The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  The city awoke to a heavy dawn as they rode through the streets, hugging the river’s course. Arcmael told his new friends how he and Othin had met and what he now knew. They had learned some information from Diderik, but not much. To protect them, the captain wouldn’t have told them everything. They asked a lot of questions.

  They left their horses in a stable with a leaky roof and a big guard dog. Prederi claimed to have known the groom since childhood. Wind drove cold rain from the sea as they continued on foot. Arcmael was not sure where they were until they came to a narrow way curiously devoid of people. A post in the street stood across from a graveyard with a dark history.

  “They put him in the Rat Hole?” he gasped. As a boy he had come here once on a dare by the kitchen lads. They were not his friends, but they were all he had, cruel as they were. He never forgot the place.

  “Halstaeg didn’t want word of this causing panic in the populace,” Heige said.

  Arcmael coughed up a laugh. “Horseshit. Halstaeg doesn’t believe in anything he can’t cut down with a blade. It’s questions he doesn’t want.”

  The rangers exchanged glances. Prederi grinned. Heige said, “I’ll keep watch.”

  The graveyard was still, cursed by the bones of its occupants. In the center, amid a copse of old blackthorn trees, stood a tomb. Something pale fled over the entrance as Arcmael and Prederi stepped up to it. The empty eyes in the carving of Hel moved. Arcmael had not been troubled by the Otherworld since breaking the Exile sigil, and he wondered why Others would be here. He couldn’t tell if they were greeting him or warning him.

  Prederi told the gaoler, a burly, dim-witted man with the belly and jowls of a drunk, some official-sounding lie the man was not inclined to examine. He wouldn’t give them the keys, however. As Prederi drew himself up for a fight, Arcmael placed a hand on his arm with a Don’t worry glance, grabbed a torch from a sconce and descended the steps into the passage.

  “Doan know why you’d want to talk to ‘im!” the gaoler called after them. “He’s shit mad!”

  Ignoring the brute, Prederi said, “I could kill Halstaeg for this.”

  “You’ll want to get in line.”

  Bren’s cell was a dirt hole with an iron grate on it. As they reached it, Arcmael’s gut dropped out from under him. It looked like the Veil had been cut open with a scythe. A river of shades, light, faces, limbs and whispers swirled in the space and the passage beyond. Against the far wall, a man with dull red, tangled hair sat with his head in his hands and his fingers dug into his scalp.

  “Bren?” Prederi said, wrapping his large hands around the bars. “Talk to me.”

  The ranger shrank into himself as if the torchlight hurt him. He released a breath like a sob.

  “Wolf,” Arcmael called aloud.

  Prederi looked at him. “What?”

  “Stand back.” Wolf appeared by his side, shining in his silvery armor. Clear out, the Fylking said, waving a hand. The Others fled, leaving the cell as clear as a sunlit sky. Wolf hit the grate with the butt of his hand. Light shot out from the lock, opening it.

  “How did you do that?” Prederi said.

  “I didn’t.” He opened the door. “Give me a moment.”

  Bren grew still as he realized he was alone in the cell. He looked up slowly. His face was gaunt, his eyes red and hollow and his ranger’s habit hung on him. The ranger scrambled up and leaned against the wall with his arms wrapped over his belly.

  Arcmael stepped into the cell. “Do not fear. I am Arcmael. I’m a warden.” He gestured to Wolf, who leaned casually against the adjoining wall. “Do you see him?”

  Bren nodded quickly. Tears pooled in his eyes.

  Prederi leaned into the door and looked at the empty wall. “See what?”

  “Fylking,” Arcmael said over his shoulder. “Your friend has second sight.”

  Prederi entered the cell, put his arm around Bren and helped him to the door. “What was Othin always telling you, ay? Fey as a cat.”

  The gaoler came remarkably alive when the men emerged. “How’d ye get ‘im out of there?” he demanded. “My orders—”

  “Fuck your orders,” Arcmael growled. He drew his sword with a snap, spun his wrist and slammed the guard into the man’s face. The gaoler stumbled back into a chair, the tip of the warden’s blade at his throat.

  The gaoler lifted his hands slowly, his gaze shifting between Arcmael and Prederi. Blood seeped from his nose. “Lord Halstaeg’ll hear o’ this.”

  “Good,” Arcmael returned, sheathing his blade.

  When they reached the street, Heige threw his arms around Bren with a gasp. “How’d you lads manage it?” he asked.

  Prederi wheezed a laugh. “Our warden here worked some magic on the lock and threatened to gut old Harner like a fish.”

  Heige slung his arm over Bren’s shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed,” he said. “And out of sight.”

  The men hugged the edge of the street, staying in the shadows. The rain had not let up. Prederi removed his cloak and put it around Bren. “You look better already.”

  Bren pulled the cloak around his body and touched Arcmael with a gaze that rippled down his spine. “Tower Sor. There’s something there. Old death. It made the tower dark, like dirty water.” His pale skin looked spectral in the dim light, but his eyes were clear. He was not babbling. He saw something.

  We know nothing of this, Wolf said.

  To Bren, Arcmael said, “Will you come and show me?”

  The ranger looked up like a stag at the sound of snapping twig. “No time. They’re coming.”

  Prederi stopped and looked at him. “Who?”

  Somewhere nearby, horses clattered on a street. A shout rang out.

  “Harner couldn’t have put the word out that fast,” Heige said.

  “Halstaeg probably had us trailed.” Prederi jerked his head toward an adjacent passage. “This way.”

  They filed into the narrow alley. It smelled like urine. “Bren,” Arcmael pressed as they hurried along. “You said ‘old death.’ What do you mean?”

  “The fall of Tower Sor.”

  Arcmael searched the ground, his thoughts in a whirl. Every warden knew about Tower Sor, the heavy feeling in the light. According to Wolf, the Fylking never discovered what had happened to Edros, the warden who disappeared from Tower Sor eighteen suns ago, why the High Fylking of Sor left the tower, or what had caused the drop in the tower’s vibration. “Bren,” Arcmael said as he began to sense the shape of this. “What happened?”

  “The High Fylking were murdered.”

  Wolf snorted in disbelief. Arcmael blurted, “That’s not possible. No one could—”

  “He could.”

  Arcmael slowed his pace and stared. “What are you talking about?”

  “Niflsekt. He wears the dragon. He tricked Edros’s Guardians and killed the High Fylking before he came. He had no protection. His bones darken the crystal.”

  The end of the passage was barred. “Och!” Prederi growled. Men called out in the street outside. Prederi pulled himself up, threw a leg over the top of the ironwork and landed on the other side. Arcmael followed; Heige helped Bren and came after. Then they ran, heading for a stone wall that edged the river.

  His bones darken the crystal. Arcmael recalled the night he brought Dog, near death, into Tower Sol. He had placed the beast on the crystal, gathered light and incurred the wrath of the High Fylking. By focusing the energy of this tower into mortal flesh you have lowered its vibration and compromised the Gate, one of them said.

  Heige shouted a command to take cover. An arrow sailed overhead and struck the ground. A company of men in blue and black came into view, their steeds tearing the earth. Ahead of his loyal rangers rode a vengeful, humorless man Arcmael had once hoped never to lay eyes on again.

  His bones darken the crystal. Arcmael slammed his back against the river wall as the rangers surrounded him and his companions. Edros. After the Niflsekt had murdered the Fylki
ng, Vargn must have killed Edros and buried him in the tower to lower the pitch. The Niflsekt, with the patience of the immortal, must have been lurking on this world all this time, training Vargn how to invoke the draugr so he could kill the remaining wardens and drop the towers beneath the Fylking’s sight or power to intervene. He would only get away with murdering them once.

  Wolf departed with this new knowledge, leaving Arcmael against the wall as the high constable of the King’s Rangers rode before him, gazing down in disbelief, sword firmly in hand.

  The High Fylking of Tower Sif

  Melisande crept through the kitchen in Damjan’s house, taking great care not to knock a pan or a spoon in the dark. The cook would sleep for a time yet, before coming down for the day. Melisande grabbed a loaf of bread, an apple tart and a large scrap of pork roast and put them in her pack. Then she went into the back and unlatched the door the staff used to toss slop into the river. They were supposed to give the scraps to Meara’s pigs. But that was a walk, and the kitchen lad was lazy.

  She slipped through and closed the door behind her. Snow flurries swirled in the air. She pulled her pack around and pressed her back into the wall of the house. Light from the forge shone through a cracked window and cast rippling orange reflections on the water. Vinso, working late, hammered on something. Below, the North River rushed along, cold, swift and deep. Melisande inched along the narrow edge, grasping at the stones behind her. If she fell in, not even the crow warrior would be able to help her.

  Olja, Damjan’s wife, thwarted Melisande’s first attempt to escape. Tall, lean and knowledgeable about healing, the woman was as hard and edgy as one of her husband’s swords. While Melisande did appreciate Olja’s attention to the wounds the ghoul had put on her, she had little use for being ordered around. All of Odr knew Olja as a consummate organizer. She kept her house like a war camp, and Melisande provided her with a challenge.

  Melisande reached the edge of the house and stepped onto a landing. Staying low in case anyone happened to be watching the alley, she descended the slippery steps to a pair of boats tied to stone posts on the water’s edge. When someone stirred beneath the steps, she realized she had underestimated Damjan and the vigilance of war.

  “Milady,” a man said from the shadows. “I’m afraid not.”

  His name was Skirne, the soldier who had brought her here from the bridge the day the ghoul attacked her. A steadfast man. Briefly, she imagined throwing herself into a boat, slashing the rope and letting the river take her. But Skirne would be ready for that. She let out her breath and trudged back up the stairs.

  The soldier followed her. “I won’t tell Master Damjan I found you down here if you promise not to try it again.”

  She reached the top of the steps and turned around. “You don’t understand. I can’t stay here. I need some air.”

  He took her arm and guided her down the alley. “I’m sure Master Damjan wouldn’t object to your going out tomorrow, as long as I come along. Would that please you?”

  “All right,” she agreed, her mind already spinning a plan.

  The next morning, Melisande gazed out her window at Tower Sif, looming in the distance, gray and sullen as a bad mood. She had eaten and wore her warmest cloak. In the house, smiths forged weapons, cooks made food for soldiers, and servants rushed around keeping order. Olja had gone to Meara’s for tea. When Skirne knocked on the door, Melisande opened it with a smile.

  It was a dreary day, cold but not bitter, light snow mixing with rain. Heads turned as Melisande walked down the street with Skirne at her side. They would talk about it incessantly in their pubs and kitchens, the knitter’s new love interest who had rescued her from the warlock’s demons. Melisande had no use for that nonsense. The first night she spent in Damjan’s house, she spotted Skirne in the hall pressed into a rhythmic embrace with another soldier.

  “I would like to see my friend Bythe,” she said as they walked along the river, nearing the bridge. Bythe was usually with his wife in the market this time of day. But Skirne didn’t know that. “I miss the goats.”

  He nodded. “Very well.”

  Melisande shrugged her pack higher on her shoulder, her stomach churning with anxiety. Her plan had as many holes as a badly knit throw, but she had to try something. Busy in the hills fighting the warlock’s ghouls, Lieutenant Haldor’s men had not brought her things from the cot as Damjan promised. At Melisande’s teary request, Anselm went and returned with Pisskin. But Olja wouldn’t suffer a cat in her house. After a row in which Melisande called the woman a hag-faced harpy, Pisskin fled out the kitchen door and into the street. Melisande had not seen him since.

  Skirne talked of this and that, and Melisande returned his conversation, but her mind was elsewhere. Bythe’s house came into view through the trees. He had let the goats outside; their bleating floated on the wind. Several crows flew overhead, heading north. As she approached the house, Melisande skirted along the fence to the back.

  “Shall I tell him we’re here?” Skirne inquired, pausing near the front.

  “Aye, do.”

  As she moved around the house, the soldier thought better of leaving her alone and followed her.

  Wind whispered in the trees and rattled the frozen grasses on the plain beyond. The gatetower stood in the distance like a dream, both close and far. Goats trotted to the fence, their strange eyes peering. Snow blew in careless sheets and settled on rocks, trees and fenceposts. Melisande moved into the trees that bordered the yard and the plain beyond.

  “Millie?” Skirne called behind her.

  “I want to see the tower,” she said over her shoulder. Her boots crunched in the snow lying in patches on the sodden ground. The sky hung down and the air smelled strange. Melisande leaned down, picked up a branch and cradled it in her arms.

  Skirne came to her side. “It’ll storm tonight.”

  A red blackberry stalk lay on the ground. She took her knife and cut it, taking care not to catch a thorn as she added it to her stick. “It’s been warmer than usual.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Gathering.” A heavy spray of withered goldenrod lay in her path. She broke it off and kept the top.

  “I heard a report this morning that the king’s ranger left Ason Tae.”

  “Days ago.” She pushed at a scraggly ragweed stalk with her toe and kept going. Despite her hardboiled resolve, Melisande knew exactly where the ranger was. Since Othin left her, her heart had missed a beat each time she saw a blue cloak in some distance, thinking her love might have returned to her at last. But her heart had scurried back into its hole like a rat on the day a familiar blond-haired, dark-eyed ranger rode into the village. His strong bearing had not changed since he came to her cottage nearly a moon past and delivered news of Othin’s turn of heart. He had patrolled Ason Tae without leave ever since, fighting ghouls and leaving snags in her mind.

  The wind quickened on the plain as she and Skirne neared the tower. Over the surrounding area, mounted guardsmen rode slowly, keeping watch. More patrolled the woods and paths. Skirne lifted a hand in greeting as they passed one of the riders. Her arms laden with brush, Melisande circled to the east as if to avoid the invisible boundary Lieutenant Haldor had arbitrarily defined to protect his men. She turned to her companion. He had taken a protective position between her and the tower.

  “Do you have a lover?” she asked, knowing he did.

  He turned his head without looking at her. “No.”

  She smiled. One lie for another. “Do you want one?”

  He looked at her then, his expression scattered by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Melisande wandered behind him, picked up another branch and got on the tower side. “Nothing. Just that I like you and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  He breathed a laugh. “Hurt by what?”

  “By the High Fylking of Tower Sif.” She heaved her pile of sticks and stalks into his face and ran.

  “Millie!” his voice cracked out
behind her.

  She bounded over the rocks toward the tower without looking back. She climbed the tor on all fours, her breath heaving and her cheeks flushed hot. As she reached the narrow stone stair, she stopped and turned around.

  Beyond the bottom of the steps, the guardsmen had moved together and now trotted in agitation along the short ridge of rocks that marked the boundary of the Fylking’s domain. They shouted at her to return. Another rode at full tilt in the direction of the village. Skirne stalked back and forth between them, his face set and his fists clenched.

  One soldier, perhaps believing the rumor that the Fylking were no longer here, shook his reins and pressed his steed up the embankment. The beast stopped, shook its head with a whinny and then reared up as if it had encountered a shield wall. The rider fell to the ground.

  Millie walked up the steps to the tower door, dark, heavy and clad with iron. Below, the men called at her with threatening voices to stop, to return. One of them dismounted, drew his sword and advanced. A chill crackled over Melisande’s scalp as weird light shimmered in the air. The soldier’s sword flew from his grip as something lifted him from his feet and hurled him, tumbling, over the ground. His comrades ran to him. He rolled over and sat up, holding his head.

  Melisande released a breath of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered. She wished no harm on these men, even if they were annoying sometimes. She opened the door and went inside.

  The silence of stone and time surrounded her. Wind whispered eerily thorough the narrow openings in the high curved walls. Melisande walked out onto the floor, her heart swelling with excitement. In the vault above, a pattern of crystals glinted dully, as if asleep. A catwalk spiraled to the top. Another crystal, round and smooth, lay in the center of the floor, directly beneath the ceiling stones. She stepped up to the shining disc and knelt, reaching out. Her heart started to pound as a chill raced over her flesh, followed by an intense desire to get away from the crystal. She stood up and backed off.