The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  The warden hailed her again. Ingifrith turned and nearly choked as she saw how close he was. He was following her, no doubt to accost her for being near the tower. He might even report her to the King’s Guard.

  She started to run. She was too beat up to move fast, but soon the glade closed around her. “Help me!” she squeaked to anything that would listen.

  The sylph came first. Ingifrith nearly tripped and fell as he swirled from the dark and surrounded her. It wouldn’t fool a warden—let alone a Fylking—but she thanked her friend and kept moving.

  The warden’s voice echoed in the trees. “Please, stop! I’ll not harm you.” He spoke in a strange accent she had never heard. She didn’t want to talk to him. And he was gaining on her.

  Just as she was about to plead to Hel herself, the Veil parted in the twilit glade and a tall, wiry beast appeared, dark fur and pale chest in stark contrast, long horns curved away from the face of a goat. Its green eyes glowed with love.

  Ingifrith ran into the phooka’s arms as the Veil closed around her.

  ~*~

  A guttural bird call cut through the muffled silence.

  Dense fog cloaked the glade. The slim, graceful form of the phooka changed into a black horse, hooves striking the earth, eyes burning red. The fog billowed after it as it moved away and vanished into the forest.

  Ingifrith sat up. She didn’t recognize where she was until she spotted the gatetower in the distance, peering over the crest of a wooded hill. Somehow she had ended up deeper in the woods to the west, out of sight of roads and paths. It was still evening, full of birdsong. The sun cast long, somber shadows through the trees. She dared not assume it was the same day. She had made that mistake before.

  “Is that her?” a man said, not far away.

  “Looks like it,” said another. “This is where he said to look.” A pause. “Is she alive?”

  “I don’t think the Fylking would hit someone this far out.”

  Two men led their horses through the trees from the same direction the phooka had departed. They were clad in dark gray, brown leather and black cloaks, and they were armed with blades and bows. They held the reins of black warhorses, the kind bred to the king’s service. Neither of the beasts had red eyes, unfortunately.

  “You there,” the first soldier said as they approached.

  Ingifrith got to her feet. She didn’t say anything as she attempted to piece together what had happened. The Others had fled like dreams. The Fylking must have told the warden where to find her, and he’d dispatched the King’s Guard. Bastards, all of them.

  “We have a report that you were near the gatetower,” the guardsman said, his hand on the hilt of a blade on his waist. “That’s in violation of the king’s law. Are you aware?”

  For a brief moment, Ingifrith considered making a run for it. Then she released a breath and nodded. She couldn’t outrun their horses. There was no point in lying, either; they wouldn’t take her word over that of a warden. If she hadn’t run from him, he might not have reported her.

  “We’ll have to bring you in,” the second guard said, not unkindly.

  “To do what?” Ingifrith asked.

  “Just a fine,” the first guard replied, as if bored. “If you’d done anything that bad, the Fylking would have taken care of you.”

  Little did they know. A fine, however, could seriously hamper her plans, whatever those were now. She had left her original plans of becoming a warden at the foot of the gatetower.

  The first guard drew his horse around, mounted, and held out his hand. “Unless you’d rather walk.”

  Ingifrith stared up at the beast moving around, its muscles rippling with strength. She had never ridden a horse, in any dimension. Before she could open her mouth to object, the second soldier closed his hands around her waist and lifted her easily into the saddle.

  Gulping, Ingifrith stared at the ground below. “What if I can’t pay the fine?” she asked against the guardsman’s back. He smelled like a forge. And a barnyard.

  He turned his head. “Then it’s the gaol, I’m afraid.” He said it lightly, as if it was no big deal that she would be locked up like a criminal.

  The other man mounted his horse and headed off into the trees. “Hold on,” said Ingifrith’s rider, prompting her to cling onto him as the animal beneath them began to move.

  All for the scorn of a Fylking warlord.

  High Commander of the Third Sun

  It was nearly dark when Ingifrith and the guardsmen reached Rivergate, a township three leagues north of the tower, situated between the Ash River and a sprawling wood battered by the Sie War. The wood was a grim place, tangled and silent but for the ghosts of fallen warriors. There was a marked absence of Otherworld impressions, as if the place had been cursed. Nearer the town, Ingifrith noticed a woven net of bones and feathers hanging in a tree. Chimes cried softly in the wind.

  The guardsmen brought her to a tall stone building near the center of town. Above the large oak doors was a carving of the standard for the King’s Guard, a crenelated fortress tower with a tall pine tree on each side and two swords crossed beneath. Large cressets burned on either side of the door. Still hurting from being blasted over the rocky plain, Ingifrith caught her breath as the guardsman reached up, lifted her off the horse and set her on her feet.

  The interior of the guardhouse was bleak and dark but for a common room with a hearth, thick rugs and comfortable chairs. The second guardsman said farewell to the first and went in, but Ingifrith’s remaining captor wasn’t taking her to that cheery place. She ignored the stares of soldiers as she went down a wide, torchlit hall. The guardsman turned down a smaller corridor lined with doors with barred windows in them. At the end, he stopped.

  “Captain Eklin will hear your case in the morning,” he said, opening the door to a cold, musty draft. He entered, crossed the room and lit a candle. Golden light leapt up and danced over the walls. There was a cot with a dingy pallet, a small table built onto the wall, a chair that looked like it was made for a child, a piss pot and a jug. The soldier lifted the jug, sloshed around the contents, and put it down. He moved to a small hearth, grabbed a tinderbox from the floor and started a fire using a small stack of wood piled on the floor. Ingifrith went to the cot and sat down. It creaked under her weight, scant as that was. She leaned over, grabbed a tattered wool blanket folded on the edge of the cot and wrapped it around her. It smelled like mold.

  When the guardsman had coaxed forth a smoking flame, he stood. “Someone will bring you food shortly. There’ll be a guard posted at the end of the hall if you need anything else.” With a short nod he left, closing the door behind him.

  Ingifrith gazed at the candle flame. The silence was unnerving, mostly because it was interior, as if the doors to the Veil were buried under pond muck. Above her head, higher than a man could reach, was a small window enclosed by thick iron bars. She wished she could open it and feel the outside air.

  The candle burned with a long, steady flame. It was beautiful, somehow. Ingifrith left the cot, grabbed the chair and sat by the table. Leaning forward, she moved her fingers near the flame. Her forehead tingled. In a rush, the conscious impression of a fire spirit filled the light.

  “Hail,” Ingifrith said softly.

  Hail, the salamander replied. Its voice was startlingly booming, deep and powerful for a spirit in a candle flame. What misdeed brings you hither?

  Ingifrith scowled. “Well, if you must know, I approached a Fylking by the gatetower, yonder. He blasted me. A warden saw it and reported me to the King’s Guard.”

  The flame leapt up and flickered as the salamander laughed. Aren’t you a brave one.

  Ingifrith hung her head. There were other words she would have used, none of them as flattering. Short of telling the salamander about her thwarted desire to be warden, she said, “I’d never seen a Fylking. I was curious.”

  The salamander made a rumbling sound that could have been a chuckle or an expression of thought.
Warm air stirred in the room, like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. The Warlords of Oeoros have no patience for mortal curiosity, Brave One. Grim as hungry wolves they’ve become, since their enemy breached their defense and closed the Gate.

  “You mean the Second Gate War?” The candle flame wavered there, bright and saying nothing. Ingifrith had to admit, despite her broken plan, that this interested her. “What is ‘Oeoros?’” She had never heard Leofwine use that term before.

  That is what the Fylking call their world, the salamander replied. Oeoros is deep within the heart of Sleipnir.

  Sleipnir, the Allfather’s Horse. Ingifrith recalled her father’s lessons on the constellations when she was a child. The Allfather’s Horse dominated the northern horizon in winter and was often cloaked in frozen mists. It was said that Sleipnir, the steed ridden by Othin, the Allfather, was wintry gray and had eight legs. Leofwine had once told her the Fylking came from a world much like Math, and he had pointed to the sky, but Ingifrith had never thought to ask where in the sky their homeworld was.

  She jumped as a knock hit the door. She cleared her throat. “Enter.”

  An older man came in carrying a plate. “Evening,” he grumbled. He had a limp. He came to the table and set her meal there, gave her a wooden spoon from a pocket in his apron, and wiped his hands on his shirt. He nodded before limping back to the door. Ingifrith thanked him as he went through.

  She leaned forward. A small river fish baked and browned stiff, a pile of white beans and some black bread. She plucked up the fish and bit into it. Cold, but good. She dipped the spoon into the beans and took a big mouthful.

  Swallowing, she gathered up her nerve from a sea of futility. “Any chance you can get me out of this place?” she asked the candle.

  The flame brightened, causing her to squint. At that moment she sensed this spirit was old, as old as stars. I can destroy it, it purred.

  Ingifrith stopped chewing, tilted her head and glowered with skepticism. “Indeed. A salamander in a candle?”

  As the room changed, she dropped her spoon. The candle snuffed out. The salamander’s presence expanded into a raging fire that did not burn, a fire of the unseen, a window into another world where the forces of destruction and transformation reigned. From the depths of the flames he stepped forth, a giant with hair the color of pitch, eyes burning white and flesh as pale as bones. He was clad in mail, dark, intricately embossed leather and tall boots with iron straps. As he moved, muscles rippling like those of the guardsman’s horse, he changed until he was the height of a human warrior.

  He was beautiful. And awful.

  “You’re no salamander,” she observed, her heart racing.

  He stepped up to her and held out his hand. His presence filled the entire world, the expanse of the heavens. It was tangible, something more than unseen. She lifted her fingers with mortal trepidation and brushed them over his. Intense, tingling heat spread into her hand. Solid, yet not quite. Then she had a thought.

  “You’re a demon!” Power, heat and war. Leofwine had once told her that demons lived in a place called the Severed Kingdoms, a vast, Otherworld dominion cloaked in shadows and flames. She had thought it was merely a scary tale, but she still remembered how softly her brother spoke, as if he feared the words.

  Holding her fingers, the demon lifted her hand to his lips, sending a wild rush through her heart and down into her thighs. Halogi, High Commander of the Third Sun, at your service. His pale eyes bored into her. The irises were black and vertical, like a cat’s.

  Ingifrith pulled her hand away. Aside from the fact she didn’t want to destroy anything or anyone, she shuddered to think what manner of exchange she’d have to make for the “service” of such a one as this. “Please don’t burn anything down,” she said, lifting her brow in hope. “I’ll settle for your company.”

  His lips curled into a smile as he turned, the edges of his smoke-gray cloak moving around his body like a careless breeze. Granted, Brave One.

  “My name is Ingifrith,” she informed him. “May I ask, why are you here?”

  He cast her a glance that felt like a chasm in Hel. Ten suns past, I was summoned by a warlock. He looked up the ceiling, held by rows of blackened timbers. I burned this town at his command, and then I defied him. He banished me to this very building. I’ve been living in candles and hearths ever since. He clenched a fist and opened it again, long nails glinting in the light. The struggling fire erupted in the hearth.

  Ingifrith got up, went to the hearth and sat before it. It was blessedly warm. She placed a piece of wood on it but suspected the flame would burn regardless. As a girl, she remembered hearing about a great fire in the south, near the tower. No cause was ever given for it. A fallen cresset, a careless stablehand in a dusty barn—no one knew. “This warlock, what was his name?”

  Vargn. He said the name in the back of his throat, like a growl.

  “Why did he command you to burn the town?”

  He was testing me. From the smoking ruins, he told me to burn the Fylking’s tower. This, I refused. I had no wish to make an enemy of the Fylking. But I was bound, so Vargn banished me.

  The Rule of Exchange. Ingifrith put her arms over her knees and leaned her chin on them. “My brother is a Fenrir sorcerer. Even their Masters would need great skill to summon you, I think. What kind of warlock has that power?”

  The demon’s gaze settled on her. A warlock who had help. Vargn was being guided by the Fylking’s enemy, a Niflsekt warlord who was hiding in this world like an adder beneath a stone. That foul one acquired my price and gave it to Vargn. I had not expected him to pay it.

  “What was it?”

  A talisman forged in the great dwarven hall of Nidavellir. It grants power over all the elements.

  Ingifrith nodded. That would be attractive to a demon, she supposed. Creasing her brow, she asked, “Why would a Niflsekt bother tossing about with a mortal warlock?”

  He was using him. A mortal has power over the Otherworld that a High Immortal does not. High Immortals must abide Free Code, which forbids them to summon an Other and command it against its will. Mortals are under no such restrictions, as it is usually impossible for them to meet the Rule of Exchange for a being such as myself.

  “So the Niflsekt used Vargn to get around Free Code.”

  Just so. The Niflsekt sought to compromise the Gate without the Fylking knowing who was behind it and thought to use me to that end. Failing that, he taught Vargn great sorcery so he could accomplish his goals another way. Which he very nearly did. The Niflsekt promised him a place on the Fylking homeworld and freedom from Hel’s domain.

  He breathed a laugh that send a chill over Ingifrith’s scalp.

  Vargn was deceived. He died at the hands of a warrior in the Second Gate War, as you call it, and went to Hel regardless. Now, from the Otherworld, he holds me out of spite.

  The Second Gate War. As the stories went, a powerful warlock gathered a fearsome army of draugr, which he used to set Fjorgin against Dyrregin as a distraction from his purposes. Ingifrith would never forget the day that something—she never saw it, but had dreamed of it for months—had come through the Veil over the Apex of the Gate in the far north of Dyrregin and nearly destroyed the world of Math. She heard it roar; everyone had. It crushed a mountain range and turned the tower to rubble. They called it a demon, and in every story she had heard, it was described differently.

  Halogi drew near, caressing her with light. “Why would Vargn summon a fire demon?” Ingifrith said. “An earth demon would be able to shake a tower to the ground.”

  For a moment, he said nothing. He wavered a little, like a weak flame threatened by a gust of wind. The demons of water and earth were of sound resolve, for they did not come. I did.

  “Why?”

  He flared his nostrils. Arrogance.

  The sadness in his voice made Ingifrith want to pity him, but his ancient nobility wouldn’t bear that. “My mother used to say there’s no such thing as a tr
ap without a spring. That every situation has chaos built into it, like a crack in a fortress wall. Surely, there’s a way you can escape this place.”

  He moved away and paced the floor like a mountain cat. He cast her a glance. You are wise, Brave One.

  Ingifrith gazed into the fire as irony darkened her heart. Nothing had sprung the trap Grimar and his friend had set for Ingifrith in the meadow that day. Chaos had destroyed her worth like a knife cutting a weed at the root. Yet here she was giving her mother’s advice to an arrogant demon.

  He stopped pacing. When Ingifrith looked up, he was standing there, smoldering, regarding her curiously. Wisdom oft comes with pain, Brave One.

  “Stop calling me that.” She felt about as brave as a barn cat mauled by a farmer’s hounds. She pulled her blanket close and returned her attention to the fire. “What would happen if you just left? What holds you?”

  That would give Vargn the power to destroy me.

  “After he tricked you into defying him? Are there no rules or codes against that?”

  The demon rumbled with laughter. Brave...and innocent. Vargn paid my price, and that bound me to him. It was a trap.

  Ingifrith studied the dirt under her nails. “You said the Niflsekt acquired the talisman for him. Doesn’t that mean Vargn did not pay the price? What’s an exchange if it isn’t something we get by our own effort?”

  Halogi fell so quiet behind her that she thought he had left, tired of her foolish questions. She twisted around. He hovered in the air, flames beating around him, his face luminous. As he grinned, she noticed fangs.

  He hissed like a snake and vanished, leaving the room in cold silence.

  ~*~

  Ingifrith awoke as gray light crept through the window in her cell. She closed her eyes and groaned as she tried to move. The creaky cot had done nothing good for the hurts the Fylking had put on her. She had dreamed over and over of being thrown across the plain. In one dream, the plain was burning; in another, it was flooded. In all of them, the beautiful Fylking warlord stared down at her in scorn.