The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “Why aren’t your Fylking helping you?” Prederi asked. “I hear a warden’s immortal Guardians would strike a man dead for interfering with him. I was rather hoping to witness that.”

  “So was I,” Heige chimed in.

  “It’s not always that simple,” Arcmael said over his shoulder. He finished his business and returned to the wall. “Not now, anyway. I’ve learned to deal with things without them.”

  “You were exiled,” Bren said.

  Arcmael turned to him. “The Others told you that?”

  He nodded and pulled another card from the deck. Wolf, again.

  “A misunderstanding,” Arcmael said, envisioning Dog lying on the ground, still. “Do you keep pulling that same card at random?”

  Bren picked up the Wolf card and studied it. “I’ve been pulling it for weeks. You saw it, didn’t you? The demon that’ll come through the Gate on the dark moon.”

  Prederi and Heige exchanged looks.

  “I saw something,” Arcmael said. He leaned forward and held out his hand; Bren gave him the cards. “Let me explain something about the Otherworld.” He parted the deck and threw the cards together. “It exists beyond time and space. It is both the source and reflection of physical events. The Otherworld is constantly in motion and easily misinterpreted. You might see a fragment, believe it means a certain thing and then later realize it meant something completely different.

  “For example.” He tossed the cards on the floor and plucked out the Wolf. It stood on a mossy rock beneath towering mountains and a windblown sky. Arcmael held it up to Prederi and Heige, who listened intently. “What does this card mean, if you play it?”

  “Depends on the game,” Heige said. “Generally, it means loyalty. Strength of the pack. Intelligence in the wilds.”

  “Sometimes it means strength in solitude, or exile,” Prederi added. “Like a lone wolf.”

  Arcmael nodded. “To me, that sounds like the nature of the King’s Rangers. What makes you strong, what makes you dangerous.” They nodded. Bren stared at the floor. Arcmael continued, “To Bren, it means a demon unleashed by the Niflsekt that’ll destroy Math itself.” He shrugged. “So which is it?”

  Bren looked up. “It could be either, or both.”

  “Or something you haven’t thought of yet. Events aren’t fixed. We might all die or we might not. One or many of your brotherhood may do something that changes the course of things.” He brushed the cards back into shape, straightened them and spread them into a fan, face down. Then he pulled one out and flipped over a hooded crow.

  Prederi leaned forward, peered at the card and laughed. “That’s War God’s card.”

  Bren smiled.

  “The Trickster is always a factor,” Arcmael said. “This could involve our friend Othin, or the god he’s named after—as I’ve discovered in my travels. Anything can happen. Anything can change.” He gathered up and handed the cards back to Bren. “Always let both your heart and reason be the final judge when dealing with the Otherworld. It’s rarely what it seems.”

  Prederi cleared his throat. “Remind me never to take you on in a game of wildcards.”

  “We’ll get some whisky in him first,” Heige suggested. He leaned against the wall and slung an arm over his knee. “Well then. So what does the Otherworld tell you about getting us the fuck out of here?”

  Arcmael frowned. “Absolutely nothing. Speaking of Othin and bad situations, maybe you lot can tell me how he ended up in bed with my sister.”

  “Ah, that,” Heige sighed, tilting his head back. “Last we heard, she’s saying he couldn’t manage it.”

  Arcmael envisioned that briefly, and then burst into laughter.

  “Och!” Bren said. “He was drunk as Hel. Happens.”

  “Speak for yourself!” Prederi huffed.

  Arcmael rolled over on the floor, clutching his gut with laughter. Here they were standing on the edge of annihilation, and his father had attempted to cover up his corruption and ignorance with sex gone bad. The gods did have a sense of humor. He pushed himself up, wiping a tear from his eye. “So she’s not carrying his child.”

  Prederi snorted. “She’s no more pregnant than I am. Halstaeg finally got the truth out of her, but by then it was too late. He’d already lost face.”

  “I’m sure Othin would like to know that.”

  Heige nodded. “We sent messages to Skaut hoping he might show up there. He probably knows by now.”

  Arcmael rubbed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “I wonder if Halstaeg called off his bounty hunters, yet. He can’t exactly hang Othin for treason now that everyone knows the truth about Rosalie.”

  Silence descended on the cell. “Bounty hunters?” Heige breathed in disbelief.

  “As I told you,” Arcmael said. “This never had anything to do with indiscretion. Halstaeg was using that as an excuse.”

  “Captain Ageton,” Bren said, looking up from his cards. “I heard Halstaeg’s pinning his death on Othin. He was seen escaping the scene.”

  Arcmael let out a sharp breath of derision. “Seen by Halstaeg’s mercenaries, that is. Vargn killed Ageton. If Othin hadn’t come on the scene and stopped him, he’d have turned your captain into a draugr.”

  Heige said, “We were told a company of guardsmen under Ageton’s command came upon Othin near Vota, and he killed them to escape.”

  “And you believed that? Ageton ordered Othin from the city. They planned to meet in Vota.”

  “Halstaeg would never admit one of his captains betrayed him,” Bren said. “He claims Ageton left to capture Othin, not meet with him.” He lifted his chin toward the cell bars. “Heads up.”

  Several moments passed. Arcmael said, “What’s going on?”

  “Bren’s never wrong,” Heige said.

  “We’re about to get out of here,” Prederi added. “Our friend Tasn was among the rangers who captured us. He’ll have told someone where we are.”

  “When were you going to mention that?” Arcmael returned.

  Just then, a man passed by in the corridor. Prederi cleared his throat loudly. “Milord!”

  The man stopped and backed up, peering into the cell. He wore a fine red tunic trimmed in gray, black leggings and a black cloak. He had white shoulder-length hair combed back from a receding hairline. He grabbed the torch from the sconce in the hall. “Well,” he said, holding it aloft. “I only half believed that fool Tasn. And here you are.”

  The prisoners scrambled quickly to their feet as he pulled out a set of keys and opened the door. He stepped aside with a tired expression as the rangers emerged.

  As Arcmael joined them, the lord settled his attention on him with measured calm. “And who have we here?” he said.

  “I am Arcmael, Warden of Dyrregin, Milord.”

  The lord studied him. “Arcmael,” he said at last, his smile so faint it might not have been there. “I am Lord Coldevin, Master of Arms to the King. Well met.” Beckoning to the rangers, he strode down the passage. As he trailed after them, Arcmael had no idea if the man knew who he really was.

  Whatever he knew, the master of arms retrieved and returned their weapons. He led them out of the gaol and into a long room full of tables and shelves stuffed with books and scrolls. There, he stopped and called out a name. A woman looked up and strode through the tables. She wore a plain white dress, a woven leather smock and a knife on her belt. She bowed her head as the lord spoke to her in low tones. At one point she looked up. Her gaze found Arcmael in a brief flash of hope as she put her fist on her heart and hurried away.

  Lord Coldevin led them up a flight of worn, narrow steps and into a stark room. It had several chairs placed about, a cold firepit and a wooden rack on the wall holding an assortment of nasty implements used for questioning. High barred windows let in the morning light grayed by rain.

  “Well now,” Coldevin said, folding his arms over his chest. “What am I to do?” Pursing his lips, he approached Arcmael and walked around him, looking him up and do
wn. “Arcmael, Lost Heir of House Halstaeg, turned out as a slit-throat mercenary. Can you use that sword?”

  Prederi coughed. Coldevin threw a glance his way.

  “Aye, Milord,” Arcmael answered, flexing his jaw. Despite all his efforts, everyone wanted him to have a sword in his hand.

  “Show me.” He unsheathed a fine blade which had probably been handed down through generations of swordsmen.

  The rangers moved back. Prederi whispered something in Bren’s ear that made him smile.

  Arcmael drew his blade, held it pointed upwards in both hands and bowed his head, letting the light enter his mind as Wolf taught him. Coldevin came at him with an insistent but prudent thrust that Arcmael parried easily. They moved around each other’s guards, their blades driving the fight in increasing speed and intensity until Arcmael bound the lord’s blade, made a swift movement and sent it flying from his hand. It skittered end to end across the floor.

  Coldevin’s astonishment became a smile as he retrieved his sword. The rangers shifted on their feet. Heige dragged a finger across his throat like a knife. Coldevin regarded the warden with a thoughtful air.

  “Why have you returned, Arcmael?”

  Arcmael sheathed his blade. “I have urgent news concerning the realm, Milord. I must speak to King Angvald.”

  Coldevin lifted his brow and turned to the rangers. They now stood formally, strong on their feet, their hands folded in front of them and their heads bowed. “And you sorry lot?”

  Bren looked up and said, “We seek only the truth, Milord.”

  The master of arms barked a laugh. “As do I.” He turned again to Arcmael. “And why should we believe you?”

  “Because I alone know what you’re facing—and it’s not Fjorgin.”

  ~ * ~

  Lord Coldevin questioned the rangers mercilessly in the interrogation chamber, his manner giving nothing away as to his thoughts. Between what they and most likely Diderik had told him, he must have had a clear view of Halstaeg’s machinations. Arcmael had little to add. In his world, war and politics had lost their relevance. As he strode with his companions to the throne room of the King’s Citadel, he wrestled with how he would tell King Angvald that everything they knew and loved was most likely going to end by the new moon. He had no proof. Only bad dreams, wildcards and the cryptic words of a Fylking mercenary named Wolf.

  The King’s Citadel was not a lavish place; it was built for war. Ancestral weapons and tapestries depicting bloody scenes from battles past hung on the walls. Fires roared in the hearths. Soldiers stood at every doorway, stair, landing and window, their faces set, their eyes alert. As Arcmael walked, surrounded by his ranger friends and a small company of men wearing fine yet nondescript uniforms, the sounds, voices and colors of the citadel blurred around him. He ignored the stares, whispers and the measured looks of warriors until he heard a voice that made his heart jump like a rabbit.

  “Milord,” said a man to Lord Coldevin. “If I may.”

  Diderik approached in his dress uniform, his smile mixing astonishment and joy. He looked as Arcmael remembered him, tall and casual, a man of the sword. The lines in his face made him stronger, somehow. The two men embraced with the vigor of time lost.

  “Captain Diderik,” Arcmael said as they withdrew.

  Diderik’s eyes were moist. “Warden of Dyrregin. My heart did not deceive. You are here, and well.” He clapped him on the shoulders. “You’re a man, now. And a swordsman too, I hear.”

  Arcmael smiled, his heart thumping. “You’ve heard from Othin?”

  Diderik nodded, glancing sidelong at the rangers. “Ravens are swift.” His brow furrowed. “What’s happening here?”

  “I’ve come with news for the king.”

  All that they knew passed between them in a glance. Lord Coldevin, not letting on that he knew anything, nodded and continued toward a set of tall, stately doors carved and painted with the horned, fish-tailed goat of Merhafr’s kings. When Arcmael was a boy, he thought the standard was silly. Now it looked uncanny, like something from the Otherworld. The doors opened with a mighty rush before them.

  Arcmael didn’t know what would greet him here, besides a long wait. Given his present concerns, King Angvald wouldn’t grant audience for the asking. At the very least, Arcmael expected to wait his turn behind others with news and reports.

  The king sat on his throne. Around him stood dozens of commanders, scribes, messengers, royals and court officials. They appeared unsettled, as if they had just arrived, and more were still coming. It felt like an emergency council.

  Arcmael had almost forgotten about his father until the commander appeared. He strode in Arcmael’s direction, accompanied by Straelos, now a man and a most uncomfortable one, if his stormy mien was any indication. Where the high constable of the King’s Rangers wore his ranger’s colors with ease, his heir Straelos wore a finer rig, brushed, polished and shining with self-importance. Arcmael did not see his mother. He wondered if she even knew he was here.

  Gesturing to Straelos to take his place near the throne with the others, Halstaeg fell in step with Arcmael with an air of mock civility. No doubt he thought to secure his interests. But it was too late for that.

  “Whatever game you’re playing,” the commander said in a low voice, staring ahead at the throne, “your allies are on the wrong side of my authority.”

  “Soon that will be a better place to be,” Arcmael returned.

  “Don’t assume whatever Othin told you is the truth. He’s an outlaw. A warden’s word won’t hold weight against mine.”

  “Othin is not my only source.” He glanced sidelong.

  The high constable paused. “If you mean Leofwine,” he inferred, growling the name, “he’s a spy and an operative of the Fenrir Brotherhood. The king has put a bounty on his head.”

  “Ah,” Arcmael mused. “Interesting thing about magic. It exists whether it’s convenient or not. A bit like lust. Last I knew, fucking a traitor was as good as being one.” The commander’s craggy cheeks colored. Arcmael continued, “I can take this as far into Hel as you like, Father. You have no claim on or authority over me. Don’t make a fool of yourself by attempting it.”

  Arcmael stepped out of his father’s presence and approached the throne.

  King Angvald was a tall, broad-shouldered man who commanded attention. Built like a woodsman, he had curly blond hair and a dark brown beard, cropped close. His dark eyes smoldered amid the deep lines and circles of war. Though some of his recent decisions were considered by some to be weak, he was not a weak man.

  Lord Coldevin stepped up to the dais. “Your Highness. May I present Arcmael of House Halstaeg, Warden of Dyrregin.”

  The assembly stirred into a hush as Arcmael dropped to one knee, his head bowed. His heart hammered in his chest. As he waited, something moved in the corner of his eye, a silvery paw, a shade of a wolf’s tail.

  The king rose and stepped off the dais. “Rise, Arcmael,” he said quietly. He reached down and drew the warden to his feet. “You’re the best thing I’ve seen this day.”

  “Your Highness,” Arcmael said, bowing his head. He felt like an idiot. He was about to ruin this day.

  It started with his father’s voice cracking into the silence like a whip. “Highness, my son has been misled.”

  Arcmael looked up. Forgetting himself, he said, “I ceased to be your son eighteen suns ago when you stripped my titles and sent me into the wilderness.”

  Ignoring the murmurs of the assembly, Halstaeg continued as if Arcmael had not spoken. “He knows nothing of our plight or the reasons I’ve called out some of my rangers for defying my orders.”

  With that, Arcmael’s lifelong bitterness erupted like a leviathan breaking the surface of the sea. Resisting a desire to draw his blade, he pointed behind him at Bren. “You put that man in the Rat Hole because you feared what he had to say. Because you didn’t understand.” His face was hot. “You never did.”

  Halstaeg’s face was a har
d as iron. “Bren of Ottersun is mad.”

  “He’s not mad! He’s a seer the likes of which I’ve never seen.” He addressed the king. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but Ranger Bren could have told you what I’m about to.” He cast a pointed look at his father. “Mostly.”

  “Highness—” Halstaeg persisted.

  “Enough,” the king snapped. He gestured to a guardsman. “Bring the warden a seat. I would hear his news.”

  As the soldier complied, Arcmael sat down. He wiped his palms on his thighs. His Guardians padded around the hall, slinking under the throne, skirting the dais, weaving through the legs of the crowd. Wolf had taken his warrior’s form and stood next to Bren with his arm around his shoulder, talking to him.

  The king moved to a step on the dais and lowered himself onto a pillow. He reached down and stroked a hound resting there. Then he leaned forward with his chin on his hand, looking at once very young and very old.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” he said.

  Raven landed on Arcmael’s shoulder. How I do love a story, the Fylking said with a croaking laugh.

  ~ * ~

  Sheets of rain pelted the rocks and swept across the sea as Arcmael stepped into Tower Sor and closed the door behind him. Outside, a large company of guardsmen stood just beyond the High Fylking’s tolerance. Arcmael had not wanted an escort, but it was never a good idea to be rude to a king—especially after telling him his war was a lie, his wardens were all dead, his high constable was deceitful, the Gate had fallen to the Fylking’s enemies and Math now stood poised to be annihilated by a demon from another world.

  Wind howled in the arrow slits. Though only midday, darkness brooded in the tower interior. Arcmael strode slowly over the wet floor, his senses extended into the stones, the crystals and the earth. It felt as it always had here, heavy and ill, like a festering sore. His scalp tingled as he approached the center of the floor and set down a bundle of tools. He knelt beside the crystal and placed his hands upon it. He couldn’t tell where the energy imbalance came from; it was everywhere. But there was only one place the draugr could have buried a body that would affect the tower vibration.