“Nik’ll roast us for that,” Prederi said, referring to Nik, the citadel’s master carpenter.
“He’ll roast you,” Bren threw over his shoulder.
“It’s never been locked before.”
The three men continued thus until they reached Othin’s room, where they dropped him face-first on the bed. Prederi stomped to the small firebox and rekindled the coals as Bren removed Othin’s sword and pulled off his boots. A wool blanket settled over him.
“Pleasant dreams, War God.”
The door closed, and silence fell.
The room spun in rhythm with the pounding in his head. The fire crackled and clinked in the stovepipe. The dim, flickering light in the kitchen below the loft warmed the cottage beneath a blanket of snow. Wind whispered in the chimney, drawing a cold draft over the bed. The cat jumped down with a thump.
Othin groaned as a warm hand crept under his tunic and found his heart. He rolled over and gathered her soft limbs to his. With his rough sword hand he pushed the fabric from her thigh, parting her. Firelight glinted in the blond lengths of her hair. “Millie…”
She said nothing, her breath catching as he bore down with his lust. His head throbbing and his stomach pitching with unease, he sank into a river of heat, hands and limbs as she slipped away, a vixen vanishing into the shadows of a hedge.
Darkness enveloped him, leaving behind the scent of gardenia.
The Bargain
Night closed like a fist as Arcmael stood on the edge of the plain, staring blind, rain driving in his face. Dog ran headlong in the direction of the three horsemen, his raucous barking raking the warden’s nerves. Ignoring Wolf’s last command to flee, Arcmael ran after the beast, his inner senses obliterated by guilt. As if to mock him, Skadi’s voice scraped over his mind.
You will long for companionship. You will talk to trees, rivers, children, stray cats, whores and dreams. Anything that gives you attention. This is a perilous path to pursue. Your companions are the Fylking, and their company bears no mortal embellishment.
Threaded like pitch through the barking, hoofbeats struck the earth in violent rhythm, marked by the metallic shrieks of swords being drawn.
Like a warrior, Skadi droned on, you must learn to hear one command and one only. You may think lust and loneliness worse distractions than the things that ease them. Don’t be fooled.
The barking ceased.
Skadi didn’t forbid her wardens pets, horses or pleasures of the flesh. The Fylking certainly demanded no such sacrifices. But every warden eventually learned to heed the crone’s advice, and today was Arcmael’s day.
Stunned by the reality of this, his heart plowed into the storm now silent but for rain, wind and distant thunder. The riders came instantly upon him. He darted this way and that, stumbling on the uneven terrain. He couldn’t see his pursuers in the dark, nor feel them with his senses. Their horses were mortal, but the pounding hooves came from everywhere.
The riders rode him down as if they saw him in the light of day. Something heavy struck him in the head. He spun around with the blow, lost his footing and fell, slamming his knee on a rock. Wolf? He lay there, gasping with pain, head pounding like a drum. Rain pelted his face.
His body stiffened with chills as the riders closed around him, darker shades on the inky night, cloaks torn by wind, faces unseen. They smelled like graves. One of them, unlike the other two, had a presence. It was not a good presence.
For the first time in his life, Arcmael wished for a sword.
He rolled over and pushed himself to his feet, favoring one leg as pain shot out from his knee. Vertigo clutched him. He leaned over with his head in his hands to calm the spinning. Wolf, he groaned silently. Any time…
The riders’ steeds stomped the ground and breathed mist into the air. Lightning flickered, flashing on blades. Even if he had a sword, Arcmael wouldn’t be able to negotiate this. These beings bore the cruelty of seasoned mercenaries with the implacability of the dead. Their energy spiraled like ink into a bottomless hole. Once human, perhaps. No longer.
Arcmael gazed up into the void. “I am a Warden of Dyrregin,” he declared.
“So you are,” a gravelly voice cut in behind him.
Arcmael turned around to face the third one, the different one who had no doubt spotted him across the plain. Though cloaked in the same shroud of nonexistence as the other two, he had a glow of mortal energy around him.
He’s a warlock, Wolf breathed into his mind, so faintly that Arcmael might have imagined it.
A warlock? Blackthorn Guild, herb-gathering, star-gazing hermits? Unlikely, that.
Not quite, Wolf replied to the thought.
Then an even more disturbing thought touched Arcmael’s mind. Wardens didn’t travel with animals. Dog must have distracted these riders into thinking Arcmael was someone he was not. Someone not worth killing, perhaps. Now he had just revealed himself.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The riders dismounted, their black forms swirling in the wind. Without the animals, the emptiness of death merged with the darkness, rendering them invisible to the imagination. Faintly, he perceived the warlock, a scar of malice on the night.
Get down! Wolf barked. Without hesitation Arcmael dropped to the ground as something whizzed through the air above him. It clinked on the ground some distance away. He shrugged off his pack, quiver and bow, which he had no time to string.
As Arcmael tried to rise, the warlock kicked him in the chest, knocking him on his back. He put up his arms as the warlock descended on him. His hands found Arcmael’s face. As his head slammed on the ground, light erupted around the three riders. The warlock’s face contorted as he backed away.
The silvery blur of a wolf shot through the mist and then rose up to the height of a warrior in the full force of wrath. Horses screamed in terror. Arcmael scuttled back as Wolf’s sword came around and blasted the warlock twenty feet over the ground. The fading light illuminated the plain long enough to reveal him getting up and staggering away, throwing one last command over his shoulder as he vanished into the mist.
“Kill him!”
The two other riders closed in. Arcmael scampered up and ran, limping. He stopped short as a shining wolf’s head appeared before him, staring down.
I cannot fight these, Wolf said, his blue eyes hard. You will have to. He pointed to the ground a short distance away.
“What do you mean you can’t—”
They are not focused. Behind you.
Wolf vanished. Arcmael stumbled forward, barely avoiding the sword that sang through the air at his back. He ran for the knife, dropping down to search the ground in the general area where Wolf had pointed.
Move, Fox snarled.
Arcmael rolled aside as a sword came down and struck a rock, sending sparks into the air, illuminating the knife for a moment, just nearby. The second shade slashed at him, cutting into his cloak. Arcmael ripped it away and grabbed the knife, unwittingly closing his hand on the long blade near the hilt. He dropped it with a curse.
The rain had stopped. The clouds parted and a gibbous moon illuminated the plain, the forms of the shades dark against the landscape, and the blood on his hand even darker. Clenching his teeth, he picked up the knife and gripped it, rising into a crouch. Aside from dressing wild animals for the spit, he knew little of knives. He had made too good on forgetting everything else.
You are the aspect of a war god, Wolf said. Open your mind to the light. You know this.
Arcmael knew nothing of the kind—and he had no time to ponder abstractions. The shades circled him, their faces unseen beneath their cowls. They moved in intermittent shifts, their forms vanishing and reappearing just quickly enough to effect continuous movement. Arcmael rose with a forward thrust and slashed at the nearest one. It moved with unearthly speed, appearing again just beyond where it should have. The other shade loomed in his face with a ghastly, reeking grin. Arcmael leapt away with a shout.
They are playin
g you, Wolf said, pacing on four legs behind the shades, staring from the dark face of his beastly form, its silvery hackles raised. Good thing too, or the ravens would be feasting on you come morning.
As if to make the point, Raven swept from the sky and circled. You cannot kill them, the Fylking whispered into his ear. Under their master’s command, they will not stop harrying you until you are dead. You must disable them.
You will want a sword, Wolf added.
Arcmael’s heart started to pound. The cuts on his fingers stung beneath the grip of the knife in his hand. He jumped back as a sword came around at the level of his chest, close enough to open the seam of his tunic. The other shade moved behind him.
Wolf said, They showed no mercy to the dog.
As Arcmael spun around, the silence of mortal loneliness exploded like a dead seedpod, the dreams of a boy, the regrets of a man. He stood in his father’s training yard, his face stinging from a stiff backhand. His lessons whirled around in his mind like birds. But the light knew him. He knew himself. Without thought, he dashed from under his assailants’ redoubled assault, lunged in and slashed down past guard and hilt, taking off a hand. An intense jolt rippled up his arm, causing him to drop the knife.
They do not vibrate at the same frequency you do, Fox said, trotting around the fray. You will feel an energy differential on contact.
The shade screamed with rage. Shuddering as the cry echoed into the hills, Arcmael steeled himself, stepped on the twitching hand and pried the sword from its grasp. He brought up the blade with two hands and parried the blow that came down from the second shade. It drove him to one knee. Arms aching, he wrenched aside and got up, swaying on his feet.
Do not be deceived, Wolf said. One has the strength of ten.
In the mist and moonlit shadows, the silvery Fylking predators padded, crept and flew. Arcmael’s body came alive with forgotten movement. He swayed to one side, planted his feet firmly and brought the sword around and across a dark torso, severing it from the legs beneath. The thing shrieked as it quivered and fell. That done, Arcmael stomped over and hacked the head from the one-handed shade to stop the noise. The head rolled away into the grass and continued to gargle, its hollow voice muffled by the earth.
Arcmael backed away, breathing hard, sword heavy in his hand. His body tingled and the hair on his scalp stood on end. No blood flowed from the severed torso. Moonlight shone on an open eye. An arm twitched, or so his nerves told him. Nauseated, he tossed aside the blade and went for his pack.
You might want to keep— Wolf started.
“Shut up,” Arcmael snapped, banishing them with his bloody hand. Their shimmering forms melted into the darkness, leaving him in interior silence. He found his things and put them on, glancing around in the dark like a hunted animal for horsemen, warlocks, new shades or worse, the reanimated parts of the ones he had just felled. Their otherworldly cries floated on the night, haunting him to the soul. He wondered how far he would have to go not to hear them anymore—and if anyone else did. That would be only a matter of time.
Nerves taut, he stomped around, searching for a staff that was nowhere to be found. He didn’t want to leave it out here as evidence, but there was no time to hunt for it. Clutching his tattered cloak around his body, he headed in the direction of the gatetower, making a wide arc. His staff was one thing, but Dog was another. He wouldn’t leave his friend’s body out here for scavengers.
The wind drove clouds across the moon in restless intervals. Beneath the pain in his head and a heightened awareness of danger, Arcmael wondered why the Fylking had let the warlock escape. Wolf blasted the fiend once as if to deliver a warning shot and then let him ride away. It made no sense, considering they had killed that poor tavern mistress for picking up a stone.
They are not focused, Wolf had said. What in Math did that mean?
The warden walked, scanning the surroundings. The moon came out and revealed several things that might have been Dog, but on closer inspection were not. Finally, he relaxed his mind to the Fylking. They cared nothing for the animal, only using the dog’s death to stoke his mettle in a fight, but it was worth a try.
Cat was the first to respond. A pale shape appeared and slipped off ahead of him. Arcmael followed her until he saw a pale form on the ground near a lone oak tree mangled by a lightning strike. Grief and remorse were not new to Arcmael, but his heart thudded as he approached and knelt, holding his hand just above the creature’s fur, soaked by rain. This is my fault.
Warmth. A twitch. The animal whimpered softly. “Dog?” Arcmael laid his hand on the animal’s neck and moved down to the dark, shining rift between shoulder and ribs. Blood seeped sluggishly from a deep sword cut. As Arcmael inspected the wound, Dog whined, breath heaving in uneven gasps. “Easy, now,” the warden soothed. “Stay with me.”
Arcmael tore off his pack and pulled out a spare shirt and a bottle of salve. The scent of rosemary wafted forth as he tended the wound. Murmuring comforts, he wrapped the shirt around Dog’s body with great care. When he had finished, he donned his pack, gently took the animal into his arms beneath his cloak and set out at the fastest pace his legs could carry him.
He whispered his thanks to Cat. In response, he heard only the howls of the dead rippling across the plain.
~ * ~
The Fylking said nothing over the remainder of Arcmael’s trek to Tower Sol, although he noticed the ghostly predators flitting in the dark from time to time. At last he came in sight of the tower, gleaming in the moonlight. Clouds drifted over the stars. It was a good night for measuring celestial light in the tower crystals. But that was the last thing on the warden’s mind.
“Wolf,” he asked the sky. “What were those warriors? I couldn’t see their energy.”
After a pause, Wolf’s voice entered his mind. We call them draugr.
“You mean ghouls? Since when did the Otherworld unleash such things in the presence of the Fylking?”
They are not Otherworld. They were once men. The essence of consciousness is trapped between the worlds in order to control it. This is old magic, a violation of Elivag. It is forbidden.
Elivag. If Arcmael remembered it right, the term in Fylking referred to the eternal rhythm of the universe, the ebb and flow of life force in all things. Like the movement of the ocean tides, life and death were one. “Are you saying this magic is from your world?”
Yes. It is done to strike anguish and terror into one’s foes. Against his will, the essence of a mortally wounded warrior is captured as it flies. The magician summons an entity to create a false connection between the warrior’s consciousness and the physical dimension. The original identity is imprisoned and colored by the will of the entity patterning the spell. Thus the draugr can be controlled, for they want only to be released, and only the magician who captured them can do this.
“I was able to hurt them. Disable them—and yet they didn’t feel solid. More like something in a dream.”
They are no longer human. Their bodies are focused over a range of frequencies above the physical, but far enough immersed that you can perceive them. They assume the form of the last body they knew because they are still attached to it.
“You said an entity is behind this. Like a Fylking or a god?”
Yes.
“You might have told—”
I told you to run, Wolf reminded him. If you had, it would not have come to this.
Arcmael looked down at Dog. Wolf’s short manner reminded him of his father, not to be questioned, a commander who knew the price of putting feelings in the path of war. “I find it hard to believe the Blackthorn Guild taught one of their own to cast such a spell, let alone attack a warden. Witches and warlocks are under strict oaths to serve and protect the realm by their arts. Like rangers.”
You have a lot to learn, came the patient reply.
The warden climbed the path in the shadow of the tower. His legs and back ached. He no longer heard the draugrs’ howls, but the sound had not left
his nerves. His Guardians began to withdraw, though they remained visible, perching on or lying between the rocks below. By the time he reached the door, they had vanished. Arcmael took a deep breath. A faint shaft of moonlight stole around the tower’s edge and shone on Dog’s pale blue eye.
“Ready?” he said softly. “This lot won’t give you sausages.” The Sol Fylking were not as tetchy as were some of their kind, but like most of the High Fylking, they had a marginal tolerance for mortal weakness.
Arcmael shifted the animal in his arms, flinching as the creature whined in pain. He disengaged the large iron handle and pushed the door open with his shoulder. The hinges screeched into the large hollow space. He would have to oil those.
Faint light hovered over the crystal circle in the center of the chamber. Moonlight cast angular patterns on the tower walls. He hoped the Fylking were in a good mood; he needed warmth and was not in the mood to return outside and scrounge together a fire. The tower was quiet as a tomb. He shuffled over the floor and knelt before the light. The crystals were said to have healing properties, but he had never put this to the test. The High Fylking frowned on such things.
He tenderly laid Dog on the shining surface. Closing his eyes, he held his hand over the wound, staining his shirt with blood. Patterns of white light appeared in his mind, an intricate array of angles spreading out from the ceiling to the floor, some of them connected to the arrow slits. He imagined redirecting the beams to flow into Dog.
A dim shadow, like that of a stone on a cloudy day, passed over his heart.
When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by tall beings clad in shining clothes: leggings stitched with iron and silver filigree, boots of polished leather, white tunics beneath delicate mail far beyond the skills of human blacksmiths, and belts, straps and scabbards inlaid with indecipherable symbols and beasts from other worlds. Delicate chains held sweeping cloaks over their chests. They were fully armed—as were their expressions.
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 6