The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “Well,” Rosalie said stiffly, her attention not leaving the crow. “I think you could have sent someone else to check on it. One of your ranger friends, perhaps.” She blinked and turned to Ageton, who contemplated the dirty floor. His head shot up as Rosalie snapped, “Why are you still here?”

  “Milady.” Whipping his cloak around him, the captain strode to the door.

  “Was that necessary?” Othin said after he had gone. He made no attempt to keep the edge from his voice. “I haven’t seen him since the tournament. We had business.”

  Rosalie’s cheeks flushed. “Your only business today is me.” She flung an elegant finger at his throat. “What is that? It’s hers, isn’t it? And you’re wearing it on our wedding day?”

  Othin started to say something involving Rosalie’s place in his affairs when she swung out and struck his face, cocking his head to the side. As the shock of that settled in, her cool fingers found his throat and tugged. Then she stomped to the forge, clutching the soft flaxen stitches of Millie’s gift like a cat hauling off a fresh kill.

  “No!” Othin shouted. He went after her, the empty space on his throat now dark, flowing out, flowing in, a vortex of sorrow.

  Rosalie threw the crow into the coals.

  Othin didn’t watch it burn. Towering with rage, he wrapped his fist in her hair and dragged her, screaming, toward the door. “You miserable bitch,” he growled, his cheek burning. “You’ll pay for that.”

  “It’s you who’ll pay!” she cried, swinging out and slamming her fists into him to no effect. “My father’ll hang you and I won’t tell our child who you are!”

  “Good idea.”

  Othin shoved her out the door. She stumbled and fell into the passage outside. Othin slammed the door so hard that dust drifted down from the rafters. He reached for the silken purse stinking with gardenia and stomped back to Ufe’s hungry forge. The smith stood there with a bland expression as Othin slapped the purse onto the anvil. “This is yours. I won’t be needing the armor.”

  In response, Ufe held up his hand. From his dark, scarred fingers hung Millie’s flaxen crow, black, gray and shimmering in the firelight.

  The crow flies, and is still.

  Othin stared, not believing his eyes. “How did you…?”

  “It’s my forge,” Ufe said with a sniff. “I decide what goes into it.”

  Othin reached out with both hands and grasped the crow like a treasure. One of the frayed ends was singed where the smith had snatched it with his thongs. “By the gods, Ufe,” he breathed. “I owe you a debt no coin can match.”

  The smith raised his brow in amusement. “Na. I haven’t enjoyed a show that much since the puppet fights at Midsummer Festival.” He wheezed a laugh. “The look on her face—”

  The door slammed. Othin whirled around as Ageton came in like a storm. “You’d better come with me.”

  Othin tucked the crow into a pocket hidden in the breast of his shirt. “You’ll need chains,” he said, unconsciously reaching for his sword before remembering he had left it in the guest room of House Halstaeg along with his bow and his sense.

  “You misunderstand.” The captain held out an unwavering finger at Ufe. “When they question you, tell them the truth.”

  “Always do!” the smith piped, picking up his thongs.

  Ageton took Othin’s arm and hustled him out the door. “What just happened that caused you to throw the high constable’s daughter into the street?”

  Quietly, his heart still smoldering with wrath, Othin told him.

  “Oh, well done,” the captain said dryly. “She’ll have made a worse tale of that by the time she reaches her father.” He steered Othin onto an adjacent street, out of sight of the forge. “You have to go.”

  Othin snorted. “Go where? Hel is the only place I’m going now.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” They approached a rugweaver’s shop. Ageton’s horse was tethered there, nibbling on ivy trailing over a wall. He untied the reins and drew them over the horse’s head. “Take Arvakr. You’ll find food, wine and woolens in the saddlebags.”

  “Were you planning this?”

  “No,” the captain said with gruff impatience. “I haven’t unpacked. Do you have coin?”

  Othin cocked a finger over his shoulder. “No, I just—”

  Ageton reached into his cloak and drew forth a purse from which he shook several silver coins. He took up Othin’s hand and dropped them into it. “Best take the Arena Road to the Coastal Gate.”

  Othin held out the coins as if they burned him. The Coastal Gate led to a rugged tangle of paths north of the city. “With respect, milord. The gates are all closed. The guardsmen will never let me out—not on your horse. I’m unarmed and out of my ranger’s habit. And every soldier in this city knows it’s my wedding day.”

  Ageton scowled in irritation. “How many times have I told you never to be without your sword?”

  “They’d think I meant to bolt if I’d left in full gear.”

  “Aye. Well, now you are, and without your weapons.” Ageton looked him and up and down, pursing his lips. “The guards on the Coastal Gate may not recognize Arvakr, and they won’t expect to see you clad thus, unarmed. It could work in your favor.”

  “They’ll haul me in at swordpoint and laugh while they’re doing it.”

  Ageton shook his head. “I think not.” He gestured to the saddle. “Get up.”

  Unable to argue, Othin mounted. “Why are you doing this? You risk your station.”

  “I’m risking nothing. You’re one of my best and I need you on the road. You managed to out-maneuver and thoroughly anger the sheriff of Ylgr. I think you can handle this. Make for Vota. Check into the Lone Wolf. I’ll meet you there on the dark moon.”

  “Vota! That’s—”

  “An order.” He slapped the gelding’s rump with a sharp command.

  Arvakr leapt forward, nearly unseating Othin. A smile stole over his lips as he pressed his captain’s steed into a heavy gait along the narrow way. Evidently, the wily sheriff who had stolen his horse in Ylgr had carried through his threat and sent a disparaging report to Ageton concerning Othin’s behavior on the moors.

  He rode through the city streets until he reached the Arena Road, a wide cobbled way that skirted the arena and passed along the western cliffs that plunged into the sea. Built during times of war, a wall containing evenly spaced arrow slits edged the road along the cliffs. The Coastal Gate came into view beneath the overcast sky. Towers on either side overlooked the sea, the road, the city walls and the path beyond. Mounted soldiers rode back and forth inside the opening sealed by a high portcullis with iron bars carved with scales, making them look like the appendages of a sea monster. The shadows of archers loomed beneath the eaves.

  As Othin rode up to the gate, he decided Ageton had lost his mind on the road. There would be no escape from the city here. Othin reined in as three mounted soldiers moved in front of the gate and another, a captain, strode out of the tower. He approached with his hand on his sword hilt.

  Othin dismounted, leaving the reins on the pommel.

  “State your business,” the guardsman said.

  “I’m on special assignment from Captain Ageton, North Branch of the King’s Rangers,” Othin declared, grimacing inwardly. It was tripe and the captain knew it.

  Circling him, the captain said, “Are you, now. Unarmed?” He motioned to two men who had come closer from the edge of the street. “I think not.”

  Othin held out a hand as the soldiers approached. “Why would I try to escape the city unarmed?”

  “You tell me.”

  “All right,” Othin said with a heavy breath. He pushed his hood back, drew his longknife from his belt and held his hands out to the side, palms up, knife balanced, in a gesture of surrender. “On my blade, I am Othin of Cae Forres under Captain Ageton. I’m to be married today to the daughter of Lord Halstaeg. I left my gear in my room because I didn’t want anyone to think I was going to do what I
’m trying to do right now because I’d rather die than marry that bitch. So I stole Ageton’s horse, fled the Rangers Square and came here in hopes I could talk you bastards into letting me out.”

  For a moment, they gaped at him. Then they burst into laughter.

  One of them, whom Othin recognized as one of Diderik’s men, said, “Well, he’s telling the truth about who he is and what he’s in for.” He rejoined the others in their amusement.

  “That does look like Ageton’s horse,” offered one of the mounted guards.

  “Och! Poor sod,” laughed another. “Let him through!”

  “Silence!” the captain barked at them. He turned to Othin, his eyes narrowing. “I half want to believe you because I can’t think of a good reason why a ranger would be begging at the Coastal Gate like a thief.” Or a spy, he didn’t need to add. A spy would have many ways of moving in and out of the city without having to plead with guardsmen. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you pass.”

  Othin lowered his arms and flipped and sheathed his knife. “No one has to know.” He ignored the two dozen people milling around in the street.

  The captain gestured toward the city. “Move on, Ranger. Marry, get drunk and find a mistress.”

  Othin mounted, drawing up the reins. “Lord Halstaeg has no authority over you.” Arvakr pranced around under him, agitated. “Tell him what you like. Tell him I tricked you and got past your guard. Tell him anything, I don’t care. Just let me go.”

  One of the men spat; another grumbled something crude. Othin would never get past them without taking an arrow.

  “I’m under orders not to let anyone through this gate without a seal from Lord Coldevin, Lord Halstaeg or the city marshal,” the captain informed him coolly.

  Othin tilted his head to the dreary sky. The Lords of War. He would get nothing from them. The city marshal, one of the king’s big-bellied authorities in charge of dealing with merchants, shopkeepers, petty criminals and other city business, would only tell him to take the matter up with Ageton, Othin’s captain. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option. Ageton had to keep his hands clean.

  Othin considered tossing out a prayer to the gods. A daft idea. If a prayer would do any good, he wouldn’t have landed in this situation to begin with.

  He was about to turn Arvakr and ride into a grimmer day when a flash of color caught his eye on the far side of the gate. Two mounted guardsmen in road-battered attire approached and demanded entry to the city. Temporarily forgetting Othin, the captain strode to the portcullis and had words with them. As they spoke, a wagon appeared over the rise where the path dropped off, followed by a group of people dressed in plain clothes, most of them on foot.

  The captain looked up and made a gesture. The portcullis released with a clang and began to rattle into the air. The people began to move toward the gate.

  Yanking down his hood, Othin reined Arvakr around, clapped his heels and rode for the gate, passing a hair’s-breath from the guardsmen, who shouted at him to halt. He thundered into the crowd, threading carefully among the people to avoid being targeted by archers. Someone tried to grab his leg; another cursed him. A woman swung a walking stick at his head, forcing him to duck to avoid the blow.

  Once clear of the group, Othin guided Arvakr off the path and down, over rocks and brush, trusting the horse to find his way to the next leg of the winding path. An arrow clattered over the rocks a pace to his side. Arvakr jumped onto the path, whinnying and tossing his head. Othin caught his breath as he was jolted forward in the saddle.

  Now out of range, he reined in and turned around. A small sea of red, gray and brown swirled around the gate. The portcullis was half-open, like an ugly grin. Shouts and cries echoed over the rocks.

  No one pursued him. Perhaps the captain had taken pity on him after all. Or, perhaps he decided to leave it to Halstaeg, who took pity on no one.

  Escaping tricky situations. Othin urged his captain’s horse onward, north at last, with Millie’s crow tucked safely near his heart.

  As Big as the Sky

  A week had passed since Yarrow took Melisande into her home perched above the Otter River near the village of Highloc. On the morning Melisande arrived, the Blackthorn witch was waiting in her doorway in an iron gray cloak, her white hair freed from its braids and a smile touching her lips. She asked no questions. She acted as if Melisande’s exile from Odr was as inevitable as winter’s fall.

  One late afternoon, Melisande crunched over the frozen grass of the rolling fields above the river valley. The sun broke from a band of dark clouds and beamed across the field, glittering on the ice and snow. Yarrow expected her back by nightfall, as usual. The crone was quite adamant about that. She never said why.

  Yarrow’s mule, which she called Thor, plodded by Melisande’s side. Strapped over his back were two baskets heaped with linens Melisande had purchased in Highloc from a weaver with long red hair and a lanky knock-kneed gait that made him look like a water bird. She sold Punch to purchase these and other supplies that Yarrow had scratched on a list. The witch owned a buck already, and neither she nor Melisande had means, aside from their animals and the skills that supported them. Melisande left the goat in the market with a heavy heart, the knit collar she made to protect him from wolves still around his neck.

  Though she was widely known throughout Ason Tae, Melisande got no hostility from anyone here. Perhaps news of her connection to the storm had not reached this far, or perhaps folk hereabouts respected Yarrow and avoided tangling with anyone in her care. One way or another, Melisande was done with pattern sense. Upon her arrival to Yarrow’s place, she dropped her knitting bag in the corner next to the pantry and had not picked it up again.

  Yarrow gently suggested that Melisande continue her trade. Winter was upon them and they had their own and their animals’ mouths to feed. The haymonger who lived above the river to the north owed Yarrow some favors, but not enough to feed Thor and the goats over the cold moons. Besides, the witch added, the heart does not like being kept in a bag in the corner. Melisande said nothing to that. Needles and wool had only broken her heart in the end. A ranger unraveled, a slipped stitch and countless rows of tears had brought her to her mother’s way of thinking. Some trades were best left alone. Her heart could stay in the bag for a while.

  To ease Yarrow’s back and mind, Melisande kept the house clean, cooked meals and helped to strip, sort, cut, grind and blend leaves, flowers, bark and roots to store in the cabinet where the witch kept the supplies of her craft. When the crone went down into her rough earthen cellar and sang life into her spells before a stone altar, Melisande went outside to chop and stack wood, milk the goats, feed the chickens and geese and muck the barn.

  Bythe had brought Punch, Digger and Pisskin to Yarrow’s cottage once the snow that blanketed the Vale had settled and melted enough to ease travel. He came accompanied by Anselm, a barman of the Sword and Staff named Kip and a burly young smith nicknamed Hammer, in case anyone from Odr had it in mind to make an issue of Melisande taking up with a Blackthorn witch.

  Not that she had any cause to be bitter. They had only destroyed her home and everything in it, aside from a few odds and ends that Bythe and Anselm managed to salvage from the flames.

  Melisande had enough things to occupy her mind now besides Odr. Procuring a warm, comfortable bed, to start. Since her arrival here, she had slept in the straw in the barn loft with the cats, fleas and mice. She managed to stay warm, but soon the cold would drive her indoors, and she would need a bed of some sort. Yarrow had offered to share hers. But Melisande was too troubled at night to bother the woman with that. Besides, the witch snored like a drawknife.

  A cloud covered the sun, casting the field in cold shadow. A chill lifted the hairs on Melisande’s neck as Thor stopped in his tracks. A tradition, this. As ornery as goats were, mules were worse. Yarrow must have fed him calming potions before taking him anywhere.

  Melisande turned around. “Come, Thor,” she coaxed. A silly nam
e for a beast that wouldn’t move. She gave the lead rope an imperious tug. “We have a ways to go.”

  Thor backed up, tossing his head. As Melisande tugged, the mule bared his teeth with a guttural whine. Melisande turned back around. The field sloped down to the distant woods. She recalled something Yarrow had said that morning as she prepared to leave. Thor is sensitive. An offhand smile. If he acts odd, use a Banishing sigil.

  Melisande had not taken the suggestion seriously. Having spent her life in the proximity of a gatetower, she felt she had more experience with such things even though she had never used a sigil before Arcmael taught her how. Besides, the Fylking didn’t venture far from their towers. Certainly not this far.

  She turned again to the mule, gripping the lead rope. Thor stood there, leaning away slightly, his eyes lolling white. Fair enough. Melisande switched the rope in her hands and formed the Banishing sigil with a knitter’s deft movement.

  A soft breeze hissed over the frozen grass and drove the clouds from the sun. Long, golden beams caressed the ground. Gently, Melisande pulled the lead rope. After a moment of resistance, Thor relaxed and began to plod along.

  Fylking so far from the tower? Everything she knew of the Fylking said that wasn’t likely. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the swatch she had knit of the dragon warrior, armed, black-clad, and sitting on his horse. She had knit it shortly after the rangers attacked her. After completing his wicked work of taunting them and leading them to her with ideas of spies and lovers, the dark Fylking had left her alone. But Melisande was not as careless as she once was. She kept the swatch with her always. Glancing around, she returned the swatch to its hiding place like a broken spell, brushed off the spooky feeling and resumed walking.

  She might be overreacting. Maybe Thor had a change of mind for some reason he alone knew and his cooperation had nothing to do with the sigil.

  By the time Melisande reached the eaves of the forest clouds had gathered, blotting the last of the day’s light like a snuffed lamp. Yarrow might have told her why she should be back before dark. Those sort of cryptic admonitions were just the things that gave Blackthorn a bad name. These woods were no different from those of Graebrok. Perhaps the witch had enemies beyond the Veil; or, by the nature of her work, perhaps the Others gathered around her and made things troublesome for travelers. Surely, if that were true, she would have given Melisande some kind of charm besides a sensitive mule.