The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “That could be anything,” Othin complained.

  “Aye, like nothing,” Heige agreed.

  Bren cleared his throat. “Are you a seer now? It was Wolf. Shapeshifted.”

  Othin watched Bren peering into the gloom and was reminded of yet another truth: he hadn’t completely fulfilled the phooka’s demand, for his skills were far from refined, and the Fylking were harder to see than Others. Not for the first time, he wondered why the phooka had asked him to learn second sight at all. So he could find ghosts in the woods?

  He followed Heige and Bren as they rode southeast, into the trees. The change in direction made Othin nervous. They had obviously missed something, and he hadn’t heard anything from Esric or Siglaug.

  They rode on, following Bren as he wove through the landscape. Othin’s nervousness grew, and he was about to call this whole thing off when a cry echoed through the trees loud enough to hear over the moving horses.

  Bren checked his horse abruptly and dismounted. “Bring light,” he said over his shoulder, kneeling over a shape on the ground.

  “Keep watch,” Othin said to Heige. The ranger moved off as Othin dismounted and fumbled for the ties on a saddlebag. He removed it and joined Bren, pulling out a torch. As he lit it, the light flared out, chasing shadows. He jammed the torch into the damp ground and wedged it with a rock.

  It was indeed a woman they had found, smeared with blood and dirt, as if she had dragged herself over the ground for some distance. One of her eyes was missing, dark as a bleeding hollow in the earth and caked with blood. Her abdomen was oozing blood, as if she’d been stabbed. Tears streaked the dirt on her face.

  “There now,” Bren said gently, leaning over her. Her skirts were torn, and she clutched one arm with the other. “We are King’s Rangers. What is your name?”

  She breathed in short gasps. “Lirea,” she whispered.

  Bren looked up and around. “Do you live nearby?”

  “Two leagues”—she lifted a hand to the south—“more.”

  Othin’s throat turned dry as he imagined her hauling herself here over that distance. “Here,” he said, handing Bren a water skin and a bundle of torn linens. He opened a green bottle and sniffed its contents, pungent and yet soothing to the mind. After lifting the woman’s head and helping her to drink, Bren took the bottle and tilted it onto a cloth.

  “Lirea,” he said, gently cleaning her face. “Who did this?”

  Her lips parted as her breath quickened. “Destroyer of the Math Gate.” Her voice shook like a leaf. “He wore the hide of a dragon.”

  The rangers exchanged a quick glance. Niflsekt. Othin said, “Why?”

  She closed her one eye, a small cry emerging from her lips. “King Magnfred’s Pact—” Suddenly she stiffened, teeth clenched, her eye turning dark as if filling with ink. “They’re coming. You must leave.”

  “We’ll do no such thing,” Bren assured her, sliding his arms beneath her. “Our camp is not far. Just relax.”

  “Who is coming?” Othin pressed.

  She screamed. Othin’s heart flipped over like a fish in a pool as the sound tore through the woods. “Bren, put her down.”

  Lirea convulsed, her face rigid and her eye staring at nothing. She began to speak in another tongue, sharp and gray as a dead beast soaked in rain.

  “Blackthorn,” Bren said, his face pale. He grabbed the bags from the ground, shoved them into Othin’s hands, and got to his feet.

  Othin rose also, staring at the witch in confusion as she continued to drone in her heavy, dusky voice. “Since when was the Blackthorn Guild a threat?”

  “Since now.” He strode toward the horses. “They deal in patterns, interconnections, elemental forces. She’s summoning nature—with her life, Othin—we must go. I don’t know her intentions.”

  Leaving the torch, Othin turned and strode after his friend, uneasy leaving the woman behind. The image of her missing eye burned in his mind. The Hooded One was said to have given his eye in return for knowledge. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Not now—and not at the hands of a Niflsekt warlord.

  “What happened to Wolf?” he asked.

  “Hel the fuck knows.”

  “I’d like to know what Raven thought coming out here would save us from.”

  “So would I.”

  Hoofbeats. In the distance, someone shouted. Othin drew his sword as Heige barreled up to them, his face lurid in the flickering light. “Company!” he boomed. “Demons.”

  Which meant they were physical, if Heige saw them. “How many?” Othin said.

  “At least twenty, maybe more.”

  “Too many. We should fly.”

  “I’ll warn Helasin,” Bren said. His expression set beneath his hood, the ranger turned his mount and headed west, into the trees.

  An arrow ripped through the brush with a hiss and buried itself into Lirea’s body. She screamed a word that put a rippling fist into Othin’s gut, and then fell silent. Ansuz. He knew the word, yet not. The air changed, a legion of voices without forms.

  The wind began to blow. It roared through the trees and brush, throwing the boughs around. Leaves and branches tumbled through the air, and the ferns rippled hard under a cold breath. Airy shapes, thin and ethereal, swirled and dived between the trees.

  Air, Othin thought suddenly.

  “Othin!” Heige called, wheeling his mount around as the woods came alive with a crashing horde.

  A hulking shape moved into the light. Othin hit the ground as another arrow whizzed by, striking his saddlebag. A third came down in a high arc, spinning in the wind. It thumped off the greave in his boot. Heige nocked an arrow and let it fly in one fluid motion. A lumbering shape mottled with leather and tattoos stopped abruptly and fell. Heige shot again, striking a second demon in the eye.

  “Find Siglaug and Esric!” Othin yelled over the roaring gale. He jumped up and ran for his horse, slinging the packs over. As he cinched them down, the torch blew over, sputtering. Cold as the breath that bore down from the Thorgrim peaks on a winter’s eve, the wind moaned in the tongue of the wilds, vast and indifferent.

  Siglaug raced through the trees on the edge of the light, her sword at the ready and shining with blood. The gray form of a demon smudged the shadows in her path. With a cry she swung down. The demon stumbled back, clutching at its skull beneath a helmet, spurting blood. It slammed into a tree and sank to its knees.

  The ranger rode up to Othin, out of breath, her dark eyes blazing. Her blond hair had slipped from its braids and matted in a tangle over a wound on the side of her head. “Othin,” she said with a nod.

  The sharp sounds of battle rang out from the trees. “Let’s find the others and get out of here,” Othin said. He mounted and followed Siglaug as she rode off toward the tumult.

  Something crashed behind him. Reining in, he swung around hard. Whinnying in alarm, his horse reared as a demon came out of the shadows on all fours. It rose up, pulling an axe from its belt. Its other hand was twice the size of the first and armed with long claws tipped in black metal. Steam rose from its flesh.

  Othin clenched his jaw. He would get one chance, here, before the monster cut his horse out from under him. Leaning in, he dropped a hard stroke of his blade, catching the demon on the side of the head and cutting down with a twist over its eyes. The demon screamed, long fangs glinting in the dying light. Raising a hand to its face, it flailed out with the other, swinging the axe in a wild arc. Othin met the blow, slicing through the demon’s wrist. The hand flew into the ferns in a spray of blood; the axe spiraled away and clipped Loge in the rump.

  The horse started with a shrill cry. Othin moved in, and with one last cut, opened the blinded monster’s throat, silencing it. It hit the ground with a thud.

  Othin twisted around. The axe had cut into Loge’s flesh, but not deeply. He moved into the woods, leaving Lirea’s body to the wind.

  A horse thundered by with an empty saddle. Esric’s horse.

  The earth moaned. Loge
pranced, lathering at the bit as the ground undulated. The horse stumbled, spooked and ran as the ground and the trees rumbled in the same language as the wind.

  Earth.

  A tree fell with a crash, splintering on an outcropping. Loge reared up again, nearly throwing Othin from the saddle. Cold air rushed up the course of a stream. The sky lit up, followed by a crack of thunder that raised the hair on his head.

  Fire.

  Demons, everywhere. Scores of them. Othin ducked down, hoping he hadn’t been seen. Too late: a guttural voice roared what sounded like a command. Something hissed through the air and grazed Othin’s neck through his hood. Ripping the arrow from his cloak, he moved, guiding his horse over the bank and along the stream. His neck burned with liquid chill.

  Another demon landed in the water with a splash. Its eyes glowed red as it swung a spiked club. Othin parried the blow, but not quickly enough. The club hit him in the shoulder, knocking him from the horse. One knee and the side of his face slammed into the rocks, stunning him.

  He was a dead man. He rolled himself over with a choke as the club came down and slammed into the rocks next to him with a splintering crack. He had dropped his sword someplace in the water.

  “Othin!” Siglaug yelled somewhere above him. Then she screamed.

  The sharp snap of a bow hit the air. Othin pushed himself up as the demon with the club staggered and fell, clutching at an arrow sunk in its ear. Siglaug cried out in rage. An axe spun end over end and embedded itself in the demon’s skull.

  The rain came then, as if a bucket had been tilted over the land. Icy water poured down in a legion of whispers. As Othin staggered to his feet, the rain stung his face and blinded him.

  Water.

  The sky lit up again, revealing the forms of demons shrieking, waving their long arms and stomping about in disarray. The monsters appeared too frightened to organize as the trees swayed and groaned and the earth trembled.

  The next time the sky lit up, the demons were gone. His scalp prickling, Othin opened his senses and discerned the shimmer of their forms half-shifted into rain and foliage as they fled like sheep to the north.

  “War God!” someone called. Heige. The light of several torches flickered through the trees on the opposite bank. A company had arrived.

  “Here!” Othin rasped. Holding his shoulder, he stepped over the demon’s bulk and retrieved his sword. Then he released a sharp whistle for Loge.

  “I have him,” Siglaug said from behind. She limped over the rocks, leading the horse, slick with sweat and rain. “Are you all right?” Her voice was rough.

  “I will be. You? Where’s your horse?”

  She looked away, her silence bleeding with grief. “Dead.”

  The storm had abated, and it rained lightly. Othin took Loge’s reins and put his arm over Siglaug’s shoulder. “I am sorry.”

  Heige rode up along the bank, torch blazing, and then moved down to the stream, where he let his horse drink. “Anyone hurt?” Above, rangers gathered in the woods, spoiling for a fight they wouldn’t see, at least for the moment.

  “We’re fine,” Othin said. “Where’s Esric?”

  “Gone,” Heige said.

  Othin blinked at him. “Gone?”

  “He fell. I went back for the body and the demons had taken it. The witch, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Supper,” Siglaug said with chilling dispassion, inspecting the wound on Loge’s rump. “They’d have taken my horse too had the storm not scared them away.”

  Othin took a breath. “Bren made it back?” he called up to the others.

  “He did,” replied one of the riders with a familiar smile. Alaric. “After what he told us, we’re glad to see you. When Esric’s horse returned without him, we feared the worst.”

  Othin mounted and extended his hand to Siglaug. She grasped his arm and swung up behind him.

  ~*~

  A short time later, laden with the gear they had retrieved from Siglaug’s dead mount, the rangers rode west. No one asked any questions; they just rode, watchful and not daring to assume the demons wouldn’t return.

  As the company neared the rangers’ camp, Alaric dropped back to Othin’s side. “Someone arrived earlier to see you,” the dark-haired ranger said. “Our new recruit. Rode all night to get here.”

  “Magreda? She was stationed in Citadel Defense.”

  “She came with news. Bad news, by the look of it. She was with the captain, Bren, Master Klemet and some others.”

  Leofwine, Othin thought. Real bad news, if the sorcerer had taken note. “Prederi?”

  “Still on watch, when we left. Helasin sent Ingifrith to sit with him.”

  The camp was quiet, and yet watchful; Helasin had doubled the guard. People moved here and there, carrying supplies, leading horses, or sitting by small fires sharpening weapons and fletching arrows. When the company entered, many of the rangers came to greet them, their faces creased with worry and relief. Othin dismounted, flinching as he stretched his wounded shoulder. A lad took his horse; a woman inspected the gash on Siglaug’s head and led her away. Heige spoke to two men in low tones.

  Hungry and exhausted, Othin made his way to the center of camp, where a large tent had been strung up in the trees. A canvas flap hung over the opening to shelter the interior from the wind. Magreda emerged, her dark gaze sweeping the camp. When she saw Othin, she hurried in his direction.

  “Magreda,” he said as she sank into his arms. He held her close, inhaling the scent of sweat, horses and patchouli. “What are you doing here?” he breathed into her hair.

  She withdrew, her chest moving with a quickened breath. She lifted her fingers to the throbbing pain on his cheek. “High Constable Lisefin discharged me from the order.”

  What Othin had learned from Halstaeg began to gather into a likely scenario. “Why?”

  She lowered her eyes, softly gripping his sleeves. “I should have told you...”

  He cleared his throat. “The Leopard Clan?”

  She looked up with a start. “How did you know?”

  “Halstaeg knew. Don’t ask me how. A better question is, how did Diderik find out?”

  She shook her head. “Halstaeg must have told him.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Halstaeg respects you. He wouldn’t have told me about it only to turn around and do this.” Not when he could use it as leverage, he added privately.

  She gazed off into the night with a cold, feline stare. “Sefon?”

  “That makes more sense. Though I can’t imagine how the rat shit found out.” He rubbed her arms, and dropped his hands. “Is this the news you came with?”

  She turned abruptly and headed back toward the tent. “No.” With that flimsy response, she flung open the flap and ducked inside.

  Othin entered to low voices and a heavy mood. A fire pit in the center of the enclosure cast looming shadows amid the trees. Helasin sat cross-legged on the far side, with Leofwine and Bren on either side of her. Jugs, cups and plates of food scraps lay about on the matted grass and pine needles.

  Magreda padded around and sat beside Bren. Others crowded the tent, an assortment of warriors who had been in the brotherhood for many suns. Othin nodded to them. His shoulder burning with pain, he removed his cloak and weapons and put them in a like pile near the flap.

  “Othin,” Helasin said. She gestured. “Please, sit. Give me a report.”

  “Captain,” Othin said, putting a fist on his chest. Behind him, Heige entered. The rangers made space, and someone handed over a jug and some cups. Another gave him a loaf of bread torn in half.

  “As you know,” Othin began, catching Bren’s eye with a nod, “we were attacked just after we found the woman that Ingifrith and Bren heard. Esric fell. Siglaug thinks the demons were waiting for us. They had the area surrounded.” He took a cup and a hunk of bread as Heige handed it over. “The woman was a Blackthorn witch. She cast a spell that drove the demons off. I don’t think they were expecting that.”


  “What sort of spell?” Leofwine asked.

  “She spoke the word ‘ansuz.’ A storm came up. I think she invoked the spirits of the elements. I felt them, heard them.”

  “Ansuz is the Magician’s rune,” Leofwine said. “The demons don’t belong here. The spell must have driven them out, as if this place had become too hot or cold for them to survive.”

  “For good?” someone asked.

  Leofwine shook his head. “They are trapped here by the Niflsekt’s spell, and no doubt still under orders by their master. They will return.”

  Othin took a sip of wine. “I’ve heard it said the demons are targeting the Blackthorn Guild. Perhaps this is why.”

  “The witch also mentioned something called King Magnfred’s Pact,” Bren said. “I got the impression that was very important.”

  Leofwine looked at him sharply. “Aye, it would be. King Magnfred, the first ruler of Dyrregin after the First Gate War, worshipped the Allfather. He created the Blackthorn Guild to honor him. At this time, Isarvalos, Prince of the Severed Kingdoms, had imprisoned the Order of the Hooded One, priestesses whom the Wolf Lords have kept over millennia to work the Veil. As the tale goes, the Allfather told Magnfred of a potion used to destroy demons. Loki had summoned Isarvalos out of spite, and the Allfather wanted the demon destroyed.”

  “Magnfred’s Pact,” Othin said. “Why didn’t the Allfather kill Isarvalos himself?”

  Leofwine shrugged. “The Hooded One tends to operate from the shadows,” he said evasively. “And those who serve him choose the steepest paths. Magnfred did as he was asked. He created the Blackthorn Guild to preserve the Allfather’s knowledge, given to him by the Witch Goddess Freya. They created the potion and somehow, Magnfred tricked Isarvalos to drink. It would have ended him, but Loki saved Isarvalos’s life. Now, I believe Isarvalos is using the Niflsekt’s spell to avenge the pact by destroying the Blackthorn Guild—and Magnfred’s descendants, which is why the demons are assaulting Merhafr.”

  Helasin leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Are you saying the only reason the demons are here is to avenge what Magnfred did over twelve centuries ago?”