The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “Hall of Records. Second floor.”

  The Rangers’ Square had come alive like an ant bed stirred by a stick. Rangers hurried here and there, some strapping on swords, others asking questions. As the two men reached the street outside, Halstaeg stopped.

  “I’ll go to the warden’s house,” he said, referring to a small, nondescript cottage on the edge of town where wardens stayed when passing through on their stops to Tower Sor.

  “We’ve been there,” Othin informed him. “No wardens in town since Ingifrith and Bren saw a Fylking army gathering beneath the tower last week.”

  “Arcmael is the Master of Faersc,” the lord said with a pained look that spoke of old remorse. “I’ll get answers.”

  Nodding, Othin continued on his way. Halstaeg might have better luck speaking with his wife than his son. She had left him after the war, never having forgiven him for exiling their eldest son when he’d barely reached manhood. Arcmael sent her letters, one thing Halstaeg probably didn’t know, for all his influence.

  Nor had he known the better part of Leofwine’s business when he had accused him of high treason during the war.

  It wasn’t Othin’s place to tell Halstaeg any of that, but he did take note. Prying into the secrets of a renegade night woman was one thing—family and lovers, another.

  ~*~

  Othin found Leofwine deep inside the Hall of Records, hunched over an open book, seated next to Ingifrith. His long hair, now streaked with white, was braided down his back. Ingifrith’s frequent company had done Leofwine well enough to escape Selene’s regime. But though the color had returned to his cheeks and he was able to get around using a cane, there remained a peculiar air around him, as if he were still half somewhere else.

  As Othin approached, Ingifrith looked up. “War God!” she said with a grin, using the title she had picked up from Bren and Prederi, her endless sources of bad influence. Leofwine had taken his sister to a tailor he knew and bought her some serviceable clothes: leggings and boots, a plain linen shift, and a doeskin tunic with dark green trim and laces at the throat. With her hair tied up into a loose knot, she looked like a hunter or a tracker. According to Bren, she was more at home in the woods than anywhere. To that end, Prederi had procured her a bow and quiver from the rangers’ armory to replace one she had lost in Fjorgin.

  Leofwine looked over his shoulder. “Hail, Othin. What brings you?”

  Othin leaned on the table. The book lay open to an old map of northwestern Dyrregin, including Ylgr, Austr and the Wythe Strait. Leofwine had agreed, at Diderik’s request, to see what he could find out about the Fenrir sorcerer in Ylgr. He hadn’t discovered anything yet.

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Othin said. “I just saw something in the sky over this city that didn’t belong there.”

  The sorcerer leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the map. “Meaning?”

  Othin described what he had seen to the nearest detail. “I didn’t get a good look at it, but it wasn’t a sylph. Or a bird.”

  “Sounds like a demon,” Ingifrith said.

  “Here’s the nothing good part,” Othin continued. “It was Halstaeg who first saw it. And he wasn’t the only one. The citadel is riled up.”

  Leofwine started to speak and then fell silent, his face changing. Though Halstaeg’s hardline disbelief in the unseen, a stance that had contributed to his downfall during the war, had softened, the old commander was still skeptical and had no second sight. He closed the book before him, pushed back his chair and grabbed his cane.

  “Demons are not allowed into this dimension,” he said.

  “What about Halogi?” Ingifrith asked.

  Leofwine started across the floor, his cane clacking. “He isn’t physical. That’s different.”

  “But I felt him. He touched my hand.”

  Leofwine rubbed his eyes and muttered something arcane. Then he looked up and took her hand. Squeezing it, he said, “Did it feel like this?”

  She yanked her hand away. “No.”

  They reached the steps and started down. Ingifrith took Leofwine’s arm to support him.

  “Who is Halogi?” Othin asked.

  They reached the landing below. “Halogi,” Leofwine said as the ranger stepped forward and opened the doors, “is a mighty demon who is not in the habit of holding the hands of girls.”

  “He’s my friend,” Ingifrith informed them.

  “Or befriending them,” Leofwine added. “Halogi is High Commander of the Third Sun, an army feared by all the Severed Kingdoms. Vargn banished him in the king’s gaol in Rivergate for defying a command to destroy Tower Sie.”

  Outside, it rained lightly. The companions reached the street and headed for the citadel gates, drawing their cloaks and hoods close. People moved about, some looking at the sky, but the city hadn’t fallen into chaos as Othin had feared. The whole thing could have been put off as a hoax by those in charge with half a wit.

  Leofwine wasn’t acting as if he thought that was the case. He looked repeatedly at the sky with the gaze of a sorcerer who had seen too many dark things that didn’t belong.

  “What were you doing in a gaol?” Othin said to Ingifrith.

  “I was locked up for approaching Tower Sie.” She frowned. “I’d have been fine if not for the warden who saw me. Bastard reported me to the King’s Guard.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to get blamed,” Othin offered.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “They threatened to keep me there for six moons unless I paid bail. They took almost all my coin. That was how I was going to get to Faersc”—she shot a look at her brother—“as Halogi asked me to do.”

  Leofwine stopped, leaning hard on his cane. “Halogi told you to go to Faersc?”

  “He told me I’d find protection there.”

  “And you didn’t think it was important to tell me your deal with him included that?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” she snapped. “It was just a suggestion.” She looked at Othin. “I wanted to be a Warden of Dyrregin. That was my plan when I left Earticael. I changed my mind after the Fylking blasted me.”

  “What did you think he would do?” Leofwine said with a laugh. “He could’ve killed you.”

  She swung on him like a gust of wind. “You mocked me for wanting to be a warden. I meant to prove you wrong—and now you’re just—right as always.”

  Othin kept his silence as they faced off. Leofwine sagged first, bowing his head as if a heavy weight had dropped on him. “Forgive me, Inga. I was trying to protect you.” He started walking again. “Badly.” After a moment, she put her arm around him.

  As they approached the gates to the citadel, the thunder of hooves shook the street beyond. Men shouted commands. Othin quickened his pace as a company came into view riding roughshod for the gates. They were guardsmen, dirty from the road, many of them wounded. One of the riders dragged a large, heavy sack. Whatever it contained, the rider didn’t want it near him.

  “Looks like Sefon’s returned from Ylgr,” Othin said as he and his companions moved aside to make way.

  “What’s after them?” Leofwine inquired, his eyes dark as he scanned the street in the distance.

  It wasn’t lost on Othin that the sorcerer said what instead of who. And he didn’t think whatever was in that sack was an animal. He stopped walking and turned around. “I have to see what this is about.”

  Leofwine nodded. “We’ll find you later.”

  “Better hurry.”

  As the riders approached, one of them shouted to close the gates. Leofwine grabbed Ingifrith by the hand and moved quickly, muscling through the gathering crowd, slipping through just as the heavy doors swung closed, slowly, locking with a metallic boom. The portcullis rattled down and slammed onto the ground.

  “Othin!” someone called. He turned. Diderik.

  Before he could duck out of sight, the high constable spotted him and approached with official intent. “You’re coming with me.”


  Othin pointed to his chest in question.

  “Don’t get any ideas. You’re still relieved of duty until Winter Finding. But right now, I’ll not hear Sefon’s report without someone who knows Ylgr, and you’re the only one I can find.”

  Othin accompanied him. No doubt the other rangers had gone out into the city to calm the populace. He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been fully prepared to sneak and lie his way into this meeting, and now he would get it firsthand.

  “Genfawr tells me you slunk out of the yard with Halstaeg after someone saw something in the sky,” Diderik said. “What do you know?”

  “We saw it too. Leofwine thinks it might be a demon. He’s looking into it.”

  Diderik craned his face to the sky. “A demon. Just what we need.”

  “I do have a bad feeling about it.” And whatever’s in that sack, he added privately.

  The Dyrregin Guard Headquarters were blocked by a crowd yelling questions and concerns. Diderik guided Othin down a wide path with a sprawling stable on one side. Having served in the Dyrregin Guard for two decades, Diderik knew the place as well as a rat. Soon they came to the large council room where Othin had foolishly come to tell Coldevin about Magreda. Centuries old shields and weapons, standards and tapestries hung on the walls. A threadbare rug covered the floor. A large hearth, blackened by centuries of fires, had been cleaned and emptied for the summer. Before it stood a wooden screen carved with hounds.

  The tattered company flooded into the room, their mood tense and their expressions drawn. Leofwine was right. These weren’t men returning from a long ride. Something had chased them.

  Lord Coldevin strode in, his white hair combed neatly away from his weathered features. A red cloak swirled around him. Captain Crowler accompanied him, his dark skin marred by a scar on his chin. His gaze bored into Othin like a spike before he looked away. Men continued to arrive—soldiers, sappers, engineers and marshals, no doubt responding to rumors of war and the citadel gates having been closed.

  “Who’s in charge?” Coldevin said to the disheveled company, his voice rising over the talk and stir of the assembly.

  Lieutenant Sefon, looking much less proud than he had on the day Othin had seen him riding north to Ylgr, limped forth with a bloody rag around his thigh. He spoke a name over his shoulder and gestured to his men to make way. Two of them dragged the sack. A heavy, cloying smell, like that of a rotting corpse, filled the room. “Milord,” the lieutenant said, placing a fist on his chest. “We have a problem.”

  The men untied the sack and pulled it away, jerking it over appendages until the dead beast rolled free. Everyone stepped away; those not in the company gasped and murmured. Some covered their noses.

  The creature was not of the natural world, with heavy, muscled legs and two sets of long, wiry arms ending in clawed hands. It had a round chest, no neck and a bald head with pointed ears and thin wisps of hair. Its visible flesh was covered with tattoos of weird, jagged shapes, and it was dressed in boiled leather, mail, belts, straps and empty weapons sheaths. Fangs curved out of its mouth from the bottom jaw. One of them was crowned with black metal.

  On its chest lay a medallion with a symbol on it. Othin came forward and knelt to get a look. In the center of the medallion was a round black stone. Eight knives surrounded it, half pointing in, half pointing out. Around the edge, a set of longer blades thrust into the spaces between the knives. It looked like a leech’s maw. With a sharp tug, he tore the medallion from the creature’s neck.

  “What is this thing?” Lord Coldevin said, his gaze moving over the creature.

  “We don’t know, milord,” Sefon replied. “But—”

  “I think it’s a demon,” Othin said, standing up. “Though I’m told they’re not allowed into our dimension. I saw one in the sky, earlier. Many did. It looked different than this.”

  Lieutenant Sefon gazed at Othin with an expression mixed with hatred and outrage. “What are you doing here?” He stepped around the carcass.

  “Captain Forres is here on my orders, Lieutenant,” Diderik said with the kind of crisp tone he used to put men like Sefon in their place.

  Ignoring him, Sefon continued, “The forests were full of these monsters. You knew. You hid this from us, you son of a bitch—” He lunged, grappling for Othin’s throat as he slammed into him. The room erupted into shouts as several men, including Diderik, grabbed the lieutenant and pulled him away. Crowler’s voice cracked out into the room like a whip. Flushed, breathing heavily, Sefon stood down.

  Rubbing at the sensation of fingers on his throat, Othin looked at Diderik, and then Coldevin. “On my honor, all we fought were men.”

  “How many?” Coldevin asked Sefon, not questioning the ranger’s claim.

  “Hundreds,” the lieutenant panted. He released a breath, his expression turning wild. “Milord, they’re heading for the city as we speak.”

  The silence of shock descended over the room. Lord Coldevin’s expression didn’t change as he asked tactical questions. No one knew where the beasts had come from. They were only thirty leagues behind, loping like dogs. Hard to kill, but they didn’t seem to have magical powers. A scout reported that they were razing and foraging the countryside, picking off large animals and humans, both of which the monsters roasted over fires and devoured to the sound of drums. Another odd, lurid report said they were targeting Blackthorn witches.

  Halstaeg’s comment about the demon they’d seen above Merhafr suddenly had weight. It was a scout.

  Diderik leaned close to Othin. “Where is Leofwine?”

  “Somewhere in the city.”

  “Leofwine?” Sefon snorted, overhearing. “That oily traitor?”

  Ignoring him, Othin turned to Coldevin. “Master Klemet is an authority on these things.” He flashed the medallion. “He might be able to help.”

  “He’s a Fenrir sorcerer!” Sefon railed. “One of those bastards is running Ylgr. For all we know, Klemet is helping them—or fucking them—”

  This time, Othin moved. He threw a right hook with enough force to topple the lieutenant to the floor. As several pairs of hands grabbed Othin’s arms to keep him from following through, he said, “If not for Master Klemet, you thick fuck, you’d have either been turned into a ghoul or swinging from the end of a Fjorginan rope.”

  “Enough,” Coldevin snapped. His calculating gaze settled on Othin as the ranger shook the men off of him, his fist throbbing with an exhilarating mix of pain and satisfaction. “Your passion could be put to better use.” He nodded to Diderik. “Ready a company for the road. Every ranger you can find. I want them out there harrying that army to slow it down.” He paused, glowering at the demon reeking on the floor. “And find Klemet.”

  Diderik tilted his head forward. “Aye, milord.”

  The assembly parted to make way for Diderik and Othin as they left the room. Behind them, the Master of Arms said, “Someone get this fucking thing out of here.”

  Othin closed the door and strode to Diderik’s side. The high constable’s jaw was set, and he said nothing. Othin took a deep breath. He’d be lucky to get his rank back at all after losing his temper and making Diderik look bad. “I apologize for my behavior, milord,” the ranger said, clearing his throat. “I will understand if you—”

  “The bastard asked for it,” Diderik cut in. “I need you on the road. While I think we can safely assume Ylgr is lost to us, the rest of the north is not and I’d like to keep it that way. You know the country.”

  “Am I to resume my rank?”

  A sidelong glance. “Don’t push it. I’m putting Captain Helasin in charge.”

  Othin nodded. He had known Helasin when he was deployed as a young man to the Skolvarin Guard. She had a thick mane of black hair and a sense of humor the same color.

  She was also adept at irregular warfare.

  Reflections in the Veil

  Leofwine moved through the streets of Merhafr toward the sea, wielding his cane, hood low over his face. The city
had become a tense whirl of activity. Now and then he glanced at his sister, who walked by his side, saying nothing. Since meeting again in the healing hall, they had talked, cried and revealed their feelings around his long absence from her life. For the first time, Leofwine felt some hope that he could heal the rift.

  But there was one secret she hadn’t shared, and he knew her well enough to know that she would take it to the grave if he let her. But how would he tell her that he knew what Grimar had done? That Leofwine had avenged her using the very arts that had separated them for so long? He wasn’t foolish enough to think such a revelation would make everything all right.

  The sea was strong in the air as he turned down a dank alley between a cathouse and a barracks for the Dyrregin Guard. Where the alley opened up into the sunlight, the gray waters of the Njorth lapped at a series of steps leading down from the street. Leofwine held the edge of his hood as a gust of wind whipped into his face.

  Upon arriving to these shores six suns ago to take on his duties as seneschal to the high constable of the King’s Rangers, he had let a room from a Blackthorn witch who knit fisherman sweaters. The spell he had used to guard the room began to prickle on his mind as he descended the steps. He had summoned a watcher, a nasty creature that protected his private space with an eerie, rumbling growl if anyone came near. The witch found this amusing. Every time Leofwine had asked her if anyone had been attacked, she cracked a grin and said nothing.

  An exemplary landlord.

  He stopped at a wooden door with an iron ring in the center. Someone had stuffed a garland of ivy, blackberry and garlic through it, no doubt thinking to ward off the spirit inside. Leaving it there, Leofwine lifted the ring and pushed open the door.

  Ingifrith stood in the alley, gazing up the narrow stairs that disappeared into the gloom. “What is that?” she asked. About half way up, something dark crouched on spindly legs, fangs bared, eyes blacker than the shadows. Its growl was just loud enough to put a chill on the neck.

  “It’s mine,” Leofwine assured her. “Close the door behind you.” He started up. The watcher vanished in a swirl of black.