She jumped as someone outside boomed her name into the sky. Damjan. A hard man to ignore. With a deep breath, Melisande returned to the door. Wind whipped at her as she stepped outside.
A company of guardsmen sat on their mounts beyond the rocks. Damjan had dismounted and stood, his face as hard as a hammer. Lieutenant Haldor strode to his side, his manner only slightly less threatening.
Melisande sat down on the top step. “I’m not going back,” she called down.
Haldor leaned toward Damjan and said something. The swordsmith shook his head, and looked up. “Millie, come down from there. We’ll talk.”
“You’ll try to trap me.”
“You’ll have to come down eventually,” Haldor said.
Melisande got up and went back inside, slamming the heavy door behind her. Ass. If she left the High Fylking’s protection, these men would slap her under lock and key like an ornery goat. She would never feel the wind again. She pulled around her pack, which still contained the food she had taken from the kitchen. She sat down against the wall and pulled out the apple tart. It was half-smashed. She bit into it.
“I wish I could see you,” she said with her mouth full. She didn’t know if the High Fylking heard her, but she knew they were here. Recently, she had dreamed of beautiful warriors with fiery eyes, voices like flowing rivers and armor made of stars. She could never recall what they said. She set aside her tart and pulled out the roast. She pulled the linen away, used her knife to carve off a piece, and took a bite. Pulling her cloak around her, she shivered on the stone. Hard-assed Haldor did have a point. It was cold as a grave in here.
Above, a bird rustled into one of the narrow openings. It cawed loudly. Grinning, Melisande held out her hand. A hooded crow hopped from the edge and floated down on wavering black wings. It landed by her feet. “Hail,” she said. “You must smell food.” She chopped several pieces of pork from her meal and scattered them onto the floor. The crow took them in its beak and gulped them down.
Melisande listened, noting it had grown quiet outside. She leaned forward and gave the crow another treat. If she waited long enough, she might be able to sneak out and get to the warden’s cot. There, she could build a fire. Sleep in her own bed. Her heart sank as the truth crowded out her visions. Damjan and Haldor would post a watch on the tower door and would certainly have the cot surrounded. She was trapped here.
Outside, the smith yelled her name again. The crow flew up, perched in one of the openings, and disappeared. Thus abandoned, Melisande put her food away, grabbed her pack and went back outside. Only Damjan stood there, holding his horse’s reins and looking somewhat more amenable. “Millie, I’m sorry,” he said. “On my word, I won’t make you do anything. Just come down. Please.”
“I want to return to the warden’s cot,” she said.
He nodded. “All right. You can stay there.”
She hesitated, studying the swordsmith’s resolve. “Swear on the Allfather.”
Damjan hesitated a moment, as if startled by her request. Then he drew his sword, stepped forward and laid it on the ground like an offering. “By the Allfather, I swear you may live in the warden’s cot.” He looked up.
Satisfied that he wouldn’t likely break such a vow as that, Melisande went down. Damjan sheathed his sword and put his arms around her, holding her tightly. He smelled like the forge.
Melisande withdrew from his embrace with a quick smile and walked down the rocks. He accompanied her as she skirted around the tower to the east. He said, “Millie, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to drive you to this. When it comes to raising sons, Olja’s a champion. But dealing with another woman, one such as yourself—”
“She treats me like one of the horses.”
Leaving that alone, he said, “I could chide you for foolishness. But I’d rather know how it is the Fylking allowed you up there.”
“I don’t know.”
He seemed to consider that. “The one you told me about, the crow who closed the Veil at Yarrow’s and protected you from the warlock. Is he Fylking?”
“I don’t think so. He shows himself sometimes. They don’t.”
“The Niflsekt did.”
“The crow isn’t Niflsekt.” She knew that now. Somehow.
Damjan released a heavy breath. “Lieutenant Haldor wants to keep his men on watch around the cot. No one will bother you. Will you allow this?”
Melisande nodded, walking on until she reached the pile of brush she had thrown at Skirne. She began to gather it up. “I have some work to do out here.”
“Very well.” He stopped and placed his hand on the side of her face, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll worry less for you now. But be careful.” He looked as if he would tell her not to go into the tower again, but he knew she would. He swung the reins over his horse’s neck and mounted. As he rode out, he gestured to one of the watchers on the way by.
Melisande gazed up at the tower, and then the sky. Fine mist dampened the earth. She took her sticks and walked closer to the tower, just east, where the plain leveled out along the base. There, she placed her bundle down.
Pattern a beast as the crow sees.
Without thought, she laid down a stick. Her hands began to tingle as she picked up another, and laid it near the first. Then she began to hum.
When the Gods Turn Away
The Wolftooth Pass wound through a cleft in Thorgrim’s peaks like a thread hemmed in by steep crags, scree slopes and drops that appeared from nowhere. In early winter, seasoned trackers kept it packed enough for travel, though they couldn’t command the high, fickle winds or freak storms known to have swept more than one unfortunate traveler into the mountains’ waiting arms. In midwinter, the pass was usually closed to all but birds, mountain goats or wolves, prompting the King’s Rangers to send ravens south with instructions to patrol the Vale using the Spruce Road north of the Blanch River.
Othin crouched in the wind-gnarled trees a half-league south of the pass, gazing down at the North Mountain Road through a gap in the rocks. The sun set hard in the mountains, bringing night into hollows long before the light faded from the sky. While not as cold as it could have been, the air had teeth.
Captain Edon’s guardsmen prowled the woods on either side of the road, hunting for draugr. Just south, they had set up a blockade. In the Bear’s End, Edon prepared to deploy the North Companies to deal with the Fjorginan force advancing over the foothills west of Vota. The Fjorginans would attempt to take control of the North Mountain Road, to prevent the Dyrregin Guard from creating a stronghold in the mountains. Edon had sent for reinforcements from the south, but the Dyrregin Guard was spread out over the coast and around Merhafr to protect it from being surrounded. The North Companies would be on their own. According to scouts, they would be outnumbered four to one.
To the north, Edon had other problems. He had received only sketchy reports of how many draugr occupied Ason Tae. Vargn had left the greater part of his force just south of the pass, in a high area riddled with hiding places and impossible to negotiate without taking an arrow. Two days after Othin had parted with Arcmael and continued north with Edon’s men, the draugr flooded down from the pass on some invisible cue and plowed through the company. Like the draugr Othin had fought in Faersc, the ghouls Vargn brought up here were stronger, quicker and well adapted to their ghostly forms; whether they had lost hope over time or had been hardened by hatred and depravity to begin with, they feared nothing. Their attacks were decisive, and they fought with unearthly fury, like beasts seeking to escape a burning barn. They killed to get through and nothing more, leaving Edon and his men gazing north wondering what the fiends were running from. Not guardsmen. The draugr killed half of Edon’s men and forced the rest to flee into the woods for shelter. Bent on vengeance, the guardsmen still patrolled the area looking for stragglers to carve into pieces.
The next report came from a scout who had slipped through the pass in the breach left by the earlier force. He told them that the la
st of the draugr had been driven from the Vale and now moved south. Vargn was thought to be with them. Lieutenant Haldor, who commanded the Guard’s forces in the Vale, sent a company after them. The scout said they were far behind, and that the warlock had the gods on his side, for he had slipped every net. To Othin’s mind, he would need the gods, Niflsekt or some Blackthorn trickery to risk coming over the pass with Haldor at his back and Edon waiting for him in front.
Concerned that Vargn would attempt to flee the Vale in another direction, Lieutenant Haldor had posted his men on every path in or out of the Vale where a man might find shelter. No one could survive in the wilds up there in winter. Whatever else he was, or what manner of being helped him, Vargn was still a man and had to survive as other men. Arcmael believed Vargn would do everything in his power to get back to Faersc where he would be able to dig in. According to the warden, the conservatory stood on a large network of underground chambers and escape routes into the mountains.
Othin had made it his primary goal to make sure the warlock never got there.
Bereft of reinforcements from the south, Edon planned that when the draugr were cleared from the Vale that Lieutenant Haldor’s forces would come south to join with his against the Fjorginans. This strategy was short lived. The Fjorginans also knew routes into Ason Tae from the west, had made landfall on the northern coast of the Wythe Strait and moved swiftly inland across the mountains. To deal with them, Haldor would be sending the bulk of his forces west, not south.
Something crunched in the brush behind him. Hand on his knife, Othin turned slowly, ready to move. He relaxed as the shadows parted to deeper shades of blue and black.
“I almost gutted you,” he said as a ranger named Ulfhidin crept to his side. A man of few words, Ulfhidin had recently joined Edon’s company on the heels of the draugr’s first attack. Othin didn’t know the ranger well. Fairly new to the brotherhood, he had seasoned experience in wars overseas. He didn’t let on that he knew anything about Othin’s questionable history with Halstaeg; oddly, he ignored his being out of habit and treated him as a fellow ranger.
“The road is clear to the pass but not beyond,” Ulfhidin said. “There are tracks over the rocks and off the path.”
Othin peered down at the road, pale and blurred in the fading light. “Only a draugr would go off the road up here, especially at night.”
“They might mean to circle around and make for Faersc, like the others.”
“That wouldn’t be easy. There are no paths to Faersc from here. They’ll have to use the road. Did they have horses?”
“Aye. Either they’re looking to get off the road for the night, or the tracks are from a scout.”
Othin nodded. Edon had his men set up small camps over the area, to confuse scouts and prevent the draugr attacking them all at once. “If Vargn is with them, they’ll have to camp.”
“There’s a good chance he is. He travels with a smaller group, few enough to hide.”
“He doesn’t need them for protection, having a Niflsekt on hand.”
A grim smile. “From what I’ve seen and heard, Vargn’s not acting like a man with an immortal’s protection.” Ulfhidin rose and moved into the trees. “Though he has plenty of tricks on his own. I believe the draugr will remain south of the pass for the night. Haldor’s men are still a day south and our men won’t risk going up there in the dark.”
Othin got up and followed him. Based on Ulfhidin’s observations, it sounded like Arcmael had been right about the Niflsekt leaving through the Gate. “Good. I haven’t slept in two days.”
Night descended as the rangers settled by a fire on the edge of an overhang formed by the roots of a fallen tree, grateful for the shelter from the incessant north wind. Their horses stood quietly in the shadows, near an evergreen lean-to they had built against the rooty ground. Othin bit into a piece of jerked venison. Earlier he felt the presence of the phooka, but it had not stayed long. Before departing for the coast, Leofwine had told him the shade was no longer in his service, but that it might hang around his horse, Arvakr, for whatever reason. The idea had amused him.
Ulfhidin sat with his knees propped up, gazing into the flames with a weight on his brow. The light reflected in the pale strands of his hair and the stubble on his chin. The ranger had said little since their return. They all had dark things on their minds.
Ulfhidin stirred and reached into his pack, bringing forth a small skin with a woven leather sleeve. He pulled out the stopper and drank, and then sniffed and nodded. “Whisky.” He handed it over the fire.
“Oh ho,” Othin purred. “Where’d you get that?”
“There’s a trapper in the Vale, lives up in Toscaard. Right odd fellow. He has a still. I’ve been saving it.”
Othin hesitated, skin tilted to his lips. “For what?”
“For what I’m about to tell you.” The ranger’s dark gaze settled on him like frost.
Othin took a long draught. The whisky flowed into his throat, cool and hot, wood, grain and smoke relaxing his mind. The pleasurable sensation stood in violent contrast to the knot in his gut. He passed the skin back. “What do you have to tell me?”
Ulfhidin took another drink. He let the skin drop and rubbed his forehead with his other hand. “I was assigned to the East Branch, Cyrilian Range south of the Lorn River,” he began, his voice steady. “I returned to Merhafr around the Hunter’s Moon. I’d been away for many weeks and was looking forward to a rest. A day after I reported in, Lord Halstaeg reassigned me to the North Branch, Thorgrim patrol. He sent me out that day for Ason Tae. With a message.”
Othin tilted his head back. “Don’t tell me…”
“I told your woman you’d taken a wife.” He handed over the skin.
Othin took it, swallowing hard. For a moment, his mind was blank. Then he realized Halstaeg had sent Ulfhidin with that message before Othin ever arrived in Merhafr from the coastal patrol. He must have found out about Millie from Damjan and thought to add one more crack, one final blow to her heart’s shrine after being raped by two men she thought she could trust. At that moment, Othin realized that the high constable of the King’s Rangers was more than just an inconvenient rotten apple.
He was an enemy.
Ulfhidin continued, “I have a wife. She lives in Grayfen, where I was born. One day a man came to our door, a fisherman from a nearby village. He told her that her little brother had been swept into the sea by a rogue wave and was lost in an instant. The look on her face, the way she stood there—I knew the look, Othin, and it was the same face your Melisande had when I told her this. It haunts my dreams.”
Othin set the whisky down. She must love you, Magreda had said. Why had he not taken that seriously? “Did Millie say anything?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“No. She didn’t need to.” He looked up. “That was the first time I’ve ever questioned my loyalty to the brotherhood. I still had my patrol to do. But I left. I rode south thinking to hole up in the Bear’s End and recover my honor. But things didn’t go that way; I never made it out of the Vale. A rider from the Skaut ranger station found me on the road with a message from Captain Ageton.”
Othin picked up a stick and poked at the fire. Most rangers would have received a message from a raven, but Ulfhidin wouldn’t have had time to do recognition training with the North Branch birds. Instead of risking sending a raven to the wrong man, Ageton must have sent a bird to the Skaut riders with instructions to track Ulfhidin down. “Halstaeg didn’t tell him, did he.”
Ulfhidin shook his head, his expression hard. “No. Ageton demanded to know why I went to Ason Tae without his knowledge. By my sword, it never occurred to me Lord Halstaeg wouldn’t tell him.”
“He should have. What did you do?”
“I returned a message on the wing and told Ageton exactly what happened.”
“Did you tell him what you told Millie?”
“By Hel, I did.”
Othin made a sound in his throat and dragged a hand
through his hair. “You’re a courageous man. Remind me never to dishonor you.” He clenched his jaw as he imagined Millie up there in those woods thinking he had left the Thorgrim patrol without telling her and then married as if she were nothing to him at all. “I spoke to Ageton briefly on the day I left the city. He was killed before we could meet.”
Ulfhidin sat in respectful silence for a moment, his head bowed. “I never learned how Ageton found out I was in the north, if Halstaeg never told him. I never spoke to anyone about it.”
Othin gazed into the fire. Leofwine. Halstaeg’s second worst tactical error next to interfering with Millie.
“I never met Captain Ageton,” Ulfhidin continued. “I was trapped in Skaut when a terrible storm hit the Vale. By the time I was able to set out, a raven arrived to the station with news of war. Everyone there was ordered to stay in the Vale. So I did. Two messengers were there at the time, riders. Rangers were sending messages to Skaut with all manner of news; I think they believed you were up there, or would be. I confess to doubting much of what I heard. I will tell you, no one believed you killed Ageton. By then, I didn’t believe it either, and I’d never met you.”
“So you joined up with Captain Edon knowing who I was.”
“Aye. He told me the truth of it.”
Othin looked down at his hands. “Did you get news that the wedding didn’t happen?”
Ulfhidin nodded. “In Skaut. The riders got a laugh out of that, but all I could think about was Melisande. When the storm cleared, I went to Odr to tell her. She was gone and her cottage gutted by fire.”
The blood drained from Othin’s face. “What?”
“She was unharmed. It took me some time to find out what happened. No one would talk to me about it. The whole village was clammed up. Eventually I learned she went to Highloc to live with a friend. Not long after, I heard she was back in Odr, but I didn’t know where.” He breathed deeply, his breath clouding the cold air. “I didn’t come down here to hunt draugr or join Edon’s company. When I got word that you were seen on the North Mountain Road, I came down to find you.”
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 33
