As Othin rode east, the mists closed over the setting sun at his back. Foreboding crept over his heart, a change in mood, the spirit of something wrong. Such moods had grown stronger since he began studying with the masters of the Faersc Conservatory, seers who taught the Wardens of Dyrregin the arts of second sight.
In the distance, a rider maneuvered deftly through the ash and evergreen trees crowding the narrow road. Frida. As a messenger who worked the rangers’ coastal routes, she knew how to handle a horse. The shadows and needles of Othin’s unease swirled and plunged like a murder of crows around her. Out here, riding at that speed, she had news, and it wasn’t good. Othin moved to one side of the road and held up a hand.
When Frida spotted him, she checked her horse in a flurry of hooves, stones and dust. “Captain!” she breathed, her cheeks flushed. She leaned forward in her saddle, catching her breath. She wore a bow and quiver, and a knife on her thigh. She was slight of build, but that was deceiving. Rumor had it she had fallen out with a guardsman at the Garmr outpost over Hel knows what and rearranged his nose, put a scar on his chest and hit him hard enough in the groin to make him doubt his subsequent ability to sire children.
Othin drew up alongside her. “Hail, Frida. You’re in haste.”
“I’ve come from Birkan,” she said. “Ranger Heige told me you were riding north, but I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“You have news?” Othin asked, almost dryly. He had told no one his whereabouts.
She nodded. “Heige and Bren were to meet in Birkan three days ago. Heige was late, and Bren went on without him.” Her expression fell into some kind of disarray, and she continued as if to avoid further questions. “Before he left, Bren gave me a message to deliver to Heige, that he would meet him at the Borderland.”
The Borderland. Bren, you fucking idiot.
“Who else was there?” Othin asked more calmly than he felt.
She tossed her head, as if exasperated. “Only Alaric. He was outside”—she made a motion with her hand—“taking care of his business. Bren left while he was gone, and I had no authority to stop him.”
Othin nodded. A dark, brooding sort with the patience of a stone and the temper of a molting snake, Alaric wouldn’t have let Bren go into Ylgr alone. He would have made him wait for Heige. “Understood. What happened?”
“Heige got in late and went after Bren. He returned a day later, alone.” She paused. “Ranger Bren’s gone missing. Heige is awaiting orders.”
A sliver of fear shot through Othin’s veins. Missing. He clenched his jaw as his horse grew restless beneath him. Bren was not one to defy orders as a rule, but recent personal losses in the ranks had turned him sullen and given him a taste for vengeance. Most of his men felt the same. Othin would have strongly forbidden a solitary mission—which was why the bastard had left before he got there.
Fortunately, Heige had decided to wait. Alaric wouldn’t have left the station unmanned to go with him. That—and Frida’s earlier comment as to Othin’s whereabouts—meant Heige had known Othin would be arriving soon, and Othin didn’t have to guess how he knew. Bren, a fledgling seer with remarkable talent, had a penchant for using his Otherworld friends to find out things like that. The fool carried around a pack full of trinkets, food and scraps of roots and shit he used to woo the Others for favors.
Nothing in that pack would save the Northman from an assassin or a bounty hunter.
Othin gazed north at the darkening sky above the border of Ylgr some two leagues away. The plan forming in his mind would spark reprisal, quite possibly over the borders. He dropped his attention to Frida. “Go to the rangers’ station in Grayfen and let them know what’s happening,” he said.
Her expression turned blank. “We’ve stopped using ravens. You’ll be cut off.”
“Won’t be the first time. Ride swiftly.”
“Aye, Captain,” she replied, her mood now stained by trouble as she turned and urged her mount into a heavy pace down the path.
Othin did the same, his earlier foreboding rising like a tide.
~*~
Ylgr. A desolate tangle of marshes, brush, bogs, barren hills and dark woodlands bordering the northern reaches of Dyrregin between the Fomor and Ogjan Mountains, the realm had become more of a challenge than Othin had bargained for. Until recently, the King’s Rangers hadn’t formally patrolled the area for two centuries, since before the Sie War. The king at that time had decided to use the rugged land as a penal colony for traitors, prisoners of war and other miscreants, a lousy idea that had resulted in skirmishes all over the north. When the Sie War broke out, the leaders of Ylgr offered to defend the northern coast from the Fjorginans in return for pardon and noninterference. To this the king agreed, on the condition that the North Coastal Road, which provided access between the coastal realms, be declared neutral territory. Both sides kept their bargain, and so it stood to this day.
Since then, any ranger foolish enough to set foot in Ylgr in his habit was asking for trouble. On the eve of the war, Othin had ridden into Ylgr in pursuit of a draugr, an undying warrior created by the warlock Vargn. He never found the ghastly creature, but a stolen horse and a bloody skirmish with Sheriff Thorn, as he called himself, had convinced him that Ylgr might benefit from some attention. King Angvald agreed. He had received other reports of soldiers and travelers who had run into trouble on the North Coastal Road, convincing him that the old bargain between Ylgr and the crown was no longer sound. So it was decided to bring Ylgr back under the rangers’ dominion and protection.
Naturally, having run wild for so long, the Ylgrian locals liked to pretend the new laws did not exist. When Othin came in with his men and a proclamation from the king, Ylgr all but declared war.
The locals now killed Rangers without mercy. In early spring, Othin lost two men, his friend Tasn and a Northman named Rolof, a cousin of Bren’s who had served six suns as an assassin in service to the crown. Tasn had been stripped naked and hung in a tree like a grim sacrifice described in the old tales; Rolof had been brutally tortured and left on an outcropping for scavengers. Each man had a dead raven nailed to his shoulder. Othin thought the ravens had been used as a cruel whim until he learned why his birds had not been returning from Ylgr.
To honor his fallen rangers, Othin dressed in formal habit, returned their remains to their families and delivered the news. And he stood before King Angvald and High Constable Lisefin, head bowed, as they told him without actually telling him he was free to do what needed to be done.
And so he did. To maintain anonymity, he rotated his rangers often. They entered this country only in plain gear and by alternate routes, where possible. He had them move primarily at night and under the cover of scarves or hoods. They also rode different horses, leaving their own steeds in Birkan where the beasts wouldn’t be recognized by the king’s pentacle branded on their thighs. Othin sent only his best up here, those who could melt into the landscape like foxes and weren’t averse to bending rules.
The North Branch had taken down two Ylgrian ringleaders since Tasn’s and Rolof’s deaths, though they had yet to reach the ones who had put his rangers into bad hands.
A gibbous moon shone through a ring of mist, casting faint light through the forest. The air was heavy; it would rain by dawn. Othin rode at a thumping gait, his nerves taut as he watched for black, hulking forms lying in wait, the glint of a sword, the shine on a horse’s eye.
There was a chance Bren was hiding somewhere Ranger Heige hadn’t known to look. Or someone could have taken him alive. Othin didn’t usually take Bren’s sensitivity to the Otherworld into account on Ylgr deployments, but his fears had him hoping his friend had unseen resources to warn or protect him. The thought held no comfort. Bren had recently told him that the Others who haunted Ylgr were nasty and not to be approached. Unsurprising.
Unlike Bren, who was somewhat reckless in his newfound relationship with the unseen, Othin was not inclined to ask the Otherworld for favors. He preferred a w
arrior’s approach that relied on strength and wit. Nothing protected him from the risks of his occupation; he could die by the sword on any given day.
So he continued to tell himself.
The first time he had escaped death was six seasons ago, during the Second Gate War. To survive that war and cast down Vargn, the warlock who had initiated it under the patient hand of the Niflsekt, Othin had made a vow to a phooka. According to his friend Leofwine, a sorcerer of the ancient Fenrir Brotherhood, a phooka was about the worst thing Othin could have called for help. But he had had little choice. Struck down by sorcery, unable to avenge the murder of his captain and knowing that his love, Melisande, was in the sights of his enemies, he would have promised the phooka anything.
In return for its help, the beast demanded Othin learn second sight.
At the time, Othin had no idea what it meant. When he had asked Leofwine about it, the sorcerer paled, stared off into some weird void and offered little by way of explanation besides some offhand comment about the fickle nature of the Otherworld. Which meant he didn’t know. To both their minds, forcing second sight on Othin seemed too simple and meaningless a price for all Othin had gained.
Millie, they had called her. Othin had loved her on sight, six suns past, while on patrol in the Vale of Ason Tae. Free and half wild, she had made her living by knitting, a skill into which she had imbued magic so ancient even the gods took note. Her love had sustained him more deeply that he realized, until treachery and war swept her away.
Threatened by Melisande’s art, a mighty demon summoned by the Niflsekt had cast her down. Othin awoke amid the rubble of Tower Sie, alone, the winds of grief blowing over him like howling wolves. He should have died with her that day, struck down by the Niflsekt and crushed by stone and crystal. But he was saved for the second time, by the High Fylking of Tower Sif, the grim and terrible warlords charged with the Gate’s first line of defense. Why they saved him was even more of a mystery than the phooka’s request.
He hated the Fylking that day and for a season afterward, hated them and cursed the closed doors of Hel—until he felt Millie’s presence one spring evening as he stood by her grave. Somehow, by the hand of the Old Gods, she was reborn to the Fylking’s homeworld. And one day soon, when Tower Sif was finished being rebuilt, she would return to him through the Gate, just as the immortal warriors moved between the worlds in the deployment of their dark affairs.
Ravaged by loss, Othin had assumed that day by the grave that the phooka’s request meant he would be able to perceive Millie when she returned. But now, after the passage of seasons in the void of her presence, all Othin understood was why Leofwine, a sorcerer who knew things about the Otherworld best left to sorcerers, had acted so cagey and suspicious of the whole thing. Why would a phooka care if Othin and his lost love could perceive each other?
A phooka wouldn’t. But grief would. And it was grief, not fear of the phooka, that drove the ranger to the broken halls of Faersc to learn the wardens’ arts. Regardless of what the phooka had intended, second sight would allow Othin to know Millie again beyond memories and dreams. For grief had left his dreams unbearable.
The road grew steep as Othin crossed a ridge that led down into the valley. Birkan was nestled there near a deep flowing stream that eventually flowed into the Westfork. The rangers’ station was half a league north of the village and overlooked the heavily wooded hills that tumbled down into the narrow valley that marked the border of Ylgr like the cut of a dull knife.
As the road began to descend, cliffs glowing pale in the moonlight rose behind the tops of the trees to the north. Othin rode until he reached a burbling stream. The bridge had washed out in the spring and had not been replaced. He splashed through the shallow water and guided his mount off the road and into a small clearing. The eaves of the woods on the far side were indiscernible.
Othin dismounted and led his horse to the water to drink. A fine, dark brown gelding bred for war and steady in a fight, Loge was a good companion. Othin had owned him before fleeing Merhafr with his captain’s horse, Arvakr, on the eve of the war. After selling Arvakr to Leofwine, he had bought Loge back from a trader for twice what he had originally paid. He had not balked the exchange.
He moved his hand over the beast’s withers, listening to the night. There was no wind. In the distance, the high-pitched cry of a vixen rent the silence. Bren, who grew up in the far north, had learned as a boy to mimic foxes and wolves without flaw, much to the dismay of mothers and hunters. The vixen shrieked again, darkening Othin’s heart. Just a fox, this time. Bren had taught him how to tell the difference.
The forest changed with a breath. No light moved in the shadows, no whispers touched his mind, but someone—human—was near. Probably a watcher or a scout, aware of his presence. His men knew of everything that moved in this area.
Loge jerked up his head as something hissed by Othin’s side and struck the ground with a muffled thud. He leaned over and pulled an arrow fletched with black feathers. Then he waited. After some moments, a tall figure emerged on the far side of the clearing, leading a horse. He drew back his hood, his blond hair pale in the dimness.
“Heige,” Othin said, handing him the arrow. “One of these days you’re going to kill somebody.”
The ranger’s smile flashed in the dark. “Captain.” An expert with a bow, Heige rarely hit anything he didn’t intend to. He had taken to using this trick instead of exchanging animal calls. A seasoned outlaw could tell a human call and response from the real thing, and Ylgrians knew the sounds and ways of every creature in their realm. Of course, Heige’s method depended on the recipient remaining still after some invisible assailant sank an arrow in close proximity.
Othin drew Loge around and began walking toward the road. “Tell me you have good news.”
Heige accompanied him. The moon passed behind the thickening clouds. “None. No Bren. But Prederi is here. He came with me from Merhafr.”
As they reached the road, Othin mounted. “Prederi. Is this why you were late?”
Heige said nothing.
“I gave him a moon’s leave,” Othin said needlessly. Prederi, a rough yet good-natured sort and another of his finest rangers, had a woman in Merhafr named Ursa, whom he loved to a fault. Ursa was a big girl, tough as a deckhand and always ready with an infectious laugh. She and Prederi were expecting their first child, and Othin had given the ranger leave to be with his new family. Othin still recalled his grin and the uncharacteristic humility with which he took on fatherhood, as if he’d just been assigned an especially interesting mission. What Prederi would be doing up here now made no sense and added to Othin’s earlier foreboding.
Heige stood on the edge of the road, clutching the reins, his head bowed.
“I saw no reason to put him on patrol with Ursa and the child on his mind,” Othin said. “Why did you—”
“Othin.” Heige looked up. “They’re with the gods.”
For a moment, Othin’s mind went blank. Heige stood there, as if lost. Othin dismounted and went to him, put his hands on the ranger’s shoulders and searched the shadows on his face. “What are you saying?”
“Ursa lost the child. She was—something happened. She died a day later, in Prederi’s arms. He called a healer, but there was nothing they could do.” His voice was rough. “He took Ursa and the child down by the sea in a wagon. I helped him put them in the ground. I feared he was going to throw himself from the cliff—drink himself to death—something. I couldn’t leave him there.”
Othin dropped his hands and stepped back, his heart pounding and his throat dry. Hel, you are a cruel bitch. Once again, he found himself on the plain beneath the wolf-gray sky of a world without Millie.
Bad news, more bad news and a hollow dawn. Othin turned and reached for his horse. “Let’s go.” As the two men mounted and headed out, a new thought entered his mind and stuck there like a nail. Bren and Prederi were as close as brothers. He turned to his friend. “Does Prederi know about Bre
n?”
The ranger made a sound in his throat. “Aye, no avoiding that. Alaric and I had to hold him down to keep him from riding north. Alaric, Oscar and Rande are watching him now.”
“I don’t think bringing him on this mission is a good idea.”
“No,” Heige agreed. “But at least I can keep an eye on him.”
They rode for an hour in silence until they reached Birkan. Soft rain fell, and no lights shone in the village, closed up against the night. Fog cloaked the street. A dog barked as the rangers found the winding path that led up to the station. A short time later, faint light glowed through the trees, filling Othin with an uncomfortable mixture of dread and relief.
One of the scouts emerged, a thin man named Oscar who bore a curious collection of scars he never talked about. He drifted down the stone steps with a nervous glance. “Milords,” he said, reaching for their horses’ halters as they dismounted. “Good to see you.”
“Is all well?” Othin asked.
“Well enough, Captain.” Not looking at him, the scout took their horses and led the beasts off to a crude stable on one side of the building.
Othin put a hand on Heige’s shoulder as they went up the steps. As he opened the door, a warm draft of wood smoke filled his lungs, making him aware of how tired and hungry he was.
The station was small but comfortable enough, with a large stone hearth, bunk beds, a table scattered with weapons, dishes, candles and flasks, and a sideboard crammed with sundry supplies. Alaric got up from a chair by the fire, his shoulders relaxing with relief. He held a finger to his lips. His dark hair hung around his face as he glanced at the corner. Prederi lay in a bunk, asleep. Whispering, Alaric said, “I spiked his wine.”
The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords Page 40