The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “Some of them might’ve escaped; you don’t know. As for the king, he was up to his paunch in war, and Halstaeg was giving him reports that the ghouls were just a trick designed by the Fjorginans. Vargn knew what he was doing. Faersc didn’t have time to rally against the draugr. Even if you had been there with your Fylking, you’d not have been able to fight them on your own.”

  Arcmael cast him a haggard glance. “By the time Faersc was attacked, the king and his guard knew about the draugr. What they didn’t know was that the Fylking can’t fight them. Because of my folly, I lost a moon in Wyrvith and was unable to warn them.”

  Othin let out a measured breath, weary of the warden’s relentless self-reproach. Othin was no expert on Fylking, Others or Old Gods, but he didn’t believe the Allfather would chose a worthless man as his emissary, let alone give him the gift of swordsmanship. By the hands of gods. The War God granted no favors to fools. But his price was high, and Othin decided he preferred the rangers’ code—treachery or not—to the complexities of the Otherworld.

  “Do you think it’s an accident that no other wardens came to Merhafr to warn King Angvald that Faersc was in danger?” Othin said. “Vargn obviously targeted the wardens to make sure no one found out what only they knew. If you hadn’t been in Wyrvith, he’d have killed you too.”

  The warden said nothing as he climbed over a fallen tree and slid down a bank on the other side. As Othin joined him, he said, “He tried. My Guardian Fylking protected me.”

  “So why didn’t the other wardens’ Guardians protect them? You told me wardens were disappearing and their Fylking didn’t know what had happened to them. How is that possible?”

  “A warden can close his mind to his Fylking,” Arcmael said sullenly. “Banish them. They can’t see what’s going on when he does that.”

  “But he could still call them.”

  Arcmael nodded in thought. “You’re right. Vargn was trained as a warden. The night he attacked me, he’d have known my Guardian Fylking would never allow me to be killed. My Guardians had been watching him, and they held back when I called them, to try and force his hand. For some reason, Vargn assumed their hesitation meant I wouldn’t call them.” He glanced up at the darkening sky, his brow furrowed. “Neither Wolf nor the High Fylking understood why he would assume that.”

  “He must have assumed it when he killed the other wardens, but that doesn’t explain why their Guardians didn’t come to their call as Wolf did yours. Are the Fylking so careless that they’d have waited too long? For that matter, it makes no sense that Wolf would heal Dog knowing he might not live through the change. Why would he take that chance?”

  Arcmael said nothing for a time, as they moved over the snowy rocks and brush covering the forest floor. Then he looked up. “Wolf appeared strange, that night. Not clear.”

  “Has he ever done that?”

  “No,” the warden said without hesitation. “He hasn’t.”

  The complexities of the Otherworld. Othin recalled the night Rosalie had slipped into his bed and transformed, under whisky’s spell, into his wild woman of the north, her soft touch and golden hair stirring his lust with the alien scent of gardenia.

  “Are you sure it was him?” he asked absently.

  Arcmael looked up slowly. “What are you saying? Who else would it be?”

  Othin stared at him. “We just discovered there’s a Niflsekt here! If Vargn invoked him to create the draugr, maybe the Niflsekt helped him kill the wardens too.”

  “You’re saying the Niflsekt tricked the wardens into thinking their Fylking were with them when they weren’t.”

  “You wouldn’t call your Guardians if you thought they were already there. Maybe that’s why Vargn attacked you. He assumed you’d been deceived.”

  Arcmael stopped and stood there as if he had been struck. “That night in Patanin, I had a terrible nightmare. I woke up to a storm and I saw Wolf in the trees, so I didn’t call him. If it was the Niflsekt, why didn’t he kill me? Why Dog?”

  “Did you banish him?”

  “No, he just left. As if he’d made his point.”

  Othin breathed a dark laugh. “I’ll wager he didn’t expect you to cast an Exile sigil.”

  “He still had time to kill me. Something happened.” He put his face in his hands and started to pace. “He must have tricked Skadi like this. She would never have allowed herself to be taken by the draugr. She would’ve had a thousand ways to elude them.” He stopped pacing and wrapped his arms over his belly. “How by all the gods can I have been such a fool?”

  Othin scowled, knowing the feeling. “Can you undo the Exile sigil? Bring them back?”

  The seer shook his head. “It can’t be undone.”

  “How do you know? Has anyone tried?”

  “No. It’s ruled by Elivag. That’s what Skadi taught us.”

  “She would have to, I think. Else there would’ve been more of you trying it.”

  Arcmael fell silent. “If there is a way, I don’t know it,” he said finally.

  Under the spell of hopelessness in his voice, Othin didn’t press him further. But something in his heart continued to nag at him. Something familiar. He reached into his pocket and drew forth Millie’s crow. This is old magic, Leofwine said. Very old.

  That charm is connected to everything.

  “Arcmael,” Othin said. “What about this?”

  The seer stopped and gazed at the stitches in his hand. Surprise shot over his face. “Ah. Why didn’t I think of that? Let me see.” He took the charm, held it in both hands and knelt in the snow. He stayed there, still as the night, for so long that Othin became intensely aware of the cold in his hands and feet.

  Finally, Arcmael stirred. He lowered the crow, hanging his head over it. “I don’t understand. I heard—” His breath caught.

  Othin jumped back as light crackled in the air. For a split moment, he imagined a sword in the lightning, swinging down. Something struck Arcmael in the chest, lifting him from his feet and throwing him across the ground. Othin ran to him. “Arcmael!”

  The seer was laughing. “Wolf,” he said, blinking tears. “He’s here. It worked.” He got up and whirled around a couple of times. “Ah. This is yours,” he said as he put the crow in Othin’s hands and danced away. “You were right. It wasn’t Wolf that night. I’m a fucking idiot.” He turned around again. “Aye. This way.”

  Smiling and yet concerned the poor fool had lost his mind, Othin followed him as the seer moved with foxlike precision over the wintry land. He spoke softly and moved his hands, and looked around as if he were talking to someone invisible. At some point he fell silent. Finally he said, “The Niflsekt made a tactical error by killing Dog. Wolf felt it, and the Niflsekt fled. By that time, I was closed.”

  “Neither one of them expected you to cast that sigil.”

  “No. But my Guardians weren’t surprised.” A pause. “Raven told me I make a bad Heir of House Halstaeg.”

  Othin breathed a laugh. “Sounds like a compliment.”

  “No telling, with him.”

  At last they reached the top of a ridge. A river whispered somewhere near, and wood smoke drifted on the air. Tired and hungry, Othin stepped up beside his friend. The fires of a soldiers’ camp glowed in the valley.

  “The old Catskoll outpost,” Arcmael said. “Edon made it. Come. I must return to Merhafr and tell the king that Vargn started the war as a distraction so he could compromise the Gate. Somehow Vargn lowered the vibrations in the towers. According to Wolf, Tower Sif in Ason Tae is the only one still intact. If it falls—”

  “Won’t that mean the Fylking can’t get in or out?”

  Arcmael shook his head, his gaze intent. “It’s worse than that. They aren’t breaking the Gate; they’re changing it. Like taking a harper’s string out of tune. In my dream, I saw something unspeakable come through. It’s been haunting me since.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for you to come to Ason Tae? Anyone can bring word to the kin
g.”

  “The king won’t believe my news coming from anyone. He’ll believe it coming from me.” He put his hand on Othin’s back. “Vargn is somewhere in Ason Tae. Wolf thinks the Niflsekt might have left Math. I don’t know if he protects Vargn, but I’d have to assume so. If he’s gone, the warlock might be vulnerable.”

  Othin nodded. “I’ll deal with him.”

  “There’s something else.” The tone of his voice indicated he was reluctant to continue. “The Blackthorn witch claimed Millie is in league with the Niflsekt.”

  Fear shot over Othin’s chest. “What? I thought you said he left Math.”

  “I think that happened after the witch sent the message. He might’ve fled because of it. It’s possible he was deceiving Millie as he did me and the other wardens. You’ll need to warn her.”

  “She could be lost to us already! What makes you think—”

  “She has other resources,” the seer said quietly.

  Othin snorted with incredulity. “Like what? Nothing protected her from Halstaeg’s spies, and they were only men.”

  Cold wind swelled in the trees, clattering bare branches and driving clouds over the stars emerging in the twilit sky.

  Arcmael turned, his hair stirring in the breeze. “I was just able to break a sigil ruled by Elivag, the most powerful force in the universe. I opened my sight to the stitches in that charm and saw the source of all sigils. I pulled a thread and the Exile sigil vanished.” He paused. “Millie has power. Even the Fylking don’t understand it. She’s touched by the gods.”

  “Are you saying they will protect her?”

  Arcmael made a sound in his throat. “No, I’m not saying that. There’s no glory in being chosen by the gods, Othin. Their love breaks mortal hearts as the Niflsekt broke Dog. It burns.”

  The crow flies, and is still. For the first time, Othin understood Magreda’s words. The Trickster only appeared still because he didn’t move in small steps perceivable to mortals. When he did move, he would change the very roots of the world beneath their feet.

  A Seer in the Rat Hole

  Arcmael sat on the top floor of the Crafty Goat, in a dim chamber that smelled of burnt wood and perfume. A fire popped and crackled in the hearth and the remains of a meal lay on a table by his side. He slouched in his chair, gazing out a many-paned window at the night. In the distance, over the rolling hills now gray with winter’s breath, the city of Merhafr crouched like a trembling hare. Torchlight flickered on the streets, gates and walls. Fjorgin had not yet attempted to approach the city from the sea, as Merhafr was well fortified against coastal invasions. Its old enemy would wait until they had surrounded the city inland, and then they would lay siege with their engines.

  The Kings of Earticael were traditionally proud of their war engines.

  With dawn drawing near, the inn creaked and shook with the weight of soldiers. Camps dotted the hills, and the king’s army had blocked roads and bridges as they surveyed the landscape for intruders. Dogs barked; scouts and messengers roamed; men gave reports and orders; and the people were silent.

  The draugr were no longer a concern down here. It was now up to the North Companies to deal with them. This was not as comforting as it might have been. Vargn had not only claimed Faersc as his personal stronghold, but his death-stinking fiends now held the pass into the Vale of Ason Tae. As Arcmael had feared, Vargn’s presence in the north was less about revenge and more about Tower Sif, the Apex of the Gate.

  Arcmael drew a deep breath to calm his nerves. Wolf believed the Niflsekt had left through the Gate to avoid discovery by the High Fylking, probably after the Blackthorn witch sent her eagle to Faersc. But the Fylking were not resting on that. The Niflsekt wouldn’t leave Math completely until his work here was done.

  And so it was; for Wolf then informed him that the vibration of Tower Sif had fallen like the others and now the Gate was hanging in a dense fog of imbalance, vulnerable to lower entities and Others who had no respect for the Fylking. The immortal warriors were mobilizing for war. When Arcmael told Wolf about the monstrous apparition he had seen in his dream, the Fylking vanished for two days, leaving Arcmael with Raven and Fox, who had lost their penchant for banter.

  When Wolf returned, Arcmael asked him if the dream was real. To that, the warrior replied, The forces of Elivag can manifest in a flower or a world. Because she loves all things, she does not differentiate.

  Far from comforting, the reply left Arcmael under a pall of loneliness. No one here knew what he knew. The king’s men were preparing for battle, not annihilation.

  A raven hopped onto the table with a squawk. The bird had arrived that morning with a message from Ason Tae. A ranger named Heige, a man with wiry pale blond hair and a north coastal accent, had delivered it. Wearing an uncomfortable expression, the ranger had dropped his voice and inquired after Othin. Arcmael had pretended innocence and gave him nothing. There was no telling what Halstaeg might do to get information.

  Arcmael pushed his plate in the bird’s direction. The bird strutted forth and studied the slim pickings: an apple core, a leathery bread crust and some gristle from a piece of ham. The creature went for the last as if it were getting away with a crime.

  She doesn’t like ham, Wolf said. The Fylking sat behind the table on the far side of the window, draped in a dark cloak that shimmered like a clear midwinter sky. He set down a fine metal plate that didn’t reflect the firelight from the hearth. She prefers venison. Raw.

  Arcmael stared as the raven dropped the gristle, hopped over and attacked the unseen treat. “She sees that?”

  Ravens fly between the worlds. It won’t provide much sustenance. But she likes it.

  “No wonder she’s been following me around.”

  Gazing out the window, the Fylking reached over and stroked the raven’s wing. You need to leave now, Arcmael.

  “I’m waiting for word from Diderik. I won’t get near the king by myself.” He paused. “If the demon comes through the Gate, will it kill the Fylking?”

  We will fight.

  Arcmael let out a measured breath. He hated it when Wolf responded with statements like that. To an immortal warrior, to fight was to die and one day return. Mortals faced a darker, more mysterious end. “Will we ever meet again?”

  The Fylking turned, his airy eyes glinting with a shade of blue, a window into another world. Elivag is infinite. Love binds all things beyond time and brings them together in time. We will meet again. The warrior rose, touched Arcmael’s head with a sparkling caress and vanished into the shadows.

  The raven lifted up and floated toward the door just before someone pounded on it. Arcmael got up, unsurprised to see Heige. The ravens that served the King’s Rangers had an uncanny sense for their masters’ presence.

  “Sir,” the ranger panted. His face was flushed. He threw a furtive glance into the hall as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. The raven fluttered up and landed on his shoulder with a croak of recognition. “Forgive me. I know who you are and I know why you’re protecting Othin of Cae Forres. I am his friend; many of us are. We were told Othin is dead. I recently heard otherwise, and that you met with him in the north. Is this true?”

  “Told by whom?”

  “Captain Diderik.”

  Arcmael pursed his lips and wondered how vulnerable he must have looked. This could be a trap. Othin might have sent a message to Diderik. More likely, Leofwine did, but Arcmael had to be sure. “What do you know about me?”

  “You’re the eldest son of Lord Halstaeg, a Warden of Dyrregin and quite good with a blade.”

  Arcmael lowered his gaze. The description threw together such an unlikely mess of designations, his father would never have said that to anyone. “I am Arcmael, and Othin lives.” He glanced at the raven. “The message you earlier delivered to me was from Skaut. Othin made it into Ason Tae.”

  The ranger bowed his head. “Thank you. I hoped as much. We need your help.”

  “How can I help you?�
��

  “One of our men is in trouble. His name is Bren of Ottersun. He and Othin are close. He’s—” He rubbed his face as if nervous to continue. “He’s gone mad. Halstaeg locked him up, and I need to bring you to him.”

  “What makes you think I can help with that?”

  “Bren is—touched. He sees things. Feels things. Some two moons past, he went right fey. Acted strange, wouldn’t eat. Nightmares stole his sleep. He fell ill. Kept saying things about a demon made of dead warriors.”

  The demon’s eyes burned with fire. A chill gripped Arcmael’s spine. “Go on,” he said quietly.

  Heige began to pace. The raven on his shoulder fluttered to stay perched. “A friend of mine knows a woman, a Blackthorn witch. She gave Bren a potion to calm his nerves. It seemed to work for a little while. But three days ago, he took a bad turn. Said the demon was coming and he had to find the last warden. Halstaeg put him away.”

  “What did the witch give him?”

  “I don’t know. It was Prederi’s idea, he said something about a veil.”

  The Otherworld. It sounded like the Others were shaking up anyone who would listen.

  Arcmael grabbed his cloak and weapons and followed Heige out the door.

  ~ * ~

  Prederi, a tall ranger clad in full habit and arms, waited for Heige on the back step of the inn. Three horses stood there, heads hanging in the drizzle. One of them was Arcmael’s. “I took the liberty,” Prederi said. His blond hair was tangled into a braid on his back. Like Heige, Prederi already knew who Arcmael was. Diderik had been busy.

  Grim and prepared, the rangers went through every blockade with ease. They passed Arcmael off as an informant, which got a rumbling laugh from Wolf. To Arcmael’s relief they avoided the main gates. Prederi led them through a fetid patchwork of farms, slaughterhouses, cesspits, mills and tanneries until he reached a crude gate by the river. He knew the guardsmen there and joked with them that Halstaeg was punishing him by sending him on patrol in the gutters. Alert but bored, they let the men pass.