One thing the Niflsekt High Command had never fully understood was how deep the roots of magic grew in this world. The Fylking did. And they used it to their advantage.
The sun set at his back as he entered the conservatory, its wide hall glowing with soft lights and alive with the activities of his men. They bowed their heads to him as he passed.
Long beams of golden light touched stones, gardens and window panes of the conservatory, an old and venerable place by mortal standards, a hold where they were taught to serve and, since the war, to fight. A pointless exercise, even if mortal service did have its uses. Soon, the Niflsekt High Command would send hand-picked commanders to take over here, and Vaethir would return to his homeworld and the comforts of his dark keep high in the mountains overlooking the Stitaeroc River. Faetros would be waiting and eager, no doubt, to continue Vaethir’s studies.
Mortals had such notable smells about them. The High Vardlokk of Chaos found Moust in an antechamber near the stairwell of the tower the commander had claimed for his own. The Fenrir sorcerer turned with a start as he realized the immortal was standing in the doorway. Closing the door of a tall cabinet in which the previous Master of Faersc had kept field supplies, the sorcerer smiled with his usual irritating overfamiliarity.
“Master!” he said, dropping to one knee, hands clasped.
“What are you doing here?” the Niflsekt said. “Unless you are keeping Ingifrith Klemet in that cabinet,” he moved his gaze pointedly to the cracked door, “you should be on the hunt.”
The sorcerer got to his feet. “I heard you were returning,” he lied. No one here knew where Vaethir had been, conducting his business. “I located Ingifrith and dealt with her accordingly.”
“Did you?” The High Immortal turned and strode for the stairs.
Moust followed him. “I did, Master.”
“I heard no word from Moefir that she was here.” And he would have, as the white-haired warlock had very specific orders. “I trust you had better sense than to take matters into your own hands—for the purpose of keeping that secret you have been hiding from me.” He turned with the sidelong glance of a scythe and then continued up the stairs. Behind him, Moust padded along, silent.
Vaethir reached the top and entered a plush chamber. The last of the sunlight cast golden patterns on the wood and rugs. Near the top of a tall window, a spider hung in a web. The warlock reached a cabinet with a marble shelf and took out a bottle. Mortal whisky lacked the finesse of the fine brew he’d had sent down from Tower Sif and recently polished off, but it was all he had right now. He poured the liquor into a crystal glass and downed it in one draught. Then he poured another.
Adept Moust stood in the center of the floor, holding his black cloak around him like a shield. The wily sorcerer had some reason for returning here, and it was not to deliver news of Ingifrith Klemet’s demise. He was frightened.
“Well?” Vaethir said.
The Adept looked up and nodded briskly, as if he had just convinced himself of something. “I gave her, and the Fylking, to the High Commander of the Third Sun.”
Vaethir paused, his glass half lifted to his lips. As he realized the sorcerer was serious, a laugh climbed up the back of his throat and died there. He set down his drink. “And how did you accomplish this, pray?”
Moust, for some unfathomable reason, looked pleased with himself. “I summoned him.”
“With what?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out until Vaethir took a step in his direction. “I—” Moust sputtered. “I had a talisman.”
Vaethir studied the sweat gathered on the man’s brow, as well as the particular shade Moust always took on when the subject of Ingifrith Klemet came up. He thought of Hrafn, telling him in that expressionless tone that they had found the Fylking’s hiding place.
Fire. Smoke in the trees.
“Where did this happen?” Vaethir inquired.
“North, Master, high in the foothills of Wyrvith.”
Where Vaethir had sent his finest company. He closed his eyes briefly, his rage gathering like a slow-brewing storm. “What did you summon Halogi with?”
“As I told you—”
Vaethir took another step. “Do be specific.”
“Maidenblood,” Moust blurted. His face now pasty, he began to stink with fear, the kind of scent that attracted wolves and cats. This was just this sort of nastiness the Fenrir Brotherhood excelled at, and why Vaethir had employed them in his dark affairs. It was also the reason he had sent a half dozen of them to Hel in a piss pot. They lacked respect for the more mysterious powers in the universe.
“Tell me,” Vaethir said evenly, now knowing the answer, “whose maidenblood?” When Moust hesitated, he added, “Do not lie to me, Moust. Whatever you fear at this moment, I can turn into a legion.”
“Ingifrith,” he said solemnly. He left it at that, and ensconced in that tactical mistake, his secret rose like a draugr from the rotting earth.
“And?” Vaethir inquired, lifting his brow.
“Master—” the sorcerer stammered. “She practically begged us, the little witch—”
“You raped her. You and who else?” He tilted his head in mock innocence. “Let me guess. The soldier your enemy Leofwine summoned Fenrisúlfr to destroy. Is that it?”
“It was his idea.”
Vaethir laughed. “Your idiocy is profound. A woman does not have the kind of power she does without a mighty wound—and she would not have acquired that by begging a miscreant like you for pleasure. In your arrogance, you think you actually summoned a demon warlord who commands the largest army in the Severed Kingdoms using the maidenblood of a woman he favors? Has it not occurred to you to wonder why he does?”
“Perhaps he’s fucking her too,” Moust muttered.
Vaethir struck him with the back of his hand. The sorcerer tumbled over a chair, knocking over a small table holding an oil lamp before he hit the floor. The Niflsekt moved beside the sorcerer and knelt in a cloak of whispers. “He favors her because she paid the price, you fool. And what have you done?” He grasped Moust by the cloak at his throat and stood, gazing at the man’s bloody face with the force of a rogue wave. “You summoned Halogi using the very thing.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Moust gasped, closing his eyes. “I commanded him. He destroyed the Allfather’s temple and set the wood to flames. He is serving me, not her.”
Vaethir tightened his grip. “And yet, I got a report that my men are the ones who are ravaging the Fylking’s sanctuary in the north. Now what do I believe?”
As the question hung in the air, a subtle shift blanketed the room, a cold breath of the Dark Realms slavering with the hunger of an unfulfilled command. Unaware of the mist bleeding through the opening rift, Moust’s gaze darted around as he tried to put together why Vaethir’s report did not match his own. And Vaethir knew, even before the black, glittering beast filled the corner behind Moust’s sweating face, why the sorcerer had fled here.
“I—swear by Hel I am telling you the truth, Master.”
“You can tell her, then,” the High Immortal grated. Holding Moust struggling in a dragon’s grip, long claws drawing blood from his neck and shoulders, the Niflsekt whirled around in a rage and threw the Fenrir Adept across the room. Fenrisúlfr leapt through the rift and clamped its iron jaws on the sorcerer’s body, shredding it in a brief chorus of screams. The great wolf bounded to the window and crashed through in an explosion of glass. Vaethir moved to the opening hanging in the cold wind. Fenrisúlfr had fled with its prize, leaving a trail of blood across the flagstones.
“Fool.” Vaethir’s temper cooled like a sword in a slack tub. Stepping around the thick puddle of blood spreading on the floor, he strode toward the door. For a change, Moust had honestly believed what he said. Which meant someone else had lied. Vaethir’s men would not have told him they discovered and beset the Fylking stronghold if Halogi were involved. Why did they not mention that?
T
hey didn’t know. Because the report was false.
He descended the stairs. At the bottom stood a warrior from his personal guard, a merciless blade called Patheos. He turned with an expression of casual inquiry. “Master.”
“Find me Hrafn,” Vaethir said.
A blank look. “Hrafn, Master? I do not know that name.”
Vaethir lifted his chin, a wild, mad laugh scratching at his throat. A consummate spy, Patheos knew the names and histories of every warrior in Vaethir’s service.
A Fylking operative. Hrafn had deceived him.
So it begins.
“Tell High Marshal Escn to close the gates and prepare for war.”
Patheos blinked. “Lord Escn will require your—”
Vaethir curled his hand into a fist and slammed his ancestral signet ring into the warrior’s forehead. Blood seeped around the imprint.
“Understood, Master,” Patheos said, his voice strained. Grasping his sword hilt, he hurried outside.
Halogi knew about Ingifrith’s blood. Moust had summoned him through the murky forces of Elivag, and the demon had tricked him.
Escn, seasoned some seventeen thousand suns and an expert at siege warfare, would get the situation under control to some degree, but if the High Commander of the Third Sun was on his way—which Vaethir now knew to be the case—nothing short of dirty sorcery would recoup the Niflsekt’s advantage here. This was the reason Vaethir had cast Faetros’s spell. With the help of Moefir, who had a ledger of debts owed to him by the powers of the Severed Kingdoms, he would have all the currency he needed to summon an entity capable of dealing with Halogi.
By the time the High Vardlokk of Chaos neared the entrance to the passages that led to Moefir’s lair, the conservatory had erupted into chaos, that sublime yet fickle mistress with whom Vaethir had known such long and fruitful intercourse. Amid the noise of men rallying, shouting orders, closing off chambers and tunnels, donning weapons and gathering into formations, Vaethir moved as fluid as a fish in the turbid air.
Something roared in the sky in a dozen levels of sound that cut across dimensions. The crash that followed shook the earth beneath his feet. Vaethir spun around, inhaling the thick air now smelling of sulfur, soot, dust and burning wood. Demons flowed into the passages. Clad in shining mail and breastplates emblazoned with three suns, some of them ran on two feet, others four; many rode mighty steeds with red eyes, tusks and burnished hooves; and winged archers filled the twilit sky, their dark wings pounding the air and flashing in the fire’s glow.
Vaethir slipped through a door and descended into the cold silence of the underground. He drew a sword and headed first to the prisoners’ cells. He sensed they were empty before he arrived and discovered the fact.
How had he missed that Hrafn had been an operative all along? He was unremarkable, but not overly so. The fact that he had seemed intent on dealing with the prisoner himself had not made him suspicious, as it should have. Vaethir had been so distracted by avenging Alorael’s death that he had not been focused on inconsistencies.
Gritting his teeth, he moved swiftly through the dank underground to Moefir’s interrogation room. When he entered, his blade grew light in his grip. Hanging by his wrists over the portal, now closed, hung Othin of Cae Forres, bloody and unmoving. Nostrils flared, Vaethir drew near as the faint vibration of the man’s pulse touched his mind. He rifled through a series of options on how he could use the ranger.
His wrath had burned away his patience for such things, however. In his present predicament, this mortal’s life was not worth much. The Norn was inaccessible. At the very least, he could enjoy ending her lover’s life and this time, there would be no surprises. He spun his sword once, smiling.
“Stop,” said a familiar, grating voice.
Vaethir turned. In the doorway stood Moefir, a long, shining knife against his throat. The one holding him was hidden in the shadow of the corridor. Two more men pushed by them and entered the room.
“Drop the sword,” one of them said in Fylking, his blue eyes steely. Vaethir did as he asked, glancing sidelong as the second Fylking removed the ranger from the chains and lowered him into his arms.
The warrior in the corridor hustled Moefir inside. Hrafn. Holding the knife with clear intention, his black hair was unbound, and his dark gaze held no quarter. His cloak was woven in patterns of feathers.
“Master,” Moefir breathed. A vein stood out in his forehead. Energy gathered around him, a rising charge, a warning...and a message written in his eyes.
The Fylking opened his throat with a careless pull. Vaethir’s heart thudded as blood poured out in a shining river. He shifted his mind, sinking into the layers of the physical dimension until he reached the boundary. He reached into the mists and gathered Moefir’s life force, his last gift. This would end here. He began to murmur over the writhing light. The powerful warlock’s essence would summon something fell enough to crush Halogi where he stood—
Vaethir choked as something struck him in the chest. As the curved thorn of a spider fang withdrew, venom coursed through his veins. Somewhere in the vast unseen, Moefir screamed. Vaethir sank to knees, fire and ice ravaging his limbs and rushing through the unhealed wound in his body like a tidal bore. A silken thread wove around his body, again and again, binding him.
A figure entered the room. Cloaked in black, she had the long, white hair of an elder and wore the rune of ansuz on her throat. Völva. A sorceress. Faetros had never mentioned the Fylking had deployed such a one here. A Weaver of Seiðr, she made the Norn look like a buttercup. The darkness in her eyes was as implacable as Hel herself.
It had to be this. Of course it did. Vaethir’s vision swam as sickness gripped him.
“Bring him,” the völva said, her voice rippling through his flesh.
The surroundings stretched and blurred. The walls, ceiling and floor laughed and careened as he was lifted up. He tried to struggle, but his limbs would not move. He shook his head to clear his vision. It would not stay focused. He had no idea how much time passed before he distantly felt his body drop on something hard. Fire burned. Voices were unbearably loud. Demons and Fylking stood around him, moving slowly, waiting.
A demon appeared before him, tall and wreathed in flames, clad in black and gray, his energy raging with strength and power. He reeked of the Severed Kingdoms. The others knelt in his presence. Three suns, their beams woven into an intricate pattern, blazed on his breast. Vaethir shook his head again, trying to remember. Halogi. High Commander of the Third Sun. Yes, that is how this came to be.
A demon summoned by a hedge witch.
Smoke drifted off the demon’s flesh, pale as death, flashing on the darkness of his armor wrought by the long-fingered magicians of their kind. He gazed down with the eyes of a cat.
“Vaethir of the Dragon Clan,” the demon boomed, “Commander of Niflsekt Covert Operations, Destroyer of the Math Gate, High Vardlokk of Chaos. Your time has come.”
“The Supreme Order of the Severed Kingdoms forbids this,” Vaethir forced from his throat. “I am a High Immortal.”
Halogi stepped close and stood over him as if to consider the claim. “This has nothing to do with them,” the demon warlord informed him, flashing his fangs. He reached back and casually drew a magnificent sword burning with white-hot fire. Vaethir shielded his eyes. “I was summoned by the Rule of Exchange. I think you know that. In this dimension to which you have bound us, I must do what is commanded of me.”
A hedge witch and one hundred herbs.
The moon rose over a low rooftop. The silhouette of a bird blotted the pale gold light. It fluttered a wing and turned its head, eyes flashing red. Go to Faetros, Vaethir thought. The raven flew off as if startled. The warlock had no idea if the wicked creature had heard him.
The demon’s sword blazed down with a deafening roar.
Master of Crows
A white wolf snarled upon the black sails of the Laguz, straining in the fresh, cold wind blowing from the northw
est. The sun glimmered on the waves as the Fenrir craft pressed east toward the city of Merhafr sprawled upon the distant cliffs. His hand on the beam, Leofwine Klemet put his nose to the wind, inhaling the scent of spring. He had missed Dyrregin these last seven moons, for all its troubles, a Niflsekt occupation being but one.
With the thorough assistance of the Third Sun, the Fylking had vanquished the Niflsekt, taking prisoners back through the Gate to whatever grim fate awaited them. The High Vardlokk’s spell fell with him, freeing the Others and the High Immortals to return to their dimensions. The realm had seemed eerily quiet after that, almost dreamlike, as if none of it had ever happened.
But it had. The Veil had opened, leaving the people of Dyrregin not only aware of things they had only heard about in myths and stories, but also more respectful of those with second sight, many of whom had died at the hands of demons and dragons. The realm would be a long time forgetting.
Leofwine had left Ingifrith and his friends with the Lords of Faersc, where they had spent the long winter healing. The Fylking, now back in control of the Gate and humbled by the losses of war, had returned to their towers. Some had taken an unprecedented interest in helping the mortals wounded in their cause.
Ingifrith had written to Leofwine frequently over the winter. Othin and Prederi were back on their feet and had been training in the yards under the direction of Wolf, who had taken a liking to them. Raven, who was instrumental in bringing about the fall of the Niflsekt, had found Bren in a cave, wounded, half-starved and being guarded by a chimera, of all things. According to Ingifrith’s last letter, the Northman had healed enough to return to patrol after spending a moon’s cycle in Ottersun with his brother.
They never found Magreda. After glimpsing her as the cat, Raven had falsely reported to the Niflsekt that she was dead. He was the last one who saw her. Othin, devastated by losing another love to the Otherworld, was said to dream often of a large black cat prowling the wilds of Thorgrim. No one could say if this was the result of grief or second sight. But they continued to search.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 78
