The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “I’m not staying here.” A tear crept from her eye. Why was she crying? She had never cried over this. Leofwine and that damned crow wing—

  “Hai,” Prederi breathed, touching the tear on her cheek. He searched her face with a serious, almost wild expression. Ingifrith panicked. If Prederi ever found out—it was unthinkable. “What’s wrong? Ever since you returned from the city with your brother you’ve been off. What happened?”

  “Nothing,” she croaked.

  Unconvinced, the ranger shook his head. “He told me you saw something.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” She let go of the horse. No one knew anything. Her mother was dead and the wicked farm hands had gone home like soldiers riding away in the dust after ravaging a village. She backed away, squelching a sob. “He doesn’t know—”

  She turned and ran.

  “Ingifrith!” Prederi bellowed behind her. Ignoring the stares, Ingifrith threaded, jumped and slipped through the yard like a spooked cat, choking on tears, desperate to hide, to make the darkness come back, the soothing darkness she had known before the High Fylking blasted her. She fled past horses, carts, soldiers, barns, paddocks and storerooms, weaving through the street until she spotted an open door to a forge. She ran inside, her footsteps hidden by the clamor of hammers on metal and the smoke and steam, and found a pile of wooden boxes stacked against a wall. She ducked out of sight and sank to the ground, her belly wracked with sobs. She clutched her knees to her chest.

  Leo didn’t know anything. No one knew anything.

  Few mortals see me, Brave One, Halogi had said. Those who do make sacrifices so great they are twisted and hardened like old trees groaning under the weight of stone.

  “I am nothing,” she breathed.

  Your deepest wound holds your power, he returned. The unseen realms are not protecting you for flowers and milk.

  “Horseshit.” Tears streamed down her face. The unseen realms hadn’t protected her at all.

  Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take Prederi long to find her. He came into the forge with another by his side, a ranger named Heige who had arrived to the city late last night. Heige went and spoke to the blacksmiths, who had stopped what they were doing when the rangers came in.

  Prederi wandered around the shadows until he saw her. Ingifrith slammed her back against the stone wall as he came and knelt by her side. “Inga,” he soothed. “By the gods, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  “No—” She doubled over, feeling like the weakest and most pathetic thing alive. I’ve made no sacrifices that twisted me like a tree—

  Have you not? Halogi continued, his pale eyes slitted with the night.

  No. Just a stupid old, groaning twisted tree.

  Prederi put his arms around her. He was warm and strong. “Inga. You came to me in my darkest hour, and I pushed you away. Never have I felt such remorse. Please, let me help you now.”

  “I saw him,” she blurted. “The other one. I saw him. Running away.”

  “Saw who?” He lifted the corner of his cloak and wiped her nose with it.

  “The other one,” she repeated. “I saw him and I don’t know why—things don’t appear in a sorcerer’s rift for no reason, Prederi. Why was he there?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Ingifrith,” said a voice. Her breath caught as she realized Leofwine was standing there, hearing this. He gazed down, his expression battened against fury, the face of a sorcerer. “The man in the first vision. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know! What do you—”

  “You knew him. Who was he calling to?” He stepped closer. “Grimar?”

  The blood drained from Ingifrith’s face in a slow freeze. She never knew Grimar’s name until her mother had said it after returning from the constable’s house with a pipeful of empty threats. Somehow, Leofwine had put this together, like a stinking tincture offered to Hel. “You knew?” she choked, her throat raw. “You knew all along and you never—”

  He shook his head. “That’s not true. You don’t understand.” He knelt beside Prederi. “I need you to think back to when Fenrisúlfr killed the sorcerers. Who was the third? The one who escaped?”

  Why did he want to know that? “I told you, I don’t know.” Wildflowers. Gifts to the unseen, uncaring. A scream tore her mind, a ragged, unending scream. Then she saw it, as if she were hanging in the air, looking down. A man sprawled out on the edge of a swamp, his pasty face covered in blood and weeds, a crooked hand twitching. A second man she didn’t know lay nearby, his limbs bent at wrong angles, his eyes staring at nothing, a lock of his red hair draped over a fern.

  And the third, in a black cloak, running into the woods.

  Running—he looked back once, his eyes cold.

  Prederi, taking a deep breath, stood up, bringing Ingifrith with him. Her knees were so weak with fear she nearly collapsed. The ranger looked down at her face, holding it in his hand, his features grim in the dim light. “Please try, Inga,” he said in a quiet voice. “Try to remember.”

  “Moust,” she said, her heart racing. It was—” Impossible. It couldn’t have been him with Grimar that day. She would have recognized him in the king’s gaol. Wouldn’t she?

  He is no trifling man, Halogi had told her. You did not see him truly.

  Leofwine stepped back, now understanding, now knowing everything. His face was pale and his mood so dark that Ingifrith felt her stomach going out beyond her, into an endless night slashed by blood and claws. To Prederi he said, “She’s coming with us.”

  He turned and left, whipping his cloak around him as he went through the door like a breaking storm.

  ~*~

  It came from the east, the sound a low moan creeping up into a shriek.

  Facing a gray pall in the wake of the setting sun, Ingifrith sat on an outcropping surrounded by hardwood trees thinned by woodsmen. The Rue Hills rose in the distance, cloaked in the coming night. Nearby, sheltered by a dense stretch of woods, the rangers made camp not far from a burbling stream. Near the tack and supplies sat a raven in a makeshift branchy cage the rangers had made for it to roost in until the dawn, when the bird would be released to Merhafr with news.

  The rangers kept their voices low, and they made little noise for a company of fifty. Leofwine had made Ingifrith swear on her algiz rune to stay in their sight at all times. She wouldn’t have argued with him even if he hadn’t turned so dark and spooky.

  The sound came again, rippling in the gloom beyond the trees and putting a chill on Ingifrith’s flesh. As if in response, the raven croaked from its perch. It had missing tail feathers and a broken blood feather on one wing that had had to be removed. Fearing that someone had loosed an arrow at the bird and missed, Ingifrith had gone into the woods, accompanied by Prederi and Heige, to find favors for the Otherworld, to which she appealed for the ravens’ protection. To her surprise, the dark elf that had watched over her in the graveyard in Merhafr appeared, bowing in his military finery with a solemn promise to keep the birds from harm. The elf had taken physical form, causing the rangers to gape in astonishment.

  Earlier in the day, Helasin had received a report that the Demon Prince’s army had split, one half moving down the coast toward Merhafr, the other half continuing to the east. The maneuver was methodical and organized. The rangers were considering splitting as well, to prevent the demons from spreading their destruction to the west. Whether the demons had divided to maximize damage, occupy the realm over a larger area, or something else entirely, no one knew. But it was agreed that they couldn’t be allowed to enter the forests in the Thorgrim foothills and set up a base of operation that would be difficult to assail. One report claimed they could climb trees, swim and leap great distances.

  Another, more alarming report claimed the demons could vanish into the landscape, singly or as a group, rendering them nearly invisible in dim light. Not one to take chances, Captain Helasin ordered Ingifrith, Leofwine, Bren and Othin to take turns watching for the shimm
er of incoming surprises.

  She turned as someone approached. Bren sat down next to her, holding out a dented metal cup with a chunk of bread balanced on top. Thanking him, Ingifrith took the cup and lifted the bread, smelling the scent of stew afloat with fish and beans.

  “It’s getting dark,” the ranger said, rubbing his arm. Selene had taken the sling and splints off before he’d left, leaving the arm thin and pale beneath the toughened leather of his sleeve. “You should go rest.”

  Ingifrith sipped her meal, catching a piece of fish in her teeth. “I need you to hear something first,” she said with her mouth full.

  “All I hear is crickets.”

  She pointed. “Out there. Listen.”

  They waited as Ingifrith ate her meal. She was soaking up the last of it with her bread when Bren spoke.

  “Prederi told me.”

  Ingifrith swallowed and set aside the cup. She didn’t need to ask him what he meant. Aside from her brother, Prederi was the only one who knew of her shame at the hands of Grimar, now dead; and Moust, still at large. The information had left the blond ranger confused, angry and hard to talk to. She took a deep breath. “How many others know now? Whole camp?”

  “We wouldn’t expose you like that. Othin and I asked him what was bothering him. He cares for you, and he needed someone to talk to besides your brother.” He sat in silence for a time. “When I was a boy, my older brother Ciron was raped by a trapper. Caught him out in the woods. He didn’t say a word to anyone for years, until one day, as he and I were fishing on the river, he finally spoke. He said the Allfather came to him in a dream, and told him those struck by darkness and cast from the world must walk in two worlds, not belonging in one or the other, but ruling in both.” A pause. “That describes my brother, if anything does.”

  “Is Ciron a seer?”

  “No. He’s a mercenary, a tracker in service to the king. Like a fox, he can sense a man a league off, in the voices of trees, a shift in the wind. Last I heard, he was in Ylgr.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s keeping tabs on one of the Dark Lords’ ringleaders, the woman who handed me over to them. If I were her, I wouldn’t want Ciron on my trail.”

  Ingifrith let her breath out as her stomach relaxed. She touched his arm. “You honor me, telling me this.”

  “The honor is mine, Demon Tamer.”

  She smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

  He glanced at her sidelong. “I have friends.”

  Just then, a faint keening touched the air to the east. The crickets fell silent as the sound drained away into a muffled sob.

  “There it is,” Ingifrith whispered.

  “That sounds human,” Bren said.

  “I agree.”

  “It could be a trap.” He pulled around a pack he had slung over his shoulder. In it, he kept all sorts of odd things he collected to offer as gifts to the Otherworld. For someone who claimed he wasn’t a warlock, it was a strange habit. But after the things the ranger had seen, Ingifrith wasn’t about to question his idiosyncrasies.

  Bren fished around in his pack until he pulled out a small stone that glowed pale in the twilight. He held it up to the sky for several moments, speaking soft words one might use to instruct a scout. Ingifrith was quick to note the absence of presences or shapes in the unseen realm, as if something had frightened them away.

  “Bren—” she started.

  The raven in camp began to cruk and kraa, as if alarmed.

  They both jumped as something swept from the sky, darker than the shadows, large wings rustling. Ingifrith’s senses erupted into a cold, watery chill. Bren dropped the stone. He leaned down to pick it up but scrabbled back as a warrior appeared before them, clad in finely wrought embossed leather, shimmering mail and a black cloak shaped like wings. He glowed with faint light. His dark hair hung in long plaits over his shoulders.

  Her heart pounding, Ingifrith said, “I know you. You were with that warden at Tower Sie.”

  The Fylking lowered himself into a bow. “Raven, at your service.” He knelt and plucked up the stone Bren had dropped, tossed it into the air and caught it. “My warden is dead. So will you be if you don’t help that poor woman.” He pointed northeast.

  Back in camp, the wounded raven was still squawking.

  “What are you doing here?” Ingifrith ventured.

  The Fylking’s dark eyes glittered like ice. “The Wardens’ Conservatory is now a Niflsekt stronghold. They are hunting anything that can fight them—or see them. Be warned.” With that, he took to the wing and melted into the night, taking Bren’s gift with him.

  Ingifrith turned to Bren. He stared back. “Damn it,” he breathed. “That means Arcmael—all of them—”

  “Let’s not assume anything,” Ingifrith said. “Raven is still alive. That means others might have helped the wardens escape.” She pointed northeast. “Right now, someone’s hurt.”

  Bren got up, rubbed his face and headed into the dark.

  “Wait!” Ingifrith hissed, stopping him.

  “Bren,” said a voice a short distance away. Heige emerged from the trees, where he had positioned himself to watch with Ingifrith in sight. “Did you hear that?”

  “Aye,” Bren said. “A call for help.”

  The three of them turned as Captain Helasin strode from the camp with Othin by her side. “What’s happening out here?” she said. An older woman with the wary manner of a seasoned warrior, Helasin rarely wasted time on pleasantries.

  Bren said, “We heard something strange, toward the hills. Like someone in pain. I meant to find out what it was, and a Guardian Fylking appeared with some grave news and a warning.”

  Helasin turned her gaze northeast. “I don’t like it,” she said. “No one has heard from the wardens, let alone the Fylking. According to Master Klemet, they could all be dead, and after what you just told me, that seems almost certain. How do we know what you saw wasn’t a Niflsekt?”

  “There are more Fylking here than what Leo saw in the vision,” Ingifrith said. “I’ve seen them. So has Bren. Raven can’t be the only one.”

  Helasin crossed her arms. “It could still be a trick.”

  “I’ve seen Raven before,” Ingifrith pressed. “He has a feel.”

  “A feel,” the captain echoed dryly. “I will not send anyone out there on a ‘feel.’”

  “Captain,” Bren put in, scratching his arm. “Coming from Ingifrith, that means something.”

  “We could send a small party,” Othin suggested. “If someone’s out there, we should help them.”

  Helasin nodded. “Which is exactly what someone laying a trap would count on.”

  “If it was a Niflsekt,” Heige said, “Why bother with a trick like this? They could just sweep in and wipe out the lot of us.”

  “Good point,” Othin agreed.

  Helasin exhaled in irritation. “All right. If someone does need help, I don’t want to leave them. Bren, you, Othin and Heige are familiar with this spooky shit. Take horses and outriders. I’ll send Esric and Siglaug. Ingifrith, you stay here and ready what you need to tend the wounded.”

  “Should we bring Leofwine?” Bren suggested.

  “No. He’s on watch with Prederi, and I need him there to look for shapeshifted demons.”

  As the rangers made plans, Ingifrith studied the dark and listened for another cry. A chill clutched her scalp as something fled over the shadows. It turned, eyes shining, and then slipped into the dark. A wolf? She cleared her throat. “Seems you might have a guide.”

  Bren turned around. “What?”

  “I saw a wolf, I think. It shimmered.”

  “Fylking?” Othin said.

  “Could be. I saw a wolf by the tower, in Fjorgin. It was with Raven and the warden.”

  “Are you sure that’s what it was?” Helasin said.

  “Well, it—”

  “Feels like it?” the captain finished, shaking her head. “You men go, but rely on your instincts first and
don’t assume anything.”

  When the companions returned to the camp to get ready, Ingifrith made her way to the raven’s cage, stopping by the stewpot on the way. The bird hopped on its perch, cocked its head and eyed her curiously.

  “Hail, Dark One,” Ingifrith said, tossing a piece of fish into the cage. The raven jumped down to fetch it. “You saw that pretty warrior, did you? So did I.” She headed for the camp stores, where she had stashed an armful of herbs and roots she’d gathered earlier while out in the woods.

  Her stomach fluttered with unease as her friends rode out toward the hills and into the dark.

  The Wounded Raven

  Darkness closed around the rangers as they headed in the direction the Fylking had pointed, relying on the faint light of a crescent moon and the vision of the horses. Othin, who had not yet mastered the finer skills of perceiving the Fylking, depended on Bren to look out for wolves and ravens. They had seen nothing yet, causing Othin to reconsider his earlier enthusiasm for this mission.

  Esric, a stocky man with peppered hair and exceptional eyesight, moved out to the east; Siglaug, who had experience training horses, hounds and the rangers’ dark birds, turned north. The outriders stayed close enough to hear a shout as they watched over the rangers’ flank.

  When the small company had gone a fair distance, they entered a clearing in the trees. Othin checked his horse; the others gathered around. They listened but heard only the night. Somewhere nearby, a stream murmured faintly.

  “We took too long,” Heige said in a near whisper. “She could’ve passed out or died by now.”

  “Assuming Raven didn’t send us on a goose chase,” Othin said.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Bren said.

  “I think we’d do well to take Helasin’s advice and not assume anything,” Heige said.

  “I agree,” Bren said. He drew his reins down and turned around, his horse stepping about as he surveyed the dim, shadowy shapes of the trees. Then he pointed. “There.” Between the trunks, looming over the ground, a pale, four-legged shape faded from view.