Leofwine turned as someone walked over the deck. The Master of Water, a powerful sorcerer with graying red hair and a calm disposition, came to his side, holding his black Fenrir cloak against the wind. “Merhafr,” he said, gazing at the city in the distance as if recalling a memory. “Are you glad to be coming back?”
A crooked smile touched Leofwine’s mouth. “I am.”
The Master nodded. When Leofwine had arrived at Ýr, not long after his return to Fjorgin last fall after the war had ended, the Wolf Lords met him at the toothy gates, their heads bowed in respect and apology. Not all of them had been loyal to the Niflsekt or partook in his dark teachings—and none of them had agreed to put the priestesses of the Hooded One to the sword. According to the Master of Water, they had not believed the Archwolf would carry out the Niflsekt’s order.
After spending a short time in Ýr exchanging information and plans with the humbled Wolf Lords, Leofwine journeyed to Agda’s house. With a heavy heart, he gave Nith’s parents news of their daughter’s death. He held Agda’s hand and placed the Witch Goddess’s charm into it. He answered their questions. And he honored Nith for having saved his life.
His final stop was Nosthrod. Beneath hostile stares and muttering, Leofwine went before Sigbjorn’s aging father, Lord Nosthrod, and Princess Idalisa. Expecting no quarter, he knelt and explained as best he could what had happened and why, with the same earnest remorse he had received from the Wolf Lords in Ýr. To honor her brother, if nothing else, Idalisa took him to Sigbjorn’s resting place, a stone tomb in the forest which the prince had loved so well. There, with the Otherworld looking on, Leofwine said farewell to his lover.
As he rode back to his father’s house in Earticael, Leofwine had never felt so glad to lose something he’d once desired above all else. The power of the Fenrir Brotherhood, tattooed on his heart, had not returned.
“I hear your sister is a hero,” the Master said, breaking Leofwine from his thoughts.
Leofwine nodded. “King Angvald offered her a chateau and some land near Lake Ceirn. She declined.” He glanced at the sorcerer as he made a puffing sound. “She plans to be a Warden of Dyrregin. She is most at home in the wilds. But if she lived anywhere else, it would be the family home of the ranger she loves.”
“Ah,” the Master said, smiling. “Better than a sorcerer, I suppose.”
Leofwine breathed a laugh at his dry tone. “It certainly is.”
They both turned as the hatch to the cabin closed. A girl of ten summers bounced over the deck and leaned on the beam in excitement. “Merhafr!” she piped, and then pointed. “And look! The tower!”
“That’s Tower Sor, Sachi,” the Master of Water said, putting his arm around her. She had dark skin and a mop of tight curls with a reddish tint, not unlike his hair, which he kept tightly bound. The story was, Sachi had fled when the Archwolf’s mercenaries came after her mother and the other priestesses, and hid in a broom closet. Leofwine had more reason to believe her father had gone after her and hid her there.
“Leo,” Sachi said, her brown eyes glinting, “I want to go to Tower Sor and see a Fylking.” A sly glance. “Master says I have the sight now.”
“I said you might perceive something,” the sorcerer corrected. “But you’ll remember what I told you about the High Fylking.”
She shrugged. “Leo said they’re assholes.”
Leo dropped his face into his hand and pretended to rub his eyes as the Master glared at him. “I told you what happened to my sister when she tried,” he said.
“Maybe she was rude. I won’t be.”
Leofwine leaned down next to her. “It doesn’t matter how nice you are.”
“Can you summon the sea witch?” Sachi said, pointing at the water swirling beneath them.
Leofwine shook his head. “Now you know that’s a bad idea.” On their journey here, he had told the girl all manner of tales from his and Ingifrith’s recent experiences, much to her father’s discomfort.
The Master leaned close. “You’ve created a monster,” he said in a low voice.
Leofwine glanced at him. “If you’re going to train her to the Order of the Hooded One and prepare her to take over as Archwolf one day, you’d best get used to that.” He clapped the sorcerer on the shoulder.
People had gathered on the docks to watch the Fenrir craft make port. A company of Dyrregin Guard stood there with a tall, familiar figure in their midst.
“Speaking of bad ideas,” the Master said, reaching for Sachi.
Leofwine picked up a pack and stepped onto the gangplank as it slammed onto the wharf. “You are here at the king’s invitation,” he reminded the sorcerer, who followed him, holding Sachi’s hand. “He’s a reasonable man.”
“I don’t know what the Brotherhood can possibly offer in the way of reparations.”
“Oh, the king has a list. I hope you plan on being here a while.”
As they stepped away from the plank, the tall figure approached, pushing the hood from his face. Leofwine smiled, genuinely glad to see him. “Detlef.” They embraced. The former high constable smelled of pine and tobacco.
“Leo,” he said, grasping his shoulders. “Welcome back.”
That evening, after all the introductions had been made and the Master of Water and his young protégé were comfortably housed in the citadel, Leofwine walked with Lord Halstaeg down a lamplit street in the Royal District. “How long will you stay?” the lord asked.
“The summer, at least,” Leofwine said. “I want to spend time with Ingifrith.”
Halstaeg nodded. “You’ll have a time getting her away from Prederi. They’re inseparable.”
“So I hear.” Arcmael had told him in a letter that Ingifrith had never left the wounded rangers’ sides that winter, as she brewed and mixed all manner of things to bring them back to health. She had enlisted the help of the Otherworld to heal the damage done to their bodies and minds by the Niflsekt warlock. “Once she enters her training in earnest—especially when Spider takes charge—she won’t have time to get tired of the big hothead.”
Halstaeg laughed. “Not a bad thing.” A pause. “Who is Spider?”
“A Fylking wisewoman who has taken Ingifrith under her wing.”
They walked down a quiet street away from the bustle of the citadel. Gazing ahead, Halstaeg said, “What I did during the Second Gate War was wrong, the last of many wrongs. I have fallen, in my life and in my heart. I’ve lost a great deal. But I never meant to lose you.”
“You accused me of high treason to cover your ass,” Leofwine reminded him. “Forced my hand and exposed me as a Fenrir sorcerer. Did you expect me to hang around?”
“Are you going to tell me you weren’t spying on me for the Lords of Earticael while warming my bed?”
Fair enough, Leofwine thought. “I wasn’t fucking them,” he said offhandedly.
“And you aren’t working for them now?” Halstaeg threw in with a knowing smile.
Leofwine rolled his eyes to the sky. He had spent the better part of the winter in Earticael in private conversations with Lord Oddr, High Commander of the Fjorginan Force, about the Fenrir Brotherhood and the Dyrregian Lords of War. As far as Oddr was concerned, Leofwine’s only transgression during the war was almost getting caught.
“I work for myself,” he said. “Though I did bed the king of Fjorgin’s warlock, or so he calls himself. He’s an idiot.”
“The king or the warlock?”
“Both.”
Halstaeg stopped before a tall stone house that Leofwine didn’t recognize. Faint light glowed from within.
“Is this yours?” Leofwine ventured.
“Aye. I live here now with my manservant Sefen, and a small staff.” He glanced down briefly, and then up again, as if gathering nerve. “I assume you’ve secured lodgings.” He released a breath.
“I haven’t,” Leofwine admitted, his stomach rippling with butterflies.
Halstaeg gestured to the door. “Would you...?”
&
nbsp; The sorcerer grinned like a wolf. “I would.”
~*~
A week later, Leofwine rode north.
Spring blanketed the land in cool sunshine and plenty of rain, gracing it with emerald green fields, lupine, daisies and other early wildflowers. Rivers raged with melting snow. The forests grew in peace amid trout lilies, anemones, trillium, violets and carpets of unfurling ferns. Everywhere he went, the sorcerer noted a scarcity of Others. They had returned to their domains deep in the silence of the Veil. He didn’t blame them.
Leofwine rode for days, stopping in the evenings at inns or cottages, where he was welcomed as an emissary to the king. He hadn’t asked Angvald for the honor, but the king had insisted on hanging a royal seal around his neck, an ironic distinction that had caused Detlef to choke on his wine with laughter.
As he reached the North Mountain Road, which snaked up through Wyrvith Forest and into the Thorgrim Mountains, the nights were cold and snow still lay in patches in the hollows. With the constant stream of messengers, craftsmen and would-be apprentices traveling to and from the conservatory, the road to Faersc had become a choppy, slushy mess. His spirits lifted as the gates came into view through the trees. They were open, but Leofwine knew the Fylking were there, watching from the mists of the unseen.
Overhead, a raven soared. As Leofwine drew near the gates, the bird dropped down, swooped over his head and landed in a blackberry patch on one side of the road. Leofwine’s horse sidestepped in agitation. He soothed the animal with a word.
A warrior stood, dark, feathered and smiling. “Master Klemet.”
“Raven,” Leofwine returned. “Are you in the habit of spooking horses?”
“Yes.” The Fylking hopped over a bush and walked by his side. “Staying long?”
Leofwine glanced at him sidelong. “Long as I like. What are you about?”
“I have a story to tell you.” The Fylking vanished. A winged presence, laughing in the air, touched his ear. “At your leisure, of course.” Then he was gone.
Great, Leofwine thought. Raven’s “story” would not be fit for children at bedtime, of that he was sure.
He quickened his pace and rode through the ancient stone gates and onto a wide passage with tiered halls and dwellings on either side. People moved here and there, most of them unfamiliar. As he approached the steps to the main hall, he dismounted.
“Och!” a man barked somewhere behind him. “Who let him in?”
Leofwine grinned as Bren and Othin strode toward him. They were flushed and wore swords, as if they had just come from training. “Rangers,” he said as Bren clasped his arm and pulled him close. Othin did the same. Their manner was warm and genuine, their eyes full of warriors’ shadows.
“Welcome,” Othin said. He lifted the seal on Leofwine’s chest, his brow raised.
“What in Hel is that?” Bren said, leaning in to see.
“Good food and warm beds,” the sorcerer said. He swept the seal over his head and stashed it in a pocket. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Othin laughed. “Always in the right place, you are.”
“Speaking of that, you and Halstaeg get back in bed yet?” Bren said.
Leofwine started up the steps. “That’s no business of yours.”
“They are,” Othin deduced. Bren grunted in agreement.
“Leo!” cried another voice. Leaving the door swinging, Ingifrith burst from the hall and ran down the steps. She knocked her brother back a step as she plowed into him.
“Inga,” he breathed into her hair, holding her close. She smelled like dried plants and apples.
Her eyes shone as she withdrew. “We’ve missed you.”
“Have you been staying out of trouble?” he asked.
“Hah!” Bren put in. “Get her to tell you what Prederi talked her into doing.”
“Shut up!” she snapped, reaching out to cuff him.
“We thought Spider was going to string him up for dinner,” Othin put in.
Later that evening, after Leofwine had rested and bathed, he shared a simple meal with his friends, including Arcmael. Once finished, the companions sat before a large hearth high in the citadel overlooking the mountains towering in the north. Wind whipped at the windows, driving wet snow mixed with sleet. They talked of war, healing, ranger patrols, the Fylking and the future of Faersc.
“Any word on Magreda?” Leofwine asked finally.
Othin took a long sip of wine. “A fortnight past, Bren’s brother Ciron spotted her near the river behind the Bear’s End, still in cat form.” Gazing into the fire, he swirled the wine in his glass. “I’ve known a lot of trackers, but that man is part elf. He can find anything.” The other rangers murmured in agreement.
Ingifrith, curled in Prederi’s arms in a wide chair, said, “We’re sure it was her. Ciron said big cats like the one he saw don’t live up here.”
“We’ll find her,” Arcmael said. “Wolf told me this is common with inexperienced shapeshifters. They get scared or traumatized and stay in form. But she won’t be able to remain the way. She is human, and that will bring her back.”
Leofwine nodded, pleased as he noticed Othin relax. “When did Ciron leave Ylgr?”
“A moon past,” Othin said. “Shortly before Winter Finding, Lord Coldevin talked King Angvald into letting him send a big force of the Guard up there to clean up and let Sheriff Thorn know Merhafr means business. Ciron worked for them.”
“Bothilde is rebuilding the Borderland,” Prederi said.
Othin flashed a crooked smile. “Ciron stayed long enough to make sure she’s behaving. He saw to it she found out we’d be returning to the Ylgr patrol.”
Bren wheezed a laugh. “We’ll be the only ones there with ties to the Otherworld, now. Ciron told me our tavern mistress went pale as a mushroom at the news. Seems she’s had enough of magic.”
The night wheeled away, until Leofwine’s friends had said goodnight and wandered off to bed. Arcmael remained by the fire, his blue eyes thoughtful. His hair, which he had grown out, lay in tangled curls on his shoulders. He picked up a decanter and held it out. Leofwine let him fill his glass.
“How is my father?” the warden asked, tilting the decanter over his own glass.
“He is well,” Leofwine said. “He misses you.”
Arcmael smiled. “I never thought I’d see the day when I felt the same. Othin tells me he knows more about everybody’s business in that town than an old crow.”
Leofwine chuckled. “He has found his calling, I’d say.”
“And you?”
“I’m an old crow from way back, I’m afraid.” He lifted his glass and then jumped as something rippled over the fire, sending a chill crawling over his flesh. Wine sloshed into his lap. “Allfather’s balls,” he said as Raven appeared, leaning casually on the mantel. Leofwine glanced at Arcmael. “Do you ever get used to that?”
The Master of Faersc smiled against the rim of his glass. “I knew he was coming.”
The Fylking’s dark gaze settled on Leofwine. His long jet hair absorbed the firelight, and his pale, Otherworldly face seemed to glow. “I have a story about a crow who visited Ýr.” He smiled, but not warmly.
Leofwine closed his eyes and leaned his head on the back of his chair. “I spent enough time there to satisfy myself that the Wolf Lords are not interested in repeating history. They’ve had their teeth removed.”
The High Immortal pushed himself from the mantel and paced, his feathery cloak swirling around his boots. “Quite so. And your little Archwolf will keep them honest—if she makes it to womanhood.”
Leofwine put his wine aside. “What are you talking about? The Master of Water is one of the most powerful sorcerers there now. He won’t let anything happen to her. He’s looking for trouble. Why do you think he’s in Merhafr sucking the king?”
“He is there because you suggested it, Master Klemet. You, who now stand outside of not only the monarchies of Earticael and Merhafr, but also the jaws of Fenrir.”
“My father told me you’re a master,” Arcmael told Leofwine.
Leofwine stared at them. “Master of what? I was accused of treason once and nearly lost my life to the Masters of Ýr for defying them. They haven’t forgotten it.”
“Nine thousand suns I have been on this world,” Raven said, “and I have taken account of the Masters of Ýr. The High Vardlokk of Chaos did not seek them out for nothing. Trust me, no one nearly escapes their nets—including the Order of the Hooded One, who served the Magician himself. But you did. Like your sister, and Arcmael here, you are Othin’s own.”
Leofwine put his face in his hand. “That’s nonsense. What do you want of me?”
Arcmael said, “Nothing more than what you already are, Leofwine. Under the Niflsekt’s brief tutelage, the Wolf Lords undoubtedly learned new things best left to demons and High Immortals. We simply want you to keep an eye on them and make sure they play nice.”
Leofwine picked up his wineglass and drained it. “And what do I get for that?”
“Me,” Raven said, his dark eyes glittering. “I will be your mentor.”
Leofwine blinked at him, and then considered the offer. Already well paid by the royals of two realms, he did not want for coin. Magical training, on the other hand, would not only help him stay under cover but also protect Sachi from the Wolf Lords—and the world of Math from the Niflsekt.
A Master of Crows.
“Very well,” he said quietly. His heartbeat quickened. “I accept.”
Raven took to the wing, flying once around the room with a cawing laugh before vanishing through the window into the night.
Leofwine looked at his friend. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I.”
“Undoubtedly,” the Master of Faersc said with a smile, handing him the wine.
Glossary
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 79
