The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  Othin stared at the ruins of the wardens’ sanctuary. “You never answered my question. Why are we here?”

  “The goblins didn’t let me go. Something else did. It told me I had business here.”

  Othin gulped as he pondered the idea that the Others, who had condemned Arcmael as a traitor, had played a trick on him. “What told you that?” he risked asking.

  “The Allfather.” His face showed no expression as he got up and crept down the hill.

  Othin tore his feet from shock and followed him. “The Trickster. Are you sure?”

  “No.” When he reached the wall, he slung a leg over the top and dropped to the other side with a splash.

  Othin followed and landed in a narrow stone drain. “Is he the one who taught you to fight?”

  “Don’t be an ass.” He slogged through the half-frozen water and into a tunnel swathed in roots. They moved along for some time until they heard shouts, cries and clanging blades resounding in the distance. “Edon. He won’t stay long. We must hurry.”

  They reached a gate. Beyond it, ravens croaked and cawed, intent on some dark business. Two men stood in the smoky light, pale and still as death. Arcmael knelt and picked up a small stone. He threw it through the gate and onto the flagstones. One of the draugr turned. The other one walked slowly out of sight.

  “Why aren’t they fighting with the others?” Othin whispered.

  “We’re near the center. Past that wall there’s a gathering place that’s visible from many parts of the conservatory. There’s something there I need to see. They’re probably guarding it.” He reached through the bars to the latch on the other side. The gate squealed as he pushed it open. “I’ll distract them.”

  Othin drew his sword. The Allfather. He had followed a madman into a warlock’s stronghold.

  Arcmael walked out into the open. As if throwing down a challenge, he unsheathed his blade and swung it around to loosen his wrist. Then he lowered it, stood and stared. His shoulders moved as if a great weight had just dropped on him.

  Another trick? Othin slipped through the gate. Arcmael ducked just in time to avoid a draugr blade. The seer rolled on the ground and parried the next blow, but it was weak. Something was wrong. Now on his knees, Arcmael managed to put a cut on the draugr’s thigh. It had little effect.

  Othin lunged in with a thrust that put the fiend off balance. The second draugr loomed up behind him. Othin whirled and parried a slash that would have opened him throat to groin. The shock rattled his teeth. Unable to find a gap in his assailant’s guard, Othin moved back, tiring under a ferocious assault that he barely had the reflexes to negotiate. Either the ghouls had grown stronger, or Vargn had chosen the strongest to post here.

  A cry echoed from the walls. Othin realized it was Arcmael as a bloodless limb skidded over the ground. The seer knocked the draugr down and then leapt like an animal at the one fighting Othin, his sword arcing down. The draugr dropped its blade and swung around, grappling at the blade in its back. Othin ended it.

  Foolishly leaving his sword in the draugr, Arcmael stumbled off, leaving Othin to retrieve the blade before following.

  Ravens fluttered and perched in the ruins overlooking a stone circle surrounded by the trunks of freshly cut trees. The seer dropped to his knees, gazing upwards. An iron cage hung from a gibbet crudely built from felled wood. A body slumped inside, thin, naked and ravaged by carrion birds. Strands of long white hair draped between the slats and floated on the wind.

  Othin went to Arcmael’s side, his throat dry. The cloying smell of death hung in the air. “Do you know her?”

  “Skadi. Mistress of Faersc.” His eyes were full. “I have to get her down.” He stood up, swaying on his feet. Othin handed him his blade. The seer took it and began to stumble around the base of the gibbet as if lost. He swung his sword and struck the gibbet with a cry. Ravens lifted off the cage and found perches on the roofs and ledges. Arcmael tried to free his blade, but it was stuck. He tugged at it for a moment and then knelt, his breath heaving with anguish.

  With some effort, Othin freed the sword. Then he pulled his friend up with a firm hand. “Let me help you.” They moved aside the stones holding up the tree. As it toppled, the two men got underneath and lowered the cage to the ground. It hit the stone with a dull clink.

  The sounds of fighting had grown faint. In the windy silence, one of the draugr by the wall released a harrowing cry.

  “That’ll bring trouble,” Othin noted.

  Arcmael removed his cloak. Quickly, they did their grisly work and wrapped the seeress’s form in the woolen folds. His face set, Arcmael strode to the center of the circle. It was scattered with clear, sharp fragments. He knelt and reached toward a five-rayed pattern of clear quartz crystal set into the stone. It appeared as if someone had taken an axe to it.

  “Look,” the seer said. In the dusk light, deep beneath the center stone, a white light glowed.

  Othin’s hair lifted on his flesh. “What’s that?”

  Arcmael stood up. “It gathers the energy of the Fylking. They’re still here.” He backed away from the broken star as if it had cut him. Then he picked up his dead mentor and headed across the clearing.

  Just beyond the circle, he stopped. Othin started to speak and then closed his mouth as Arcmael spun around, muttering under his breath. He looked up at the sky and released a whistle.

  Othin saw nothing. “What is it?”

  “A golden eagle. Otherworld.” Looking a shade paler in the weird light, the warden set the body down. “It’s a messenger. Only someone with power could’ve sent it. I wonder how long it’s been here.” He held a hand to the sky and then lowered it. A chill touched Othin’s flesh as the warden’s face went still, as if he were asleep with his eyes open. His lips moved without a sound as he talked to the unseen.

  After some moments, Arcmael blinked and stepped back, shaking his head. “A Blackthorn witch sent this to the Mistress. The bird’s been here waiting.” Visibly distressed, he dropped his face in his hands and then rubbed his eyes with a groan. “The witch claims a Niflsekt warrior is in Ason Tae.”

  Othin absorbed that unsuccessfully. “There’ve been no Niflsekt since the Gate War.”

  “There is now, according to this.”

  “Could it be wrong?”

  Arcmael shrugged with an uncertain tilt to his head. “She swore on the Allfather. But—”

  “Perhaps Othin sent you here to discover this.”

  A wild realization flooded into the seer’s eyes. “There’s only one reason a Niflsekt would be here. Only one, and that’s to bring down the Gate.” He rubbed his arms as if chilled. “That’s it. He’s the one focusing the draugr through Vargn. He’s using him to his own ends.” He stood there a moment longer, and then his face turned a lighter shade. “Othin, the message also mentions a knitter.”

  “What do you mean—”

  “He knows about Millie.”

  A cold fist closed around Othin’s heart. Niflsekt. The hooded crow on his throat lay there, silent as dreams. This is old magic, Leofwine had said. Very old. Powerful enough to get the attention of the Fylking’s ancient enemy? The implications were unthinkable. “Arcmael,” he said, feeling weak. “Nestor mentioned a ‘dark rider,’ a rogue that led Halstaeg’s spies to Millie. Do you think…”

  Arcmael shook his head, leaving Othin to wonder if he meant no, the Niflsekt would not do such a thing; or, he didn’t know. He slowed his pace, as if suddenly disoriented. “By Hel, this is my fault.” He looked up and around, his blue eyes shining with tears. Then his breath caught. “They’re coming.” He picked up his dead mentor, his face pale and his shoulders slumped as if the corpse were very heavy.

  Othin whirled around, reaching for his sword. The low rumble of footsteps echoed across the circle where he and Arcmael had come in from the forest. Something metal clanged against stone. Drawn by the dismembered draugr’s cry, no doubt, a large company of ghouls, several score, flooded into the circle from the dra
in, cutting off any escape.

  “Run,” Arcmael said. Shouldering his burden, he fled toward an archway draped in shadows.

  Othin followed him, sword bared, his mind torn up like sod beneath a cacophony of hooves. Millie. Niflsekt. A dark rider. He looked over his shoulder. The gray, shimmering host swept after him, swords flashing, eyes empty as dead leaves. Othin entered the passage, wide and lit faintly from above through narrow windows mottled with moss. Some of them had been shattered. It smelled of smoke and mold. “How far to the gate?”

  “Too far.” His voice was deadpan.

  “Arcmael,” Othin said, catching up to him.

  “We’ll die, here.” The warden’s voice dripped remorse, like blood sliding from the knife of a murderer’s hand. He was blaming himself for more than Skadi on a gibbet, feeding ravens. He was blaming himself for everything.

  The draugr crowded into the passage, slamming swords on shields. Their steps crunched on broken glass. One of the ghouls grated something in Fjorginan. A cloud of death filled the passage. Glancing behind him at the advancing throng, Othin shouted Arcmael’s name. The warden ducked into a dark opening on one side of the passage. As Othin followed him, he slammed his foot on a step, causing him to stumble onto an ascending stairwell. Gripping his sword, he clambered up into the inky darkness.

  Grating steps, whispering blades and hollow breaths echoed in the passage below. A weird snarl, raspy and low, climbed up Othin’s spine as he turned around. In the sickly light of the opening, draugr gathered like a standing wave, howling in triumph.

  This was a trap, if Othin knew anything.

  Above, beyond the darkness of the stairwell, something cracked, like splitting wood. He heard Arcmael cry out, as if in anguish. “Arcmael!” Othin called, bounding up the steps. No answer. Faint light spilled down, revealing a landing and another flight of stairs.

  Draugr flooded up from below, filling the stairwell with their stench. A blade hit the step near Othin’s leg, taking a slice from his cloak. He spun around and kicked the ghoul in the chest, feeling bones crunch. Gritting his teeth against the rippling shock, he slashed his sword across the draugr’s torso, cutting deep. The creature collapsed onto the stairs with a harrowing scream.

  “Arcmael!” You fool. Bracing himself, Othin threw a punch with his sword guard into another draugr’s face as it climbed over the first one’s back. Half blinded, the creature swung out, clipping Othin in the shoulder and knocking him into the steps. The fiend kept coming, its face twisted with hate. Othin slammed his back against the wall and parried a ferocious cut. The blow caused him to drop his blade.

  A cry of rage filled the stairwell. Arcmael pounded down the stairs, his sword raised. He leapt past Othin like a cat, his face set and his eyes glittering with ice. Othin wondered what he did with Skadi’s corpse. The warden slashed down, catching the draugr’s next cut and deflecting the blade. More draugr crowded in behind it. The closest draugr’s head toppled from its shoulders and hit the steps with a dull thump. Arcmael made a growling sound and continued down.

  Othin grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

  Breathing heavily, the warden threw his hand off. A tear broke from his eye.

  “Arcmael,” Othin panted, holding his sword out to fend off the ghouls while hauling the warden up the steps. “I’ve lost loved ones, too. Muster your resolve. Your anger will get you killed.”

  The warden wiped his face and brought his blade up. “You sound like Wolf.”

  Side by side, they fought until they had blocked the passage opening below with bloodless body parts, quivering and moaning in eerie desolation. It would buy them a little time, but not much. “This way,” Arcmael said, running up the stairs. At the top was an empty room. The warden ran to the other side, where he leaned over an opening in a wall. The burned wood had been smashed out into empty space. The warden threw a leg through the opening, went through and dropped out of sight.

  Othin ran to the wall and looked down into a small courtyard. It was a long drop. Below, Arcmael disentangled himself from a pile of bodies left by a previous battle and began throwing aside swords. Mostly guardsmen, and some draugr, dismembered beyond recognition. On the edge of the pile lay Skadi’s corpse, splayed amid the carnage. A slender hand covered in blood had fallen from the folds of the cloak. Othin realized that Arcmael must have dropped her body through the opening because he hadn’t had time to do anything dignified.

  Starting at the sound of draugr coming up the stairs, Othin got through the hole, relaxed his limbs and let himself fall, rolling as he hit the ghastly, stiffening pile.

  “Hurry,” Arcmael said. Without expression, he gathered up Skadi’s body and ran across the courtyard.

  They moved through a maze of halls and stairwells, now dark and haunted by the dead. Arcmael turned this way and that, using his knowledge of the conservatory to elude their pursuers. At last he slowed, and then stopped and slipped into a narrow passage that felt like an alley in Merhafr’s lower city. Othin followed him, his nerves taut. The cloying stench of Skadi’s body filled the closed space. Arcmael continued until he reached a wall. He knelt, moved his hands over the ground and then pulled at something, opening it. The musty, damp smell of underground flowed up from the depths.

  Othin knelt and peered into the dark. It felt like a tomb in the witches’ cemetery around the Rat Hole. He made a sound in his throat. “This can’t be a good idea.”

  “It leads out,” Arcmael said. “I doubt the draugr know about it. Few in Faersc did. I got lost once and found it by accident. It’s not that far down. I’ll go first. Hand me down the body and pull the hatch behind you.”

  Once they reached the bottom, Arcmael rustled a torch from his pack and lit it. Othin squinted as the light blared into his eyes. He grasped his companion’s arm and knelt to take up Skadi’s body. It weighed no more than a child. “Let me carry her a while.” Arcmael hesitated, and then nodded, his eyes soft with gratitude. They started to walk. Water dripped around them. Othin’s nerves raised in pitch as he listened for sounds of trouble. But only silence surrounded them.

  Cold, fresh air flowed into their faces as they reached the end. Arcmael doused the torch, and Othin followed him into the gray evening. They walked for perhaps an hour. Arcmael spoke of the Mistress of Faersc, her wisdom and ferocity, the way she gazed into the Otherworld through her one strange eye, and her boundless stamina in the wilds. He spoke of the way she loved her wardens, like a mother protecting and guiding them with a stern word and the voice of experience.

  At last, Arcmael stopped. Sniffing the air like an animal, he moved around a large formation of boulders covered with ferns and saplings and slid down into a hollow. He kicked around in the snow until the frozen vegetation sprang up. Othin gently placed the body down.

  “Skadi taught me everything I know,” Arcmael said, “including not to do what I have done. She should be buried in the tombs beneath Faersc and honored by the Fylking. But I’ll not have her further desecrated.”

  He drew a long knife and plunged it into the earth.

  Without a word, Othin helped him. As they dug a hole, he thought of Kidge, Stony, Ageton, ravens, bats and horses. He thought of Millie’s overgrown garden and all the silly names she called her cat. Arcmael placed his mentor’s body in the ground and covered her with soil and stones. Then he grew still. Softly, he asked the Allfather to see the Mistress’s spirit safely through the Otherworld. Then he said farewell.

  Dusk cloaked the forest. As they continued west, Othin asked a question that had shadowed his friend since Othin found him half dead in the snow on the side of the road. “How did you break your bond with the Fylking?”

  At first he received no answer but the seer’s usual silence. Arcmael plodded along, his tousled hair in his face, one hand grasping the sword strap on his chest. Then he began to speak.

  It began with a story about a dog. He talked about solitude, his first encounter with Vargn and the bargain he made with a Fylking named
Wolf in Tower Sol. He talked about his training. How the dog became part of the Otherworld. He talked of Skadi and how she had warned him against making such bargains. Then he explained why she was right. By the time he got to the part about finding his only mortal friend dead at Wolf’s feet, Othin understood not only the trials of being a Warden of Dyrregin but also the reason why the seer had cast a sigil that broke his lifelong vow. Othin knew what it was like to lose faith in one’s calling.

  He had once looked to the rangers’ brotherhood with such faith. As if honor and duty to the realm were enough to shield him from the swords of treachery. Honor was a fragile thing in the face of love and ambition. It had betrayed him in the end.

  Though Othin intimately understood Arcmael’s disillusionment, something bothered him. “I find it hard to believe Wolf would defy his lords and give Dog life, train you and then kill the dog.”

  “It’s possible that he didn’t kill him, but that Dog just died, burned by light because what we did was wrong. But the way he said it…” He paused, shaking his head. “Wolf would’ve known if there was such a price to pay. He’s a warrior as old as the stars. Training me obviously included teaching me strength by breaking me from my attachments.”

  Othin snorted. “That sounds like your father. I fell in love with Millie. He saw it on me like a pox and was afraid. I’m not as old as the stars, but I know weakness when I see it. So did Diderik. He hated your father from the day he sent you away. Your heart made you strong, not weak. The Exile sigil is probably the only reason Vargn never found you.”

  “My heart”—he snorted with disgust—“is the reason Skadi is dead. Instead of abandoning my duty, I should’ve warned the people of Faersc, or sent word to the king for help. They could’ve escaped.” He stomped over the snow, his jaw set.