The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  Reluctantly, Ingifrith did as he asked. “It’s behind me,” she said in the dark.

  “It won’t harm you.”

  “How did you summon it?”

  Leofwine reached the landing and stepped up to the door to his workroom. “Breath.” The dying breath of a drunk who cracked his skull on a stone when the Night Guild threw him into the street, to be exact—but there was no need to mention that. He opened the door.

  Faint light spilled through the edge of a tattered curtain clinging to a window. He moved around the small room to a tall cabinet on the wall. As he opened the doors, the scent of wood, wax and dried herbs wafted out. A silken cloth holding a cluster of hawthorn branches tumbled onto the floor. Leofwine grimaced at the shelves stuffed with a disarray of jars, animal parts and skulls, concoctions, roots, crystals and other things. He had left in a hurry last time he was here and hadn’t had time to tidy up. He pulled down a tinderbox, went to a candle lantern hanging from the ceiling nearby and lit it. Light leapt into the room, scattering shadows.

  The room was just as he had left it. Sparse, leaving much to the imagination, it was nevertheless serviceable. On each wall, he had drawn a sigil for the four elements. A pentacle drawn in charcoal spanned the floor.

  He returned to his cabinet and opened a small drawer. Gently, he removed its contents, wrapped in linen. Then he returned to the edge of the pentacle.

  “What are you doing?” Ingifrith asked.

  “I need information.” Pushing back his hood, he handed her his cane and walked carefully to the center of the pentacle, his healing wounds aching.

  “What will you trade?”

  “Nothing. I’m not summoning, only looking. Fear nothing you see. This shows only reflections.”

  He shook the linen from the wing of a crow he had found beneath a cedar tree, dead and finally abandoned by the raucous mob of its feathered kin. He had wrapped it and taken it at night, while the crows roosted, so as not to be associated with the death. A crow never forgot a threat.

  Holding the wing in one hand, he invoked the forces of water, earth, air, fire and spirit. Then he closed his eyes, moved the wing over his face and spoke a command in High Fylking to part the Veil.

  He stepped into the rift.

  Wildflowers bloomed in the sun on a hot summer day. On the edge of a tall pine forest stood a young man with black tousled hair, holding a scrap of cloth stained with something dark. A miasma of evil surrounded it. Blood? The man held the cloth to his nose briefly before folding it and shoving it into a pocket of his breeches. Then he called out, sweeping his arm in an impatient gesture of departure. There was something familiar about him. Just as Leofwine thought he knew what it was, the man ran into the woods. He looked back once, his eyes cold.

  After a moment of darkness, the vision shifted. Rain pattered on the stones and ran in rivulets over the streets of Merhafr. The air stank of rotting food, death, soot and manure. People darted about like frightened animals, screaming, sobbing and shouting, grabbing children, slamming shutters and doors, closing shops. A company of guardsmen ran through the throng, yelling commands, waving their arms and pointing.

  When the guardsmen reached the city gates, they joined a rank of crossbowmen, pulled their longbows around and nocked them. A blazing, pitch-soaked human head soared over the gates, long hair flying as it struck the ground inside, lighting up the hay strewn in the street. On the top of the gates, something nonhuman, clad for war and bristling with arrows, scrabbled over and fell, landing with a clattering thud in a pile of corpses.

  Darkness fell again. Far to the north, beneath mountains still clad in snow, wind blew across the plain, ruffling the pennons, cloaks and hair of dead warriors, their bodies clad in fine armor, supple and shining with fading light; exquisitely carved and embossed straps, guards, buckles and greaves; and strange standards on their shields, animals and shapes intertwined with depictions of trees, leaves and suns. They lay with their horses, having crushed the grass as they fell, their war cries silent. A raven floated down and alit on a helmet cloven by an axe.

  Amid the carnage stood a tall warrior in shining black. Patterns that looked like scales shimmered down his back. In one hand he held a helmet in the shape of a dragon’s head; in the other he clutched a piece of white cloth. Leofwine’s heart froze as he perceived the power emanating from the threads and figures scrawled into the essences of herbs combined with such skill and intricacy it took his breath away.

  The dragon warrior lowered his hand and turned, his eyes glittering with stars.

  Something hard slammed into Leofwine, taking him off his feet in a whirl of wiry limbs and gnashing teeth, and hurling him out of the ring. Ingifrith shrieked. Leofwine hit the floor and skidded on his face and belly until he slammed into the wall.

  Groaning, he rolled over. The room was empty, the circle dark. The watcher’s presence hung in a corner, a darker shadow on the walls. Why had the guardian cast him from the ring?

  He turned, his eyes glittering with stars.

  Niflsekt.

  Ingifrith fell to his side, touching his face, damp with blood from the scrape. “Leo.” There were tears on her face. “Are you badly hurt?”

  Leofwine got up, leaning against the wall. “I’m fine. I believe the guardian meant to protect me. We must warn the others.” Limping heavily, he retrieved his cane and the wing, which he returned to its drawer. He closed his cabinet and put out the candle.

  Ingifrith stood by the door in the gloom, arms wrapped tightly over her belly, her face still wet with tears.

  “Inga,” Leofwine breathed, reaching her. As he lifted her chin, she choked on a sob. “Truly, I’m all right.”

  She nodded, the movement quick, as if she knew it already.

  “Ingifrith?”

  She shook her head violently. “Let’s go,” she rasped.

  “Tell me what’s upset you. Was it the visions?”

  She backed away, still shaking her head. “I said—let’s go.” She left the room.

  The wrath in her voice ended further questions. His throat dry, Leofwine joined her, his belly churning with anxiety. She fell into step behind as he descended, her breath audible, uneven, and she sniffled repeatedly. For some reason, he didn’t sense she was concerned about the Fylking’s ancient enemy, even though she knew the history. The sight of Fylking warriors or demons wouldn’t have bothered her either. But something had.

  Niflsekt. The scene could have been anywhere. Fylking homeworld. The ground was crushed. That wouldn’t have happened in this dimension—but then again, neither would the appearance of demons at the city gates.

  The spell. The dragon had a spell, a terrible spell.

  A short time later, Leofwine moved through the streets with Ingifrith by his side, now silent, her mood closed.

  ~*~

  By the time Leofwine neared the King’s Citadel, the streets were in chaos. People clamored outside the citadel gates, which had been opened to allow in anyone not fit to fight. A marshal, mounted on a warhorse, oversaw the crowd with a steely gaze as soldiers attempted to admit them in an orderly fashion. A trebuchet drawn by horses rumbled by in the street, moving toward the gates.

  Not of a mind to beg for entrance, Leofwine stopped and turned around, heading back the way he’d come.

  “Where are you going?” Ingifrith asked, catching up.

  “We need another way in.” He stopped in front of a small shop with dried herbs, mortars and pestles, crystals, chalices and other tools of a witch’s trade stuffed into the window. Thankfully, the shopkeeper, a woman called Neafa, hadn’t yet repaired the broken lock on the door. She hadn’t needed it.

  “Hail!” he called out as he entered. The air was thick with the rich scent of incense. No answer. “Neafa!”

  Leofwine’s spine tingled. In the corner, something scrabbled up the woodwork and across the ceiling, rustling the drying plants. It twisted around, its legs growing longer, eight of them, as it lowered itself to the floor from a
glistening line. As it touched down, it grew, blocking the door and the windows with a hairy body that smelled of mud. It stared from many baleful eyes, and in the back of whatever it called a throat emerged a gurgling growl.

  “Leo,” Ingifrith said, backing away. “It’s not friendly.”

  A guardian. The place had always been loosely guarded by the spirits of protective herbs, like the garland someone had left on the door to his workroom. But he had never seen anything like this in here before. No Blackthorn witch would be able to summon it.

  Gathering his strength, Leofwine brought his life force into his hand, traced the rune of ansuz in the air and uttered a banishing command in Old Fylking. The creature screeched and fled, landing near a table cluttered with pottery. As the creature skittered beneath, several cups wobbled and crashed to the floor. “I was afraid of this,” Leofwine said. “We have to kill it.”

  She stared. “Are you mad?”

  “It’s physical, like the demon Othin saw.” And my watcher, he also noted, chilled. “We can’t let it get out of here.” He repeated the banishing, adding words that lowered the vibration of the spell. The creature screamed again, as if burned. Leofwine moved his hand once more, this time invoking eihwaz, the poison of the yew tree. The spider slumped to the floor with a final gurgle, black blood oozing from its eyes.

  Her face pale, Ingifrith said, “What did you do?”

  Leofwine moved toward the rear of the shop. “I invoked ansuz, Othin’s rune. Others from the Dark Realms hate it. That weakened it enough to send it to Hel.” He reached a row of thick cloaks, put his arm through and felt around until he found a latch. As he opened the secret door, a cloying smell wafted up from the shadows beyond the steep, narrow steps. He took a torch from the sconce on the wall inside. “See if you can find something to light this with.”

  His nostrils flared as he waited. Ingifrith returned with the flaming torch, and after Leofwine had moved the cloaks out of the way, they ducked through the door. Light spilled into the well, illuminating a heap of something far below.

  “Wait here.”

  “What is it?” Ingifrith whispered.

  Not answering, Leofwine went down. He found Neafa crumpled on the steps. Her neck had been broken, and there were two marks on her face, swollen, bruised and red, oozing pus. She hadn’t been here long.

  “Leo!” Ingifrith hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

  “Put the cloaks back and get down here. Quickly.”

  Ingifrith’s eyes were wide as she reached him. “Spider got her?”

  “I’d like to know who summoned it. We have to keep moving. Watch your step.”

  A short time later they hurried through the underground tunnels. Leofwine wove through the labyrinth, his senses alert. When he reached the main hall to the Rangers’ Square, he snuffed the torch in a bucket.

  “Are there any passages down here you don’t know?” Ingifrith said.

  He smiled. “I was a spy.”

  “For whom?”

  “Good question.” He had spent a lot of time exploring these tunnels when he worked for Halstaeg. The old high constable was fond of sending him on various information-gathering missions.

  The Rangers’ Square was a hive of activity. Rangers rushed about in varying stages of dress, carrying packs and weapons. After asking a few questions, Leofwine headed past the healing hall to the stables outside. On the edge of the crowded way, he stopped. The place was jammed with horses, farriers checking hooves, grooms rigging the beasts with tack and armor, porters and scullions carrying armloads of linens, food, and other supplies for the road. A small flock of goats moved around in a makeshift pen, bleating. Rangers and pages hurried about. A carter looked over his shoulder as men threw armloads of swords, bows and spears into his cart, no doubt to equip the townspeople.

  “What’s happening?” Ingifrith said.

  “War.”

  “Klemet!” someone shouted. Diderik emerged from the stables. The high constable turned and barked a name before weaving through the tumult of the street. After a moment, Othin came out of the stables with Prederi. Ingifrith’s eyes lit up.

  Diderik reached out and clasped Leofwine by the arm. “Where have you been? We’ve been scouring the city for you.”

  Ingifrith ran forward and threw her arms over Prederi’s shoulders. He hugged her in return, then let her down and searched her face with concern. Othin stood nearby, his hand on his sword.

  Leofwine watched Ingifrith and Prederi for a moment. Upon arriving here, Ingifrith had done the ranger a good and powerful turn, and they had become close. But Leofwine knew she hadn’t told him about Grimar. He knew because Prederi would have lost his mind with that information, protective as he was.

  Just as Leofwine had.

  “Did you find out what the Fenrir sorcerer is doing in Ylgr?” Othin asked.

  “I fear not,” Leofwine replied. “But I discovered other things.”

  “Show him,” Diderik said to Othin.

  Prederi, joining them, dropped Ingifrith’s hand. The blond ranger greeted Leofwine with a nod.

  Othin drew something from his cloak, a large pendant on a leather cord. Leofwine took it, his gut prickling as he detected an odd energy around the thing. It did not belong. “Where did you get this?”

  “That company of guardsmen that entered the city earlier was returning from Ylgr. They claimed they were beset by monsters, hundreds of them. They brought one back. It was wearing that.”

  Leofwine recalled his vision. “Gray skin, weird markings, armed?”

  “That’s it,” Diderik said.

  “They’re on their way here,” Prederi added.

  The sorcerer studied the black, spiky symbol. Where had he seen this? Master of Demons, one of his classes. Yes. Knives, swords: the Severed Kingdoms. He moved his thumb over the center stone. Royalty. “Isarvalos,” he said suddenly. The men stared at him. “Demon Prince of the Severed Kingdoms. It would seem he has a brought an army across the Veil.”

  “Why?” Diderik said.

  “I don’t know. But this is his sigil. In a vision, I saw them assailing the main gates. And if you say there are more—”

  “Can you send them back?” Diderik said.

  Leofwine snorted a laugh. “No, I bloody well can’t.”

  “Why are they in Ylgr?” Othin said. “They weren’t there when we were. Is the Fenrir Brotherhood involved in this?”

  “I don’t know,” Leofwine said again. “I couldn’t see anything up there. Except...” He lowered the medallion, breathing heavily, feeling sick. The Niflsekt’s spell. If the armies of Isarvalos had materialized in this dimension, the fallen Fylking warriors he’d seen in his vision might not have been in a faraway realm. He could have been looking at Ason Tae. But when? He examined the medallion again.

  “We might have a bigger problem,” he said, leaning heavily on his cane. “It’s possible the Niflsekt have breached the Gate.”

  “Materialized?” Othin said as that sank in.

  “I think that’s the point.”

  “Why would they do that?” Ingifrith said. “High Immortals can kill each other—or us—from their own dimension. Why appear?”

  “I don’t know,” the sorcerer said for the third time. “But I think we can assume the reason isn’t good.”

  The Third Sorcerer

  The first light of dawn revealed an overcast sky above Merhafr. The stables bustled with activity as the rangers prepared to leave the city. Voices, footfalls, the thud of saddlebags, the smell of horses and the tense mood of anticipation only increased the darkness in Ingifrith’s heart as she stood outside with Trisker, surrounded by dozens of other horses that hadn’t fit into a barn full of rangers, messengers, and scouts.

  She leaned heavily against Trisker’s neck, clutching the mare’s halter. She yawned, her eyes burning and her stomach tied in knots. She hadn’t slept or eaten, having stayed in the barn last night with the horses. She was in no way ready for this day. But she couldn
’t stay here.

  Wildflowers bloomed in the sun on a hot summer day.

  She didn’t know what had made her think, for all her bittersweet joy at seeing her brother again, that things would now be any less painful and complex. On the contrary. Leo was a Fenrir sorcerer; death and trouble followed him wherever he went. Death, trouble and a vision of something he could not have known.

  On the edge of a tall pine forest stood a young man with black tousled hair, holding a scrap of cloth.

  A scrap of cloth stained with her soul. Why had he appeared in the rift, the second wicked farm hand, running away into the woods?

  He looked back once, his eyes cold.

  It played over and over, the black-haired man running away, his dark deed completed, knowing what it was, knowing he had to go, somehow. He was afraid. Of what?

  Not her.

  She held the underside of Trisker’s neck, inhaling the mare’s scent. The Otherworld had betrayed her, then and now. They just stood by and watched.

  Why had Leofwine summoned that event across the Veil? He didn’t know anything. Ingifrith had banished the memories so safely, so completely, until the High Fylking of Tower Sie had awakened them with his scorn. Sorcerers. Demons. Her own brother, exposing her.

  She jumped as a familiar voice called her name. Prederi approached, fully clad and armed in his ranger’s gear. His woad-blue cloak was clean, his blond hair braided on the sides and bound with leather.

  “Inga,” he said, placing his hand on Trisker’s rump as he came around. “I’ve been looking for you. My mother is in the citadel now. I got you both into the old rangers’ barracks...” Trailing off, the tall ranger took in her clothes, the quiver on her side and bags and rolls tied onto the horse. “What’s this?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  He blinked. “Ingifrith, we are going to war.”

  “You have camp followers. I’ll come with them.”

  He shook his head with a breath. “We are rangers. We don’t normally have help like that, and those who are accompanying us are few and road seasoned. It’ll be very dangerous. If anything happens to you—”