The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  And she didn’t stop there. Fleeing with his wound, Vaethir unleashed the culmination of his plans, a magnificent demon with one purpose: to destroy Math and everything in it. An ambitious, excessive plan, the High Command had chided him—not because they hadn’t smiled on the idea, but because world annihilation had proved too much for the Fylking’s gods to abide.

  Guided by Othin, the Fylking’s Allfather god and a consummate Magician, the Norn knit another spell, a staggering feat of magic the implications of which she was scarcely aware. On the cold earth beneath the far northern Tower Sif, the Gate’s first line of defense, she wove the demon’s essence into stalks, sticks and weeds, a sprawling image only discernable from the top of the tower. A star’s age would pass before the image faded from Vaethir’s mind.

  Such a plain creature, that woman, yet in her mortal innocence she had wielded the power of a goddess—irrational, devastating and beautiful. Only he knew that she had looked upon him with lust in her eyes. It was a sweet touch he wasn’t inclined to share. Or forget.

  Another bad idea, in retrospect, pointing that out to her.

  Now, to deepen the blow to his manhood, not to mention his standing in the eyes of the High Command, the wound the Norn had put on him would not heal, not even in the fires of immortality. It did not bleed or weep; it gaped on his flesh like a chasm, throbbing with constant pain no healer or mage could relieve. The pain had settled into a black river of hate, running, pulsing, ever flowing to the sea without ever getting there. He would have killed that woman a thousand times over had the Allfather not bent the rules of incarnation and given her life on this very world, where he could protect her. And fuck her too, no doubt.

  Fortunately, Fate showed no favors; the gales of winter storms withered all things equally. The same passion that had enabled the Norn to destroy his demon also drove her to return to Math, where her ranger lover awaited her. Vaethir planned to get there first. And no god or Fylking would save them this time.

  The sky fled above the mists, a cloak of gray driven by icy wind. Snowflakes whirled in the air. Shifting positions in the tree, Vaethir renewed his sullen gaze on the Oeoros-Math Gate hidden in the far distant woods. He had accomplished one thing by obliterating Tower Sif on his way out of Math and trapping the Fylking there. It bought him some time to build an army while they rebuilt the gatetower.

  That time was running out.

  Faetros, his master in the arts of sorcery, was fond of saying, Do not be fooled by high talk of light and order. Chaos rules the universe. The magician had touched a pool of stars and had assured Vaethir that a shift was coming, as surely as an ice-bound lake cracks in spring: an eclipse of Blith, the largest of Oeoros’s three moons. Vaethir glanced up at the pale orb hanging amid the ragged clouds. Faetros was rarely wrong about such things.

  For the third day, Vaethir watched, scanning for impressions. A smile touched his mouth. He had recently learned of a blot on Math, near the Fylking’s Gate, like the beginnings of a disease on the bark of a tree hiding some interior, invisible ruin. Combined with Faetros’s portents, it might be something he could use to his advantage.

  He hung in the tree, the Norn’s chasm in his body aching with cold, until dusk descended on the forest. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted. Vaethir stilled his mind and projected it south, through creaking trees, a fox slinking over a frozen stream, an eagle tearing the flesh of a hare, the reflection of the moon, a temple choked by frozen weeds. Flashes of light revealed the tall, alert forms of warriors guarding the Oeoros-Math Gate. Vaethir breathed a word, a soft breeze just cold enough to cause a shiver. In that form, he passed through the dense perimeter glittering with the watchers’ awareness without being detected.

  The watchers formed a spiral pattern, their minds woven around the perimeter like the inner sanctum of a shell. In the center was a round, black pool, unfrozen and still as a moonless sky. Ash trees surrounded it. On the edge stood five crystals seventy-two degrees apart, forming a pentacle of light over the surface. Beneath it was emptiness, a void that crossed dimensions to one destination: Math. Once a traveler slipped through to the other side, they could use the Math Gate, with its ten stone towers spread over many leagues, to travel to other worlds accessible from the star system of which Math was a part.

  Vaethir studied the six seasoned warriors who guarded the pentacle. The Oeoros-Math Gate had always been guarded, but not like this. These men shimmered with the strength and sight of gods. He would never get by them alone, not in any form he knew or by any skill he possessed, including sorcery, to which the portal was highly resistant.

  Vaethir circled the pool like a whirlwind, careful not to cast a ripple on the surface. From his scouts he had recently received reports of Fylking coming in and out of this area—not watchers, but warlords and mercenaries, the sort of elite, seasoned blades they employed on Math. But they were most likely doing the same thing he was: watching and waiting.

  One of the men shifted on his feet, glancing around with a hard expression of suspicion. Sensitive, Vaethir noted sourly. Of course you are. He expanded his mind to become the leaves in the trees. He lifted straight into the air and slowly circled, focusing his mind on the energies emanating from the depths of the Gate. Another of the guards looked up, his dark blue eyes settling on the boughs before casting a glance at his companion.

  Then something changed. The Niflsekt watched, a thrill dancing over his heart as the pool shimmered, and a warrior appeared in the center. She was clad in leather, her leggings and hauberk stitched with mail. She wore gauntlets tipped with claws like a cat, a bow and quiver, and a knife on her thigh. Her blond hair was braided on the sides. Her boots resounded on the pool as she strode across, her cloak swirling as she stepped to the ground. The watchers paid her no mind, as if they were used to seeing her.

  A messenger. Vaethir might have guessed it by the weathered look of her gear. But then he saw something else, hidden, bright...and vital.

  She stopped and spun around, her gaze sweeping over the area, moving upward, until it rested on him with cold, calculating interest, a cat spotting a bird within its grasp. At her throat she wore a charm with ansuz carved into it, the rune of Othin. She muttered something under her breath that swept through Vaethir’s mind and closed over it like a trap.

  A messenger and a witch.

  Two of the watchers drew their swords; one of them asked her a question Vaethir didn’t catch over the roar of panic in his mind. “Sound the alarm,” she said. Snatching off a gauntlet, she reached into her cloak and drew forth a flat crystal the size of her palm. Vaethir slipped through her holding spell like a weasel and focused on the crystal just before she hurled it to the ground, shattering it. Shards flew like ice, lost in the shrill cry that echoed through the woods.

  Vaethir returned to the far pine tree, his breath in his throat as the message on the witch’s crystal came clear in his mind: The Otherworld is restless. Someone is trying to summon a great power. We don’t know why.

  An eclipse and a crack in an ice-bound lake. Not only was the Math Gate back in operation, so was a sorcerer, evidently, providing Vaethir with a chance, albeit small, of getting to Math through another door.

  The Otherworld.

  Grinning, the Niflsekt lowered himself from the tree, flipped gracefully to the ground and trudged through the snow to his horse. Clenching his jaw against the ever throbbing pain in his gut, he mounted and pressed the beast into a furious gait, heading north.

  ~*~

  Light rippled over Vaethir’s aching flesh as he passed through the spell he had cast over the forested wilderness surrounding the ruins of an abandoned hold. It loomed in the trees, its dark stones covered in moss and vines, one tower haunted by ravens and another by archers. Safe behind illusions, his growing army lay in wait for a sign by which their fortune would change. Eventually, the Fylking’s magicians would detect his spell and see more than just the frozen ruins—but Vaethir planned to be at war by then, with a carefully picked and t
rained army capable of overcoming the fancy, sensitive watchers on the Oeoros-Math Gate.

  He rode into the hold like a storm, causing his men to jump aside as he thundered by. He dismounted in midstride, headed for the crumbling stairs, and took them two at a time. “Find Alorael,” he said as his men gathered with questioning looks. “My chambers. Now.”

  He strode over the rough timber floor and ascended another flight of steps to a landing. At the end, he entered the room.

  “Milord,” said someone behind him. Silent as an owl, the dark elf had a way of appearing without warning. He was as tall as the commander, with black eyes and skin the color of twilight. His sable hair lay in long plaits over his shoulders and chest.

  “Alorael.” Vaethir paced beside the bed. “I need you to get me across the Veil.” It might have been a coincidence, the report about the stain on the world of Math and the Fylking messenger’s news about a mysterious summoning, but his heart told him otherwise.

  The dark elf lifted his brow. While the High Immortal races and the beings in the Otherworld were visible to one another, the races kept to their own dominions. When High Immortals did mix with Others, it tended to be for the same reasons as did human witches, warlocks, sorcerers and seers: to summon Others in exchange for magic. Alorael was an exception, of sorts; Vaethir and the elf had forged a friendship two centuries ago, and shared not only secrets but also a bed, a rich, wild and rough diversion of which Vaethir had grown especially fond. Indeed, Vaethir knew his friend well enough to anticipate his response.

  The elf frowned. “What do you need me for? Cast a circle as Master Faetros taught you.”

  Vaethir threw him a cold glance. Faetros had shown him how to open the Veil between the worlds ten thousand suns ago, and Alorael spoke of it as if it were yesterday. The dark elf’s surly tone told him he was being mocked. Vaethir, powerful enough to bring forth a demon capable of destroying a world, but unable to do something as simple as casting a circle. The point was not lost.

  “I’m not looking to summon, but to be summoned,” Vaethir informed him.

  The elf’s dark eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean to be manifested on Math. I won’t need to use the Gate if I’m summoned.”

  Alorael snorted a laugh. “No mortal sorcerer on Math has the power to summon you. For all that, why would he want to?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Someone there is trying to summon something. No sorcerer has complete control; fate and chaos are always involved. I intend to exploit that.”

  Alorael crossed his arms over his chest. “That works both ways, Vaethir. If you try this, something in the Otherworld could easily see you. It might not be something friendly.”

  “That’s why I need you, to watch and ward.”

  “Get myself killed on your behalf, you mean. I don’t need to tell you how big and ugly things get in the Otherworld. Do you think that demon you summoned last time went unnoticed?”

  “That was Faetros’s idea,” he said offhandedly.

  The elf’s closed expression did not change. “Is this about the Norn?”

  Vaethir closed his eyes and ground his teeth. Everything is about the Norn. “It’s about the war,” he lied. “The Gate is operational and the High Command will expect me to have a plan.” A glance. “Which I do.”

  “Are you planning to spend twenty more suns there?”

  “No, I am not.” The commander whipped his cloak around him and strode to the door. “I will do this, Alorael, with or without you.” He went into the hall and descended the steps. At the bottom, his warriors, scouts and operatives waited for news.

  Alorael followed him. “Anyone powerful enough to summon you can banish you, too,” he reminded Vaethir needlessly.

  The commander ignored him. He told his men what he knew—most of it—and gave them orders to be carried out in his absence. He gave private instructions to his first in command. Then he strode out into the cold, looked up at the stars and the Blith moon hanging above the trees, and headed into the woods.

  A short time later, he stopped. Moonlight cast the shadows of standing stones upon the snow. They were arranged in a row, with a shallow pit on one end. No one knew what the Fylking had used it for; the stones didn’t align with any celestial event, and there were no carvings save one, on the stone on the end, farthest from the pit. Near the top was the crude face of a bearded man with one eye.

  Alorael stood there, his pale hair moving in the breeze. “I will help you,” he said quietly, his eyes hidden in the shadows. “But I will not stay.”

  Vaethir nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Alorael walked by the stones and moved into the trees. Not far from the clearing, he stopped by an enormous willow hanging over a frozen bog. He circled it once and knelt by the base of the tree, speaking softly. After a moment he rose, stepped back and moved his hand over the air, speaking a string of words in the elven tongue.

  The tree creaked and groaned and split, yawning open. Snow slid from the boughs and drifted to the ground in silvery sheets. A black, fathomless opening appeared in the roots. Moonlight touched the edges of stone steps descending into darkness.

  The dark elf went down. Vaethir followed him.

  They moved through the lightless cold using the senses of cats. Time and space shifted and blurred, losing structure as they passed across the Veil. Vaethir cleared his mind of all but his intention to step into a moment. Taking a chance on his instincts, he also focused on the report he had heard of something wrong. As he moved through the borderlands between dimensions, his immortal mind expanded into the vastness.

  Alorael vanished in the dark like a dream.

  Humming vibrated in Vaethir’s mind, three voices rising and falling in chant. The air smelled of brine, stone, rose and thyme. The chanting grew louder, echoing in a stone chamber.

  Vaethir lifted his gaze from a ring of mist. He hovered, insubstantial, on the edge of the Otherworld, in a rift in the mortal realm. This rift wasn’t a natural phenomenon; it rang with art and sophistication. Someone had built it. The Niflsekt commander calculated the dimensions of the chamber, the weight and density of the stone above, the distant rumble of a tide, and the angle of the sun glimmering in the cracks of an ancient keep. The winds on the sea blew from the north. To the east, lines of light streamed over hundreds of leagues, feeding the Gate.

  He was on the eastern coast of Fjorgin, a realm across the narrow sea from Dyrregin, Gateway of the Gods. Judging by the age and size of the place around him, and the stunning architecture of the portal on which he stood, he could only have found the ancient keep belonging to a brotherhood of sorcerers known as Fenrir, the Wolf Lords.

  Ýr, they called it.

  The chanting stopped. Vaethir raised his brow. The Fenrir Brotherhood was an order thousands of suns old that comprised, as far as he knew, men with a stomach for the darker arts. And yet three women had just summoned him here.

  A crone with smooth cheeks and iron gray hair to her waist stepped forward. “Name yourself,” she commanded him.

  “Vaethir of the Dragon Clan,” he said dutifully, hiding a smile. Commander of Niflsekt Covert Operations, Destroyer of the Math Gate, High Vardlokk of Chaos. Best keep those details private. His name, on the other hand, was irrelevant, as no one on this world knew it, including the Fylking and the mortal warlock he had employed to do his dirty work during his last attack on the Gate.

  Another woman of the three, with tangled red hair streaked with white, lifted her chin. “We offer you life, Vaethir of the Dragon Clan. In exchange, we require of you a task.”

  She started to say something else, but the third woman, young, with a willowy shape and a ring of thyme around her neck, said, “You must destroy—”

  “Hold!” the crone cut in. Glancing sharply at the others, she held out a hand, her eyes narrowing on the apparition before her. “To what race do you belong?”

  Too late. Vaethir smiled wickedly as his body came into focus. These wome
n were powerful, but desperate, and Fate knew no better combination. Whatever their plight, it did not concern him. “I will destroy,” he assured them. “You have my word.” He turned and walked across the ring, mist swirling around him.

  The Wolf Lords would ask fewer questions. In exchange for Vaethir’s knowledge of the Dark Realms, they would eagerly serve him with a task he had in mind.

  “Stop!” the elder woman’s voice rang out. “I forbid this!”

  The commander of Niflsekt Covert Operations moved toward a tall arched door, uttering a spell that would hide him from seers, the only mortals on this world with the ability to see him. One of the women gasped; another cried out a banishing command. But they could forbid him nothing.

  Chaos ruled the universe.

  Captain of the North Branch

  The late afternoon sun sank behind a steely cloud on the watery horizon, bringing a damp, salty breeze. Othin of Cae Forres, Captain of the North Branch of the King’s Rangers, checked his mount on the cobbled road that led from the coastal town of Lincot. A stone pillar stained by moss and seagull droppings marked a wide path that wound off to the east, to the village of Birkan. A rune of the same name, carved into the post, was no longer readable. Othin headed that way. The Ogjan Mountains rose in rugged layers of gray before him.

  He planned to meet two rangers, Heige of Sibor and Bren of Ottersun, in the station in Birkan, a half night’s ride from there and less than that from the border of Ylgr in the north. Veterans on the Ylgr patrol, Heige and Bren were not only two of Othin’s best rangers, but also his friends.

  Othin planned to beat the rangers to the station before they set out. He had received a report from the rangers who just returned from patrol in Ylgr that the locals had taken to killing ravens. For centuries, the King’s Rangers had employed ravens to help them in the wilds. Trained to recognize their handlers, scout patrol routes and deliver messages, the birds were revered, and harming one was punishable by death. But Ylgr had long been outside the king’s laws.