The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  The tattooed man turned away from the wind and plunged a spoon into his bowl. He blew on it for a moment and took a bite. With his mouth full he said, “I don’t know why they had to send us up here for this,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder toward the cart with his spoon. “North traders could’ve done it. That lot’ll travel in anything.”

  The tall man returned and set the pot into the fire. Water sloshed over the edge. “It’s our business. Besides, you heard the reports.” The cook handed him a bowl and a spoon. “The traders are taking on armed escorts.”

  “Speaking of that, where is Lauge?” said the tattooed man.

  The blond guardsman looked up from his meal with a drawn expression. “It’s only been a day. He’ll be here.”

  “Accursed Fjorginans,” the cook grumbled, taking his cup into his lap. Liquid dripped down the side. “Only bastards on all of Math who’d wage war in winter.”

  “They’d be fools to attempt Thorgrim,” the tattooed man said.

  “According to my grandfather, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Cold fear settled over Arcmael’s heart. War with Fjorgin. Had he heard that right? Wolf had not mentioned anything about war. Perhaps his fears about the time he had spent in the goblins’ palace were true.

  “What was that?” the tattooed soldier said. The others looked up as something moved in the forest beyond the camp, thumping and cracking through the brush on the forest floor. Someone shouted a command. Arcmael hunkered down as the guardsmen put down their meals, jumped to their feet and drew their swords. The blond guardsman pulled around his bow, nocked an arrow and slipped around the cart.

  “It’s him!” the earlier voice called from the darkness.

  The men relaxed. “About bloody time,” the cook said. He slammed his blade into its sheath and sat back down, destroying Arcmael’s fantasy of stealing a meal while the men were occupied elsewhere.

  A guardsman rode into the camp. Snow caked his cloak, thighs and beard. His and his horse’s breath pulsed into the air. As he dismounted, the tattooed man grasped him on the shoulder with a grin and then took his horse and led it into the trees.

  The blond man returned from the woods with an expression of intense relief. “Lauge.” He and the newcomer slipped their arms beneath each other’s cloaks and embraced, standing close. Tangling his fingers in Lauge’s dark hair with one hand and holding his jaw with the other, the blond man kissed him deeply.

  Sigrek exchanged a glance with the cook. “At least they’ll be warm tonight.”

  The cook nodded. “If it gets any colder, I’ll fuck you.”

  “I’d rather sleep with my horse.”

  Lauge and his lover parted with quiet words. The newcomer brushed the snow and ice from his person and lumbered to the fire, where he knelt and held out his hands. His cheeks were windburned. Sigrek pulled a blanket roll from under his rump and tossed it over the fire, followed by the wineskin. “Kitchen wine. There’s not much left.” Lauge settled down and tilted the skin to his lips. He lowered it with a gasp, sniffling.

  “Good to see you,” the cook said. He refilled his own bowl from the pot and handed it over. “What happened?”

  “Trouble in Vota.” He spooned the stew into his mouth, parting his lips with a breath to cool it down.

  “What kind of trouble?” the blond guardsman asked.

  “Ghouls.”

  The soldier with the tattooed fingers stopped what he was doing and approached the fire. “Fjorginans again?”

  Lauge took several more bites and set his bowl aside. “There were guardsmen among them.”

  Shocked silence. The blond man said, “Were they human?”

  “No.” He blinked up through the damp strands of his hair. “I don’t think we were supposed to see them. They were on the run. The guardsmen broke off and went another way.”

  “If their master is serving Fjorgin, why would he turn our men?”

  Lauge shrugged. “I don’t know. But our orders have changed.” He folded his hands together and lowered them toward the fire. “The Wolftooth Pass has been compromised. Command wants us at Stone River. We’re to take over the inns along the Spruce Road and set up a route to move soldiers and supplies in and out of Ason Tae.”

  The tattooed soldier spat an expletive under his breath.

  “Compromised?” the cook said.

  “Overrun by ghouls. They’re in the forests up there. They don’t feel the cold, and they don’t need fires.”

  The blond guardsman knelt by the fire. “Why would they gather up there?”

  “To close off Ason Tae, must be.”

  “Why would they bother? The Vale has no strategic value. It’s isolated.”

  “The Jarnstrom Forge is up there,” Sigrek suggested.

  The cook lifted the stewpot from the fire with a stick and set it aside, in the snow. “One forge of hundreds.”

  Arcmael saw another scenario. Isolating the Vale would allow Vargn to lay claim to Tower Sif, the Apex of the Gate. Compromising the Apex would make the entire Gate vulnerable. That would put this far beyond war with Fjorgin. It was the landscape of nightmares.

  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.

  Arcmael’s nightmares.

  The demon’s eyes burned with fire.

  The tattooed man asked, “How are we supposed to get through the pass, then?”

  “We’re to report to the Bear’s End for further orders.”

  Arcmael hesitated, his heart thumping. By now these men might know as much as he did about the draugr, the warlock and the missing wardens. Maybe more. But claiming that the Vale of Ason Tae had no strategic value in a war involving a violation of Elivag was a dangerous kind of ignorance. He gathered his nerve and crept from his hiding place.

  He froze as hot breath flowed onto his neck from the air above. On the edge of his sight slipped a dark horn, slender and curved like a cruel knife. Entwined in the beech leaves, it moved with airy swiftness, drifting in and out of solidity, the head of a goat and the gaunt, wiry shoulders of a man. A chill gripped Arcmael’s spine. Gods help me. Phooka. Malevolent, shapeshifting fiends. Not this time, you bastards. He stood up and stepped out into the light.

  Lauge lifted his gaze from the fire and stared. Turning pale, the guardsman lifted his arm, pointing as the others turned. One of them gasped. The phooka rose on two hooved feet, tall as a young oak tree. Its eyes glowed green. Snow blew around it, caressing it, whispering secrets.

  Arcmael bolted—and went nowhere as a clawed hand lifted him by the collar of his tunic. The blond guardsman swore an oath. Sigrek jumped up and drew his sword.

  The beast bounded into the darkness.

  Branches and snow pummeled Arcmael as he flew through shreds of firelight and shadows. His captor ran over the snowy forest floor with the grace of a hind, its powerful legs covered in black fur, and its chest as hard as marble. Its breath growled and its claws dug into Arcmael’s body with an iron grip. It smelled of musk and dirt.

  Arcmael’s breath caught as he tried to demand release. A foolish notion. What had made him think he was free of the Others? Othin was not to be trusted—everyone knew that. For that matter, the hooded crow might not have been him. Just a convenient assumption. Nothing would exonerate Arcmael from casting an Exile sigil, including the gods. He had proven his weakness and disloyalty to the entire universe.

  “Othin you bastard—” he choked, his throat as hard as a killing frost and his body stiff and soaked in the flooding night. The horned monster leapt over a stream rumbling under ice. Arcmael’s teeth rattled as it landed and kept moving. He lost track of time and space as the forest rushed around him in a river of wind, snaps, cracks and cold.

  Finally, the phooka stopped. From a great, ethereal distance it said, You are needed, Seer. Then it dropped him into the snow, its breath steaming in pulsing patterns of leaves and boughs, growing, rooting into
the night.

  The Shade

  Snowflakes drifted on the winds of another cold, wet night. Othin pressed Arvakr down an embankment on the edge of a lonely road, badly maintained and used by outlying folk to get to and from Vota. As he dismounted and led the horse into the shelter of a spruce stand, he hoped the riders behind him hadn’t seen him do it. His tracks would be easy to find in the snow.

  On the eve of the dark moon three nights past, Fjorgin declared war on Dyrregin. News of the bloody banners on the gates of Merhafr had spread over the land like a plague, and everyone on the roads was suspect. Had Othin been clad in his ranger’s gear, he would have traveled unhindered—but that was before he had left Lord Halstaeg’s daughter at the Old Gods’ altar. Now, while his plain clothes made it easier to hide, he was exposed to general questioning. His proximity to the northbound roads increased the danger that someone would recognize him.

  And they were looking. Halstaeg wouldn’t place war over his family’s honor—or so it would be assumed, as no one knew his deeper motivations. Othin knew Diderik well enough to surmise that the captain would keep his damning intelligence to himself until just the right moment. In the meantime, Othin was on his own.

  Ageton had given him enough coin to pay for food and crude lodging, if he dared, but not to replace his sword and bow. Othin had never traveled without them, and their absence grated on him constantly. He had even considered ambushing someone to get a sword in the event he landed in a skirmish. But that was risky. If Halstaeg received a report of someone losing his blade to a thief, he would look into it. A highway robber would have a sword. And if Othin had one, he would end up using it. Then Halstaeg would have more than one location in which to focus his search.

  Breath steamed from Arvakr’s nostrils as he snorted and tossed his head. Stroking the horse’s neck, Othin gazed in the direction of the road, invisible in the darkness. A shade fled by his face and then grew still, hovering on the wind.

  It had been tracking him for three days. An unseen presence he felt more strongly at night, a darker shadow, a wisp of fog, the shade often drew near enough to feel, sometimes with an unintelligible whisper. Othin could think of no reason why something from the Otherworld would track him, which meant this had to have a human source, someone who knew magic. Halstaeg might be desperate enough to set aside his disbelief in magic by hiring the Blackthorn Guild. But if that were so, Othin wouldn’t have eluded the blockades, trackers and soldiers roaming the roads. They would have known where he was.

  He drew Arvakr deeper into the trees as he heard riders. A small company thundered by, heads down, cloaks tearing the cold air, no torches and no delays to search for tracks. There were five of them, soldiers, he had to assume, but the dark and the speed at which they rode made it impossible to discern what branch.

  Othin relaxed as the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Ageton had expected him at the Lone Wolf three days ago and dawn was near, making it a fourth. Othin had lost time not only prowling paths north to avoid discovery, but also in fear of the shade. For the first several nights, he went to ground to avoid feeling it breathing down his neck, until the pressure of time and sense put him back on the road regardless. Night was a better time to move.

  He was exhausted and needed sleep. He returned to the road and mounted. He drew in the reins and turned, grew silent for a moment to listen for anyone approaching and then headed out. The shade swirled from the air like an owl and followed. Othin rode in a steady gait past sleepy farms, houses lit faintly against the night, murky patches of woods and brushy fields hissing in the wind. Only three days waxing, the moon shed no light through the snowing clouds.

  A rider came over a rise at a furious clip. Othin barely had time to get out of the way before the rider passed without pause or greeting. Someone with a message—or a pursuer. His nerves taut, Othin hovered in the icy weeds and then pressed onward. The top of the rise fell off to a sharp corner that wound into a glade strewn with boulders. Icy wind whipped over the peak and clutched him beneath his cloak. In the distance, just visible through the snow, a sparse smattering of lights heralded the awakening town.

  The Lone Wolf, situated northeast of Vota on an intersection of the North Mountain Road, was a sturdy yet plain establishment frequented by woodsmen, farmers, traders and the like. The cook was adequate but not outstanding, and the wine was poor. The night women there were sisters, three of them, with freckles and coarse black hair they tied up with gardening twine. The oldest played fiddle with exceptional skill, earning her the interesting name of Fiddlercat. She would as soon punch a man as bed him. Before Millie had been violated and Kidge murdered, Othin might have looked forward to trying his luck. But heartbreak had left him empty. He did yearn for a warm meal, a fire and a bed without cold, twigs and things living in it. He hoped Ageton’s presence would take the vigilance out of the owners who, no doubt, had been commanded by soldiers to keep a lookout for Othin, whom they knew on sight.

  Wrapped in anticipation of mortal comforts, Othin didn’t notice the distant noise until Arvakr shied off the road. He growled a command and tried to get the horse in hand. Arvakr snorted and backed up, sidestepping into the trees.

  Shouts, cries and clashing blades drifted through the woods. The trees swayed in the wind, creaking and groaning. Wishing again for his weapons, Othin dismounted and drew Arvakr into the trees until the horse calmed down. Then he circled around, staying close to the road but out of sight.

  Preceded by rapid hoofbeats, a horse with no rider tore by with plume of snow in its wake. Half a league on, a body lay in the road. Leaving Arvakr in the trees, Othin drew his knife and approached carefully, pushing at the figure with his boot before kneeling beside it. Dyrregin Guard. He was human, still warm and had no pulse. A broken arrow of Fjorginan design protruded from his neck. A good shot, to hit someone on horseback just there.

  He got up, slipped into the woods and crept along the road. There were no tracks within bowshot range; the guardsman must have gone on for a time after being hit. Othin returned to the body, sheathed his knife and divested the rider of his sword. He strapped on the scabbard and drew the blade, loosening his wrist by testing its weight. It would do. Now armed, he went back into the trees emerging in the faint predawn light.

  He guided Arvakr up a forested hill, following the wavering sounds of fighting. A yellowish light glowed in the tops of the trees. A large flock of birds flew overhead, chittering.

  A horse fled through the woods, kicking up snow in a fury of terror. In response, Arvakr reared up with a cry. Othin hung on, hissing a command. The horse came down, turned and bolted. An old ash loomed out of the snow, its boughs hanging low. Before Othin could duck, a branch slammed him in the chest and out of the saddle. He landed in the snow with a jolt, smashing his quiver and ramming his sword sheath into his back. Stunned and gasping for breath, he rolled over, just catching a last glimpse of Arvakr as the warhorse vanished into the dimness like a ghost.

  Another horse came over the rise and followed the others.

  Growling a curse, Othin pushed himself to his feet. He sucked in several breaths and stumbled on, quickening his pace. The crest of the hill revealed a glade thinned by woodsmen. Thighs burning, he crept up to a fallen pine, its sharp branches protruding in the air like the spikes on a morning star. He ducked behind it. Then he saw what had scared the horses and caused a man to cling to his steed for life after taking an arrow in the neck.

  A circle of fire burned on the ground. A swath of snow had melted around it, forming curved, symmetrical shapes in the blackened earth. Snowflakes whirled slowly in the air. On the edge of the circle stood a man in a dark green cloak over a brown tunic with the stitched branches and leaves of the Blackthorn Guild. His flesh was pale and smooth, and he had long, silvery hair that twined over his shoulders beneath his hood. In one hand he held a curved knife covered in blood.

  He began to chant. The unintelligible sounds caused the fire and snow to weave into patterns. Around the
circle stood a company of warriors, four Fjorginan soldiers and two guardsmen, their expressions blank, their heads and limbs held in unnatural inclination. Bloodless and battered, they were as silent as the dead. Inside the circle lay two bodies, one on top of the other as if carelessly discarded there.

  At the warlock’s feet, partly blocked by the ghouls, huddled a man in familiar shades of gray, black and blue. He held an arm as if he could no longer use it, and one of his legs lay in a bad angle on the ground. “Who are you?” the ranger rasped, his voice raw with pain.

  Othin’s heart knocked in his chest like a fist as he moved. He shoved aside what his fears were telling him. He was outnumbered, and the ghouls had a warlock on their side. As the wounded ranger tried to rise, a blond braid slid from his shoulder and onto the bloody snow.

  Othin clambered over the tree, hit the ground and drew his sword.

  Still chanting, the warlock moved over the captain of the North Branch, knelt and reached out in one fluid movement. Ageton released an eerie cry that rangers used to call their ravens. The cry fell abruptly silent. Fresh blood splattered the snow.

  “No!” Othin cried, running.

  The chanting ceased; the flames sank into the ground. The warriors staggered on their feet as a force ripped over the clearing like an avalanche. It struck Othin in the chest and knocked him down. Horses moved in the trees, screaming under their bits and tearing the air with their hooves. Othin rolled over and drew his knife.

  The warlock uttered a command. The forest shook like a bow returning to shape after a shot. Othin got to his feet, hefted his knife and threw it at the warlock’s back. The fiend vanished into the trees.

  In response to the warlock’s command, the ghouls had mounted their frightened horses and now rode into the smoking circle with sepulchral cries of rage.

  Othin ducked as a sword sang through the air. While inhumanly strong, the ghouls’ movements were clumsy, as if they were new to bodies and horses. The Fjorginans were more at ease than the guardsmen, whose horses had not yet been cowed into submission and were infecting the Fjorginan beasts with terror. Circling Ageton’s body to protect it from being trampled, Othin yelled, clapped and rushed the animals, causing them to prance and dart about in a wild flurry as their riders attempted to get them under control.