The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  Leofwine appreciated the healer’s mettle.

  The Archwolf of Ýr would not.

  The Wolf’s Den

  The Council Hall of the Masters of Ýr was on the ground floor of a tower overlooking the sea. By all outward appearances, it was bright and fair, with rows of tall windows, an intricate mosaic of Yggdrasil on the floor, and colorful tapestries showing scenes of the Old Gods in living stories. But it was not a bright place, not even this morning after the night’s passing storm, with the sunlight beaming from the east and turning the dust in the air to glittering stars.

  Leofwine had slept deeply, despite the grueling ride, his hurts and having slept with one eye open in the seedy inn Moust had picked the night before last. There was only so much he could fret over something. The Archwolf’s displeasure aside, Leofwine hadn’t technically done anything wrong—though allowing himself to be tricked by a phooka and summoning Fenrisúlfr for the sake of his sister’s honor would be open to interpretation.

  On the western side of the airy chamber, on a dais holding a row of ornate chairs of black wood, sat the Masters of Ýr, clad in robes of gray, their pale hands resting on the arms of their chairs or in their laps, their faces unreadable and their eyes dark with the secrets of their kind. They were a humorless lot with no names, only titles. Leofwine had dealt with most of them during his training as an Adept, and they had seemed to respect him well enough despite his business with Moust as a youth. But something had changed. He could feel it like the bristling iron gate blocking his way.

  They didn’t look like much, Leofwine thought, sitting there in judgment of him. The magicians seemed oddly feeble in the morning light, old men with the power of a name on their mantles and no one to question them. The Master of Images wore his long, graying brown hair in braids bound on the ends with leather. The Master of Fire had a scar on his hand that could have come from a kitchen accident. The Master of Thought, who sat on the far end of the dais brooding like a dying oak, had a crooked nose, as if he’d been in a bar fight as a younger man. The others, the Masters of Water, Air and Fire, and the Masters of Sound and Forms, were even more nondescript.

  In the center of the row, swathed in black and gazing down at Leofwine from eyes of green, sat the Archwolf. He did not appear to be blind, putting to rest one romantic tale, at least. In fact, he didn’t seem terrible at all—which to Leofwine’s mind made him the most terrible thing in the room. He wore a dark metal circlet over his brow that held an opal cabochon. The pearly, bluish green depths swirled like fog touched by a breeze. Not liking the look of it, Leofwine averted his gaze.

  Sitting to the Archwolf’s right was the Master of Demons. He had dark skin, the scrape of a tangled beard on his chin and odd-colored eyes, one black and one pale blue. His presence here no doubt involved the summoning of Fenrisúlfr by the hand of a fool.

  Leofwine also noted the absence of the Masters of Stone, Flora, Fauna and Heavens. That too, rattled his nerves. Either they couldn’t be bothered to judge a delinquent, or the Archwolf felt the nature of Leofwine’s transgressions were more suited to sorcerers who controlled forces that ruled the darker and more destructive nature of the art.

  Leofwine wondered who they really were; if they had ever loved, longed or desired simple things, if they’d had their hearts broken or lost their souls to the storms of misfortune. Surely, in exchange for the kind of power they wielded, they had made sacrifices.

  As he stood there, his feet apart, his hands folded before him, dressed in dull linens with his hair unbound and snaking over his shoulders and back, Leofwine felt the might of their minds. Their knowledge plumbed the depths between the worlds—legions of worlds no one knew, faces no one saw, voices no one heard. With blood, spit, silver and jewels amassed over century upon century of war, the Masters of Ýr ruled those who hated the light of the mortal world. And their votaries, generations of men like Leofwine seeking power over brutes and fools, wandered over the realms of Math in the name of the Father of Hel.

  The Masters stirred as the Archwolf spoke. His voice was thin, like milk and rain. “Adept Leofwine Klemet,” he pronounced, sending a ripple of fear through Leofwine’s body. “You are here to answer for misdeeds which you have done in the name of Fenrir, by the power of the Brotherhood. You committed high treason against Dyrregin. You summoned a phooka and turned it loose upon the mortal world. You brought ruin upon the noble House of Nosthrod. And you summoned Fenrisúlfr to escape judgement by the lords thereof.”

  He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Leofwine like worms. The Master of Demons leaned aside and said something in his ear. His attention unwavering, the Archwolf continued, “You have brought shame upon the Order. Explain yourself.”

  Leofwine blinked up at them, his mind clicking through the holes in the Archwolf’s accusations. Using the eyes and ears of the unseen and a veritable map of energy imprints, the Masters had discovered his actions—but their ugly interpretation reeked of Moust.

  Leofwine cleared his throat. “I was not sentenced for high treason, only accused. I helped to expose the accuser’s treachery, and was pardoned. By King Angvald.”

  “Your ‘accuser’?” the Master of Thought sneered, rubbing his crooked nose. “Your lover, you mean.”

  “That is none of your concern,” Leofwine shot back with more emotion than he should have. Halstaeg, you bastard. “I was tried for treason in Dyrregin, not here. It isn’t your business to establish my guilt or innocence.”

  “Will you claim sanctuary in Dyrregin for summoning the phooka as well?” the Master of Demons asked dryly.

  “I did not summon the phooka,” Leofwine said, his gut prickling. The holes in his defense were bottomless. “I was in need. The beast came of its own accord.”

  The Master of Demons regarded him as he might a puddle. “I believe you know, Adept, that no being of that might will enter a circle unless there is a great exchange to be had. You paid the phooka’s price. What was it?”

  Leofwine kept a calm face. Ingifrith. If Leofwine revealed that the phooka had tricked him into trading Ingifrith in the Rule of Exchange, the Masters would ask him where she was, and it wouldn’t matter if he knew or not. They would strip the land like cats routing a mouse out of a grain bin. And when they found her, they would hand her to the phooka, to return it to the Otherworld. Ingifrith would be a secondary casualty for which Leofwine was responsible.

  As he stood there beneath the Wolf Lords’ bristly gazes, a tale came to him, like a warm light. “The phooka loves Arvakr, my horse,” he said, feigning resignation. “I gave the horse in exchange, and the phooka crosses the Veil to protect the beast. If you doubt that, you can ask Moust.”

  “Adept Moust has nothing to do with this,” the Master of Thought said, his voice short. The withered old sorcerer had always liked Moust, for some reason.

  “Moust tried to take Arvakr and the phooka intervened,” Leofwine continued. “Didn’t he mention that? Or that the phooka’s love for Arvakr had saved the life of a King’s Ranger during the war? No, of course not. Better to feed you poisonous tales about my affairs.”

  “Enough,” the Archwolf snapped. “Adept Moust is not involved in your affairs.”

  Leofwine snorted. “Loki’s balls, he isn’t. He has poisoned you because I exposed him suns ago and he’s still bitter. And he didn’t tell you the truth about Arvakr because he wasn’t able to banish the phooka.”

  “Silence!” the Archwolf screeched as the council erupted into outrage. The old sorcerer clutched the arms of his chair, his lips trembling. “You are in no position to cast shadows, Klemet. I suggest you attend to your own.”

  “You were seen starting a fire in Nosthrod Hall,” the Master of Fire said, folding his long fingers together as the others preened their ruffled feathers.

  Just as Leofwine sagged in relief that they had accepted his tale about Arvakr, fresh panic washed over him. If he tried to claim that the phooka had framed him in Nosthrod, he would have to explain why. No warm ligh
t of illumination came to him this time, only the truth. “I did no such thing. It was an accident.”

  The Master of Fire lifted his chin, his eyes shining. “It was a magical fire, a summoning of the element. It left an imprint. No accident would do that.”

  Shit. Leofwine hadn’t considered the imprint. “I summoned the rains to put the fire out,” he said. “Perhaps that’s what you saw.”

  Several of the sorcerers shifted in their seats, sharing glances. The Master of Fire unfolded his hands and rubbed one of his temples. “Do you think I don’t know the difference between rain and fire?” Someone chuckled. “Next you’ll claim the Master of Demons confused Fenrisúlfr with the cloaking spells you used to escape the burning hall.”

  Leofwine lowered his gaze. He had no defense for summoning Fenrisúlfr, not even a desperate one. It was a reckless move, one born of an old wound, grief and a long day. Grimar’s taunt was too easy to believe. He said nothing as the sorcerers conferred among themselves. It didn’t last long.

  “Adept Klemet,” the Master of Demons said. “You have yet to explain your deeds to our satisfaction. And no one summons Loki’s Wolf without blood and a very good reason.” He leaned back in his seat, his jaw set. “You are hiding something.”

  Leofwine cast his gaze to the ceiling with a long exhale, his heart thudding with grief. The soulcleaver clung to the rafters like a spider, moving its bare skull, sniffing, calculating. Blood and a very good reason Leofwine had, all right: his lover Sigbjorn’s blood and Ingifrith’s honor. Fate was cruel, and it loved vengeance.

  “Adept Klemet?” the Master of Sound cut into his thoughts, his voice resonating in multiple dimensions and putting the hackles up on Leofwine’s neck. This Master could lift a boulder with his voice. Break bones. Stop a beating heart.

  Leofwine lifted his chin. “I have no explanation.”

  They stirred, and then leaned among themselves with harsh whispers. Leofwine expected them to adjourn the council while they discussed his fate. Instead, the Archwolf raised his hand. The others fell silent, their gazes cold.

  “Since you have defied the will of this council,” the Archwolf toned in his shivery voice, “I declare your life forfeit. You will be executed on the Midwinter Solstice.”

  Staring in disbelief, Leofwine laughed, despite himself. Of all the places he’d imagined this would go, execution wasn’t it. “You know damned well how fragile your accusations are,” he said finally. “Is this is about your image? Or did that maggot Moust—”

  “Silence.” The Master of Demons leveled his one pale eye on Leofwine, putting a sliver of ice into his soul. “The Archwolf has spoken.”

  “I will give you a choice, Adept Klemet,” the Archwolf said then, his voice measured and calm. The others exchanged glances. Knowing glances. Leofwine drew a deep breath to prepare for a new trick.

  “Tell us how to find your sister,” the sorcerer said. “And you will be freed.”

  And there it was. Ingifrith, again. There was more to this than stripping him down for reckless practices. These men had brought him in here to intimidate him into exposing Ingifrith. The fact that the Archwolf had not asked him where to find her, but how to find her, told Leofwine they weren’t able to track her down. Ingifrith had been hiding since she reached womanhood, and only Leofwine knew why, now. Grimar hadn’t made it up to taunt him. He had violated her and driven her to the Otherworld.

  Suddenly, all became clear. The phooka had gleefully constructed Leofwine’s reunion with Grimar, caring nothing for consequences beyond the man’s death. By the laws that ruled the Veil, a phooka wouldn’t be able to kill a mortal unless a deal had been struck; there had to be a connection involving free will, such as the one Leofwine had made. That was why, in his circle in the snow that night in Dyrregin, the phooka had come to him instead of any legion of kinder entities that would have sufficed. Once Leofwine had summoned Fenrisúlfr and dispatched Grimar to Hel, the phooka left him alone. Beyond protecting Arvakr, the phooka hadn't made so much as a whisper.

  The creature had used Leofwine to avenge Ingifrith. The people of Nosthrod, Sigbjorn and a company of soldiers were just the means to an end. And the phooka had been sheltering Ingifrith, as had every other shadow, specter and sprite Leofwine had sensed in her presence since her innocence had fled.

  More insidiously, somehow the council had caught wind and set Leofwine up with a raft of twisted accusations to force him to explain and verify their suspicions.

  His little sister had the favor of the Otherworld. It protected her—even from Ýr. And that made her a threat to the Wolf Lords’ sovereignty.

  As of that moment, Leofwine decided he would do the same, whatever it cost him.

  “Go fuck yourselves,” he said as the malefic presence of the soulcleaver sidled up to him like a lover.

  ~*~

  Leofwine sat in the dark, on a stone floor strewn with sea grass. The air was cold and damp, and the walls whispered with the tide that caressed the lower reaches of the keep. The rhythm caused him to doze. He had lost track of how long he had been in here. Days, anyway. Someone brought him food but not consistently, as if he only got fed when someone remembered he was here. Aside from the spectral bones of the soulcleaver clacking about in the upper corner above the door, he detected no other presence or entity, not even a rat or a visit by some strategically chosen sorcerer to see if he was ready to reconsider his position. He had been sure Moust would come at some point to gloat, if nothing else.

  With a soulcleaver on him, they hardly needed to put him in a cell. Where would he go? This was obviously an attempt to drive him mad so he would talk. They were unable to find Ingifrith without him, so he was worth something, for now, until they decided to take more drastic measures. The Master of Demons would get that task. Demons did horrible things to prisoners. When was the last time the Masters of Ýr had tortured someone here? First Gate War? Sie War? Last week? Not that Leofwine would ever have known about it. In this place, secrets outnumbered shadows.

  He was missing something. His conclusions in the council room had more holes than a spider web. They wanted Ingifrith badly enough to hunt him with a tracking spell, haul him in here in the shadow of a soulcleaver, concoct a list of distorted accusations, threaten him with execution and starve him in the dark. Why? It would have been ludicrous if it wasn’t so strange.

  Aside from gaining the favor of the unseen, had Ingifrith done something terribly wrong? A better question was, what favor had she gained that she would be able to elude the hunting and tracking spells of someone like Moust?

  Leofwine scratched at his beard. Disgusting thing. His stomach ached with hunger. Absently, he reached into his dirty tunic and pulled forth Agda’s charm. Keep it close. It was coarse and waiting, like a woman’s grudge.

  Another day passed, or what felt like it. Leofwine paced around the small, empty room to move the blood in his veins. He still hadn’t eaten, and he had drunk the last sip of water just earlier. He had learned to conserve it.

  He jumped like a cat at the sound of a key in the door. He stopped and stood, watching the opening on the floor where his food usually appeared. His heart sank into a hollow gut. No food. This was a visit. He stepped back, shielding his eyes as the door creaked open and light flooded in.

  A dark figure entered, cloaked, slender and holding a crystal lamp. The wall of silence that had clutched the room broke as if someone had punched it, then fell into a pool as vast as the night sky. Power. It was as crisp, clear and natural as a river. The figure turned and closed the door. The scent of thyme touched the air. A woman. Glancing up at the corner, she moved a delicate hand in a scythe-shaped arc. The soulcleaver hissed and fled in a clatter.

  Stunned and blinking, Leofwine leveled his gaze on his visitor as she pushed back her hood. A slip of a woman not twenty suns old, she had dark hair and an air of familiarity. Lifting his brow, Leofwine gestured to the empty ceiling where she had just banished one of the nastiest entities of the Dark Realms w
ith a cavalier wave of her hand.

  “That won’t go unnoticed,” he said.

  “You are safe.” She set down the lamp. The faint, airy spirit of the crystal moved around the light, strengthening it. The woman wore a fine white shift and smock trimmed in golden thread, with woven stems of thyme around her throat. “I believe you have something of mine.”

  Leofwine’s mind flooded with questions. He had never seen a woman in these halls, never even heard of such a thing. His mother used to say, Ýr has a shadow shaped like a woman. He had never figured out what she meant by that.

  “Who are you? How did you get a key to this cell and how by Hel did you—” He pointed to the ceiling.

  She stepped forward. “I am Nith, a priestess in the Order of the Hooded One. I know who you are. I know why you’re here, and I assure you, it’s worse than whatever they told you. Please.” She held out her hand.

  Keep it close. A shadow shaped like a woman. A priestess of Othin. Sensing a connection in the web of events surrounding this, Leofwine reached into his tunic for the only thing the Masters hadn’t taken from him. As Nith took it, he said, “It was given to me by a healer and a friend. I shouldn’t like to part with it.”

  She gazed at the charm, her thumb moving over the deep red stone in the center. “Her name?”

  “Agda.”

  She looked up, her eyes full. “She would never have given this to anyone, let alone an Adept of Fenrir. Why did she give it to you?”

  “I was wounded and being tracked by the Brotherhood. She took me in and cared for me. She told me the charm was a gift and that it would bring me the Lady’s favor. I don’t know why she honored me with it.” He fell silent, not wanting to reveal anything about Ingifrith.

  “I understand.” She returned the charm to him, drew her cloak around her body and picked up the lamp. “Agda is my mother. Come. We don’t have much time.”