Ingifrith watched, feeling nothing. The captain, his face as white as a gutted fish, ran to her, waving his arms. He cried something in Catskoll that ended with “Save him!”
“She won’t kill him.”
The first mate choked in agony, his fingers clutching the black, slippery cord. That wasn’t part of the deal. The monster released the blond sailor, throwing him over the deck. He slammed through a rail and tumbled down the ladder. The captain and another ran to him. Clutching his throat, he groaned as they rolled him over.
The monster still held the ship.
Her cheek and throat screaming in pain and her long hair moving on the wind, Ingifrith settled into unearthly calm, the stillness of rage. Her heart had merged with Maworfae’s as if she had turned into water and spilled into the sea. The sailors stood, turned and watched her, their lives hanging in balance.
The captain stepped forward. His hand shook as he pointed. “You sink my ship, you die too.”
Ingifrith lifted her chin. “No, I won’t.”
A measured pause. “What you want?”
“Safe passage to Merhafr.” She paused. “And something to eat.”
Nodding briefly, the captain pointed at the ship in the distance. “And them?” Despite his evasive maneuvers, the sorcerers’ vessel had drawn close enough to reveal the wolf, moons and thorns on the sail. A man stood on the prow, his black cloak billowing on the wind.
Maworfae, Ingifrith called, her voice caressing a chill on her flesh. The crew murmured and looked around in fear as the tentacles uncoiled and slowly submerged, swirling in the waters. The ship rocked as the beast gathered itself and slipped under the surface. An unnatural wave rolled to the west, where the sorcerers’ ship sailed through the mist. Ingifrith could hear their cries of panic drifting across the water. The prow of the ship shifted north as the crew made a desperate course change.
Silence fell over the Midnight Fog as the sea witch, towering and implacable, enveloped the Fenrir ship. The crunch of wood, roar of water and screams of men drifted across the space, the pearly sheen of a nightmare in the morning mist. Wolf blood. Ingifrith’s heart pounded as she watched the last sharp edges of the sorcerer’s ship sink into the waves. She recalled Maworfae’s hungry reaction as Ingifrith had requested protection from the sorcerers. Whatever the Fenrir Brotherhood had done to get on the witch’s black side, it must have been bad.
Ingifrith looked up to find the entire crew of the Midnight Fog staring at her.
“They won’t bother us now,” she said to the captain, in response to his earlier question.
He snapped out of his shock and hollered at his men. They jumped and scrambled to comply with his orders.
Sagging with pain and exhaustion, Ingifrith lowered herself and sat against a wooden box strapped onto the rail around the companionway. A chill touched her heart as she lifted her gaze. The first mate huddled against the foremast, his blond hair in a damp tangle, a row of bleeding scratches on his face and his throat mottled by sucker marks. He glowered at her with the hatred of an age.
A beaten hero. If he got his way, this journey would not be the end of things.
~*~
It was midday when Ingifrith finally heard a shout from above that the Midnight Fog had come in sight of land. Now well fed but weary of the evasive, black looks of the crew, Ingifrith had gone below into the hold, out of sight. The dun hound had followed her and plopped by her side. Its owner either didn’t know the dog was down there or thought it might intimidate her into staying put. She appreciated the company, however it was.
Hearing the shouts, the beast got up and bounded up the steps. Ingifrith followed it.
The sky was heavy, the wind chill and mist shrouded the shore. Whitecaps stippled the dense, gray waves. A tower loomed above the murk, silent and staring cold: Tower Sor, the gatetower near the port of Merhafr. Making a personal note to avoid the place, Ingifrith waited, her palms damp and her belly in knots. Cliffs rose up from the shore, pale and streaked with gray. The sea crashed and churned against them.
By the time the Midnight Fog drifted into the narrow harbor and approached a relatively empty section of the wharves, Ingifrith felt sick. The captain made a point to avoid the crowded jumble and bring the ship into a gray, desolate spot that looked like the home of cargo ships.
Beneath the whispers and chills of the unseen, the first mate’s presence shadowed Ingifrith like a predator. A hero hunting monsters, he limped about, talking to the others in Catskoll, casting her glances. They could have been discussing navigation, taverns, the weather or how to dispose of the body. She gripped the beam and studied the worn-down buildings clustered along the shore, the alleys and the street beyond, plotting her escape. Her situation reminded her how fragile her gentle arrangement with the Otherworld was. The obfuscation spells of sylphs, elementals or even the phooka could render her unremarkable so that people wouldn’t notice her and sorcerers wouldn’t be able to locate her with magic, but if she interacted with people, or was spotted by someone accustomed to scrying crowds for opportunities, such as a thief, the spells were less effective. They had never outright protected her from anything. That required a price.
Her payment to Maworfae was about to include her skin.
The Midnight Fog seemed to shrink as the crew moved about in preparation. Ingifrith did her best to stay out of their way. They weren’t looking at or speaking to her now. As if she were already dead.
She gathered herself like a coil as the crew moored the ship and the gangplank hit the wharf. The men lined up on either side, their eyes stony as she stepped up and went down. She didn’t run; that would be fatal. Until she reached the wharf.
Then she ran for her life.
As she made for a cluttered passage between two buildings, Ingifrith risked a backward glance. The crew flowed onto the wharf like a pack of wolves catching sight of an abandoned fawn. Now on land, they made no gestures to ward off evil, no pleas, no prayers to sea gods. They were mean, angry men, and she had swindled them.
Ingifrith fled between the buildings, gray and beaten by wind and salt. She leapt over crates, threw anything behind her she could lift, and headed for the light of a street at the end of the alley. People moved there.
The air at the end of the passage seemed to blur. The light wavered, casting a shadow over the rough stones. Ingifrith stumbled and slowed as a form appeared, pale and shimmering with tears. It held something in its arms. The voices of sailors came from behind her, echoing off the alley’s close walls. Too frightened to question what she saw, Ingifrith burst onto the street.
She ran into a cart that appeared from the other side of the building. Someone shouted at her as bread loaves, fish and fruit hit the ground and rolled into the crowd. Pawing at the edges of the cart to get around it, Ingifrith kept moving, hopping and threading through the mess to escape her pursuers.
Across the narrow way, now full of people laughing and cheering her on, the specter appeared again. It stood in the shadows between a workshop and a row of squalid shacks with brightly colored doors. Sensing the apparition meant her no harm, Ingifrith ran toward it.
Her breath caught with a shriek as someone grabbed her and spun her around, nearly wrenching her arm from its socket. The first mate, his face red and his eyes ablaze, hustled her across the street toward the alley. He gripped her so hard by the arm she thought it would snap in half. She swore at him, bringing a round of appreciative shouts and rough suggestions from the crowd.
The first mate hustled her into the narrow confines of the alley. It stank of urine, soot and mold. He wrapped his fist in her hair and slammed her against the wall. Ingifrith struggled in his grip and then froze as a knife flashed at her throat. She had no tricks now. She had stripped the hero of his pride and protection, and now he would have his revenge. No one would take Maworfae’s side. Heroes always won.
“Thieving witch,” he growled between his teeth. “You planned it all along, didn’t you? Snuck on my ship to take
what wasn’t yours to take.”
As the cold edge of the blade pressed against her throat, Ingifrith closed her eyes and said, “I had no choice.”
It wasn’t completely true. But the sea witch had seen the stains of scorn on her heart, knew her for what she was and wouldn’t have let her leave the cave without agreeing to something.
“Why’s the Brotherhood after you, eh? Did you try it with them?”
“I saved your lives,” Ingifrith reminded him.
He snorted. “You saved your own.”
In the street, someone shouted in Catskoll. It sounded like an alarm. Snarling like a hound holding onto a scrap of meat, the first mate dragged Ingifrith farther into the dark, holding the knife against her flesh. “I know a thing or two,” he panted. “I’ll gather your blood and use it to take back what’s mine. Aye, I will.”
Ingifrith didn’t think it worked like that, but there was no point in reasoning with him. Her spirit gathered for flight. On the edge of the Veil, a woman wept, sighing on the wall, fading to dust. Then the apparition screamed, putting a chill on Ingifrith’s spine that froze her heart.
Something as big and swift as a wolf filled the alleyway. The first mate’s knife fell to the ground as a man clad in gray and black pulled him back from Ingifrith. The stranger slammed the sailor against the wall, hit him once in the gut and again in the face, and then clutched him by the throat and dragged him out into the street, where he dropped him in a heap.
Ingifrith didn’t move. For a moment, she considered fleeing before she was thrown into another gaol. But this new man had just saved her life. The Otherworldly chill returned, creeping on her neck like a caress. She turned around with a start. The alley wound off into shadow, damp and empty. As she returned her attention to the street, a pale form fled before her eyes, settled around the man who had just come to her aid and vanished.
Against her better sense, Ingifrith edged out into the light. In the street, the sailors of the Midnight Fog had scattered like rats, including the captain.
“You sodding piece of shit,” the tall warrior growled, unaware of the specter. He had blond hair braided in the back and wore a black hauberk embossed with a pentacle. Ingifrith recalled what Leofwine had told her about the elite order of warriors who roamed the wilds of Dyrregin to keep order. A King’s Ranger. His gear was weathered and appeared to have seen many leagues. His blue cloak swayed around his boots as he circled the sailor, rubbing his fist with his other hand. “Your name and ship, if you please.”
The sailor spat blood into the dirt. “First Mate Darien of Fell, on the Midnight Fog out of Catskoll,” he said in flawless Dyrregian.
“Well, Darien of Fell, you may be able to harry women in the streets of Catskoll, but being a man of Dyrregin, I think you know we have laws.”
“She’s a witch and a thief,” he declared. “Snuck onto our ship and used magic to force us to give her passage.”
The ranger turned to Ingifrith. “Is this true?”
She nodded hesitantly. She didn’t want to lie to this man, but if she defended her side of it, the first mate might bring up the Fenrir Brotherhood, and she thought better of that.
“Did you harm anyone?” the ranger asked her.
“No.”
The first mate growled a laugh, gesturing to the nail and sucker marks on his face and neck. “Lying bitch stole my property and put these on me. She summoned a monster that damaged our ship and nearly killed us all. I’ll have justice.”
Bristling at the sailor’s one-dimensional account, Ingifrith bit back a retort.
The ranger leaned down, lifted the first mate to his feet and held him by the neck of his tunic. The muscles in his jaw flexed. “Will you now? Men like you care little for justice on the sea, where the laws are your own.” He released him with a shove. “You’re in my jurisdiction, now.”
The first mate’s face contorted with wrath. “That demon whore—”
The blond-haired ranger hit him again, sending him sprawling. “Your manners need work,” he said casually. He drew a sword, prompting the sailor to skitter back on the ground like a crab. “And what were you seeking for payment, eh? I’m reporting you to the city marshal. You have one day. Then you leave.” He held the tip of his blade at the man’s throat. “If you or any of your men so much as break an ale mug, you’ll be hanged and your ship commandeered. Understand?”
The first mate scampered up and limped off, joining the captain amid the crowd that had gathered. After a moment, the two men vanished in the press.
“You’re letting him go?” Ingifrith said.
The ranger turned, his gaze sweeping over the length of her as he sheathed his sword. “You cheated him, did you not?”
She took a deep breath. “I was robbed of my belongings in Antesh. He had an amulet in his possession that he stole from the Otherworld. I was asked to get it back in return for passage.”
The ranger snorted a laugh. “There are easier ways to get from Fjorgin to Dyrregin than tricking a pirate.” Casting a steely gaze over the docks, he started walking north, following the water. Ingifrith had to run to catch up to him.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said.
He said nothing; no doubt he was only doing his job. She no longer sensed the specter she had seen, but this man had a shadow on his heart, like an echo.
He glanced down at her. “I take it Darien of Fell put those bruises on you?”
She nodded.
“What did you summon, exactly?”
“A sea witch.”
He lifted a brow. “A sea witch.”
“The first mate took her love and stole her power. She trapped me in a cave and wouldn’t let me leave unless I agreed to her demand. I needed—” To get out of Fjorgin, she didn’t finish. Halogi said so.
“What business do you have in this land that’s important enough to bargain with the Otherworld for passage—on a Catskoll pirate ship?” he inquired. “Are you on the run?”
“No!” Heat rushed into her cheeks. “I’m not a gutter waif or a thief.” My father is House Earticael and my brother is a Fenrir sorcerer. That, she would also keep, especially after what had happened in Rivergate. “I’ve done nothing wrong. If not for me, the sea witch would’ve devoured them.” As she did the Fenrir ship, she added with a shudder at the image of the splintering, sinking timbers. Wolf blood. She couldn’t believe her fortune, that the first mate hadn’t mentioned that.
“Indeed.” The ranger’s tone was dry; clearly, he did not believe her. She sensed he was tired, so tired that he didn’t really care about the amulet, anything she had done or why she was here.
Just then, two men came into view, armed and dressed in gray and red livery. Dyrregin Guard. Before the war, Ingifrith had seen many of them in Earticael. The ranger nodded to her briskly and then hailed the guardsmen. They raised their hands in greeting as he approached.
Thus dismissed, Ingifrith stood there for a moment and then slunk off like a hungry dog into the shadows of the ramshackle buildings on the far side of the street.
~*~
Ingifrith didn’t know what made her follow the blond-haired ranger as he concluded his business with the guardsmen and continued on his way. Her feet moved by themselves. Perhaps it was because she had no idea what she was going to do now that she was here. Or perhaps it was the apparition that appeared again by the ranger’s side.
The specter faded in and out of her perception, making it difficult to discern. An air of profound sadness surrounded it. It was a woman, tall and plainly dressed. It was not a nymph, an elf or any other kind of Otherworld creature. It was not supposed to be here. As Ingifrith blinked, she realized the spirit held a child. It shone brightly against the anguished sky of its mother’s love like a morning star.
The ranger wandered aimlessly but with some goal in mind. He reached the end of the docks and entered a narrow way between a cluster of houses strung with clotheslines and edged by tidy gardens and yards containing chickens, ge
ese and goats. Gulls wheeled and cried over the thatched rooftops. The ranger turned onto a cobbled street and passed a tavern. Then he stopped and went inside. The specter vanished.
Ingifrith leaned against a wall on the far side of the street. Somehow, she had to get to Faersc before winter—and what would she do if they sent her away? She had no coin. She would need to find food and shelter in an unfamiliar land. The more she thought about it, the more foolish her plan became.
As she stood there juggling her options like a court idiot, the ranger emerged from the tavern. He lifted a bottle to his mouth, tore the cork out with his teeth and spit it into the street. Then he tilted the bottle back as if his life depended on it and kept walking. The specter swirled from the Veil like a shroud, ending any doubt that it was attached to him.
Ingifrith started after, keeping a respectful distance.
The ranger walked through a tangle of streets, hitting his bottle, ignoring everyone he passed. They gave him space. Just as Ingifrith wondered if the city went on forever, he came into view of a graveyard, sprawled over steep, wooded tiers overlooking the sea. Bottle in hand, the ranger hopped a stone wall and plodded down through a tangle of old crooked trees, bushes, walls and gravestones, some so old they could not be read.
The specter swirled around him, settling on the cold ground as the ranger stopped by a lonely pile of small stones. Bindweed grew on the mound of a new grave, thinning the Veil and holding the ranger’s heart like an old man’s bony grip. It was patchy, but carefully planted. The ranger lowered himself to his knees, one hand clutching his bottle, the other, the dirt. The specter, now more substantial, settled onto the grave, holding her child with love in her eyes.
For a moment, the specter’s gaze touched Ingifrith’s with strange pleading.
Her heart thumping, Ingifrith crept closer. Then she sat against a stone with a vine twining around it. “You are holding her here,” she said.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 55
