“I’ll find him,” Diderik said, and strode from the room.
“Bren of Ottersun?” Halstaeg blurted, his cheeks coloring as if Othin had slapped him.
His mood darkening, Othin looked into the lord’s eyes, a raft of ugly feelings and resentments stirring between them. During the war, Bren had fallen in the grip of the Otherworld and nearly gone mad with visions. Halstaeg, who didn’t believe in magic and feared having his ignorance exposed, had thrown Bren into the seediest gaol in Merhafr to keep him quiet. None of them had quite forgiven him for that.
“As you well know,” Othin said evenly, “Bren is one of the most powerful seers in the realm.” He pointed at Leofwine. “He’s trapped in the Otherworld. If you care for him, I suggest you put aside your intolerance.”
Crumbling with helplessness, the proud lord circled to the chair and sat down, then leaned over his former lover and dropped his head in his hands.
~*~
No hooded Adepts, wraiths or invasive threads lurked around the gates as Othin strode briskly from the citadel wearing a plain gray cloak. He studied the busy street like a spy as he headed for the dark thicket of thorn and apple trees in the distance. The rain had let up, leaving a heavy mist in the air that smelled of animals, the sea, wood smoke and rotting hay. On the far side of the street, a gaggle of geese broke out of a caged wagon and scattered, flapping and yelling as their keeper tried to round them up. From a forge came a draft of heat and the sharp, metallic rhythm of a hammer. Music and laughter flared out from a nearby tavern.
The streets were cluttered with trash: streamers, food scraps, feathers, scarves, broken baubles, wooden signposts and pieces of carts left over from the day before, when the city of Merhafr celebrated the Day of the Lily. The festival marked the end of the Kings’ War, a brief yet bloody skirmish with Fjorgin that took place fifty suns before the Sie War. People moved here and there, picking up the mess and shoving it into baskets.
Othin kept his attention on the spaces between the commotion. By the time he reached the iron fence bordering the small yard in front of the Grove, he had come up with two or three unpleasant chores for Magreda in the event she wasn’t sitting in her room as he had asked her to. An overbearing precaution, perhaps. But as much as Othin appreciated her wildness and spirit, she would need a bit of polishing to wear a ranger’s mantle. Genfawr didn’t have half the patience Othin did.
Othin entered the trees and approached the door to the inn. Lust stirred in his veins. If there wasn’t such a grim cloud hanging on him, he might have considered taking Magreda up on her offhand comment the day before.
A warm draft carrying the scent of baking bread emerged as Othin opened the door. The innkeeper stood behind the bar, cleaning a glass. He was a sturdy man with a carpet of black hair and a crooked nose he had broken in a fight. He looked up and smiled as Othin pushed back his hood.
“Master Othin!” he piped. “What can I do ye for?”
“Hail, Niklas,” Othin said, grasping the man’s hand over the bar. “I’m looking for a friend who was to’ve come in just earlier, to let a room. A woman.”
At the end of the bar, an older man wearing a fisherman’s cap glanced up from a half-empty mug, then returned to it.
Niklas lifted his brow. “Pretty? Warrior?”
“That’s her,” Othin said, relieved. He reached for the purse on his belt. “Has she settled up already?”
The innkeeper hung his glass on an overhead rack and grabbed another. “No, she came in and left again, she did.”
“Left? Why?”
The old fisherman growled a laugh.
“Oh, I couldn’t say,” Niklas said. “She had a friend, though. Odd-looking fellow. He was waiting for her.”
“Fuckin’ wolf,” the fisherman muttered.
Cold washed through Othin’s veins. “What?”
The fisherman gazed into his mug. Fire erupting in his gut, Othin covered the space to the end of the bar in two strides and grabbed the man by the scruffy woolen tunic at his throat. “What did you say?”
“He thinks it was one of those magicians from Fjorgin,” Niklas put in, hanging another glass. “Since the war, folk’ve been seeing them in every shadow, y’know.”
The old man pulled away from Othin’s grip. “Unhand me, you idgit,” he rasped. “‘Twasn’t no shadow. Dressed in black, all dry and pale as a pickled smelt. Up to nothin’ good, I say.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I can smell it.”
“She wouldn’t have gone with him,” Othin said.
“Well, that’s what I was about, him being odd,” Niklas said. “He just stood there by the door,” he gestured, “like he was waiting. She came in, and then left with him. She didn’t say a word.” He shrugged, his face filling with concern. “Could’ve been anything, y’know?”
Sorcery. That’s what it was. Othin recalled his confrontation with the sorcerer at the gates, and the man’s eyes—cold, almost challenging—as he turned and left. The bastard knew about Magreda. A spell, a whisper, wolf eyes staring out from the back of his head—somehow, he knew, came here, cast a spell on her and took her away.
“Did they ride out?” Othin said, heading for the door.
“Don’t know. You’re welcome to check the stables,” Niklas offered.
“They could be halfway to Fjorgin by now!” the fisherman called out as Othin closed the door behind him.
Outside, it was raining again. Othin leaned against a blackthorn tree, his heart pounding. Magreda. He slammed his fist into the trunk. How could he have been so stupid? Breathing heavily, he pushed himself from the tree and ran around to the side of the inn. Magreda’s horse stood tethered there, in the rain, all her things still strapped behind the saddle. A warrior’s stillness descended over him as he untied the beast, mounted, and thundered into the street.
A short time later, Othin emerged from the stables in the King’s Citadel for the second time that day, his resolve only somewhat appeased. After alerting every ranger and cutthroat in the city he could find on short notice, he visited the headquarters of the Dyrregin Guard. There, he’d found Lord Coldevin, Master of Arms, in a council room with several of his commanders, including Captain Crowler. Their stares were cold as Othin asked to speak to Coldevin in private.
Othin told him that the Fenrir Brotherhood was kidnapping innocents in the city under the cloak of extradition orders from the king. Despite needlessly mentioning that Othin should have taken this business to Diderik, his commander, Coldevin displayed the closest thing to surprise Othin had ever seen in the man, who typically revealed nothing of his thoughts. He had no idea if the Master of Arms would act on the information, but by the way he had returned to the council room and curtly dismissed his men, Othin knew he had stirred things up.
He entered the Rangers’ Square to find Diderik standing in the hall with Bren and Alaric. Bren looked like he had just come from an unkind patrol—unkempt, pale, and covered in road dust and mud.
Diderik turned to Othin with a hard look. “Captain Forres,” he said crisply. “Here you are, fresh from a walk in the city, the intentions of which you told me nothing about, jumping the chain of command and angering the Master of Arms with a tale of kidnapping and sorcery. Have I missed anything?”
That was fast, Othin thought. If only the information he wanted traveled that swiftly through the chain of command. “Milord, they have Magreda.”
“What?” Bren breathed. “Who has her?”
“Fenrir Brotherhood. One of them, probably the one I chased off at the gates, went to the Grove, cast some kind of spell on her, and took her away.” He turned to Diderik. “Forgive me, milord. There wasn’t time to come back here and—”
“I understand,” Diderik said. “You are relieved of duty.”
Othin gaped at him, heat filling his cheeks. “Milord?”
“Until Winter Finding,” the high constable added. “The North Branch will report directly to me.”
Othin lowered his head. “Aye, milo
rd.” Winter Finding, the autumnal equinox, was nearly two moons hence. That meant he wouldn’t be involved as they planned war on Ylgr. He wouldn’t even be able to fight.
Diderik turned to Bren. “As for you, smelling of flowers and whisky and looking like you slept in a ditch, I’ve a damned mind to put you with him.”
“I wasn’t on duty, milord,” Bren said.
“You are now,” the high constable returned. “Do you think I don’t know what a hangover looks like?” He whacked Bren on the side of the head with the flat of his hand, causing the ranger to choke as said hangover took its due. His face set, Diderik turned and strode down the hall, lifting a hand to beckon them. “Come along, lads.”
Still stunned, Othin fell in step beside Bren. “Sounds like you had quite a night.”
The red-haired ranger said nothing, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. Finally, he said, “What did you jump command for? If one of us had done that—”
“You’d be doing penance in Merhafr under Captain Genfawr,” Alaric said dryly.
Othin let out his breath, feeling like horseshit. By taking advantage of his good will and acting on their need for closure, Bren and Prederi had done nothing worse than he just had, and for the same reasons. “You’re right,” he said. “I always had doubts about taking this position.”
“Now you have your wish,” Bren grumbled. Whatever he had been up to last night, it had left him uncharacteristically surly. He didn’t want to be here.
Alaric leaned forward and caught Bren’s eye. “If not for War God’s lazy rules, you’d have been discharged from the brotherhood, and Prederi wouldn’t have been allowed to go to Ylgr to save your ass.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d have hated my job that day, watching him over the point of my sword.”
Bren let out a breath with a nod. “I’ll give you that.” He turned to Othin. “Forgive me. So what were you thinking?”
Othin lowered his voice. “This is moving too fast for the chain of command. That slippery fiend snatched Magreda right out from under my nose—to question her, use her against us somehow—I can’t imagine. I was upset. It’s always the same routine, up here. I tell Diderik, he finds time to say something to Coldevin, who responds like a granite brick. Three days later nothing has happened. What’s worse, I can’t prove anything. Diderik will assume Magreda went off with some black-cloaked whoever for one last romp before she’s handed over to Genfawr.”
“The Guard won’t lift a finger once they discover she’s our responsibility,” Alaric pointed out.
Never mind what she said to Sefon, Othin added to himself. Or my ugly response. He recalled Crowler’s arch expression as he had entered the council room earlier. That bastard would ruin his day the first chance he got.
The three men entered the healing hall, shuffling in Diderik’s wake. As they rounded the willow tree, he slowed until they reached his side. “I’m sure Fenrir has some reason to demand Leofwine’s head,” he said, “but I’m not of a mind to cooperate with them until I get answers about what’s going on in Ylgr.” His hard gaze rested on Othin. “Rest assured, Coldevin will fall in line after losing men up there, whatever they’ve told him. But for now, we need to see if we can not only help Leofwine, but also get some answers.”
“I’d like to know what you think I can do,” Bren said as they walked to the door to Leofwine’s room.
“What do you know?” Othin asked.
“That he’s real sick. Something about not being here.”
“He’s somewhere else,” Diderik said.
Othin said, “Arcmael once told me that the sorcerers of Fenrir have an odd disdain for the Allfather. That they serve Loki, or perhaps themselves, but would never summon or call Othin, the Magician. And yet I’m told Leofwine did exactly that. He wouldn’t have called for me.”
“So why did you send for me?” Bren complained.
Othin reached the door and opened it. “Have a look.”
Halstaeg, who still sat by the bed, looked up as the rangers came in. His face was drawn. As Othin nodded to the former high constable, he realized with a jolt that he would have cut off his own head before defying the chain of command with this man. The horseshit deepened.
“Hail, Bren,” Halstaeg said, visibly uncomfortable.
“Lord Halstaeg.” The red-haired ranger approached the bed where Leofwine lay, thin and seized by the unseen, eyes open, lips moving, veins strung over his flesh like black seaweed. Bren stood over him, gazing inwardly. He rubbed his arm, hanging in its sling.
“The Fenrir Brotherhood is trying to extradite him,” Othin said by his side. “We can only assume they did this.”
“Can you help him?” Halstaeg asked. Selene, who had been preparing something at a table across the room, approached as if to hear the answer.
Still staring, Bren said, “This is beyond me.”
“You always say that,” said Alaric, who had entered the room with Diderik.
Bren shot him a look. “I almost died in Ylgr for not believing it. This is as bad. He’s under a curse.”
“How do you know that?” Halstaeg said.
“Surely you can see this is no natural sickness. I can feel it. Like a wall of storms.”
“I touched him earlier,” Othin said. “Something pulled me across the Veil. Then let me go.”
“He needs help, surely,” Selene put in.
Bren studied Othin for a moment as if to assess the extent of his foolishness. Then he addressed Selene. “Has he said anything?”
“Aye, all sorts of nonsense,” the healer said. “I couldn’t make sense of it. But Lord Halstaeg recognized something.”
Halstaeg looked up. “He has a sister. He keeps saying her name.”
A chill touched Othin’s scalp. “What is it?”
“Ingifrith.”
Bren paled. “Are you sure?”
Halstaeg nodded. “He mentioned her to me, once. Only once. But that’s her name, I’m sure.”
Bren stepped back from the bed, his gaze darting around the floor. “I knew it. Imps, dark elves, a bloody sea witch—”
“What are you talking about?” Othin said.
“They’re after her too.” Bren headed for the door.
“All right,” Selene said. “Enough. Out. The lot of you.” She tapped Halstaeg on the shoulder. “You too. Give him peace.”
Bren was already in the hall. Not of a mind to challenge Selene, the other men followed, although Halstaeg left reluctantly. He closed the door and leaned against it.
“Bren,” Diderik said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Ingifrith is a friend of mine and Prederi’s,” Bren said. “Arrived from Fjorgin a fortnight past. Something happened to her this morning. She ran off—we found her in a fucking swamp. The Fenrir Brotherhood—” He pushed past the men and strode around the fountain, heading for the door. “I should’ve seen it.”
Diderik’s voice cracked out into the hall. “Bren of Ottersun! If you want to remain in service to the King’s Rangers, you will answer me.” Bren stopped, his shoulders heaving. “Master Klemet is a Fenrir sorcerer. Just because the Brotherhood is after him doesn’t mean he came here for any good reason. He may have helped us in the war, but he did that as much to save his own hide as ours.” A pointed glance at Halstaeg. “He has little reason to be on our side.”
Othin pursed his lips. It was a good point, but he knew Leofwine better.
Diderik continued, “How do you know Master Klemet’s sister? What has passed between you?”
Bren spun around, his face crumbling like a wall. “You don’t understand. There’s no time. Prederi is with her. He can’t see. If you don’t let me go—”
Othin moved up near the high constable. “Milord. Bren’s a seer. After what happened in Ylgr—”
“I know what he is.” Diderik stood there, flexing his jaw, his eyes glittering in challenge.
Othin knew the look on Bren’s face. He knew how it felt. Bren, don’t do this.
&n
bsp; His heart dropped into his gut like a rock as his best friend turned and ran from the hall.
“He’s made his decision,” Diderik said coldly. As he strode for the door, the others followed him.
Halstaeg reached his side first. “High Constable,” he said with seasoned diplomacy. “If I may speak.”
Make it good, Othin thought, exchanging a miserable glance with Alaric.
When Diderik didn’t respond, Halstaeg continued. “If I had been more patient with these men’s talents and shortcomings during the war, many of your comrades and subordinates in the guard would not have died, and I would still have your job.”
Othin and Alaric held their breath as Diderik reached the doors to the Rangers’ Square and opened them. There, he turned. “Alaric,” he said, gesturing. “Go after Bren. Keep me informed.”
Sagging with relief, the dark-haired ranger set off for the stables at a lope.
“As for you,” Diderik said to Othin. “My orders stand: Winter Finding. You have my leave now to find Magreda. Don’t count on the Guard for help.”
“Who’s Magreda?” Halstaeg said.
“A recruit,” Othin said. “I brought her here today, left her in the Grove to wait for me, and the Fenrir Brotherhood kidnapped her. I have men out looking for her.”
“I can help,” Halstaeg offered. As Othin and Diderik looked at him in question, he added, lifting his chin, “I still have influence in this city.”
Diderik nodded. “Very well.” Placing his fist on his heart in a gesture of respect, he stepped back over the threshold and strode into the Square.
Othin fell in step beside his old commander as they headed the other direction. “Well done,” he said.
“I have much to atone for,” Halstaeg said quietly. A sidelong glance. “What did he mean by Winter Finding?”
“When I found Magreda gone, I jumped command and got Coldevin involved. Diderik relieved me of duty until then.”
Halstaeg pursed his lips. “I’d have stripped your rank for good, for that.”
“I’d have deserved it.”
The two men approached the stables, where Alaric had earlier ridden out after Bren. Halstaeg took a deep breath. “So tell me about Magreda.”
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 63
