Trisker slowed and stopped as the path grew sodden. Not far ahead, it vanished into a marsh. Cattails, grasses and irises grew in and around pools stippled by rain. The horse stepped about, chest heaving, sweat glistening on her coat. Grasshoppers chirruped. A frog croaked and splashed into the water.
Ingifrith raised her head, still clinging to the horse, her back rippling with darkness and fire. Ahead, beside the gray, twisted trunk of a willow tree, stood three figures cloaked in black. Pale and silent, they had found her at last. One of them raised a crooked hand, causing Trisker to back up and rear. Ingifrith lost her hold and fell.
She hit the muck with a splash. Hoofbeats struck the sodden earth, growing more faint as Trisker left her. The thing on her back snarled and writhed, rending her flesh. Her mind went blank, mist rolling from the sea, the scent of mud and lilies. A breeze swelled in the trees.
The figures closed in. One of them uttered a word.
The Veil opened, and an enormous wolf, black and shining with cold stars, emerged into the day.
A New Recruit
Othin of Cae Forres rode at a steady pace along the North Coastal Road, the city of Fell behind him. The sea was gray beneath a sunrise shrouded in fog.
A moon had passed since he, Bren, Prederi and Heige had fled from the Moor’s Edge pursued by a vengeful company bent on the rangers not seeing another day. Alaric, being the quiet sort that he was, had fooled them all. While they had been placing bets on when Rande and the brooding ranger would get into bed, Alaric was noting things about his would-be lover, subtle, dangerous hints in her behavior that had eluded the rest of them. If Bren hadn’t thrown a shackle into the whole thing by getting himself captured, Rande’s deception might have come to light anyway.
When Rande didn’t return from patrol the day Othin and his companions set out for Ylgr, Alaric sensed trouble. He was ready when the sheriff’s men showed up at the Birkan station to set it alight and burn it to the ground. Outnumbered, sustaining minor burns and an arrow in his shoulder, Alaric rode into the village, awoke an old man there who kept carrier pigeons, and sent a message to the rangers’ station in Antl. Then he and fifteen rangers rode north of Ylgr’s border, finding Othin and his exhausted men just before they had succumbed to the company of thieves and assassins on their heels. It was a rout, one that closed the borders of Ylgr to all but a formal declaration of war.
If Othin had anything to do with it, that declaration would be swift.
He had lingered up here, recovering his strength, gathering information, relaying reports to Merhafr, meeting with rangers and plotting reprisal. He would honor the sheriff’s demand that the King’s Rangers stay out of Ylgr only as long as it took to gather an army. In the meantime, he had sent Bren and Prederi back to Merhafr to serve in the city under Captain Genfawr of the West Branch, a grim man who would flay the two rangers alive if they ever took liberties with his trust the way they had with Othin’s.
By his side rode Magreda of Tahslen, formerly a night woman in the Pink Rose cathouse and now a new recruit. Raised on the streets of a port in the south famous for outlaws, mercenaries, pirates and cutthroats, Magreda was no stranger to a fight. She also had an arcane intuition that bordered on the supernatural. Dressed in leggings, a short woolen skirt, a leather tunic and worn boots with salt stains on them, Magreda was quiet, her dark gaze sweeping over the land. All of her things were packed onto the back of her horse, which Othin had procured from the rangers’ station in Grayfen. The beast had belonged to Tasn.
The Pink Rose was one of the first casualties of the Second Gate War. One evening before hostilities broke out, Othin had come to the cathouse for information. He was in Magreda’s bed when draugr attacked the house. The ghouls killed the mistress of the brothel and the mercenary on guard outside before setting fire to the place. In the aftermath, Magreda shored up the damage and took over.
After the war, Othin had visited the Rose whenever his travels took him through Fell. Very early this morning, refreshed and ready to return to Merhafr for the business at hand, he found Magreda sitting in the kitchen, gazing out the window while a pot of porridge swelled dangerously close to a mess. It appeared she hadn’t slept. In a quiet voice thick with resolve, she had asked him to bring her with him.
He knew the look. The seasons of a sun’s cycle had failed to soften the edges of swords, the ravages of fire and the smell of death. Whatever had brought Magreda to the Pink Rose originally had lost its purpose. War had renewed her taste for another kind of action. She wanted blood.
Wind whipped her hair around as she turned to him, her hands looped in the reins of her horse. “When I’m a ranger, will we still be able to fuck?”
She also had a habit of startling him with abrupt, unsettling questions. A smile spread on his lips. “You aren’t a ranger yet.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Well, there are no rules against captains getting close to their rangers in some way or another. It is frowned upon, because connections like those tend to bring trouble. They have to me. But you won’t be with me anyway, because Diderik won’t start you out on the North Branch.”
“Diderik?”
“The High Constable of the King’s Rangers. He’s a good man. He was previously a captain in the Dyrregin Guard. His integrity is beyond question, and he’s serious about making sure his rangers are well appointed. He’ll probably put you under Captain Genfawr of the West Branch. Keep you close to home until you’re a bit more seasoned.”
“What’s he like? Captain Genfawr?”
“He’s an old war veteran who hates foreigners and thinks every criminal should be hanged from the city gates with a death rune carved into his forehead.”
She burst into laughter. “Are you trying to scare me off?”
“I know better.” He shifted positions in his saddle to ease the tension in his back. The wound in his side still made riding miserable. “Being accepted into the brotherhood will involve more than fighting ruffians and surviving in the wilds, especially now. Genfawr will train you without mercy.”
“Why now?”
“The war taught us things. Command is of a mind to bring on rangers who have a nose for sorcery and the unseen.” He turned to her and smiled. “Which you do.”
She fell silent, then turned to him with an inscrutable look, part witch and all woman. “You still grieve Melisande.”
Irritating, that habit of hers. Othin nodded hesitantly, unsure what he felt and haunted by Prederi’s accusations. Your woman will return to you, and all you have to do is play around in Faersc every moon so you can feel her touch. You’ve lost nothing. The argument had left a fresh scar.
“I’m sorry,” Magreda said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Othin gazed ahead and said nothing.
They rode in awkward silence past inns, farms, workshops, wharves and fisheries. The air grew damp as the skies clouded over. Finally, Magreda said, “They’ll recognize me, you know. The other rangers.”
Othin threw her a glance. “You’re just now thinking of that?”
“There were too many other things to think about.”
Othin scratched at the stubble on his jaw. In a fight, Magreda could take down half the rangers in the brotherhood were she of a mind, but any ranger who knew her would be thinking of something else entirely. “Genfawr has no tolerance for disrespect. If he catches any man harrying you, he’ll castrate him.”
She blurted a laugh. “Before or after he hangs him from the city gates with a death rune carved into his forehead?”
“I’m not kidding about him. He’s nasty.”
They rode down a hill and past a stone wall draped with ivy. Magreda reached into her saddlebags and pulled out something folded in linen. She opened it and held out a strip of jerked venison. Othin shook his head.
She ripped off a hunk with her teeth. “How long will I train before I can go on patrol?” she said with her mouth full.
“That varies. You’ll be put throu
gh a series of tests to see what you know, and your training will be set up accordingly. At some point, they’ll send you out with a seasoned ranger so you can watch and learn.”
“I’ve heard those who’ve been to war get accepted over those who haven’t.”
Othin shook his head. “Many of us have been to war, but we didn’t get preferential treatment. Captains do prefer recruits who’re familiar with one or more aspect of the work, such as arms, survival or tracking.” He gave her an appraising glance. “I’ve seen you fight. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not that good with a sword.”
“You’ll learn.”
As they approached the town of Grayfen, the other travelers on the road stirred and began to move aside. Ahead, riding three abreast, a company of Dyrregin Guard rumbled along the way, kicking up dust and stones. Clad in red tunics, black leggings and gray cloaks, they were fully armed and bore themselves like men going to war. Gesturing to Magreda, Othin moved off the road. There wasn’t much choice.
“Here comes your first test,” he said. She nodded with a hum in the back of her throat.
As the company approached, the leader held up his fist to halt. Forty men piled up behind him as he stopped before Othin. He was well-built, with a thin face, a long nose and eyes set close together. “Lieutenant Sefon, Dyrregin Guard,” he said, his tone as hard as a granite cliff.
“Captain Forres, North Branch, King’s Rangers,” Othin returned politely. He didn’t know Sefon, but he knew his captain, an ambitious man named Crowler with a reputation for ugly politics.
“Headed home to drink wine?” the lieutenant asked, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. On the surface, the snide comment referred to Othin’s family name of Forres, vignerons and winemakers for three centuries. Underneath, it was a clear reference to Othin’s having lost control of Ylgr.
“For a short time,” Othin said, not bothering to rise to the comment. He moved his gaze over the company, fresh from the King’s Citadel, fully armed and pumped up on some blustery briefing. No guessing what they’d been told. “And where are you headed, all dressed and ready to play?”
The lieutenant adjusted the slack in his reins. “Ylgr,” he said, feigning indifference. “It’s a mess up there, we understand.” He turned to Magreda with more interest. “And what have we here?”
“No business of yours,” Othin said flatly. “By whose orders do you march on Ylgr?”
“No business of yours,” Sefon echoed. He moved his horse sidelong to Magreda’s and reached out to touch her. “You his new plaything?” he asked her with a sly glance at Othin.
Withdrawing from the soldier’s hand, Magreda lifted her chin, her eyes dark. “Sod off, you fucking twig.”
One of Sefon’s men wheezed a laugh. Othin cleared his throat, but the blow had fallen. The lieutenant, flushed and livid, straightened his back and lifted his hand to strike Magreda. She jumped as Othin caught the lieutenant’s wrist in an iron grip in front of her face. Gritting his teeth, Othin shoved aside Sefon’s arm and drew his sword.
Holding the tip to the guardsman’s throat with a steely gaze and strong desire to put a smile between his ears, Othin said, “Stand them down.” Gulping, his eyes darting sideways, Sefon waved off his men, who had drawn their swords in response to the clash. Slowly, they complied.
“I’m afraid your orders are my business, Lieutenant,” Othin continued. “Did they come from the king? If so, I’ve not heard it.”
“Captain Crowler,” Sefon said stiffly, staring down the length of the ranger’s blade.
“Of course.” Othin lifted his blade and sheathed it. “And you’ve been fully briefed on the situation, I take it.”
“You failed to restore order. We will not.”
Othin let a faint smile touch his mouth. Failed to restore order. Tasn, Rolf and Rande were dead; Bren and Alaric, nearly so. Oscar, their scarred and nervous scout, was still missing. Ylgr teemed with an army of highwaymen, mercenaries, spies, inbred farmers, ruffians and unseen monsters. Every road, path and soldier was now watched, every inn and tavern pressed into the service of the Dark Lords, a crime ring run by the Fenrir Brotherhood.
Failed to restore order. If only it was that simple. Othin drew back Loge and gestured north. “Well then, Lieutenant Sefon. May the gods be with you.”
Sniffing, Sefon urged his steed onward, his men falling behind him, looking ahead with the expressionless faces of those whom Hel had marked for her own. Not one of them dared a glance at Magreda.
When they had passed, she said, “Shouldn’t you have stopped them?”
Othin leaned on his saddle and watched the company disappear over a rise. “I have no authority over the Guard. If I had tried to tell him what I know, he’d have taken it as a threat and told Crowler. Then I’d be accused of interfering. Crowler wouldn’t like me implying he knows nothing and has sent his men on a hopeless mission. That’s the truth, but I can’t say it.”
“What would happen if you did?”
“I’d be painted as bitter, jealous and unable to handle failure.”
“Are you?”
He smiled, charmed by her casual innocence. “No. Sefon’s mission to Ylgr reeks of ambition and opportunism. Let them try to restore order. When they’re all strung up by Thorn’s men, maybe their command will take this more seriously instead of using it to play hero by making me look bad.”
He returned to the road, Magreda by his side. “I didn’t mean to put you down by speaking for you, back there,” he said. “Sefon was using you as a distraction from my question; he was hoping I assumed his orders came from higher up than Crowler. I wasn’t going to let him draw you into his game. I was ready to bloody the road with him as it was.” He turned to her. “For future reference, did you recognize any of them?”
She shrugged. “I don’t usually see them with clothes on.” Her expression told another tale. “So, how’d I do on my test?”
He hid a smile. “High marks for standing your ground; shit marks for civility. It can be satisfying to call out a fool, but it’s best to pick your battles carefully. Men like Sefon and Crowler have all the integrity of an adder. You don’t want to start something you can’t finish.”
She scowled at the sea. “I did recognize him.”
“You did.” He hesitated. “I confess I’ve not heard someone insulted as a ‘twig’ before.”
She snorted. “That was about the size of it.”
Othin furrowed his brow. “The size of...” He closed his mouth as she rolled her eyes and sighed, as if he were the thickest idiot alive. “Ah. You were referring to the size of his—”
An ornery giggle.
“—manhood,” he muttered. He put his face in his hand, rubbing his eyes. Women knew how to put a punch where it hurt. “That’s brutal, Magreda.”
She grabbed her knife from the sheath on her thigh and carved a death rune into the air. Then she rattled a laugh that put the hair up on Othin’s neck.
Whether Captain Genfawr would love her or want to kill her, he couldn’t yet say.
~*~
It rained lightly as Othin and Magreda crossed the Ceirn River south of Grayfen. They left the coastal road and cut overland until they reached Sibor, a town best known for horses. Large, ancestral farms surrounded a tangled sprawl of stables, saddleries, forges and businesses, including breeders, farriers, marshals, tanners, lorimers and harness makers. Heige, who hailed from Sibor, liked to joke that the entire place smelled of horse dung.
The companions checked into the Palfrey, a run-down inn that Heige often recommended to his friends. It was owned by his aunt Sheila, a weathered woman with wild, white hair piled on her head and hands that could break a man’s neck. Bren was convinced that Sheila’s lover was a shady horse trader, but Heige denied that. Othin once had to break up a drunken fist fight between the two rangers over it. He didn’t care who the mistress’s lover was as long as the bed she gave him didn’t have lice in it.
Afte
r a quiet meal in a nondescript corner of the dining room, Othin and Magreda retired, getting a wink from the tavern mistress as they headed down the corridor to their room. Since they had arrived at such a dim hour, they had to share the only one available. Despite Magreda’s flip comment that morning, she was interested only in sleep. Othin gave her the bed.
Later that night, a glass of wine dangling in his hand, the ranger slouched in a worn leather chair while Magreda slept soundly nearby. His weapons lay in a neat and easily accessible pile on the edge of the bed. He had cracked the window and now listened to the rain tapping in the muddy street outside. A low mist smelling of wood smoke, the sea and horse dung, as Heige would have it, hung in the hollows. A dog barked. Horses clopped over cobblestones.
Othin put aside his glass and settled into his chair, yawning. A wave of heaviness swept through him, tingling in his veins. The wound in his side throbbed. He closed his eyes and his mind drifted, slipping into a night as deep as the seas to the north, unfathomable, cold and glimmering beneath a starry sky alive with the thundering stride of a gray horse, its rider cloaked in mist, hood fluttering over one eye.
Melisande sat at a spindle by the hearth. Glowing with white light, she held a fine strand of wool in her fingers. She turned, her blue eyes shining. “Hail, my love,” she said, returning to her work. Draped over her lap was a knitted image of a tower with a black dragon wrapped around it. Malice emanated from the threads, freezing Othin’s bones.
“Millie.” He went to her and sank to his knees by her side. “Am I dreaming?”
She lowered a slender hand and caressed his face. “Yes. And no.”
“Why have you not come to me? The Gate is open.”
“I am here.” Her smile faded like the last ray of sun before a storm. “War is coming. The Gate will close. Those who can see will be hunted.”
Othin took her hand, soft as a lily. “I am lost without you. I fulfilled the phooka’s request, and learned to see. I thought...” He trailed off. Suddenly, he didn’t know what he’d been thinking.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 61
