She put her other hand over his. “When dealing with the Otherworld, you must never make assumptions.” She lifted a hand and drew the threads, spinning, to the sky. Stars scattered like drops of rain spiraling down the strand. “In learning to see, you have changed. You are becoming what you are.”
The cold light of awareness cast a shadow over him. He had changed; he had grown dark, more inclined to take on things that crossed the boundaries of honor. He looked up, his eyes burning. “I changed when I lost you.”
“That is the nature of change.” Her golden hair gleamed like sunlight. “I am no longer the woman you knew, Othin. I walk among the stars, in the infinite darkness of Elivag. I have but this one chance to look upon you again, as I once promised.” She took him into her arms. “To guide you, and to warn you. Though you are mortal, the High Vardlokk of Chaos sees you as an enemy. If you step into his path, he will crush you.”
She withdrew, moving her delicate fingers over the stitches of the black dragon consuming the tower. “The Niflsekt has a weakness, however. He fears the Norns, the Spinners of Fate, witches who weave in the roots of Yggdrasil. He fears the power of a stitch.” She touched Othin’s forehead with a kiss. “You must not. All things must change.”
The light faded as Othin bowed his head and started to speak. But Millie was gone.
Darkness. A candle, snuffed. Blades hissed from their sheaths. Othin shrugged off his cloak and moved, cutting, parrying. The dying light in the firepit glinted on the edges of swords and in the hard eyes of his foes. The dark one came at him like a shadow, knocking him down. Othin’s head slammed on the floor.
Something pale, long-limbed and gaunt, a wraith with no eyes and long claws, scrabbled over the floor. Othin tried to roll out of the way, but he couldn’t move. The bony fiend jumped on his chest with a triumphant scream. Standing behind the creature was a man, cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath the cowl of his hood.
No business of yours, he hissed.
Teeth bared, the pale demon swiped a claw over Othin’s throat, opening it.
He awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding. Predawn touched the room and the sodden street outside. The hearth was cold. Othin sat up, wincing with stiff muscles. Magreda had draped a blanket over him.
Grief descended over him. The fantasy he had spun by Millie’s grave that spring day came crashing down, a palace of snowflakes struck by the cold sun of realization. The phooka had not saved his life as a kindness, so that Othin could learn second sight and one day take Millie in his arms again.
Millie was gone.
When dealing with the Otherworld, you must never make assumptions.
He had never felt like such a fool. Rage rose up in him, betrayal, the trickery of the unseen. The phooka had let him believe in a lie. Now his hope had been swallowed by a stormy sea that cared nothing for the lives of mortals. Grief was inexorable. And it took his friend Prederi to point it out to him.
Othin got up, rubbing a tear off his face as he would a stain. Magreda was not in the room. Her weapons lay on the bed; her boots sat on the floor beneath. He shuffled to the corner, looking for a piss pot.
Magreda came in while he was at it. “Good morning,” she said, not looking or caring as he finished his business and set the pot aside. Her hair was damp, and she looked refreshed. At least one of them was.
“Morning,” he rasped. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His dream shadowing him like the bony wraith, he gathered his things, walked by Sheila’s kitchen without stopping and headed for the ramshackle barn out back. The lad there, who knew enough to have a ranger’s horse saddled by dawn, was just finishing up. Othin gave him several copper coins stamped with pentacles.
“Are we in a hurry?” Magreda said as she scuttled after him, yanking at her skirt. She mounted her horse and followed Othin to the street. It was still raining. Smoke hung over the chimneys of cottages, forges and inns.
Othin flexed his jaw as Magreda rode up alongside. He had not felt haste before, but with his grief came foreboding. “For your first lesson of the day, a good ranger won’t linger overlong in the comforts of inns and taverns. Get used to not having a bath when you want one. And never leave your weapons behind while you’re at it.” He urged Loge into a stiff trot, heading for the road to Merhafr.
Magreda muttered something under her breath in Skolvarin. Othin, who had been to war down there, knew the language and picked up the word for male genitalia. He ignored it, thinking Magreda might as well enjoy her little freedoms while she could. If she made a remark like that to Genfawr—who was fluent in five languages, including Skolvarin—he would knock her off of her horse into the mud and make her walk.
They came in sight of the gates of Merhafr later that morning, their horses slick and lathering at the bit. Beyond the tops of the trees lining the road, the gates towered in the mist, elegant white stone laced with gold and silver patterns. In the arch, the mosaic of a goat gazed down, cast in gold and pearl, its hooves and long spiraling horns set in smoky quartz. In place of hindquarters, it had the tail of a fish, made of dark, multicolored stones.
Just above the road flew a raven, heading straight toward Othin. The bird neared, careening on wide wings as it came to Othin’s arm. “Well,” he said, stroking the huge bird with his fingers as it folded its wings with a quork. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were waiting for me.”
Smiling and making a sound of delight in her throat, Magreda reached out to the bird before Othin could stop her. The raven ruffled its head feathers with a harsh, raspy croak and snapped at her hand, drawing blood. She yanked it away with a start. “Horrid beast!” she yelped, holding her hand with a black look. “You said they were tame.”
“Forgive me, I should have warned you,” Othin said distractedly, unraveling the linen from the bird’s leg. Foreboding prickled in his gut. “They’re only friendly to rangers. Anyone else, they’ve been known to take fingers.” He unfolded the message. It was hastily written, and bore Diderik’s seal. We have a situation in the Square. Make haste. - HCDL
Othin spoke a soft word to the raven to bid it to return and then released it to the sky. Serious indeed, to send the bird when they could have waited. The high constable knew Othin would be arriving today. “I am needed.”
He urged his horse into a canter toward the gate, Magreda following. Their horses splashed through muddy puddles. “As part of your training, you’ll be sent to an aviary to become familiar with the birds,” he explained. “They’ll like you once they know who you are.”
She nodded, her dark eyes fixed on the gates as they approached. Othin exchanged nods with the guards in the barbicans. He rode through the wide stone opening and into the street, heading for a fork that led to the King’s Citadel.
As he came into view of the portcullis, he checked his mount, turned and maneuvered the beast behind a statue that stood at the intersection of the fork, to avoid being seen by the man standing there.
A man cloaked and hooded in black. His back was turned, revealing pale, intricate markings stitched at the base of his hood. Wolf. Moons. Thorns.
Magreda came around the other side of the statue with a puzzled stare. “Another lesson?” She glanced up at the towering marble sculpture, a warrior on a horse wearing a flowing cloak and a pentacle on his chest. Called The Ranger, it had stood here for over five centuries.
“At the end of the main street there’s an inn called the Grove,” Othin said. “Let a room, stay in it and wait for me.”
“What? Why?”
He leveled a warrior’s gaze on her. “Shit marks for following orders. Go.”
Her cheeks coloring, she turned her mount and trotted into the street.
Othin waited until she was well out of sight. Drawing Loge’s head away from the flowers planted at the base of the statue, he rode around the blind side, wrath simmering in the pit of his belly.
The presence of the Fenrir Brotherhood might amount to nothing. But though grief had made th
e ranger foolishly assume he knew the intentions of a phooka, he was under no such delusions where a sorcerer was concerned.
The Law of Sanctuary
Othin rode to the citadel gates, images of demons, traitors, mercenaries and svartr trees harrying his mind. Whatever this sorcerer was doing here, standing near the portcullis like a beggar, it wasn’t Othin’s place to question him. But he wanted a reason. He rode by, gazing down with pointed disdain. The sorcerer watched him with a dark, narrow gaze. As Othin rode on, he opened his inner senses. At first he felt nothing...then his spine rippled as a thin, pale thread snaked out toward his back.
Splendid.
He stopped. Battle fury churning in his blood, he turned and rode back, then checked his horse. He leaned forward and uttered a command that the Masters of Faersc had taught him, an invocation that drew on the light of the Gate. The wardens had told him that to some Others, particularly those of a sinister bent, the light burned like fire.
The sorcerer blinked. The snaky thread withdrew with a start.
“That’s better,” Othin said. “How about you shove off.”
The sorcerer’s eyes filled with hate. He spun on his heel and moved into the street, vanishing into the crowd.
Othin let out his breath, turned Loge and rode through the press of people in the narrow way. Now he knew the sorcerer was up to no good—and the sorcerer knew Othin was able to see it. There was a chance the Dark Lords of Ylgr knew that already, thanks to Rande. This man might not be associated with them, but Othin preferred to assume otherwise. He wondered if the Fenrir Brotherhood had always been so bold. Before he had learned to see, he wouldn’t have known.
Othin reached the stable, dismounted and handed his reins to a stablehand with a heavy limp. “Hail, Ebbe.” The young man had been crippled in the war, yet he moved around remarkably well and could out-ride any warrior in the citadel.
“Captain Forres,” the youth returned. “Shall I bring your things to your room?”
Othin nodded. “Thank you. Have you considered my offer to become a messenger for the North Branch?”
Ebbe glanced into the stable interior. “Master Sargron hasn’t given me an answer yet.” His face brightened. “But he hasn’t said no.”
Othin smiled. “Good.” Sargron, the stable master, was a notorious curmudgeon.
“War God!” someone shouted from across the corridor. A tall man cloaked in woad blue strode across the way, his hood down. Alaric. Othin stepped out into the street as the ranger approached. The two men clasped arms.
“Well met, Alaric,” Othin said. “What’s going on?”
“Trouble, I’m afraid.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to check that he wasn’t followed. “The sort of trouble I’d hoped to leave in Ylgr.”
Othin accompanied him toward a wide, torchlit arch where rangers and guardsmen came and went. “Don’t tell me. Fenrir Brotherhood.”
Alaric turned to speak, then shook his head. “Well, yes and no. We summoned you before they came.”
“They?”
“Three Fenrir sorcerers, Adepts I believe, carrying extradition orders from the king.”
Othin cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “I saw one of them out there. He tried to send something my way, to get information.” He hesitated. “Extradition orders for whom?”
“Remember Leofwine Klemet?”
“Of course I do. If it wasn’t for him, we’d still be at war with Fjorgin. And I’d still have Arvakr.” He slowed his pace as this dawned on him. “Are you saying Leofwine is here?”
“Aye, he’s here. Don’t ask me how or why. He showed up in the lower common room and collapsed. He’s in a right bad state. Gone mad with fever. Called out for you. Lord Lisefin knew you were coming in. We hoped you might be able to help.”
Othin followed Alaric through a set of tall oak doors carved with a pentacle surrounded by ravens in flight. “What does the Fenrir Brotherhood want with him?”
Alaric shrugged. “Who knows? One of them, an Adept he said, claimed he could help, and Lisefin was going to let him into the healing hall. I persuaded him against it. How’d they know Leofwine was sick? And why in Hel did he come here—through the tunnels? He was on the run. Those black bastards were all but clawing down the doors to get to him—and they aren’t looking to help or I’m a fucking mermaid.”
“Good call. Let’s hope one of them doesn’t return with the King’s Guard.”
Alaric flashed a grin. “They tried that. Lisefin is keeping Leofwine under the Law of Sanctuary.”
Othin breathed a laugh. In times of war, the law provided protection for the sick or badly wounded until they were well enough to handle their fates. “We have to be at war to invoke Sanctuary.”
“As far as I’m concerned, after what happened in Ylgr at the hands of the Dark Lords, we are at war. Lisefin agreed.”
They walked in heavy strides to the north side of the Rangers’ Square. The halls grew brighter as light filtered through the tall windows lining the corridor. The sound of running water murmured nearby. They passed through another arch with ivy clinging in great swaths along the stones. In the center of a large chamber stood a tree, carved in wood with thin, crystal leaves in shades of green and blue hanging from the boughs. Around the base, a burbling fountain fed a lush garden. Small statues of frogs, turtles and water fowl were tucked amid the glossy foliage.
Doors surrounded the chamber, some of them open, others closed. By one door, flanked by a pair of topiaries, paced Diderik. He spoke with two rangers from the East Branch. He looked up as Othin approached.
“There you are.” He clapped Othin on the back. The other rangers nodded respectfully and departed.
“Milord,” Othin said.
Diderik opened the door. “He called for you, I’m told. Maybe if you’re here, he’ll come around.”
As Othin entered the room, an icy chill spread on his flesh and spiraled down his back. The room smelled strongly of herbs. Selene, Mistress of the Healing Hall, sat in a chair by the bed. Another healer stood nearby, grinding something into a mortar. Selene had been taking care of the aches and pains of rangers longer than most of them had been alive. She was a small woman, maternal and vivacious as a finch—unless one was foolish enough not to do as one was told. Better to cross Hel herself.
At the end of the bed stood a tall man with sandy, graying hair and a gaunt face that had seen many years of regrets and hard choices. He wore the fine clothes of a royal, with no decoration but for a seal around his neck showing an ancestral coat of arms.
Othin bowed his head and placed his fist on his heart. “Lord Halstaeg. I would that we had met in a kinder situation.”
“Captain Forres,” the former high constable said briskly. The two men had become enemies during the war. After slipping a trap Halstaeg had laid for him to cover up an egregious lapse of protocol, Othin played a part in exposing the high constable’s machinations, which led to a dishonorable fall in station. Halstaeg and Leofwine had also been lovers, and by his anxious manner and the lines on his face, Halstaeg still had feelings for his former seneschal—despite the fact he had charged Leofwine with high treason to save his own skin.
Selene got up and offered Othin her chair. “Captain.” She cast a worried glance at Diderik. As Othin approached and sat down by his friend, his heart skipped a beat.
The figure in the bed was not the man he remembered. Behind him, Selene spoke, describing symptoms, words, something about choking and ranting and the color black. Othin barely heard her. Leofwine was as thin as a wraith. On his flesh, pale as a corpse, snaked thick, black lines, as if his veins had swelled and darkened with ink. His fingers clutched the edges of his blankets like claws, his lips gray and moving as if he were silently muttering spells. His eyes were open, staring at something only he saw.
No ordinary illness, this. Swallowing against a dry throat, Othin reached for his hand. It was stiff and cold. “Leofwine,” he pleaded softly. “It’s me, Othin. Please come back to u
s.” The chill that had crept over him when he entered the room deepened, like a scream on his spine. His forehead began to vibrate, and he felt dizzy.
Then he fell.
The darkness was complete—the first darkness, the oldest darkness. It was Leofwine, his presence, the essence of him, drained of light. Something was wrong. Something that belonged in the sorcerer’s heart had gone missing. Frightened out of his wits, Othin cried out. The darkness absorbed the cry; nothing heard him. He was not a seer or a magician; he was a fool on the wrong side of an infinite wall, the unceasing Veil.
Something is missing.
Othin snapped into his body by the bed, breathing heavily, damp with sweat. His heart racing, he released Leofwine’s hand. He felt as if he had just awakened from a nightmare.
“Othin?” Alaric said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Diderik came to his side. “What did you see?”
“Nothing. I’m all right.” Something is missing.
A wolf.
Leofwine’s state had not changed. Gently, Othin leaned forward and moved his arms to draw back the covers. Halstaeg inhaled as if to say something but then decided against it. Othin pushed away the linen gown on Leofwine’s chest to see the tattoo he knew was there, the mark of a Fenrir sorcerer, the same mark they wore on the backs of their cloaks.
Selene leaned over his shoulder, and her breath caught. “Ana!” she exclaimed, prompting the other healer to look up with a start. “Why did you not tell me of this?”
But for rivers of veins running black, Leofwine’s chest was pale and unmarked. The tattoo was gone.
Halstaeg and Diderik came around to see. Halstaeg turned as pale as wax. “That is not possible.”
“It was there before!” Ana squeaked. “By the Witch Goddess, I swear!”
Othin replaced the covers, leaned back and turned to Diderik. “I don’t believe it was me Leofwine was calling for.”
“The Allfather?” Selene breathed.
Halstaeg threw her a tired glance. “What can we do?”
Othin stood up. “We need Bren.”
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 62
