The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  Othin returned the whisky. “You are true to the brotherhood, Ulfhidin. So are most of us. Don’t let Halstaeg taint your trust.”

  “We keep the balance when the gods turn away,” Ulfhidin said quietly.

  “Just so,” Othin agreed. Gods and fools.

  ~ * ~

  Sleep came uneasily. War, corruption and ignorance jammed the river, running it over the banks. Storms blew from the Otherworld, wolves howled, houses burned and women fled before the blades of gods. Every sound heralded the arrival of fiends. Chills moved up and down Othin’s body with an unnatural grip, impervious to the rock and flow of whisky in his blood.

  She must love you.

  The crow wriggled away from his heart and flapped away into the night. Flames leapt up from the horizon, deep orange red, white teeth flashing, blinding him as the beast consumed the stitches with a roar.

  That charm is connected to everything.

  Silvery, glistening like stars on the black, warriors in fine armor, seasoned by eons, rode their steeds over the groaning plain. They held their ancient blades aloft and cried for vengeance on their enemy. A dragon crouched in the forest, black, silent and waiting, a dark moon in its eyes.

  Gazing down as a crow, he saw a horrific beast with burning eyes, damp, chained and snarling on the ground.

  For my Trickster, Millie said, her hair shining in the sun.

  Othin turned over, shivering with cold. The forest spread out around him, roots knit into the ground, boughs blowing in the clouds. Thin gray mist threaded through trunks and over rocks, sniffing, searching. As the mist passed, creatures rolled over in their dens. Horses stomped their hooves. Fires dimmed. Soldiers caught chills in their dreams. The pale shade moved closer, rolling in a stream, scattering fishes. Silently, an owl dropped from a bough and drifted through the trees. The mist crept over Othin like a hand, whispering with familiar malice.

  There you are.

  Othin opened his eyes. The fire burned low. Ulfhidin was not there. Nearby, Arvakr lifted his head, his dark eyes shining. The air grew still and thick with the scent of death.

  Othin rolled up and dove from his shelter as a sword slashed through the branches, splitting them asunder. He flipped over, grappling for his sword, which lay underneath his scattered bed. The draugr thrust down, just missing his hand. Othin got up and charged, knocking the thing into the fire. It screamed. As it writhed in flames, Othin backed up and knelt, his hand closing on the hilt of his blade.

  Beyond the fire, in the dark, lay something too still.

  The draugr vanished. Othin jumped up, blade in hand. The fiend appeared by the horses, spooking them. Its pallid face was smeared with soot and smoke curled from the rotting clothes of a Fjorginan soldier. Othin spun his blade and moved in. The beasts tossed their heads and pranced about, fighting their tethers. As the draugr slipped between them, the horses erupted in terror. Othin ducked around to get a clear path. The draugr whirled around toward Arvakr, its blade flashing as it arced down.

  “No!” Othin shouted. He dove to parry the blow before it hamstrung his horse.

  Arvakr screamed—or so Othin thought. As he hit the ground, his parry missing the draugr’s blade, something rippled over his flesh. The draugr lifted from its feet, flew through the air and struck a tree with an explosive crack. The ghoul fell and tried to get up, but couldn’t move. An invisible force twisted its head and tore it from its shoulders. Othin scrambled back, his heart racing as the draugr was disabled before his eyes, limbs, weapons, straps and shreds spinning to the ground in a bloodless heap.

  Silence fell.

  Othin got up, feeling sick. Sword in hand, he strode toward the fire. The horses were unharmed, but Ulfhidin, he feared, was not.

  Blood soaked the snow where the ranger fell, watching and seeing nothing. His throat was cut. Teeth clenched, Othin rolled him over, cradling his head in his hands. “My loyal brother.” He pressed his lips to the ranger’s forehead. “May you find peace in the halls of your ancestors.”

  Othin lowered his friend to the ground and covered him with his ranger’s cloak. He stood, the night’s calm settling over him. Then he went for the horses.

  As he reached the road, he made sure Ulfhidin’s body was secured to his horse. Then he released a thin whistle into the air. He stood close to Arvakr, wind and sorrow knifing into him as he waited. He bowed his head, imagining Ulfhidin’s wife standing at the door. It would be Othin delivering bad news, this time.

  A voice emerged from the trees on the edge of the road. “State your business.”

  Othin raised his hands. “Othin of Cae Forres. Ulfhidin of Grayfen has fallen.”

  The trees rustled. A guardsman jumped to the snow holding a bow, arrow nocked. He lowered it and approached, placing his hand on the body. “Draugr?”

  “Aye. I think Vargn means to thin us out. Warn the others.” He handed the man the reins of Ulfhidin’s horse. “This was a man of honor. See to him well.” He mounted and swung Arvakr around.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to put an end to this.” He tightened his thighs and pressed Arvakr into a heavy gait to the north.

  ~ * ~

  Wind howled through the Wolftooth Pass like a raging river, snatching Othin’s breath and bringing water to his eyes. Arvakr shied as the icy blast swirled around them. “Easy,” Othin soothed, guiding him onward. The road widened and dipped down. Darker shadows riddled the snow on one side. Othin leaned forward and rode through a gap in the crags. Ulfhidin was right. If Vargn was here, whether ignorant, desperate or overconfident, he would count on being left alone for the night.

  Bad move, sending his draugr out to hunt.

  The tracks crossed a narrow way and descended into a fir copse. Being one of few accessible escapes from the road, this was a popular spot to rest, hide or shelter in rough weather. Othin dismounted as he approached the first practicable spot a watcher could see him. Leaving Arvakr in the shelter of a leaning boulder, he took his bow and nocked an arrow. He crept forward until he saw a hooded shade silhouetted on the sky.

  The draugr turned as Othin drew his bow. As the arrow struck its face, the ghoul threw up its arms and leapt to the ground. Othin dropped his bow, drew his sword and rushed at the thing, slashing down. He caught it on the neck and with two hands drove the blade down. The draugr fell at his feet, half draped between the stones. Clutching at the ground, it started to rise. Othin disabled it and kicked the bloodless limbs into the darkness.

  He sheathed his sword and made sure the rowan branch Arcmael gave him was secured on his belt. To further protect him from the Otherworld, the seer had given him an iron knife which Othin kept in his boot. Thus armed, he gathered up his bow and crept into the trees, his senses alert for the smell of graves.

  Firelight flickered in the trees. Keeping to the shadows, Othin crept closer. Someone spoke in low tones. The ranger stopped as a shiver crept over his flesh. Arcmael had explained that Others often had that effect on mortals, which Othin knew from his experience with the phooka. This felt different, however.

  “You can come out now,” said a man in a singsong voice.

  Not of a mind to play games, Othin strode forth into the light. A man sat by a fire, clad in cloaks and branches. His white hair flashed in the light as he turned his head with casual interest.

  In one motion, Othin lifted his bow, drew and let the arrow fly. The shaft stopped in midair, a foot from the warlock’s throat. Then it dropped to the ground. Unsurprised, Othin glanced around the tidy camp, noting the absence of draugr. He skirted the fire, not taking his eyes from the warlock as he racked his mind for the things Arcmael had told him as they rode toward Faersc.

  Without an ally in the Otherworld, the seer said, you won’t stand a chance against someone who commands it.

  “The bravery of fools,” Vargn said, picking up a large piece of wood and placing it on the fire. In the dark beyond the yellow glow, pale shapes shifted in and out of sight.

 
“I stopped you from turning my captain,” Othin reminded him. “You fled like the coward you are and so did the draugr you left behind to kill me.”

  The warlock’s smile cut into Othin’s gut like a poisoned knife. “I let you go. You belong to the Others.”

  Othin picked up a heavy branch and with both hands slammed it into the coals in the warlock’s direction. The fire leapt up and withdrew, taking the shape of a protective screen.

  “Tsk,” Vargn said. “You’re a brute.”

  “I belong to no one,” Othin said.

  Only Vargn’s eyes moved up, pale as ice shadows. “You’ve been marked. You will die.” He lifted a hand, palm up, and spoke a word.

  “What did you promise the Others in return for their protection?” Othin asked, eyeing the sky as wind bore down into the trees in a chorus of rough whispers.

  Vargn boomed with laughter. “Did you think I didn’t know you would come looking for me? Their price is you, Othin of Cae Forres.” His eyes glittered with triumph. “A warrior in love with a Norn. In return for you, the Others will do anything I command them to do.”

  Norn. In the old stories, the Norns ruled fate and destiny; spinners, weavers, workers of magic. Othin’s throat turned dry as he realized the warlock was referring to Millie. “You are mad.” The thought of this man as much as looking at Millie filled his heart with rage. He drew his sword and moved around the fire, no longer caring what he might meet.

  The wind increased, driving snowflakes in a swirling cloud. It swelled with a roar, burned with ice and blurred fire and trees. As Vargn backed into the gray, Othin lunged forward, slashing down with a cut. It struck nothing. He stumbled forward, recovered his balance and spun around.

  Vargn stood in the wind, still smiling. By his side stood a warrior, tall, muscular and clad in fine black armor that writhed on his body. Othin’s knees weakened. He shouldn’t have been able to see a Niflsekt, and yet this being matched Arcmael’s description to the scale, including the presence of wind and storm. Othin lifted his sword. The warrior stepped forward, armor shivering, no light in the snake-slitted eyeholes of his helmet. He was of an ancient race of warriors, immortal, unassailable.

  He was also unlikely to display such drama, let alone answer the beck and call of a mortal, no matter what he was using the warlock for. Othin leaned down and pulled the iron knife from his boot, flipped it in his hand and threw it. As it struck, the apparition collapsed into hundreds of bats and scattered into the night.

  Vargn’s smile faded as he drew his sword. Othin charged.

  The pale shapes in the trees flowed into the clearing, their limbs, faces and long air writhing and spinning with faint, airy laughter. Now without his knife, Othin had little defense against them. He snatched the rowan branch from his belt and held it in his other hand. The figures moved around it like wolves around a torch, but they didn’t flee. How did Arcmael put it? Rowan is useful but not foolproof.

  Othin shook his head to clear his disorientation. Something fogged his mind like too much wine. He lost his balance and quickly regained it, focusing keeping his feet on the ground. He parried Vargn’s sword as it swung from the mist. The warlock shifted his stance and cut down, striking the rowan from Othin’s hand.

  The Others closed in, smothering him. Panting for breath, he fought his opponent, his moves off kilter and his guard weak. Vargn struck his side beneath the ribs, the blade glancing off mail and causing Othin to miss a step. A long, ghostly face loomed near, spooking him.

  “Coward!” Othin growled. “Fight like a man.”

  The warlock parried a sloppy thrust and came in again, this time catching Othin above the armguard. Othin twisted aside before the blade sliced through, but it weakened him further. Something slammed him in the stomach, driving him to one knee. A dizzy spell breathed over his mind, laughing and hissing curses. When you die, so will the Norn, the Others sang. She will die of a broken heart and this world will be ours.

  Clutching his arm, Othin rasped, “Won’t be much of a world after the demon strips it with fire, will it?” Blood dripping down his hand, he held up his sword and blocked a heavy blow. His legs gave way and he fell to the side. He continued, “I wonder what the elves and goblins would say about that.”

  The Others howled with laughter at the threat, which he had scraped together like stale crumbs from Arcmael’s stories. We are immortal. Worlds regrow.

  Othin rolled with a gasp to avoid another cut from Vargn’s sword. His muscles were weak and he felt nauseous. His vision blurred beneath a shroud. He thought of Arvakr, tethered to a root beneath a tilting crag. The phooka would free the horse, as he had protected him all along, but the mean horned bastard wouldn’t help Othin.

  The point of Vargn’s sword touched his throat.

  “You’ll die with the rest of us,” Othin said. “You won’t be safe in Faersc. The demon will destroy the world.”

  That smile again. “Do you think I haven’t taken that into account? I will ascend to the Fylking homeworld, above time, to continue my work.”

  “The mortal dead can’t cross worlds with the Fylking.”

  The warlock’s face glowed. “Their gods can.”

  Othin closed his eyes. No reasoning his way out of this. He had no intention of dying here at the hands of a madman, however. He would hold Millie in his arms again if he were the last man alive to do it.

  He thought again of the phooka. It had served Leofwine. The sorcerer would have promised it something in exchange, gods knew what. Othin had nothing, and Vargn was right. What did the Others care about the destruction of the physical world? Asking a phooka for help was the notion of a fool, only one step beneath asking a god. Arcmael had frowned like an angry warlord as he described the perils of bargaining with the Otherworld—but he did it, once for his life and once for love, to the near ruin of everything he stood for.

  Millie. “Please help me,” Othin whispered, not knowing if the phooka heard him or not. “Whatever I have to offer, it’s yours.”

  To Othin’s astonishment and terror, it came, the presence he knew, subtle and all-inclusive as the rising sun. In the mist, a clawed hand appeared and closed over Vargn’s sword, holding it still. Time stopped in the stillness of an understanding. The phooka leaned forward in the mist, horns shining, eyes flashing green. Its voice was rough as thorns, smooth as milk, eerie as the night.

  You must learn to see.

  Othin blinked. “See what?”

  That is my price. Swear.

  Othin’s heart pounded like a smith’s hammer. His hand shaking, he reached into his breast pocket and closed his fingers over Millie’s charm. “On this, I swear.”

  Time quickened in an instant as the fog cleared. The Others fled screaming before the phooka, a prince among their kind. Othin grasped his sword and knocked Vargn’s blade away from his throat. His strength restored, he got to his feet. Vargn stumbled back as he realized Othin had somehow broken his spell.

  The ranger smiled, for he needed no help from immortals now. He moved in with a redoubled assault. While Vargn had some training on the blade, his guard was softened by arrogance. He parried Othin’s strikes with weakening resolve until the ranger bound him at the hilt and twisted the blade from his grip. As Vargn moved back, his face ashen, Othin drove his sword under the leather plate on his breast, black and embossed with a dragon.

  “My death won’t save you,” the warlock choked, spitting blood as he crumpled to his knees.

  “It’ll save those you enslaved.”

  “You’ll pay for this…”

  As his enemy died, Othin heard the phooka’s voice on the wind. Remember your vow.

  Whatever it meant, Othin would start by seeing the Vale of Ason Tae and the face of the woman he loved.

  The Last Warden

  Arcmael picked a piece of straw from the floor, studied it a moment and flicked it away. His stomach growled and he had to piss. His Guardian Fylking had not returned from wherever they fled. He wondered if they knew
Lord Halstaeg had put him in the execution block of the king’s gaol. Some foolish optimism told him he couldn’t possibly have survived everything he had been through only to end up on the end of a rope by his father’s command.

  A torch outside in the passage cast faint light through the narrow strip of bars in the door. Away from the main corridor, the cell was strangely quiet. Prederi, Heige and Bren sat in various positions around the walls. Bren shuffled and fingered a deck of cards with brightly painted animals on it.

  “At least he didn’t put us in the Rat Hole,” Prederi offered.

  “This is worse,” Heige said.

  Arcmael looked up. “It beats the goblin’s palace. Though the food was better there.”

  Heige lifted his chin in the warden’s direction. “What did you say to Halstaeg as he was hauling us off?”

  “I told him he was a lousy judge of character, and if he put you lot in the Rat Hole, the king would hear of it.” Arcmael didn’t add that he demanded to be put with them. Halstaeg had no doubt planned to hide his son in the deepest recesses of the king’s gaol and was now punishing him for his loyalty to his new friends by putting them here with him.

  Prederi lifted his brow. “What magic did you use to convince him of that?”

  “I told him the king is expecting me.” As the three of them turned to him, he added, “It’s horseshit. But if he tries to disprove it, he’ll have to reveal I’m here.”

  Bren laughed. “That sounds like something War God would do.” He slipped a card from the deck and laid a wolf in the straw.

  Arcmael smiled at Othin’s nickname, War God. Ironic.

  “Where’d you lift those from?” Heige asked Bren.

  “Sour View.” He threw the wolf back into the deck and shuffled it again.

  In a cell at the far end of the passage, someone was yelling in Fjorginan. Prederi grimaced. “Oi, that wasn’t nice.”

  Arcmael got up, strode to the corner and unstrapped his breeches for a piss. He didn’t have time for this. And he had no plan.