The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “Not with the high constable’s daughter, they aren’t.”

  Melisande put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “You—”

  He caressed her lips with his. “A tale for another time,” he said softly.

  Melisande lifted a leg and tugged at the laces on her boot. Othin took her hand and moved it away, then continued to tilt her thighs up.

  “I’m still wearing my boots,” she giggled.

  He smiled against her neck, his hand moving down to free his sex from its bounds. Then he eased into her slippery cleft with a low groan and began to move.

  She asked no more questions for a while.

  They stayed in bed well into evening. Between rest and talk they made love with lingering care. Melisande wept, she laughed, she wondered. She took her smallest needles, repaired the neckband on Othin’s crow and retied it around his neck with a kiss.

  Damjan told Othin everything that had happened—and not happened—but the swordsmith had known little of what befell Othin since last seeing him. Melisande soared through every emotion as Othin told her his tale of deception, betrayal, danger, grief and mystery. His meeting with Arcmael particularly interested her, though the warden’s tale frightened her beyond understanding, like her dream of the pool and the cave, beckoning her elsewhere.

  The setting sun cast a gray, wintry pall on the woods as Melisande stepped outside with her water bucket, her smock and boots unlaced and her cloak thrown sloppily over her shoulder. The air had turned unseasonably warm, and it smelled of rain. Othin had taken his horse to the village to get supplies and to leave the beast in Damjan’s stable where it would get care and be out of the elements. He wouldn’t easily find candles, apples, tea or the staples of a meal at this hour, but he didn’t seem concerned.

  She hooked her bucket onto the rope and dropped it into the depths. As she cranked it up, crows settled into the trees around the cot, cawing, preening and fluttering about. Several more circled in the sky above. Melisande hefted her water and returned inside.

  Darkness had fallen when Othin returned, soaked by rain and laden with enough provisions to last for days. Evidently, the villagers were happy he had returned, to keep her in check, no doubt. They gave him what they could and then some, including wine and chicken gizzards for Pisskin. He set down a bundle of sacks by the shelves in the corner and began stripping off his wet clothes and hanging them near the stove. His mood grew dark, as if a cloud had followed him in.

  “What’s wrong?” Melisande asked.

  He came and put his arms around her, holding her tightly. He withdrew and took her hands, brought them to his lips. “It’s nothing. Let’s eat.”

  Later, after a meal and a long conversation about their skirmishes with the now-dead warlock and his ghouls, they returned to bed. Rain clattered on the windows and the stovepipe. Othin sat on the edge of the bed and lit a candle. The flickering light caught in the lengths of his hair as he hung his head, his brow heavy with the same trouble with which he had earlier arrived. Melisande got to her knees and wrapped her arms around his chest, her cheek pressed into his back. “You have a shadow.”

  He turned his head slightly. “The villagers fear you.”

  Melisande pulled away, got against the headboard and put her knees up. “Do you?”

  He twisted around in surprise. Then he got onto the bed and draped his arms around her. “By the gods, no. You’re different, Millie. I’ve seen many strange things since leaving Merhafr, and somehow they all head back to you. Arcmael told me you are touched by the gods. The villagers say death follows you. Why do they say that?”

  Melisande put her chin on her knees and gazed at the candlelight. “Damjan didn’t kill the ranger that attacked me,” she began softly. “I did. I knit a patch of a rider. It was you, I was thinking of you, but it wasn’t. The crow warned me. I knit the ranger.” She drew a shaky breath. “I don’t know how it happened. After I escaped him, he came after me. I was sure he meant to kill me. I pulled the stitches in the patch and he died.” She closed her eyes, envisioning the ranger’s face, blood creeping from his eyes. She continued:

  “After that, the ranger you told me about—Ulfhidin—he came with his news.” Othin leaned close, his shirt parted, his gray eyes intent as he listened. “I was strong. I wanted—I could have hurt you but I didn’t. I started knitting something else. A storm came. It was terrible and I didn’t realize I had caused it until Bythe and Anselm came and helped me escape the villagers’ wrath. A child died and they blamed me. But I wasn’t—”

  “Damjan told me the Niflsekt brought about those things.”

  “Maybe, but the villagers wouldn’t have believed that. It would’ve just given them one more thing to blame on me, as Yarrow did. When news of her death came round, who do you think the villagers whispered about? Not Damjan.”

  Othin moved his fingers over her cheek with tender regard. “An immortal warrior, especially a Niflsekt in hiding, wouldn’t go through such trouble to tangle with a mortal for nothing.”

  “What about Vargn?”

  “The Niflsekt was using him. But he fears you. Whatever your power, it’s not just a means of protecting the cat from foxes or making flowers grow. The gods have a hand in it.”

  Melisande closed her eyes and listened to her heartbeat. “After they burned my house, I swore off knitting. The crow warrior bade me to keep doing it, but I didn’t start again until I received the king’s commission.” She thought of her brushy pattern on the field, but left that. She looked up, a tear creeping down her cheek. “The touch of gods comes with a price.”

  Othin brushed the tear away, gathered her into his arms and brought her beneath the covers. His flesh was hard and smooth and his warmth spread into her body like sunlight. His mouth tasted of wine. “When this war is over, those fools in the village will finish your cottage if I have to put them to the sword. Lieutenant Haldor volunteered to help me with that, you know.”

  Melisande made a face. “Haldor doesn’t like me.”

  “Hel, he doesn’t. He says you’re the kind of woman every man wants but few dare to keep. Told me I was blessed by your favor.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Ratshit tripe. He didn’t say that.”

  Othin smiled. “He did.” His expression grew serious. “My wild woman of the north.” He moved his hands over her body and pulled her shift up over her head. Shortly, he was bare beside her, his sex stiffening and his breath rough in his throat. Melisande rolled over on top of him. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders as she leaned down and kissed him softly. Then she gave him her love with the abandon of a goddess.

  Later, her heart thumping solidly in her breast as she lay in the Trickster’s arms, Melisande slept.

  Crows circled in the sky. She watched them, her long hair damp with rain. She wore a white dress, long and soft as gossamer. Raindrops made swirling patterns on the pool, and faint light glowed inside the cave. A hooded crow fluttered down and landed at her feet and then vanished as the silver-clad warrior stood by her side, his black cloak moving on the wind.

  What do you fear? he asked, his strong hand touching hers.

  “Everything has changed.”

  As it must.

  “My beloved cannot cross the worlds,” she said, her breath catching. “I’ll lose him forever.”

  The crow warrior turned to her, his face luminous beneath his hood. Love exists beyond time, space and mind. It is a bridge.

  “But I’m not me anymore.”

  He took to the wing, black on gray, his eyes shining as he laughed. Nonsense. You are eternal.

  Melisande awoke with a start. Her face was wet with tears. Othin lay beside her, asleep, his lust drained and his arms and legs entwined in hers. A dream. Crows announced the dawn as she drifted back to sleep.

  When she later awoke, Othin stood over the stove in his leggings, making tea. The strong curve of his back, the muscles in his arms and the way the fabric clung to his thighs and ass roused her desire
again. “I have to go to the tower,” she said.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Want some company?”

  “Aye. I’d like you to see.”

  He grew still for several moments and then turned around. “See what?” He seemed almost frightened.

  She smiled. “Not sure yet.” She swung her legs out of bed, grabbed her shift from the floor where he had tossed it the night before and put it on. “Is that my tea?”

  As he handed her the steaming cup, she thought his hand shook.

  Later, they left the cot and walked through the woods toward the field. The figures of horsemen moved in the distance, shrouded in drizzle. As Melisande emerged from the trees and stepped over the sodden ground, she took her lover’s hand. “What did you say to the Fylking when you laid down your sword?”

  He lowered his head with a smile. “I told them I loved you with all my heart, that I honored them for protecting you and asked them to lower their blades if you so willed it.”

  Melisande’s cheeks warmed. “We’ll see if they let you in today.” They passed by her brushy work and began to climb the hill. As she reached the bottom step to the tower door, she turned to the ranger with a grin.

  “Arcmael will lecture me for this,” Othin said.

  She opened the great oak door. “A serious sort, Arcmael. I gave him some leggings, you know.” She closed the door with a boom, and they passed into the cold, silent expanse.

  “He swears by those. Said he thought they would turn an arrow.”

  “Don’t think so.” She walked to the narrow steps and began to ascend, touching the wall on one side. “For payment I asked him to bring me to the top of the tower. He said no, but he told me a fine story about the Fylking.”

  Othin breathed a laugh behind her. “Aye, he told me the High Fylking of Tower Sif appeared and watched you on the step like a bunch of lust-drunk soldiers.”

  Melisande’s laughter echoed in the vault. “Now that’s tripe.”

  “It is not. They love you.”

  She kept climbing. Her thighs burned as she neared the top. The trap door had a latch on it. She reached up and threw it, then pushed open the hatch. Wind ripped at her hair and drove rain in her face as she emerged, her heart soaring with excitement.

  The crouching dragons watching over the land were bigger than they seemed from below. Melisande walked over the wet stone, slowing as she circled the intricate crystal star pattern in the center. Othin knelt and moved his hand over it. “This looks like the one in Faersc,” he said, “only intact.”

  Melisande moved to the eastern drop. Concentric steps allowed her to climb up and see over the dragons’ spines. Othin joined her as she looked down.

  Spread upon the field as a finely woven array of earth’s shades and textures leapt a massive beast not of the world. Its long limbs tore the air with black branch talons, its wings swirled in a pale shades of malice, and it crouched, head flattened and jaws snarling with sharp, pale teeth. It had eyes of red slitted with strands of bark woven into black. It was so lifelike it almost moved on the ground, flexing its muscles for a kill.

  “As the crow sees,” Melisande said, beaming at her finest creation. “The crow warrior told me to pattern a beast as the crow sees. I kept seeing circling crows, until it occurred to me to come up here and look at it from the air.” She turned to Othin.

  The ranger stared down, his face pale as milk, his breath heavy in his chest and his hands gripping the stone. “Gods help us.” He cast her a quick glance. “Arcmael told me about a demon, a creature of the dark realms. He said the Gate is like a river, and when the temperatures drop it freezes and things can cross. He saw the demon destroying the world.”

  Melisande’s excitement withered. “The crow warrior never told me that.” And why would he? she wondered then. Her innocence fell like an old rotten tree crashing down. Like dreams, immortals came and went, leaving invisible strands woven into daylight. Well, that leaves the gods, then, doesn’t it? Damjan had said. A god wouldn’t have told her to do this for her own amusement.

  Othin got down, reached up and drew her away from the parapet. He closed his arms around her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Millie.” He tilted his head toward the field, alive with a demon. “How did you know how to do that?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t. I just started one day and I knew where to put things. Pattern sense is like that.”

  Her hair stood on end as foreboding swept through her body and urged her away from the parapet. “Let’s go.” She took Othin’s hand. The wind rose, tearing at them. Across the span, the hatch shuddered, lifted up and slammed closed.

  “Wind must’ve caught it,” Othin said, quickening his pace. Light shot across the parapet and hovered in the center, over the crystal. Othin ran to the hatch and grasped the handle. “It’s latched.”

  Melisande spun around, her blood turning cold as a familiar shadow took form on the crystal. She reached into a pocket and closed her hand over the stitches there. In the presence of the High Fylking she had almost forgotten the Niflsekt.

  Othin drew near, grasping her arm. “How am I seeing this?”

  “Bad magic, like the frozen river. He is cold.”

  The dark entity stepped forth, glistening with darkness. Of the same fabric as the Fylking, he carried himself with flawless grace. His armor fit close to his muscles and flowed like water with his movement, and his weapons were as one with his hand. His features were alabaster, beautiful and wicked as nails.

  Melisande didn’t hesitate this time. She pulled the swatch from her pocket and yanked the end string. It stuck, tangled in a knot.

  The Niflsekt laughed. “The Gatekeepers have grown weak indeed, allowing a mortal to stand for them. Here of all places.” The air shifted with a breath as he appeared next to Melisande, leaning close, his breath in her hair. “Unless they favor you that much.” He lifted a hand to her face.

  Othin drew his sword. Before Melisande could intervene, the Niflsekt moved. The immortal’s blade struck something in the air with a crack, stopping a hand’s breadth from Othin’s throat. In a flashing whirl of light and sound, the Niflsekt fought the invisible, like a storm in the clouds. Othin grabbed Melisande’s arm and pulled her toward the hatch as she worked to untangle her yarn, bound beyond time.

  They heaved to a stop as the Niflsekt appeared in their path. His sword dripped with High Fylking blood. “So,” he resumed casually. “They protect both of you. How interesting.” He circled Othin, his mood turning steely. He was playing them. He knew exactly what Melisande meant to the High Fylking; he hadn’t come near her since she moved in sight of the gatetower, and it wasn’t because of a swatch. Unfortunately, he had just killed one of the beautiful warriors, maybe more and if she didn’t do something, Othin would be next. The look of male challenge in the Niflsekt’s eyes was unmistakable.

  “You are the Fylking’s sworn enemy,” Othin said, gripping his sword as he turned his head to follow the dragon warrior’s movements. “Their attack on you has nothing to do with us.”

  The Niflsekt ignored that. “The Norn is mine,” he purred near Othin’s ear. “I know her lust in my heart.”

  “Liar!” Melisande flared. He feared the swatch that much, that he had seduced her in the forest near Yarrow’s. As she had never found the swatch, she could only assume he had somehow taken it in that moment of distraction.

  The demon on the plain moved in her mind as if to goad her. If the Niflsekt was aware of it, he didn’t let on. While Melisande felt a powerful inclination to keep it secret, she also needed to get his attention away from Othin. She cast a nervous glance in the direction of the plain and then quickly returned her attention to the Niflsekt as if she feared he would notice. Then she fumbled at her swatch with pointed resolve, as if to draw his attention there.

  Taking the bait, the Niflsekt drifted over the span to the eastern side of the parapet.

  Othin and Melisande ran again for the hatch. Behind them, the Niflsekt gazed do
wn, silent as a frozen pool. The hatch was still locked. Melisande lifted her chin in challenge as the Niflsekt turned, his eyes dark. His amusement was gone.

  She grabbed her knife from the sheath on her thigh, held up the swatch and plunged the blade into it, cutting the stitches down the middle. The Niflsekt doubled over with an unholy scream that rippled through her gut and buckled her knees.

  Othin tore open the hatch with a shout as the latch gave way.

  Staggering toward the crystal, the Niflsekt held his bloody sword to the sky. He began to speak in a deep throated, multidimensional voice that shook the earth and gathered the clouds into a swiftly moving river of crackling fire.

  The Niflsekt dove toward the center crystal and vanished.

  The tower shuddered. One of the dragons toppled from its perch and hit the ground with an explosive crack.

  “Millie!” Othin shouted, dragging her toward the hatch. He pulled her around in front of him. “Go!”

  Dropping her knife and swatch, Melisande moved—then stumbled and fell, blinded by light. High above the tower, a resplendent beam roared down into the crystal. She clapped her hands over her ears. The light felt wrong, like a dissonant sound.

  Othin’s voice disappeared in a thunderclap that split the tower floor, leaving him on the far side of a widening crack.

  “Othin!” Melisande cried. She held out her hand. “Jump!”

  The stones collapsed, taking him with them.

  Time spiraled to a stop as Melisande stared at the empty space. She dropped to her knees and screamed, clutching the edge of a bitter end. The tower groaned, throwing her into nothing. She hit the top of the steps, sprawled headlong and nearly plunged to her death into the tower interior before catching an arm and a foot on the edge.

  She pulled herself up and clambered down as the steps crumbled behind her. Ravaged by sobs, she cursed the gods, the Fylking, the crow warrior, the Niflsekt and above all herself. Don’t go thinking you’re as big as the sky, or the gods will cast you down to the earth.

  In the vault of the sky, the heavens parted. Scalding heat blasted from the air, filling it with ash. A figure appeared, a beast’s head snarling with the cries of the dead, its breath scorching the earth in a swath as wide as the Vale.