”
Prederi snorted. “Na, Halstaeg’s doin’ it to get you off his girl.”
Othin tried to swing his fist up to clip the blond-haired ranger in the face. “I’m gonna kill you. I hate that bitc—”
“Oi!” Bren said. “Careful with that.”
“She’s always setting me up.”
Prederi’s laugh echoed from the walls on either side of the street. “Good thing you were drunk.” Conscious enough not to risk dragging Othin through the main gates, they hustled him down an alley between a linens merchant and a saddlery until they reached a low door in the wall. Bren tried the handle.
“Shit. Locked.”
“Get outta the way,” Prederi growled. Othin stumbled back against the wall as the ranger got out from under his armpit and kicked the door in. It made a terrible racket in the closeness of the alley.
Bren laughed. “Idgit.”
He and Prederi stumbled over the broken door and packed into the lightless tunnel. As Othin staggered in behind them, he struck his head on the doorframe with a shocking crack. It threw him back and around on wobbly legs before he fell with a crash onto the door, breaking it into more pieces.
“Och! Poor lad.” Prederi loomed over him, helped him up and leaned him against the wall. Othin held his hand to his forehead, feeling sick as Prederi somehow pieced the door up over the opening. “Onward.” He grabbed Othin’s arm and slung it around his shoulder, causing him to choke as it stretched the injury Ingvar had put on him in the tournament. They moved along with Bren a short distance ahead.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 5
