The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  He leaned over to his woodpile and rustled loose some heavy branches to put on the flames. The blaze would get the attention of anyone traveling nearby, but Dog would alert him to that. Since Arcmael’s skirmish with Vargn, the animal was a blessed luxury. Without him Arcmael would be sleeping with one eye open out here.

  The warden sat with his troubled thoughts until exhaustion descended on him like a heavy wing. He banked the fire and lay down beneath his cloak and blanket. Dog curled up by his side.

  Arcmael’s aching body twitched as his training with Wolf replayed in his mind—every thrust and parry, the silent hiss of the Fylking warrior’s blade, the shock of its silvery touch as it moved effortlessly past his guard. One thought in Wolf’s mind, one turn of intention and the blade would cut. Arcmael trusted Wolf; he had to. But the proximity of death in the Fylking’s presence made the river run, a merciless, debris-filled torrent of repeated failures. A parry too low, a step too far to the left, a lazy assumption, an ill-timed distraction: all could end with a searing, final jolt, the death of a warden at the end of a long day, his blood splattered on the ferns.

  It was nothing to the Fylking to kill someone for threatening him. As a warden he was only one step above that, a mortal standing in fragile faith on one end of a vow. Oaths can be broken. Wardens were all slated to die at one time or another. Wolf had seen a thousand generations live and die. What was one more?

  Everyone has a price.

  The night deepened beyond the crackling flames. Sparks spiraled into the sky and vanished into the stars. As his day descended into his bones, Arcmael closed his eyes and released himself to sleep. Shuddering as if touched by venom, the ground beneath his skin groped up with cold fingers of roots, tubers, stones and worms, whispering in the silence as they called to yet another fallen warrior bound to shadow.

  The sky opened and a beam of light flowed down from the steely clouds, illuminating the stark landscape of a valley draped in snow. The eyes of dragons crouching on a gatetower glowed like swords as the light struck the center of the parapet and rumbled into the ground. Two brilliant lines shot over the land in a steep angle, running southeast and southwest, where they lit the towers one by one in thunderous awakening.

  From the ramparts of their starry halls, the Fylking looked down upon the pentacle glowing like a brand on the surface of Math, and were afraid.

  The last fine hair of the waning moon slipped into darkness, leaving Dyrregin in the silence of a smoking ruin. Spanning the center of the Gate, framed by five gatetowers glowing like torches, the earth writhed into shape, a creature not of the world. Ancient as war, its flesh was made of fallen warriors, bodies clad in iron, leather and fire, their final cries binding blood and bone to the soul of a destroyer. The demon dug its claws into the ground and rent it wide, scales glittering as it moved muscles the size of mountains. It struck the lowering clouds, their edges tinged with the sickly yellow smoke of burning trees, crushed stone, boiling rivers and the fleeing souls of mortals.

  The demon’s eyes burned with fire. Its quivering snout smelled life to the smallest blade of grass. Body covered in thorns, it stood on four knotted limbs with joints that bent in unnatural angles. The earth screamed like a woman beneath its teeth, sharp as the blades of gods.

  With a snarl heard only in the Otherworld, it began to run.

  Arcmael awoke as cold wind whipped through the forest, sucking up ashes, flames, sticks and fallen leaves. He rolled from his blanket and staggered to his feet, unable to see through the maelstrom. Shielding his face with his cloak, he called Dog. Nothing responded but the howling wind.

  A silvery shape moved in the trees. Wolf. Relieved, Arcmael relaxed. With a breath the forest returned to silence, leaves falling, fire smoldering. It began to rain, a soft rain that chilled the bones. Beyond the fire, thick fog enshrouded the trees and the lights in the town below. Something flickered nearby. His scalp prickled.

  Mortals are such fragile creatures, the Fylking said. Arcmael moved closer, unable to make out Wolf’s features in the misty tangle of the woods. Light glinted faintly on the muzzle of his helmet. Then he faded, leaving something behind. They are not meant to know immortal fire.

  Arcmael started from his trance as he realized what lay on the ground. He sank to his knees and gathered Dog into his arms, cold and still as the earth.

  They burn, the Fylking added sadly and then withdrew.

  The warden returned to his fire, kicked a branch onto the coals and knelt, his heart thumping wildly, his eyes filling with tears. How could this be? It was just an autumn squall. He moved his hands over the animal’s body. No marks, nothing broken, no blood; but also no warmth or breath. From his once-blue eyes now gazed two black, smoking hollows.

  “Cruel ones,” Arcmael breathed, cradling Dog’s body in his arms. Wolf had tricked him. Just a temporary comfort for a foolish mortal, just enough to secure an oath, Dog’s life was never meant to last beyond a commitment that Arcmael wouldn’t be able to back out of. Dog had died the night a sword cut him down, like a draugr forced to live by the will of another. It was probably the same magic. He envisioned the High Fylking of Tower Sol gazing down with haughty disapproval as Arcmael asked Wolf for help. Since when did Arcmael become so weak that in his loneliness he would allow the warrior to manipulate him like that?

  Once again, Skadi’s words came to him. Do not bargain with the Fylking. Pull one thread and you’ll find yourself knowing things best left hidden.

  Bitch. He hated her, hated the Fylking, hated his father and the red-cap woodsman and Vargn and, most of all, he hated himself. His face wet with tears, he laid Dog’s body by the fire, grabbed his sword and stumbled around until he found a soft place in the forest floor. Then he began to dig.

  For the first time, it occurred to Arcmael how similar wardens were to warriors. Neither could know love or companionship and be ultimately effective. Comfort was for mothers and fools.

  As Arcmael dug, nicking and dulling his sword with each defiant thrust, an idea began to form in his mind. It rose from a memory—shadows of a cool summer evening just before he had departed on his first mission to Tower Sor above Merhafr. Skadi had told him of another kind of sigil, a terrible invocation that would break the cords that bound him to the Fylking. It was called the Exile sigil. She taught him how to do it, a grim and yet deceptively simple motion of his hands.

  As he well knew, the Fylking were as flawed as he was. The wardens served them but were ruled by their own free will. The Banishing sigil was created to remind the wardens of this and to give them freedom of mind. But sometimes, though it happened rarely, a Fylking wronged his charge beyond what was understood and agreed upon by the tenets of the order. For this, the wardens had a choice.

  The Exile sigil was ruled by Elivag. It required no oaths, and no Fylking could break its pattern. Once done, they couldn’t see or speak to the warden in any way; not in mind, vision or dreams; nor did they have the power to harm a warden with their energies as they could the ignorant. Silence beyond boundaries, Skadi had called it, one cloudy eye staring at nothing.

  She warned him, of course. She had a warning for everything, Skadi did. The Exile sigil was never to be considered except in the most devastating circumstances. His staff would wither, and he wouldn’t feel the frequencies of starlight shining on the crystals in the stones of the plain. With his inner eye he might see the auras of Others—nature spirits, elves, goblins, planetary entities or other natural forces—but he would not perceive the Fylking—and for this, the Otherworld would hate him. For the Others needed humans as much as humans needed them, and in Dyrregin the Fylking were considered next to gods in their eyes. The sigil would mark him with a permanent scar.

  Arcmael threw his sword aside and began to claw away fistfuls of dirt to form a ragged hole. His idea worked in him like a root. How different would the mark of an Exile sigil look than the one his father put on him by disowning him and parading him out of Merhafr in a miasma of shame? Or the stigma
he now wore to all humans save other wardens as one who walked between? Or the weakness he had shown the Fylking for not having the strength to let a dog die when its time came? All permanent marks, those.

  They wanted a warrior, they would have one. Warriors were covered in scars. What was one more?

  Arcmael drew a deep breath, his vision blurring as he went and lifted Dog into his arms. He placed his friend into the hole and scooped the cold dirt over him, gently patting it down. Predawn light seeped into the forest as he gathered stones and placed them neatly over the grave. Then he stood, took the sword by the grip for the last time and drove it into the rocks.

  “Farewell, Dog,” he breathed, dropping to one knee. Forgive me.

  He knelt there for a time beneath the primordial silence. He whispered a prayer to any god that would listen to protect the grave and see Dog safely into the Otherworld. Then he stood and faced north. His hair hanging in his face, he lifted his chin with cold resolve and raised his hands, formed them slowly into the Exile sigil’s silent pattern and let the winds of Hel blow through.

  Dawn crept into the sky. Arcmael lowered his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. He scattered the fire, pulled his food sack from the tree and gathered his things. Then he set out into the silence of graves.

  An Unkind Patrol

  The first stars of the evening twinkled in a clear sky as Othin rode his tired horse along a narrow, rugged path. The ground was too hard to reveal the tracks of others who might have passed this way, stealing his hope that it actually led somewhere. The wind-torn, wooded foothills of the Ogjan Mountains at his back had given way to the realm of Ylgr, a desolate landscape of marshes, brush and bogs mottled with dark woodlands of gnarled black trees now barren of their silvery leaves. The folk who lived up here, pale and wild as hares, lived in stone huts with thatched roofs and eked a living from hides and peat.

  Somewhere in this land stood the Moor’s Edge, an inn Bren told him about. The road ran north-south, the Northman had claimed, some ten leagues east of the Wythe Strait. Closer to twenty leagues east, this path—no road at all if Othin understood the meaning of that term—was the only one he could find that fit the description. Twilight chilled the air with an icy breath as he rode into what looked like the maw of Hel’s vast domain. His heart was heavy, he was tired and he didn’t relish the idea of making camp out here. These lands tended to gather outlaws who had no fear of rangers and often held grudges against them, the keepers of order in the realm. As a rule, the north coastal patrol didn’t include Ylgr, and rangers who came out here did so at their own risk. There were no stations or outposts. As for the tales of rangers vanishing without a trace, the High Command blamed that on desertion, a rare occurrence that easily justified turning a blind eye. Other stories told of woad-clad bodies found in peat bogs or hanging from trees. Like the cities, these outlands had their own laws.

  Othin was not here to bring order or investigate a disappearance. These lands were close enough to the more easily accessible shores between the Ogjan and Fomor Mountains that they would serve as a good out-of-the-way place for a Fjorginan company to lie low and await orders.

  Aside from the danger of highwaymen, Ylgr provided an easy enough detour to his final destination of Ottersun. There, Bren’s kin would welcome him to their hearth and give him peace and good company for a few days. Unfortunately, he would be riding into Ottersun alone. A message from Bren was all that had awaited him in guardsmen’s outpost in Garmr when he arrived. The ranger was delayed and had advised Othin to go north without him.

  After a day or two in Garmr, Othin would have departed, even without his friend’s advice. The men stationed there were a crude, bored lot, causing him to wonder if Coldevin had sent them up here as punishment or to get them out of the way of more useful endeavors. Othin told them what had happened in the Pink Rose, mainly in hopes that they knew of or would at least stay alert to anything strange. Aside from their predictable reactions to an attack on a cathouse, they had mocked him for drinking too much and telling stories.

  Othin had little to tell in his own defense. He never found the ghoul he had pursued from the Pink Rose. It seemed a simple thing to ride the twisted Fjorginan down and bring him to the nearest rangers’ station for questioning. But the fiend vanished like a dream in the mists rolling off the sea. Othin searched, inquired and put out alerts for days with no success, causing him to suspect that whatever enchantment had kept the half-solid creature alive after being stabbed by a sword, set on fire and hit in the head with a frying pan had also given him the ability to shapeshift or disappear completely. All Othin brought to the rangers’ station was a grim report for Lord Halstaeg, to which he gave the fastest rider.

  It was nearly dark when Othin finally spotted a light in the distance. He pressed his heels into his horse to make speed. Twice he had seen figures standing in the near dark on either side of the path, no horses, no torches to light their way, their cloaks blending with the heather. He shouldered a shield both times, expecting to be targeted by an arrow or a knife. But he passed without being harried, grateful to the dark for hiding his ranger’s trappings.

  The light came from a large wooden building with a stone foundation. It looked like a barn used to keep animals to protect them from cold and wolves. Othin’s hopes sank into his hungry gut like a stone until he saw a sign hanging above a door on the far end. The Moor’s Edge. He let out his breath in relief and rode up to the closer side. A burning cresset hung above a set of double doors and a row of shorter posts, one of which held a shaggy pony.

  He dismounted, looped the reins over his horse’s head and stretched his back. When no one came out, he released a sharp whistle. After some moments one of the doors opened, spilling golden light into the yard. A lad emerged, thin and dressed in threadbare clothes. He had a shock of blazing red hair that looked as if it had been gone over with sheep shears.

  “Milord,” he greeted the ranger.

  “I’ve journeyed far and my horse needs care and stabling for the night,” Othin said, spotting another horse inside.

  “Aye, milord.” He took the reins and, with a backward glance, led the beast away. Resting his hand on the pommel of the longknife at his belt, Othin walked to the main entrance. Light glimmered through windows of cheap glass panes of gold and green. The frame of each looked ragged, as if it had been put in after an axe had been taken to the walls. Wondering what Bren saw in this place, Othin stepped up to the door.

  The smell of cooking meat rushed from the interior as the door opened and two men came out. Othin stepped out of the way, catching the door as they lumbered into the night, leaving the sour scent of ale in their wake. If nothing else, places like Ylgr bred sturdy drinkers. There was not much else to do up here most seasons. The ranger ducked his head beneath the frame and entered the room.

  It was surprisingly well appointed for a barn. Two inner stone walls contained a door and a torchlit opening revealing an ascending stairwell. The wood floor was polished and furs and woolens woven in bright colors covered the original walls, blocking drafts. A dozen or so patrons occupied rough-cut benches, stools and long tables arranged around a large stone firepit that resembled the one in the Full Moon in Merhafr. A pig hung there on a spit. A woman sat at the crank, her thighs parted beneath a heavy gut and ample breasts. Her cheeks were ruddy as apples.

  “Hail!” she called out to her new guest. “Do take a seat, laddie. Supper’s up soon.” She leaned back and barked a name over her shoulder.

  Touching his fingers to his forehead, Othin moved to an unoccupied side of the room between the fire and a window. He made a point to ignore the burly, armed man sitting next to the front door, no doubt employed to keep order. His expression deadpan, the man wore a leather jerkin, a wool cap and heavy nailed boots. Across the room, a woman cackled with laughter as someone shouted an insult.

  Othin brushed by two men talking together in a dialect so thick it sounded like another language. They spoke loudly enough to hear,
obviously assuming he wouldn’t understand them. It was a bad assumption. Bren knew the dialects of the northern coast and had taught them to Othin for situations like this. The men were not plotting robbery or murder, but merely wondering why a ranger would come here on patrol, commenting on what trouble might be afoot in their wild realm. A useful thing to know. It meant they had not seen trouble, at least not the sort of trouble that would get the attention of Merhafr.

  Othin removed his cloak and weapons. He placed his scabbarded sword on the table away from a puddle of ale left there by a previous patron. His longknife hung comfortably on his side closest to the onlookers. Their eyes were as dark as the moors outside.

  A door slammed. A woman snaked through the tables in his direction clutching a tall clay mug. She had the same rat brown hair as the tavern mistress and wore a snug, seasoned smock and a reddish apron stained with drink. A wolfhound followed her. As the tavern mistress growled a command, the beast stopped, circled around and plopped down by her feet.

  The serving woman’s breasts bounced with cheery confidence as she set the mug down. “Ranger,” she greeted Othin with a smile. She was weathered but not unattractive. She smelled like a wet dog and had two long scratches on her forearm. “Sencin tells me you need lodgings,” she said, a sly smile curling on her mouth.

  Othin assumed she referred to the stable boy. “Aye,” he said quietly, reaching for his ale. It was the color of peat.

  She cocked her hip, grabbed the edge of her apron and leaned past him to wipe up the spill. He caught a nicer scent, like apples. It was fresh, as if she had daubed it on just before coming out. “Would you be wantin’ company later?” she said in a lower voice, her eyes bright.

  Othin sipped his ale, regarding her over the rim of the cup while considering the others lounging and eyeing him from the pauses of their idle talk. Either she was lonely and disinterested in this lot or she figured a ranger would actually pay her. But this place was no cathouse. For all he knew one of these men had put her up to distracting him. Lust made him want to haul her upstairs and leave her flushed and unable to sit right for two days. But lust had a way of making complicated things look simple.