The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  He lowered his mug. It was a pleasant ale and tasted of oak and roots. “Not tonight,” he said, already half regretting the decision. The woman blinked as if startled and then lifted her chin and returned to the kitchen, deftly eluding a groping hand as someone tried to grab her as she passed by.

  Othin let out his breath and tapped a finger on his mug in irritation. How terribly he missed Millie and her offhand ways. Wild as she was, lovemaking was as simple to her as watering a garden. She never stitched anything onto it, never held it hostage or hid things in it, like a child playing games. She never made him question whether he was wanted, and she never doubted his desire, whatever she thought it was.

  He recalled the expression on Halstaeg’s face as he had called Othin’s name for reassignment. If he didn’t know any better, he could swear the high constable had some other reason for changing his patrol besides calling on Othin’s experience with the coastal routes.

  More people came in, some of them settling near Othin’s seat but paying him no mind after a first glance. He wondered where they all came from.

  The tavern mistress approached and set a plate before him piled high with steaming pork, turnips and beans. With a maternal smile, she unwrapped a small loaf of black bread from a cloth and set it on the edge of the plate. Unlike the other woman, who might have been her daughter or a younger sister, she adopted no pretense but that of a business owner pleased by a visit from a man with a sword and some coin.

  Othin thanked her and held up his empty mug with a hopeful lift in his brow. He suspected the woman in the red apron would have other things to do now that he had refused her invitation. The mistress took the mug and folded it under one arm. “Having a kind patrol?” she inquired, wiping a hand on her apron. It was a standard question across the realm, a greeting given to rangers to intend them well wishes.

  “I am,” Othin lied. He had lost Kidge’s murderer, been mocked by guardsmen and forced to travel these dreary roads without Bren. He missed his woman, and now he faced a night in this place listening for creaking floors and blades sliding from their sheaths.

  “Well, good,” she said with a nod, satisfied by a simple answer. “Your room’s first to the right, top o’ the stairs.” She bustled into the crowd, empty mug in hand.

  Othin fell to his meal. After a short time the tavern mistress returned and set down another ale. Foam crested at the top of the mug and dripped down the side. “One more thing,” she said with a casual air that told him she was about to ruin his night. “Start any trouble in here, and it’ll cost you extra.” Her gaze touched his sword as she turned away and melted into the crowd.

  He reached for his ale. Farmers, huntsmen, drunks, trappers and mean women—if there was anything that kept this place going out here on the edge of nothing, it was trouble.

  The ranger didn’t stay to watch faces and interpret talk. After four mugs of the mistress’s rooty ale, he went outside for a piss and then went to his room. It smelled of tobacco and farm animals. The axe-installed window didn’t open to let in air. The hay bed was lumpy and prickly, but someone had kindly put a hot brick beneath the woolen blanket. Overall, it was an immeasurable improvement over sleeping on the moors. Despite the racket in the tavern downstairs, he fell asleep.

  He awoke to the sound of a woman’s cry. Rhythmic thuds sounded against the wall behind his bed. Yawning, he rolled over and lay there muddled in sleep as the sounds of lovemaking rose and fell into silence. He imagined Millie, her hair falling around her breasts as she straddled him, sliding down on his sex with a giggling sigh.

  The next thing that woke him was a knock on the door. Still under the thrall of a dark dream of ghouls and whirlwinds destroying the vineyards of his homeland, the ranger rolled out of bed with his sword, drawing it from the scabbard.

  The knock sounded again. “Milord!” someone whispered. Othin opened the door, grasped Sencin by the scruff of his neck and pulled him into the room, causing wax from the candle lantern he held to splatter onto the floor. “Milord, I—”

  “Quiet.” Blade in hand, he waited a moment and then leaned out into the hall. Nothing. A man said something in the room next door. Othin closed the door and turned around. A bruise swelled on Sencin’s jaw. It was not there earlier that night.

  “Milord, your horse”—he stared wide-eyed at the ranger’s blade—“he’s gone. Thieves, they took them all.”

  Othin sheathed his sword and reached for his mail shirt. “Does your mistress know of this?”

  “No, I came t’you first.”

  “Go tell her.”

  The lad fled from the room, leaving the door open. Othin kicked it shut and finished dressing, finally cinching down his sword strap and grabbing his cloak. He opened the door to find the ruffian who sat watch over the dining room standing there in his boots and a longshirt.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded. The dog girl came up behind him.

  “Horse thieves,” Othin said, pushing by them and heading down the stairs. When he reached the stables, he found nothing but cows, sheep, chickens and pigs. The other guests in the inn had awaked and gathered outside, some of them holding torches. One of them was arguing with the tavern mistress. Ignoring them, Othin headed toward the road. A woman shouted something rude after him.

  Sencin ran up to his side. “You’ll never catch them,” he panted.

  “How many?”

  “Three—I think.”

  Othin paused to string his bow. “Which way did they go?”

  The boy pointed north. “Ailu Road. It’s not far.”

  Othin quickened his pace, leaving the youth standing in the dark. Few horse thieves had the mettle to steal a ranger’s mount. The beasts were branded with a pentacle marking them as the king’s own, and no distance would be far enough once Othin put the word out. These men were either fools, or they had taken his horse to get him into the open on foot.

  He walked in the dark for about an hour until he smelled dawn. The land emerged from the night, stark, ridged hills with heather and bracken, outcroppings and small patches of trees. Frost cloaked the ground. The road curved around a rocky tor that hid the way beyond. Hugging the rocks, Othin crept forward until he reached a shallow overhang. He peered around. Ahead, the road skirted a grassy wetland trickling with water. Beyond that, on the right, loomed the shadowy forms of trees. A murder of crows lifted from the branches and scattered into the pale gray sky.

  Othin knelt, counting on the dim light to hide him over the distance. He brought his bow around, slipped an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Then he waited until something moved by the trees. It was subtle and might have been nothing; for a moment only the trees stood there. Othin drew his bow as a darker figure separated from the shadows. The man lifted his hand, and a second man stood up on the other side of the road where he had been lying on the ground.

  Othin released the string. The first man fell. The second man shouted something as the ranger snatched another arrow and drew his bow again. Then something skittered above his head. He dropped his bow as a small stone fell by his side.

  With a roar a man leapt down and thrust a sword at his face, and Othin caught the edge of the blade on the mail covering his shoulder. Bracing himself, he threw a kick at the man’s legs. The thief swung his sword as he buckled to his knees. Eluding the cut, Othin pulled his knife and lunged, driving the blade into the thief’s stomach. The man’s sword clattered to the ground.

  Two more men rushed him. Othin drew his sword and briefly wondered if Sencin’s miscount meant there were more. Keeping the tor at his back, he jumped up onto the rocks to get an advantage, but the stones were loose and he lost his footing. He threw a sloppy parry at the first blade that came at him and leapt to the ground. The thieves closed on him. As he fought them off, he noted that one of them, gripping an axe, had a weaker guard of the two.

  Othin avoided a well-aimed attack that went wide of his guard. His furious counter-attack drove the stronger man back and gave Othin an op
portunity to put a nasty cut on his thigh with his knife. The thief fell to his knees, his black hair tumbling over his eyes.

  Othin spun around, blocked an unwieldy axe swing and went into the man’s guard, but the thief was wilier than he appeared. He twisted out of the way, losing his balance. As he fell, he rolled over with a swipe that hit Othin’s boot, just slicing his calf through the leather. Othin stomped on his hand, feeling bones crunch beneath his heel. As the man cried out, Othin kicked the axe away from him.

  Heavily favoring one side, the black-haired man came up behind. Othin jumped out of the way, whirled and cut, opening his flesh at the ribs. Blood oozed into the thief’s hands as he sank down, clutching the wound.

  Both wily and persistent, the axe-wielder got up and charged again. His companion shouted a warning. Othin came in beneath the axe with a killing thrust, but the thief checked himself and avoided it. The move cost him his guard. Wanting him alive, Othin switched blade hands and punched him in the face, breaking his nose. He grunted and hit the ground, unconscious.

  Flexing his hand, Othin turned to the thief glowering up through the damp strands of his hair. “Finish it,” the man said.

  “Where is my horse?”

  The thief coughed on a laugh and leaned forward, breathing heavily. A crow flew overhead with a croak. Othin wiped his blades on the edge of the other man’s cloak and sheathed them. Then he retrieved his bow and began limping up the road. As he reached the body of the man who had jumped him from the rocks, he circled the corpse warily and kicked it for a response.

  The thief he had questioned called out from behind him. “Don’t leave me here to die, you bastard!”

  Othin kept walking.

  After a moment the thief called out again. “They’re in the woods!”

  Othin crossed the road. When he reached the body of the thief he had shot with the arrow, he inspected it as he had the other. Men, not ghouls, and not Fjorginan. Releasing a breath, he found a trail of trampled grass into the trees.

  The horses stood just out of sight. There were four of them, including the pony he had seen on his arrival to the inn. Soothing his horse with a word, he rifled through the saddlebags to make sure his rope was still there. The thieves had not taken the time to go through his things. He untethered the gelding, drew him around and led him back to the road. He would return for the others, but now he needed speed in case the axe-wielder had regained consciousness and run off.

  The thief was still unconscious when Othin returned. His friend huddled where the ranger had left him, his bloody hands pressed over his ribcage. Othin dismounted and strode to them.

  “I’m the sheriff of Ylgr,” the wounded man said in a strained voice, his gaze settling on the rope in Othin’s hand. “My men know where I am, and they’ll be on their way. You won’t get away with this.”

  Othin sat the axe-wielder up, tied his arms behind his back and struck his face to bring him around. He gained consciousness with a start, his nose swollen, purplish and not in the right place. Othin stood up, drew his longknife and stalked back and forth before them.

  “Mercy,” the axe-wielder breathed, his eyes wide.

  Othin crossed his arms over his chest, fingering the grip of his knife as he studied the edge. “Mercy. That’s a big word.”

  “Whoreson,” the sheriff said. “Think I don’t know the rules? You’re bound to a code of honor. You can’t deny anyone mercy who asks for it.”

  “I think you’ll find the rules are a bit different for thieves and murderers, Sheriff. And in this gods-forsaken place, I’m no more bound to rules than you are.”

  “Your kind don’t belong up here,” the sheriff said, his voice a rasp. “Everybody knows the king don’t send patrols to Ylgr.”

  Othin snorted. “The king leaves you alone because you only cause trouble for each other.” He regarded them sidelong as he paced. “That could change. I could see to it you have rangers breathing down your necks like wolves—enough that you wouldn’t be able to bring one down in some lonely place. I’m of a mind to suggest to my commanders that we tighten things up in Ylgr.”

  The axe-wielder cast a glance at the so-called sheriff. Circling them, Othin added, “I want information.”

  The sheriff spat. “Fuck off. You’ll just kill us after.”

  “That’s what you would do. I might be more forgiving. Here are my rules: Play nice and live; act stupid and I’ll cut your throats and leave you for the crows.” He flipped his blade and gazed down at his captives like the war god he was named after. “Shall we begin?”

  ~ * ~

  The Hunter’s Moon rose huge and gold over the hills to the east as Othin rode over the wide bridge that crossed the Ceirn River. The water glittered with light as it flowed to the sea. He was expected in Merhafr a week ago. The delay wouldn’t have been a problem, had the report he sent Halstaeg from Fell not involved Fjorginans, ghouls and a cathouse. An unfortunate report, with war looming.

  Othin had not been able to discover why the Fjorginans attacked the Rose—let alone what manner of evil denied them death—and now one of them was loose somewhere in Fell. His journey to Ylgr had gained him nothing but a new scar and the gratitude of the tavern mistress of the Moor’s Edge. He had ridden back to the tavern with the stolen horses in tow and told the men there where to find the thieves. The mistress stitched the cut on his calf and gave him fresh provisions for the road.

  Othin was no torturer who could carve information from captives in artful ways; however, fear of a lawless ranger and the possibility that Ylgr would soon be targeted by reinforced patrols made the sheriff and his axe-wielding henchman remarkably cooperative. The thieves answered his inquiries, but they had neither seen Fjorginans nor heard of anyone coming ashore from the Wythe, let alone venturing inland to the moors. While ultimately this was good news, as it meant Fjorgin was not mustering legions in the northern wilds, it left Othin having to explain to Halstaeg why he had taken a side-trip into Ylgr, which was not part of the north coastal patrol, just to deal with horse thieves.

  The sheriff had threatened that he would send a report to Merhafr informing them of the ranger’s behavior. At the time, Othin rode off laughing, leaving the thief and his friend wounded and bound in the dirt to await someone more interested in dealing with them. Later, alone on the road, he realized his desire to prove something that would either escalate this war or end it—anything to change this maddening uncertainty—had made him overly zealous. But he doubted anyone in the Citadel would take a report from Ylgr seriously. Captain Ageton would think it a joke.

  Othin had reached the coast west of Ylgr, and was gazing north wishing he had time to visit Bren’s family in Ottersun, when the raven found him. The creature had careened from the dusky sky and landed on his shoulder, spooking both him and his horse. The message attached to its leg, stamped with Halstaeg’s personal seal, had been brief and hard as steel. Return to the King’s Citadel at once. Make no delay. - LDH

  Lord Detlef Halstaeg. Whatever this was about, it was important—and private. After releasing the bird with a white leg band in reply, Othin had followed orders and rode south with all speed, not stopping in Fell to talk to Captain Pavel or Magreda as he had planned.

  The moon was two days waning by the time Othin reached Merhafr, dirty, worn and hating the coast. His face was burned by wind, and everything he owned was damp and smelled of fish. He approached the high shining gates of the city made of white stone inlaid with swirling gold and silver patterns of stars and sea. Gazing down from the center of the arch was the horned goat, cast in gold and pearl, its hooves and long spiraling horns set in smoky quartz, and its fish tail made of stones in shades of green, purple and blue. But though Othin noted the doubled guard pacing the streets and manning the barbican, the blood-red pennon of war had not yet been dropped over the gates.

  He rode through, nodding at the guard in one of the towers. He moved his horse into a trot until he reached the portcullis that gated the King’s Citadel. Gu
ardsmen, pages, smiths, messengers, nobles and folk carrying baskets or pushing carts full of linens, food and other supplies moved about on the smooth stone paths, their voices echoing from the walls around. Many of them greeted the ranger as he passed. When he entered the stables, a tall girl wearing leather riding gear pushed herself from the wall where she had been standing and came to him with a smile. She had braided red-gold hair.

  “Hail, Milord,” she piped. “Kind patrol?”

  Othin nodded and dismounted as she gently drew the reins over the gelding’s head. He caught a whiff of rosemary. The ranger removed his weapons and saddlebags and slung them over his shoulder. Thanking her, he headed for the stairwell on the other side of the corridor, which led to the Rangers’ Square. Halstaeg would expect him to report on his arrival, but he decided to go to his room first and rest. He was already this late; another hour wouldn’t matter.

  As he reached the stairs, someone shouted his name. He turned around as Diderik, the captain of the guard who had done him a good turn by escorting Rosalie from the Full Moon the night before he left, hurried over the hay-strewn floor. “I heard you’d just come in,” the guardsman said, worry creasing around his eyes. “Lord Halstaeg wants you.”

  Othin closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He would get no rest now that word of his arrival was spreading like fire in an old barn. He turned away from the steps and walked back to the street. Diderik accompanied him. “Any chance you know what’s going on?” Othin asked.

  The captain’s face twitched. “I’m not sure,” he lied.

  A short time later, the ranger stood in the foyer of Halstaeg’s office, his packs and weapons heavy, his body sore and his stomach growling with hunger. Halstaeg’s seneschal, a wiry man named Leofwine with a small chest, a long nose and wavy, oiled black hair, had gone to tell the commander of Othin’s arrival. Rumor had it that the duties Leofwine performed for Halstaeg were more intimate than those required of his station. Othin rarely took rumors seriously, but he believed that one. The seneschal returned and waved him in, avoiding eye contact.