The warden rose to his feet in a rush. He stayed close to Dog, sensing futility. “I need warmth,” he said to the grim assembly. “I was attacked by draugr—”
We are aware, interrupted one of the Fylking. His long braided hair, bound on the end with black leather shaped like antlers, glinted ginger in the light of his vibration. Warmth will not save this creature. He looked Arcmael up and down as if to assess his worth. By focusing the energy of this tower into mortal flesh, you have lowered its vibration and compromised the Gate. Remove the beast at once.
Arcmael stood there in hopeless defiance. As a warden he had learned to appreciate the idiosyncrasies of the Fylking, knowing them to be superior even if they did allow themselves to be banished. But this day had shown him the shortcomings of his discipline, such as it was. He knelt and laid his hand on the side of Dog’s muzzle, feeling the slow pulse and heat of pain. “It’s all about your war, isn’t it?” he rasped. “You care little for the things living here beyond having your ends served. You founded the Wardens’ Order to make it easier on yourselves.” He looked up at their faces, inaccessible as a mountain range.
We did not have to found the Wardens’ Order, said another with dark hair and eyes so pale they were almost white. We could have taken this realm with no regard for any of you.
“Then who would rebuild your Gate when your enemies came and destroyed you?” Arcmael shot back. “We are convenient. Past that, we mean no more to you than this dog did to his previous master.”
Casting the pale-eyed warrior a dark glance, the ginger warrior said to Arcmael, We asked the first wardens if they would be willing to act as a bridge between us and the other humans here, to represent us to those who cannot see. The wardens made this vow of their own free will, as has every warden since, upon taking the staff.
Arcmael flashed a bloody image of the tavern mistress who had died attacking him. “My Guardians killed a woman for defending her daughter after I—bedded her. She had every right to be angry, but my Fylking didn’t care. Some ‘bridge’ that made me.”
Was the maid willing? another said. He wore a breastplate with some kind of bird embossed on it.
Arcmael glared at him. “Of course she was! She initiated it—and I wasn’t her first, either.”
You were her first warden, I suspect, the ginger Fylking said in a voice like a cold river. He moved forward and stood over the crystal, gazing down. Humans tend to fear what they do not understand. If we allowed harm to come to our wardens, they would lose respect. In time the wardens would be persecuted, and eventually killed. We’ve seen it before.
The pale-eyed Fylking crossed his arms over his chest. We employ Guardians to protect you. They are the strongest of our warriors.
“Hired blades,” Arcmael returned, feeling foolish and out of his waters. “They protect your interests—on their terms.”
We did not abandon you out there, said a familiar voice. Wolf sat against the wall, his long legs propped up and an arm slung over one knee. The High Fylking exchanged glances. We held off when the warlock attacked you so he would reveal his hand.
“He wouldn’t have taken that chance.”
And yet he did take the chance. When we did not attack at his arrival, he assumed we would not.
“Why would he assume that?” Arcmael stroked Dog behind the ears. He didn’t have time for all this, but it was distracting the High Fylking from throwing him out, at least.
That is something we need to find out, Wolf said. He rose and strode soundlessly to the edge of the crystal circle, nodding respectfully to the others. He knelt and held a strong, glowing hand over Dog’s wound. He will die.
Arcmael let out a breath. It puzzled him that the High Fylking were not ordering Wolf from the tower along with him and his pet. The High Fylking outranked the Guardians and treated their presence in much the same fashion as lords treated mercenaries. Gulping, he said, “Can you do nothing for him?”
One of the High Fylking snorted in derision.
Arcmael’s patience snapped. He formed the sigil, eliciting a sad yet knowing look from the ginger Fylking as the entities faded.
Staying where he was, Wolf glanced sidelong for a moment and then leveled his blue gaze on the warden with an unsettling mixture of challenge and amusement. This beast’s heart is pure. Yours is not—and yet for your sake the dog will allow me to heal him. For this I ask a price.
A price. Arcmael sat back, his hand not leaving the animal by his side. Once more, Skadi’s scraping voice came to him. Do not think you can assume what it means to be immortal. What looks to you like a vast repository of knowledge is a tapestry, one thread knowing the next, knowing all. Do not bargain with the Fylking. Pull one thread and you’ll find yourself knowing things best left hidden.
Dog’s breathing had deepened with sleep, though it was still uneven. Things died every day. People, animals, plants, trees. The tide came in, the tide went out. Elivag ruled all things and ignored what it swept into the sea or dashed upon the rocks. Arcmael had opened his heart only to see it break. Once more, the recalcitrance of his youth rose up in him like a wild beast that wouldn’t be tamed. To Hel with commanders, mentors, warlocks, woodsmen, Fylking and gods. They were right, always right, every one. But if a dog meant nothing, what did? He had meant nothing to the fiends that slayed him.
“What is your price?” the warden asked finally.
Wolf lifted his chin, his eyes glittering. You will train with me on the sword.
For a moment Arcmael just stared, his hand resting on the damp fur of a dying animal. Then he filled the tower with laughter, a maelstrom of irony, the cruelty of an eternal tide. He got up, breathing heavily. “You son of a bitch.”
A faint smile touched Wolf’s lips. I will take that as a yes. The Fylking warrior rose and strode for the door.
Arcmael gathered Dog into his arms, wrapping the edges of his cloak around the beast to keep him warm. As he moved away from the crystal circle, the cloud of dense energy cleared from the tower, restoring the light.
He could almost hear his father’s laughter echoing in the stones.
~ * ~
Dawn blew in with a chill that stirred the last of the night’s embers. A presence loomed near, a shadow cloaked in webs, long fingers touching, white hair streaked with black. It smelled of roots and sage. Arcmael opened his eyes. He lay with Dog in his arms in the makeshift shelter he had built in a stand of young poplar trees within sight of Tower Sol. His belly was hollow with hunger.
Late last night by a warm fire beneath a cold moon, Wolf had faded into the dark as Spider appeared, her face hidden beneath a silvery hood. In silence she touched Dog on the wound, her fingers spreading like the long, pale limbs of her kind over his heart. She spat once, causing the fire to hiss. Then she whispered three words in her tongue. As the sounds crept into Arcmael’s flesh and drew his mind into a pool of shadows, he wondered if even the Fylking would have understood them.
Arcmael moved his hand over Dog’s fur. The sword gash had stopped bleeding and the swelling was gone. The interior damage would be another story. The warden eased his arms out from under Dog and sat up. His right arm was numb; he moved it about to bring the feeling back. He opened his pack. One sausage left. Some stale bread. No cheese. He would have to hunt today, and that would mean putting Dog back into the tower. The High Fylking’s reaction to that would be frosty, especially when they learned that Wolf had helped him.
Or had he? Spider did the work. Perhaps Arcmael’s payment to Wolf would be voided for that. A hopeful thought, though he shuddered to think what manner of thing Spider might demand in its place. He recalled his dream of a moth in a web and decided he might be better off with a sword.
Dog lifted his head from Arcmael’s lap with a soft yip. The warden glanced up—then dropped the bread in his hand with a start. Wolf stood over them, casting no shadow, his fine mail shining from another light. He had not been there a moment before, but somehow Dog knew.
Time for yo
ur first lesson, Wolf said. He wore a blademaster expression that Arcmael remembered from his childhood and had hoped never to see again. The warden didn’t bother to protest or complain about hunger. He did consider Dog, and the fact he had no sword. But Wolf cared nothing for that. With an unheard whistle, he strode in the direction of the tower.
Arcmael experienced his second start of the day when Dog jumped from his lap and bounded after Wolf with the strength and energy of a puppy. Completely healed. And able to perceive the Fylking.
Gulping against a throat gone dry, Arcmael shoved his stale food back into his pack. He dismantled his shelter, scattering it with less care than he should have, and then gathered his things and went after his companions. Wolf moved southwest along the tree line, his shimmering form appearing and disappearing with eerie precision. Dog circled the warrior, stopping now and then to lift a leg and mark a trunk, a shrub or a rock.
The rising sun illuminated the edges of fast-moving clouds and cast clear golden rays over the land. Wishing for his staff, Arcmael had walked a half league before he realized where they were going. He needed a sword, and the only sword he knew of right now was the one he had left on the plain after fighting the draugr. After the last fiend had been disabled, Wolf had suggested that he keep the weapon, of course, prompting Arcmael to banish him—a childish move, considering the Fylking had probably known Arcmael would need the sword later. He hated it when they did things like that.
A raven flew overhead without a sound. It tilted a wing to the cold air and swerved to the south. Arcmael shivered off a vivid image of ravens feeding on the draugr he had left there screaming. He heard nothing, now.
In the distance stood the twisted oak tree where he had found Dog. Appearing in his animal form, Wolf trotted in that direction. As he followed, Arcmael wondered what good a Fylking would be as a trainer. How realistic would it be to fight a being that he only perceived in his mind? The Fylking could do terrible things to mortals by focusing energy, but wielding a sword or a fist was something else. He had never heard of anything like that. Perhaps his training wouldn’t be as unpleasant as his childhood had taught him to fear.
Arcmael stopped in his tracks with a choke as Wolf appeared before him, sword pointing at his throat. Before he could leap out of the way, the Fylking swung the blade with harrowing precision across his chest. A real blade would have spilled his thumping heart onto the ground. But the Fylking’s blade did nothing.
By my will, Wolf said, the sword has no effect.
Arcmael put a hand on his chest, breathing heavily. “Your point?” he said dryly.
The warrior spun the sword once and snapped the flat of the blade against the side of Arcmael’s head. Light exploded in his skull, knocking him to the ground. His body shook with the blow; his scalp burned like fire. He rolled over with a moan, reaching for his head and expecting to find his hair singed off, bloody, or both.
Or, Wolf continued matter-of-factly, I can focus energy into it. At any intensity. You will learn. The Fylking sheathed his blade and continued to flicker and lope across the field.
Fox laughed.
Arcmael got to his feet and stumbled after, feeling like an imbecile. Wolf turned south. Cat shot out from beneath a spruce tree and then vanished again as Dog ran after her, barking. Arcmael whistled. The animal came to him, tail wagging.
As the warden knelt and put his hands on either side of Dog’s muzzle, he experienced a new shock that rippled up his spine like an adder. The blood left his face as he stared into Dog’s eyes, now both blue, the same pale blue that only one had been the day before.
“Wolf,” Arcmael said in a quiet voice. “What have you done to Dog?”
The Fylking appeared by his side. What you asked me to.
Arcmael looked up with a raised brow. “You changed him. Or was this Spider’s doing?”
You will fight for us all.
Arcmael stood up. “Fight what? Warlocks you can’t see? I didn’t agree to that.”
A warrior rarely gets to choose. The Fylking dropped to all fours and slipped into the Otherworld. Dog followed him; in the physical world, yet not.
I might mention, Raven added in the warden’s mind, dark wings fluttering. Under your oath you will not be able to banish him.
The Pink Rose
Cold wind whipped from the sea and rippled in the heather on the rocky hill overlooking the strand. Othin rode at a steady gait, scanning the countryside. It had not changed much since he last patrolled here. He noticed a new fence holding horses, a field of grain where an aspen copse once stood and a new sign on a blacksmith’s forge. Inland, the setting sun cast long shadows over thatched stone houses, fields, marshes and orchards. Briefly, Othin envisioned an army flooding up and onto the land, swords waving and voices rending the sky as they razed their ancestral foes. He had seen it before, in the south. It was not hard to imagine here.
He traveled north through the villages and towns along the ragged coast of the Njorth Sea, his ear to the ground for news. Fortunately, no word of war had left Merhafr, making it easier to discern useful information from rumor. He had seen little, as yet, save a cryptic farewell from Bren. Yesterday, they parted ways near the southern bank of Lake Ceirn, with an agreement that they would meet within a fortnight in Garmr, an outpost in the foothills of the Ogjan Mountains.
The Dyrregin Guard maintained the coastal outposts for training purposes. Nondescript and able to house twenty or thirty men, the outposts were a remnant of the Sie War. Othin had known friends in Garmr once. They had been rotated out several times since, a strategy Captain Ingvar used to keep his men from becoming restless or complacent.
The town of Grayfen lay behind him, sleepy in the morning sun. Gulls wheeled over the docks. The Grayfen Aviary perched high on a hill overlooking the road. It was one of many aviaries where the ravens that served as messengers to the King’s Rangers were raised and trained. Under the care of their handlers, the birds were taught to follow certain patrol routes and to recognize the rangers’ habits and even facial features. The birds could find any ranger anywhere within his patrol route. After eight suns on the coastal patrol, Othin had come to recognize individual birds.
One of the handlers at the Grayfen Aviary was named Whisper, a nickname given to her because she spoke to her birds in very soft tones. She had short brown curly hair and a tomboyish stride. Othin took Whisper to bed once, a pleasant evening that resulted in her birds following him around for three days afterwards.
As the day wore on, the road began to rise. In the distance, the town of Fell spread out on steep, tiered cliffs overlooking a harbor. During the wars, Fell became a stronghold sheltered from storm surges and armies alike. Short towers that had once housed archers lined the cliffs, and the streets from the harbor were steep, narrow and easily defended. In the center of town, on the highest point, stood an ancient fortress. Once home to armies, it now housed town officials and nobles from an old family of shipwrights who once owned Fell but were later commissioned by the Dyrregin Guard to build warships. Many guardsmen still lived there, after leaving service. Othin had heard one of them had set himself up as a sheriff.
He reached a fork in the road marked by a squat stone. One side dipped down along the coast through the docks and shipyards of the harbor; the other climbed a hill toward town. He turned his steed that way and quickened his pace until he reached the tangled streets. He rode through, his mind distantly attending to people, taverns and shop fronts set up for the day’s business. Rangers didn’t patrol larger towns, as these places had their own law. On his dark brown destrier, clad in a ranger’s pentacle, seasoned by the wilds and armed to the hilt, Othin drew more than one stare. But he had something to do here.
He moved on until he reached a quiet street near the center of town. On the end of the street, tucked into a whitebeam grove, stood a tall, narrow house of rough stone with a pink and green sign hanging above the door. Dark green curtains hung in the windows. The Pink Rose. One of the finest cath
ouses in Fell, it had once been Othin’s habit on the coastal patrols. A woman named Kidge ran the place. She had twinkling green eyes, wide hips, ample breasts and hair like an eagle’s nest that she wore in thick braids piled on her head. She laughed like a crow. She laughed often.
Othin rode up the street, his fond thoughts not distracting him from his vigil. As many a ranger knew, aside from their obvious attraction, cathouses were excellent sources of information. Soldiers, horse traders, sailors, mercenaries, town officials and spies came here and rendered themselves vulnerable. A smile, a glass of wine, a bath, a touch—let alone a healthy romp—could make a man unleash his secrets like so many birds in a clear sky. Night women knew things.
A young woman knelt in one of the gardens surrounding the house, digging up frost-withered plants and tossing them into a bucket. Most of the vegetables had been harvested, and the rest of the greenery carefully trimmed, leaving only the blooms of hardy plants. The women of the Rose grew food for themselves and their guests; flowers made into scented oils, put into vases, woven into garlands or scattered about to freshen the air; and herbs that seasoned soups, stirred lust or kept the womb barren of child. In the taverns of Fell, many joked that the women of the Pink Rose were Blackthorn witches in disguise. Most likely it was jealous wives spreading those rumors.
As Othin approached, the girl looked up, her cheeks flushed. “Milord.”
The ranger smiled. “Milady.”
He dismounted, drawing the attention of two men, one standing in the grove facing the road and the other by the front door. They were clad in leather and mail and wore black bands from shoulder to waist, marking them as Night Guild, hired blades who protected and honored night women. This they did with the dignity due what had become a venerable occupation in a realm that had known war for so many centuries. It had become tradition among rangers and guardsmen to refer to the guildsmen as “bats.”
Othin recognized the man standing by the door. The girls called him Stony, an affectionate double entendre that more than one patron pondered the nature of. Stony had held this post for twelve suns. He knew the business of half the men in the city and never let on, never said a word to anyone except the night women, occasionally. Othin tethered his steed to a post and headed for the steps. As Othin started up, he caught the bat’s dark-eyed expression of high alert just before he lowered his head in respectful acknowledgement.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 7
