Silence. A chickadee called in a two-toned song. A red squirrel released a long chittering scold. Goats bleated in the distance. Her breath shaking, Melisande parted the hemlocks and peered into the glade. No hoofbeats. No wind. No dark cloaks.
The horseman had vanished.
She climbed out of the trees, brushed herself off and chided herself for being a fool. Only the wardens saw the Fylking, and her Banishing sigil had not affected him. It was just a misunderstanding brought on by her dark thoughts. Perhaps he was a messenger or even a mercenary going to Odr, and she had simply been in his path. She would ask around once she got there.
Wan comforts in hand, she walked quickly in the direction of the goatherd’s house.
Ranger of the North Branch
It was midmorning, raining lightly. Othin of Cae Forres strode out into the ring of a steeply-tiered arena built into the crags on the western side of Merhafr overlooking the sea. He drew his sword and spun it once to loosen his wrist. Then he stopped and breathed deeply to calm his mind as he awaited his third and final match of the day. He wore the seasoned trappings of a King’s Ranger: a black leather tunic stitched with mail and embossed with a pentacle, black leggings and boots strapped with supple greaves. Long strands of his black hair had escaped their bounds and dripped onto his face and neck.
Cheers rippled through the crowd filling the tiers. Cold wind blew from the northeast, stirring the waters to a froth. High around the arena, royals and nobles watched from five evenly spaced balconies draped with the standards of their houses. The banners of Merhafr hung between: a starry, woad-blue background containing a gold and white goat with long, spiraling horns and the hindquarters of a fish. Throughout the crowd, people wore ornate masks of goat heads with scales and fins curling on their shoulders. The air smelled of brine, leather, wood smoke and roasting meat. Lively music filled the streets outside.
In a balcony to the southeast, dry beneath a tapestried canopy, sat nobles from House Halstaeg. In their center above the coat of arms decorating the balcony, sat Lord Halstaeg, high constable of the King’s Rangers. He wore his formal dress, his expression as hard and unreadable as a crag. On his right sat his wife, dressed in green and stiff as a statue; and his son and heir Straelos, a cold mirror image of his father. On his left, dressed in twilight blue and violet like a bruise, was his daughter Rosalie. She leaned toward her father’s ear and said something that failed to change his expression.
For Othin’s first match, he fought a woman from Skolvarin, nearly as tall as he was, agile and skittish as a hind. He had bested her with some effort; many others had not. He lost the second match in hand-to-hand to Captain Ingvar in the Dyrregin Guard, the army that defended the realm. Ingvar never smiled and struck like a snake. Othin had stood his ground for a respectable time and got one good hit to the captain’s face before the wiry brute put him down hard, leaving him with a hurt shoulder. The captain wore this like a banner to which his men rallied; the rivalry between the Dyrregin Guard and the King’s Rangers, an elite brotherhood of warriors who kept order in the wilds of the realm, was an old one. It gave Othin small comfort that none of the other rangers had bested Captain Ingvar either.
The crowd began to stomp their feet and jeer as a man emerged from a gate in the ring and approached Othin with a heavy step and a hard set to his jaw. The tall warrior grinned behind a thick brown beard and a cape of blond hair soaked by rain. He wore dull mail, heavy leather layered like scales, and baggy trousers bound with strips of hide. On his shield was blazoned a hawk in flight on an evergreen background, the standard of Valdros in the northern inlands of Fjorgin.
Othin spun his blade again and balanced his weight on his feet, ready to move.
The Fjorginan slammed the pommel of his sword on his shield. “Come little goat,” he said, his teeth flashing. “I’ll carve you up for my soup.”
Othin circled him. They were the same height, though the Fjorginan was wider. Othin stepped aside and raised his shield to take a cut from the man’s sword. Splinters flew. He thrust low, testing the man’s guard, and met a parry. He eased into a series of thrusts, parries and ripostes that built in passion and gave him a clear impression of his opponent: force used to advantage, strong, accurate and reckless.
The Fjorginan struck again. “Slippery fish goat,” he taunted. “Show your horns.”
Othin played him, his sword part of his body and the space around him spiraling in lines and arcs superimposed over the writhing, colorful, shouting crowd. He feigned a thrust and in a brief hesitation struck the man’s ribs, glancing off mail as the Fjorginan twisted away too late.
The Fjorginan was a different sort of opponent than Othin’s first two, though no less worthy. He couldn’t care less if Othin was ranger, guardsman or cutthroat. His guard was tight, his strokes sure. Othin spun his blade once and stalked casually around, noting a tattoo on the back of the man’s sword hand: a circle inked blue but for a sliver on one side. It was the traditional mark of a Valdros warrior, showing the phase of the moon when he was born.
“What’s that on your hand?” Othin asked, pretending to lean forward to get a closer look. As the Fjorginan moved, the ranger leapt away like a weasel, throwing up his shield in a lazy motion. Othin’s sore shoulder throbbed. “Do enlighten me, now. I hear the marks tell of your ancestry.” They circled each other. “Yours is mostly dark. Your mother begat you by her brother?”
The warrior grinned and lunged. Othin parried his blade to the hilt, binding him, and then shoved him back a step. “I see. Her father fucked her.”
Another clash, this one without the grin. Othin stayed light on his feet, though he was beginning to tire under the man’s heavy blows.
“The family bull?” the ranger threw in.
The Fjorginan roared and charged. Othin ducked beneath his blade and threw a kick into the full force of the warrior’s advance, knocking his feet out from under him and putting him face-first into the mud. His shield rolled away and toppled.
The Fjorginan rolled over and up, spitting dirt, his sword parrying the ranger’s assault. Then he swung his arm around. Othin twisted aside, but not before a glob of mud splattered him in the eyes. Rumbling with laughter, the Fjorginan kicked him in the chest, knocking him back onto his rump.
The crowd roared to a deafening pitch.
Othin scrambled up and lunged, slugging the man in the gut and knocking the wind out of him. As he thumped to the ground, the ranger came down and hit him with a solid right hook. Gasping for breath, the Fjorginan passed a hand over his bloody nose and then blinked up to find the ranger’s sword at his throat.
“Do you yield?” Othin said quietly, without amusement.
The man closed his eyes and nodded. Othin stepped away and raised his blade into the air. The crowd yelled, clapped and stomped. From the tallest crag, a woad blue pennon was unleashed, stiff and rippling on the wind.
Othin lowered his blade and offered his hand. The Fjorginan grunted and let him pull him to his feet. Grumbling something in his native tongue that could have been a nod or an insult, he retrieved his shield and lumbered back to his men.
His eyes caked with grit, Othin sheathed his sword, turned toward the balcony to the north and bowed his head to King Angvald, a bearded, thickset royal ensconced amid his lavishly dressed family, the House of Merhafr. Then Othin turned to the Halstaeg balcony. The high constable tilted his head forward. Thus acknowledged, Othin returned smiling to the rangers standing beneath the arches of the Pit, as they called it, the network of chambers beneath the arena. They clapped and shouted crude pleasantries.
As Othin approached, something fluttered in the air in front of him. His reflexes caught a silken scarf. Above, Rosalie leaned forward, blond braids piled on her head, hands clasped over her heart. Unable to extract himself with honor, Othin tucked the favor into his tunic and kept moving. Relief bathed him as he passed into the stony shadows, out of sight.
His companions grinned and praised him for his victory.
“That’ll teach ‘em to play dirty, won’t it,” someone said. Another shouted, “Worthy match!” Someone took his shield and threw his cloak over his shoulders; another handed him a rag to wipe his face. A lanky Southlander named Tasn pressed a wineskin into his hand.
Thanking them, Othin pulled the cork and took a long draught of wine, delicate and too fine for their ilk. He lowered the skin with a raised brow. “Cae Lis. Return of the Fylking, 1014.” He knew the vintage. The Vinland in the heart of Dyrregin where he was born boasted the finest vineyards over continents. He had learned to drink there. He looked around at the rangers’ grinning faces. “Where’d you rogues get this?”
Prederi, a blond-haired ranger from Merhafr, shrugged. “I might have found a cask in my travels,” he said with an offhand gesture.
“In the king’s cellars,” Tasn added.
Someone whistled. Othin cleared his throat. “We could all lose our patrols for that.” He took another long sip, smiling against the mouth.
“Na,” crooned Prederi. “They’ll never miss it.”
Othin took off his sword and lowered himself onto a wooden bench near one of the arches. Behind him, a familiar voice said, “War God!” Othin smiled at the nickname as Bren, his best friend, sat beside him. Othin flinched as the warrior slapped a paw on his bad shoulder. “Good match, lad.” Hailing from the Fomor Mountains overlooking the Wythe Strait that flowed south into the Njorth, Bren had dark red hair, pale freckled skin and sky-blue eyes. They had been friends since the day Othin arrived to Merhafr for duty, young, reckless and too good with a blade to tend vineyards.
He handed Bren the skin. “Och! good,” he rumbled. He took a swig and then lowered the skin with a grimace. “Don’t we have any whisky?” he complained to no one in particular. Prederi grumbled a comment about someone having drunk it all.
“Northern wolf,” Othin said. “Wouldn’t know a grape from a turd.”
“Grapes are for birds,” Bren returned, clapping the wineskin against Othin’s chest.
A horn sounded, signaling the next match. Two warriors entered the arena: a tall man clad in the gray and red of the Dyrregin Guard and a stocky man covered in thin layers of dark brown armor. On his chest he wore an embossed standard of a black, rough-cut tree.
“Aoneg,” Bren said. “He’s far from home.”
Othin nodded. Aoneg was a vast, forested realm over five hundred leagues west over the Aegir Sea. It was said the people of Aoneg lived in trees, like the Fylking in the old legends.
Bren said, “You headed north soon?”
Othin took another drink of wine, relaxing as heat spread into his limbs. “Aye. First quarter, three days hence.”
In keeping with tradition, the rangers rode out on the moons, some on the first or last quarter, others on the dark or bright. The length of their patrols varied depending on where they traveled. For the most part, the rangers had their pick of routes; the king employed enough of them to cover Dyrregin comfortably. For eight suns Othin had patrolled Dyrregin’s rugged western coast between Merhafr and the Fomor Mountains which bordered the realm in the north. Five suns past, when the rangers put in bids to change routes, he offered to take the roads to Ason Tae north of the Thorgrim Mountains. He had a mind to see the famed Jarnstrom Forge, which stood on the North River in Odr and employed some of the finest bladesmiths in Dyrregin. He had no competition: few rangers warmed to the idea of riding up there, especially in winter. Even Bren had guffawed when Halstaeg handed Othin the map.
Undaunted, Othin took his patrol in hand: east through the townships along the Taeson River, north past the Rue Hills, through the city of Vota and up into the foothills of the mountains that sheltered Ason Tae. The Wolftooth Pass was particularly bleak, icy and stark even in the warmer seasons, and usually impassable in winter, forcing him to detour west across the Blanch River and pick up the Spruce Road through Thorgrim’s slightly less formidable western range. He worked long, cold nights in remote areas that tended to breed trouble: breaking up local skirmishes, hunting down thieves or renegades from other realms and keeping the roads and passes clear of highwaymen. He was well known and respected in all the townships and villages of his domain. He often varied his patrol in random ways so that no one would be able to anticipate when and where he might be watching.
While it was common for rangers to pair up and share parts of their patrols, they mostly traveled alone, like the tower wardens. Unlike wardens, however, rangers were not protected by the Fylking. They were trained to deal with all manner of mishaps: attacks, injuries, bad weather and the like. Many of them, Othin included, had known war before joining. The rangers dealt with trouble efficiently and employed a complex system of messaging through riders and ravens trained to scout patrol routes and recognize their rangers’ appearance.
Othin worked his patrols with grim fortitude. But one fine spring two suns past, his duties took on a new light.
On the eve of the Seed Moon, he rode into Odr, a quiet yet tough little village steeped in Fylking stories. Once seen, he was immediately called upon to break up a fight. Naturally, he assumed this was happening in a tavern or some such place. He was surprised to discover two women rounding up on each other on a quiet lane lined with lupine, foxglove and the purplish spikes of tulips.
They were fighting over the treatment of a cat. Spitting and hissing like cats themselves, the woman with large breasts and dark curly hair defended her baby; and the other, tall with tangled red-blond hair and a raucous flush on her cheeks, retorted that the breath of her opponent’s baby wasn’t worth a stinking rat’s ass to such a fine cat.
Othin recalled his amused reluctance in getting involved, mixed with some question as to why the people in that village—a village known for defying the Fylking themselves—had called on a ranger before intervening in this particular row. As Othin made his presence known, the wild girl stomped off without so much as a glance in his direction, went and knelt beside a nearby wagon and coaxed out a crouched and wary cat. She wrapped it in her cloak and departed, leaving Othin with the enraged mother, who wagged her finger at the blond woman’s back and accused her of being an infertile, inbred whore. Deciding he would prefer the company of such a one to being in this situation, Othin tipped his head and turned his horse around.
There was something about Melisande. He had watched her walk up the path toward the gatetower like a mother of all things and none, free and strong, long hair blowing on the wind. Against his better sense, Othin rode after her. He had yet to regret doing so.
Since then, his duties as a ranger included a visit to Millie and her cat in Graebrok Forest north of the gatetower. His wild woman of the north, as he liked to call her, not once had she asked him for fidelity or to put down roots. She cared nothing for such things. Near each bright moon, for as many days as his duty allowed, he stayed with her and gave her his love, which she returned in kind, gratefully, wild and laughing in his arms in the loft of her cottage.
“Three days before I leave,” he repeated, watching the match outside and not seeing it. The rain had started again. “I miss the road.”
Bren nodded, glancing sidelong. “You’re missing something else too, by the look of it.”
Othin reached up to his throat and fingered a charm Millie had given him, a hooded crow in flight, knit from flax. “The moons grow long.”
They sat in silence amid the talk and noise of the men around them watching the match. Prederi reached over Othin’s shoulder and took the wineskin from his grasp with a surly comment. Bren lifted his chin toward the arena. “I hear you have an admirer.”
Othin didn’t bother to ask him what he meant. Everyone knew the high constable’s daughter favored him—she made sure of that. He gazed up through the underground shadows at the Halstaeg balcony. Rosalie had returned to her father’s side, and leaned her chin on one hand, looking bored. “She flirts with every warrior under Halstaeg’s command. I’m just the latest.”
Bren tilted his head. “I hear it’s mo
re than that.”
“Heard what, where?” Othin returned tiredly. He turned on his seat and held out his hand. “Oi!” After a moment, someone returned the skin to him.
“Two days ago,” Bren said, “I had a nice time with Teelie in the kitchen. You know she can—”
“Bren.” Othin lifted the skin to his lips.
“Right. She asked me if you and Lady Rosalie were betrothed yet.”
Othin spewed the king’s wine all over the dirt. “Betroth—” He coughed the wine from his throat like flies. “I’d sooner marry that tree-barked Aonegian out there.”
Just then, the guardsman outside took a hit, causing the crowd to moan. The Aonegian claimed the match.
Othin leaned on his knees with a cough. “Next time you’re playing with Teesie—”
“Teelie.”
“—tell her I’m already taken. Let her spread that around like an itchy asshole.”
Bren wheezed a laugh. “Aye, I will.”
Othin cleared his throat and took another pull of wine. Cheers and drums shook the arena as the spectators awaited the next round. The rangers in the Pit talked, laughed and collected bets. Othin stretched his back. A shadow had fallen over him, a sickly foreboding emanating from the violet bruise sitting above the Halstaeg banner. Three days. He would see an end to it.
Time passed as they awaited the next match. Behind him, Prederi commented loudly on the delay. Someone told him to shut up.
“Something comes,” Bren said. He stood up like a hound at the arrival of someone no one else heard. Othin twisted around, as did Prederi, peering into the shadows of the interior passages. No one who knew Bren ignored his spooky comments. The northerner had a sense for things.
Othin stood up and leaned outside, gazing upward through the dripping shadows. The seat by Rosalie’s side was empty.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 4