The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  One of the ghouls, a Fjorginan doubled up on a horse with another, fell to the ground. He had a bloodless slash across his neck and another on his belly beneath a hauberk. Othin was on him in an instant. He brought his blade down onto the creature’s thigh, severing it. A harrowing vibration gripped his arm. The ghoul screamed.

  The others reined in their mounts, whirled and fled.

  Othin swallowed hard, swaying on his feet. In his experience, maiming the creatures just made them meaner. Something must have called them off.

  Ageton lay face down in the blood-soaked snow. Othin went to him, knelt and carefully rolled the captain over, looking for signs of life, natural or otherwise. The ranger’s throat, cut by the warlock’s knife, oozed blood. His eyes were closed, his spirit flown. Othin clenched his jaw as grief’s hollow opened beneath him. It appeared his intervention had saved Ageton from the others’ fate.

  The dead guardsman on the road, two more turned to ghouls, Ageton, and the rider who had flown by Othin earlier that night. That made five, the original number of the company Othin saw from the spruce trees. It wouldn’t be long before someone came up here looking for them.

  He knelt by his captain’s body as dawn brought spectral shapes from the landscape. He couldn’t leave Ageton here; the body had to be returned to Merhafr for a proper burial. He had to be honored. If nothing else, they had to know. If he sent the body back on Arvakr, as would be fitting, Halstaeg would know Othin was involved. The imbecile might even accuse him of murder.

  Othin considered ending his ruse and returning Ageton’s body himself. He would face execution, of course. It wouldn’t matter whether Halstaeg believed his story or not. He would assume Othin knew his secret and would use Ageton’s death as proof of treason, thus conveniently ridding himself of a problem. But at least Othin would see his captain home where he would be honored by those who loved him.

  The idea came and went. Othin had seen what he had seen. Thanks to Diderik, he knew a good bit more, too. Best to stay alive and put things right, if that was even possible now.

  His breath caught as something ripped into his cloak and embedded itself into his thigh. Pain exploded up his leg. Leaning over, he yanked out a knife and then leveled his attention on the ghoul he had maimed. It had dragged itself away from its severed leg and now huddled near a tree, glaring with a palpable expression of malevolence. Still agile enough to throw a knife, evidently.

  Othin drew his sword and limped over the bloody snow in no good mind. As he approached, the ghoul hurled itself at him headlong, knife stabbing down. Othin jumped out of the way. He kicked it in the face, slamming its head into the tree. In two strokes of his sword, he put a crippling cut into the ghoul’s other leg and then a slash across its neck, deepening the bloodless wound gaping there. The thing rolled over with a ghostly howl.

  “Wicked fuck,” Othin panted, blood seeping into the leggings on his thigh. He chided himself for being so careless. “Tell me why I shouldn’t carve you up and leave you scattered from here to Vota.”

  No response. Othin grasped the grip of the sword on its back and pulled it from the sheath. It was smeared with dried blood. Othin hurled it into the woods. Feeling a weird flinch of pity, he cut a purse from the ghoul’s belt and hefted it. Half a week’s wages. For a guardsman, that didn’t amount to much. He added it to his own and then returned to his captain’s body, which was now collecting snow.

  His mind worried tatters of honor and practicality. He hesitated and then began to remove the ranger’s weapons. If he sent Ageton’s body back to Merhafr with weapons, someone might steal them on the road. Better to take them himself and honor his friend by using them to avenge him, if nothing else. Grimacing, he took the purse too, like a common thief.

  The wound on his thigh throbbed with pain. Hating the way of this, he reached for Ageton’s form once more, pulled away the mail and tore a long strip from the shirt beneath. Gasping, he rubbed snow into the cut to clean it and then wrapped the linen tightly around his thigh. Then he stood and donned Ageton’s bow, quiver, sword and the dirk he had always kept in his boot.

  He would need a horse before he did anything. Arvakr would know better than to go far, at least for a time, assuming the warlock’s spell had not driven the beast farther away than Othin could retrieve him. He turned and headed down the hill.

  A fluttering sound hissed on the air behind him, followed by a quork.

  Othin turned around. A raven perched on Ageton’s chest, cocking its head at a curious angle. The bird had no message on its leg. It might have been in the area and spotted a ranger down, or it might have come in response to the captain’s last call. Othin had forgotten about that.

  Suddenly, the raven burst up with a screech. His blood ran cold as it wheeled around the burnt circle. Defying sense, Othin yanked the hood from his head and knelt with his hands out as the bird swooped straight at him with a raucous series of alarm calls.

  At the last moment the bird veered off and landed in the snow. It kept squawking, its head feathers puffed in aggression. But as Othin had gambled, it recognized him. This was still his route.

  The rangers’ ravens were trained to raise an alert if they found a dead or wounded man. One of the rangers who had met his end in Ylgr suns ago had been discovered by a raven that had followed him from the coastal route. The bird had raced to the nearest outpost and screamed until its masters mounted up and followed it north.

  The raven stayed near the body, hopping and pecking about in agitation. The best thing to do was send the bird back with a message to inform Ageton’s men what had happened. This posed risks: if Othin identified himself as the messenger, as was done, they would know where he was. If he didn’t, they might deduce it was him anyway, as this was his former route and no one else would be able to put a message on one of their ravens. But he had to tell someone what happened here.

  Unfortunately, without his ranger’s gear, he had nothing with which to write a message, not even a band that might alert them to danger, let alone sorcery. Ageton, on the other hand, might have something. Speaking soft words to keep the raven calm, Othin stood and moved carefully toward the body. The bird leaned forward and croaked at him.

  As Othin knelt by the corpse, the raven flew at him with an ugly, barking cry. Othin jumped up and back. “All right,” he said, holding a hand out in a gesture of peace. “No message.” He drew a deep breath. Once more, he considered turning himself in. They needed to know about the warlock.

  The raven lifted up without a sound, flew into the trees and disappeared over the hill in the direction of Vota, leaving Othin in the snow blinking stupidly.

  Shit. That bird would bring men back here in no time. Othin glanced at the ghoul curled against the tree. They might know what had happened when they saw that. He had to assume other rangers besides himself had had experiences with these things. In any case, there was nothing he could do about it now.

  He ran to a pine thicket and broke off a needle-laden branch, which he used to scatter and cover his tracks coming in from the hill. If it kept snowing, it might obscure his movements so the rangers would notice the tracks of the ghouls first. That would buy him a little time, nothing more. The rangers would be thorough and would find his tracks eventually. Maneuvering around rocks and brush, he headed downhill.

  After a time he found hoofprints in the snow. The depressions had grown shallow, but deep enough to tell them from other features in the landscape. Following patterns, he headed north. Other hoofprints threaded in and out. Othin discerned larger tracks in the group. Arvakr was bigger than the others he had seen. Othin stayed with those.

  He walked as morning grew, two leagues, maybe three. As far as he could tell, the tracks went north. It continued to snow heavily, making the prints difficult to see. Finally he spotted something dark moving between the trees. He called out.

  Arvakr jerked his head up. A stream crept nearby, moving sluggishly beneath the snow and ice. There were no other horses in sight. One or m
ore of them had moved over the stream, breaking apart the ice. The snow was disturbed where Arvakr had nudged around for something to eat.

  “Easy laddie,” Othin soothed as the horse stepped back. “It’s me.” He got close, took the bridle and stroked the beast’s neck. “You all right?” The horse’s coat was damp. Othin reached up to the saddlebags and untied a dwindling sack of oats he had planned to refill in Vota. He opened it wide and held it out.

  Once the horse had eaten, Othin took a drink from the stream, filled his water skin and set out. This stream crossed the road north of where he had found the rider with an arrow in his neck. He mounted Arvakr and rode until the road came into view. Weary of the woods, he clopped down onto the snowy flats. The road was riddled with fresh tracks in both directions. Othin turned Arvakr toward Vota and pressed him into a heavy pace, eyeing the tracks. With any luck he would either come upon or get news of the warlock and his ghouls. He had more than one score to settle now.

  A whispering presence surrounded him. The shade. He glanced up as he rounded a curve in the road. Then he wrenched Arvakr to a stop.

  Two riders in black cloaks and nondescript gear stood a distance ahead, mounted, bows at hand. They faced the other way. Othin turned Arvakr around and urged him back to the shelter of the curve.

  Behind him, someone shouted a command to halt.

  Too late for that. Whispering a farewell to his captain, Othin dug in his heels and tore into a furious gait toward the forested north, his unseen shadow whirling in his wake.

  ~ * ~

  The snow-laden eaves of Wyrvith Forest loomed in the distance as Othin reached the carved standing stone that marked the North Mountain Road. The Lone Wolf stood there, smoke curling from its chimneys, windows splattered with snow. Othin didn’t slow as he passed it.

  The men behind him would slow for nothing, come snow, wind, night or dawn. He knew by the way they pressed their mounts, gazed ahead without expression, by the wind tearing their cloaks. Bounty hunters. They would be expert trackers as well as killers. They could discern his tracks on a battlefield. There was no point trying to speculate how they knew he would be on the road just there. He doubted it was a coincidence.

  This was Halstaeg’s work. If he had as much as a faint disquiet that Othin had learned the truth, he would spare no expense. He wouldn’t trust his rangers to track Othin down; he was too well respected and no ranger would believe Othin capable of treason, let alone that he would betray Captain Ageton, whom he loved. And Diderik, had he any say in the movements of the Dyrregin Guard, would sabotage any efforts Halstaeg attempted to use the natural tension between the guard and the rangers to hunt one of his own.

  Eventually Othin outpaced his pursuers, but his relief was short-lived. As he rode headlong into the wind, two dark figures took shape in the distance. They moved across the road, blocking it. One of them pulled around a loaded crossbow. Othin knew the place well. One side of the road plunged into a wooded ravine; the other rose up into a cliff. Trees clung to the rocks, hanging down.

  He should have assumed this passage would be patrolled; he had used it himself enough times. He had hoped to get by it and deeper into the forest, where he knew paths to inns and cottages that would shelter him. But Halstaeg left nothing to chance. He wouldn’t hire just one or two hunters and risk that Othin would elude them. These men had thought ahead. Unable to negotiate either side of the road, Othin was now in range of the hunter’s bow.

  The men on his heels closed the distance as he slowed and approached, calculating his options. The second man drew his sword. “Othin of Cae Forres,” he said. “By order of the king, you are under arrest.”

  Othin coughed on a laugh. The king? Halstaeg did have a vivid imagination.

  The men behind him approached in a flurry of tack and unsheathing blades. “Your weapons,” the first man said. The bolt was aimed at Othin’s chest. Several bleak scenarios flashed over his mind as he reached for his sword strap. They were probably under orders to bring him in alive. If he decided to fight, they might hurt him badly enough to disable him—or they might not waste their time. Men like this could make anything look like an accident, orders aside. They would still get paid.

  Wind rushed through the narrow passage, kicking up a vortex of snow, sullen and strange. Arvakr sidestepped, tossing his mane. Othin pulled forth the sheathed sword he had taken from the corpse on the road and tossed it to the ground. As he reached around for his quiver and bow, a prickle crept over his scalp. A dim, dreamlike impression moved in the trees over the bank.

  “Get on with it,” one of the men said behind him.

  Mist drifted from the forest as Othin tossed his weapons down and then pulled the longknife from the sheath on his thigh. Damned shame to lose that; it was one of Damjan’s finest. Othin had given the smith his entire road pay and then some to purchase it. The Wolf Moon had been bitterly cold that winter, and without coin to pay for inns, Othin’s ride back to Merhafr was a long one.

  Mist settled into the passage, quickened and stirred. The horses spooked. The men glanced around into the murk. Shapes moved, indistinct, as if imagined: a horn, a claw, a dark furred limb. Othin blinked at nothing but mist. Two of the horses reared back, their eyes lolling with terror. A rider thumped to the ground. Blood soaked the snow beneath his head.

  “Call it off!” the bowman growled. Stomping and storming with fear, his horse spun around. Fascinated that the man thought he was responsible for this, Othin lifted his knife. When the bowman came around, Othin threw. As the blade hit, the man’s horse bolted out from under him, clipping one of the others as it tore down the road to the south.

  Othin whirled around, pulling Ageton’s sword from beneath his cloak. Someone shouted a warning. A sword swung by his guard, going wide. One of the men managed to leap from his horse before the beast fled after the first. He rolled up and ran for the crossbow his companion had dropped when Othin’s knife sank into his eye. As Othin moved to intercept, the remaining rider came at him, sword raised.

  Their horses clashed as they fought. The rider looked up past Othin, his lips parted. Othin moved in for a thrust. The rider’s horse whinnied and twisted around, nearly unseating him. Grappling for the saddle, the hunter managed to pull himself up as the beast ran after the other two and vanished into the snow.

  Now on foot, the remaining man made a strange sound as if strangled by fear. He disappeared into the mist. Sword in hand, Othin went after him, reining in as he reached the edge of the bank. The man’s body lay below, draped over the rocks.

  The mist cleared. The snow fell. The shade’s presence vanished.

  Breathing heavily, Othin withdrew from the bank. He leaned down and stroked Arvakr’s neck with a word. What had kept the horse from spooking with the others? Was the beast accustomed to the presence of the shade?

  Assuming it was the shade. Othin was not ready to make that assumption. One of the hunters still lived and now had a tale to tell. More would come and Othin was not foolish enough to trust in the protection of the Otherworld. They served themselves.

  He dismounted, retrieved his weapons, including the crossbow, and divested the bodies of their purses. Coin would come in handy if he needed to buy someone’s silence. While he was at it, he took an extra cloak. Then he dragged the bodies off the road and pushed them over the bank.

  He mounted his tired horse and headed north. His nerves were tight as he rode through the narrow way, trees and boulders looming on either side. He rode until dusk cloaked the forest. Several riders passed him coming the other way, but they had better things to do than hail him down.

  Tonight he would reach the Bear’s End, an establishment popular with rangers, wardens, trappers and game hunters, as it stood out here on the edge of Wyrvith offering shelter from the wilds. Unfortunately, the place would be watched, and Othin had no good plan for getting in without being seen. Everyone in these parts knew him.

  His nerves rippled with chill as the shade returned. Ahead, something lay
in the road, swathed in mist.

  The Bear’s End

  From a whirlwind of branches, ice and the whispers of Others, Arcmael became aware of something pressed against the pulse on his neck. He flinched awake.

  “Easy,” said a man’s voice. He withdrew.

  Arcmael opened his eyes and shielded them from the blare of a torch. A man loomed over him, clad in plain leathers and armed with blades and bows. Lengths of black hair lay on his shoulders. “Who’re you?” Arcmael rasped.

  Behind the stranger stood a heavy black warhorse. The phooka flicked into view, its long horns glinting. One clawed hand on the saddle, the sinewy creature leaned over the horse’s neck and appeared to whisper something in its ear.

  “I am Othin,” the stranger replied, unaware. His gray eyes were calm. “I mean you no harm.”

  Othin. Arcmael’s gut clenched up with a panicked laugh. Othin? What madness was this?

  The stranger stood and held out his hand. Arcmael hesitated before letting the man pull him to his feet. Othin removed his cloak, whirled it around and draped it over Arcmael’s shoulders. It was blessedly warm. “And you are? Besides half-dressed on this dark evening. Were you robbed?”

  Arcmael pulled the cloak around his body. “You could say that.” Fucking goblins. “My name is Arcmael.” As something strange shot over the warrior’s face, Arcmael regretted revealing his name. A testament to his lifelong shame, no one knew his name save Millie who, for some reason, he had trusted with it; and the people of Faersc. Only Skadi knew his history.

  In kind, Arcmael was sure he had seen this man before, though he had never heard of a man named after the Trickster. “You are familiar to me. From where do you hail?”