The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

He held his breath and gritted his teeth as Prederi got under his arms and pulled him to his feet. As Othin swayed, the blond ranger drew something from his cloak and pressed it onto the wound in his side. His face grim, he picked up Othin’s sword, wiped it on the dead man’s clothes and handed it to him.

  Hand pressed against his waist, Othin limped toward the kitchen. Prederi draped his cloak over his shoulders and moved past, taking point as they reached the door. Othin assumed Rande wasn’t upstairs, and Prederi didn’t mention it, which meant she was in the cellar. The clattering specter in Othin’s mind did little to quell his suspicions.

  Prederi didn’t bother with subtlety. He slammed the door open and went in, ready to gut anything that moved. The kitchen was empty, and it was a mess, as if the men staying here had come in and ransacked the place for whatever food they could find. Dirty pots, pans and plates lay about the room in piles; husks, rinds and empty linen sacks lay tossed about on the surfaces of cutting boards; and the floor was stacked with crates and empty wine bottles. A bucket of brown, oily water sat in the middle of the floor. A puddle surrounded it.

  Gray light hung in a window in the back door. Othin went there and looked out. The man who had fled from the common room lay unmoving in the grass with an arrow in his chest. Another lay nearby that Othin didn’t recognize. Heige had been busy.

  Prederi looked around with a furrowed brow. “Are you sure about this?” he said in a low voice. “I never knew this place had a cellar.”

  Othin lifted his chin toward a low, plain door by a cupboard. He moved aside, out of view, as Prederi cracked it without a sound.

  A woman’s voice floated up from below. “Come in boys. I know you’re up there.” Rande. The bony wraith clambered around the door. Othin wondered if she felt it, too. Her snotty, triumphant tone could have meant she didn’t—or that she did. A more alarming thought by far.

  Prederi glanced over his shoulder. “Did you sense her down there?”

  “No, I was a bit distracted. I did notice a floor grate.”

  “Bren!” Prederi called through the door.

  “Oh, he’s here,” Rande returned, then sighed. “He’s seen better days.”

  Prederi’s jaw flexed. “By Hel I’m going to—”

  “Be careful,” Othin said. “I’m sensing something bad down there.”

  Not one to fear anything he couldn’t see, the blond ranger slammed the door open and went down, sword leading the way. As he followed, Othin’s stomach turned. The rickety steps creaked under their boots. His head was splitting, his neck felt like someone had struck it with a hammer and his bleeding side hurt clear up and down his body. The faint, wavering light of a candle lit the center of the room. The air smelled like dirt, sour liquor and urine.

  Bren sat propped up in a chair, his head hanging down. Attached, Othin noted in relief, until he realized his friend was either unconscious or dead. Dirt caked his face and his hair. One of his arms, streaked with blood, hung at an odd angle by his side. His breeches were torn in long, even rows, the flesh beneath caked with blood, as if some clawed beast had attacked him. Othin let his unfocused gaze move over the shadows beyond the light. He saw nothing.

  Rande, looking oddly radiant despite having been roughed up to look like a plaything of wicked men, stood behind Bren. She put her hands on his shoulders like a hunter proudly displaying a trophy. Prederi started forward with a growl in his throat—then stopped in his tracks as Rande pulled a knife, yanked back Bren’s head by his hair and held the blade to his throat.

  “Tsk,” she pouted.

  Bristling like a hungry wolf, Othin said, “What’s this about?”

  “Sheriff Thorn wants to make a deal,” she replied, her long fingers twined in Bren’s hair.

  “Why isn’t the bastard here then?” Prederi said.

  Ignoring him, she continued, “You’re to withdraw the King’s Rangers from Ylgr. The North Coastal Road will stay neutral, but if any ranger sets foot in this land for any reason, he’ll be sacrificed without mercy.”

  “Sacrificed to what?” Othin asked, thinking her use of the term strange.

  The cold smile that touched her mouth was all the answer he needed. Somehow, the Sheriff of Ylgr had teamed up with a sorcerer of the Fenrir Brotherhood and convinced him that the rangers had to go. Then they’d infiltrated the rangers with an operative. For a split second, fear for Alaric shot through his heart. Unsuspected, Rande could easily have killed him before leaving her post. Without his ravens, Othin would not know the truth until he returned to the station.

  “And Bren?” he asked, gazing at the seer, searching for some sign of life.

  “If he’s dead,” Prederi said in a quiet voice that raised the hair on Othin’s neck, “Ylgr will burn.”

  She cracked a pretty smile. “So full of shit and bluster you are, Prederi.” She gestured. “Check him, if you like.”

  The ranger stepped forward, leaned down and pressed two fingers onto the underside of Bren’s wrist. Rande kept the knife at Bren’s throat. After some moments, Prederi withdrew with a nod.

  Rande’s eyes glittered in the candlelight as she leveled her gaze on Othin. “Now you will swear, by the Old Gods, to forsake this land.”

  Prederi released a tired breath, no doubt thinking how little the Old Gods cared for the life of a ranger. But Othin had another idea, a desperate one seeded by war, loss, grief and a belief in the duplicitous nature of his namesake god. He drew his longknife from his belt, held up his other hand and drew the blade over his palm. He raised his fist aloft, blood dripping onto the floor. As he spoke, chills swept over his body like a lapping tide.

  “In exchange for Bren’s life, I swear, by the Allfather whose name I bear, to withdraw the King’s Rangers from Ylgr. Under pain of death.”

  He lowered his hand and jammed the knife back into its sheath. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

  Rande let Bren’s head loll to the side, flipped her knife and sheathed it. “I’m in service to the Dark Lords,” she informed them as she sauntered toward the stairs. “Try to stop me and you’ll be in violation of your vow. That’ll allow me to curse you.”

  As she went by, Prederi muttered something so crude it strained even his standards. Othin went to Bren, knelt and inspected him. “His arm is broken. Let’s get him upstairs.”

  The kitchen was awash with morning light. Othin cleared off the butcher’s table in the center of the room, sending everything on it crashing to the floor. After Prederi laid Bren down, Othin found a crate and smashed it apart, pulling free a couple of slats. Prederi stomped around and found a pile of rags. He tore one into strips.

  “You’re letting her go?” he said.

  “No. Help me with this.” Othin pulled his knife and used it to cut away the tunic on Bren’s arm. The bone had fractured through and protruded from his skin. “Let’s see if we can bring him around.” He gestured to a barrel in the corner. “I think it has water in it.”

  Prederi crossed the room and returned with a filled bottle. After a rough splash and some gentle words, Bren awoke with a start. They held him down. “Easy, laddie,” Othin said. “It’s us.” Bren relaxed, breathing heavily. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Othin held the bottle to his lips and helped him to drink. “We have to set this.” Bren closed his eyes and nodded. He made little complaint as they set the bone and put a splint on it.

  “Othin,” he breathed. “We have a problem.”

  “We have a lot of those,” Prederi said with a grin.

  Othin looked up as something passed by the window outside. Heige appeared in the doorway. “What’s Rande doing out—” He stopped when he saw Bren, and then came to his side. “Thank the gods,” he breathed.

  “Where is Rande?” Othin asked casually, tying off the bottom of the splint.

  Heige cocked his thumb toward the door. “Out on the moor, heading east.”

  Othin and Prederi locked gazes. “The gods speak,” Othin said. He turned to Heige and gestured to his b
ow. “Is she in range?”

  The ranger wheezed a laugh. “On a good day.” As he realized Othin wasn’t kidding, he grew serious. “Are you—”

  “Do it. I’ll explain later.”

  Heige nodded, touched Bren’s shoulder briefly and hurried out the door, bringing his bow around and plucking an arrow from his quiver.

  “You’re not worried about the curse?” Prederi said.

  “Whatever she said on her knees to Fenrir, she vowed to serve the King’s Rangers. We’ll see.”

  “What curse?” Bren whispered.

  “Some sodding horseshit. Come. Let’s get you up. Can you ride?”

  “I’ll get the horses,” Prederi said.

  Bren had turned ghastly pale. “If I try to leave here—I will die.”

  The two rangers stared at him. Othin looked him over. “Are you hurt elsewhere?”

  Bren shook his head. “They put something on me. He gestured to the wounds on his thigh. “A terrible thing, a demon. It holds me to them. If I try to escape, it’ll tear me to pieces.”

  Othin’s blood ran cold as he remembered the wraith. “Aye, I saw it. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. When we came downstairs earlier, it vanished. I thought it was gone.”

  Bren coughed. “It’s not gone.”

  Othin swung around and limped over the floor, his fists clenched. “That utter Hel-spawned bitch. She tricked us.”

  His face set, Prederi turned and strode out the door.

  “Bren, we can’t just leave you here,” Othin said. “Can you banish it?”

  “No! Out of my waters. I’m not a sorcerer. I don’t even know what it is.” He swung his legs over the edge of the table. Then his eyes widened as he gazed past Othin toward the door.

  Othin turned as something ghostly fled past the wall. “What can I—”

  “Nothing,” Bren whispered, his blue eyes wild. “I’m a dead man.” He backed up, clutching his broken arm. “Unless—you said Rande tricked you. What did you mean?”

  “I swore on the gods to withdraw the rangers from Ylgr, in return for your life.” He held out his hand, showing the cut on his palm. “I spilled blood. I believe Rande knew about this thing on you, however.”

  “Aye, she did.” A mad laugh. “It’s an unequal exchange.”

  Before Othin could stop him, he strode for the door.

  Othin shouted his name, but it was too late. Bren fell to his knees as the tumbling, clacking blur of the demon swept down. Bren’s eyes touched Othin once more. “You have to ask them.” His voice came from far away—and then he screamed. The sound tore through Othin’s body and mind like teeth, a sound he’d never heard a man make, never imagined a man making. In a blur of limbs, bones and claws, the wraith enveloped his friend.

  “No!” Othin stumbled and fell against the table. Then he got to his knees and dove. As he hit the writhing vortex, he was thrown back across the floor, his body crashing through the kitchen mess. He clutched his side and doubled up as his wound opened, spilling blood into his hands.

  His mind raced with terror. Unequal exchange. Rande had tricked him into agreeing to the sheriff’s demands in exchange for a man’s life that was already forfeit. Othin clutched the charm at his throat, a tiny knit crow that Millie had made him. He saw his lover’s face as she had tied it around his neck with a smile and said, For my trickster.

  You have to ask them.

  The Trickster. “Allfather,” Othin breathed, his throat closing up with grief. “I gave my blood for this warrior’s life. Do not take him to your fair hall! Avenge this deed.”

  Above the wailing hiss of Bren’s struggle with the demon, the wind rose outside, swelling to a crescendo that shook the inn. The door burst open and slammed against the frame with a crack. Othin covered his head as the window blew from its casing and glass shattered. The debris on the floor shook, tumbled and flew against the far wall. As the wind howled, it seemed to speak, although Othin couldn’t make out the words.

  Something shrieked. Bones snapped and the wind blew them away like ashes.

  Silence fell.

  Othin pushed himself up. Holding his side, he crept to where Bren lay. He had expected to see his friend shredded to rags, but he appeared intact. Still fearing the worst, Othin rolled him over. There was a new wound on his face, a scythe-shaped claw mark, oozing blood. Othin pressed his fingers high upon the ranger’s neck, feeling the thrum of life. “Bren,” he breathed, relieved nearly to tears for the second time that day. “I’d really like to stop doing this.”

  “So would I,” Bren grated, his eyes fluttering open.

  “Is it gone? The thing that attacked you?”

  Bren paused, staring at nothing. “Aye. What did you do?”

  “The Trickster doesn’t like being tricked. How is it you’ve not been torn apart? I saw it, fighting you.”

  Bren moved a hand up to the wound on his face. “This was a warning. I had no intention of leaving. I had to force the demon’s hand, to get rid of it.”

  Othin coughed on a laugh. “That was a mighty big chance you took.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You had a choice when you defied my orders, snuck out of the station and crossed the border alone.”

  Bren bowed his head with a nod. “I will answer for that, and ask your forgiveness. I had no idea they’d involved a Fenrir sorcerer. Rande must have told them I was coming.” He looked up, his face bruised and haggard as an unspoken thought weighed heavily there, the same thought that had occurred to Othin earlier.

  Alaric.

  They both turned with a start as something moved by the door. Prederi and Heige came in, their expressions stunned as they took in the room. Heige muttered something about gods. Prederi crunched over the glass. “We’ve got trouble,” he said. “What happened here?”

  Othin got up. “I’ll explain later. What trouble? Rande?”

  “She’s in Hel,” Heige said over his shoulder. He paced by the door, glancing out repeatedly. “We have to go or we’ll be joining her.”

  Shortly thereafter, their wounds cleaned and dressed with what they could manage in a hurry, the rangers gathered outside. Othin was so weak with pain he could hardly mount Loge. Bren rode with Prederi so the blond ranger could hold onto him. Heige rode ahead as they set out and rounded the inn to the south, heading for the road.

  Othin rode up alongside Prederi and Bren. The red-haired ranger reached out and clasped his arm, his eyes shining as if he hadn’t expected to survive the chance he took. Othin nodded, his throat tight. He would have lost his friend but for a tactical oversight and a vengeful god.

  A rumble sounded in the distance. His head light, Othin turned to look behind him. A large company rode hard over the moor, cloaks flying on the wind, faces grim.

  “Ride for your lives!” he cried as the rangers hit the road with the fury of Hel behind them.

  The Sea Witch

  It was a hot afternoon when Ingifrith finally reached the wide, well-traveled path that went down to the port city of Antesh. She had taken the long route from Tower Sie, avoiding roads and staying in the forests, where she found food and shelter, both from the elements and from those who might be hunting her.

  Wind rippled the grass, trees and fields of hops and flax. Birdsong mingled with the strident calls of gulls flying in great white swaths along the shore. Dwellings, inns, farms and villages dotted the hills plunging into the sea. Ingifrith had seen the ocean once, as a girl, on a journey with her father to Poes. The vast expanse of moving water thrilled her now as it had then, though now her excitement was mixed with fear of an uncertain future.

  Fortunately, the journey to Dyrregin was not far—a day or two depending on the ship and the winds. The wardens crossed the Njorth Sea in small crafts. However she managed it, her passage wouldn’t be free. She had heard on the road that sailors had raised the prices for the high season. Her small amount of coin wouldn’t pay for it. She would have to sell the flute. But she had resigned herself to
that.

  Until now, she had managed to survive on what she could find in the forests. She slept in trees, deep fern patches and empty barns. She spoke to no one about who she was or what she planned to do. She had offered her skills to a farmer with a sick goat, and to a woodsman whose child had gone astray on a hunt. Tender herbs by the riverside and the help of a dryad who saw everything that moved in the forest had gained her a meal and a bed on those two nights. Risky, but it eased her ever-growing sense of isolation.

  Since Halogi had left her, Ingifrith slept uneasily. She lingered in places where the Veil was thin and took extra time to find gifts for her unseen friends: pretty stones, an owl feather, a clump of wild basil or some raspberries. She had even found the bones of a large bird with the skull intact, which she gave to the phooka. All went quietly enough, and she had come to believe that the Fenrir sorcerers had gone toward Earticael to hunt for her.

  Then something changed. She began to notice different kinds of beings, ones that raised a chill on her flesh or vanished in the corner of her eye, rare and dangerous creatures like elves, goblins and other things she didn’t know. At first, she thought something about the land attracted them, but they stayed near even when she passed close to populated areas.

  Two days ago, in a tiny village called Siskin, an old woman had come running out of her cottage wielding a rowan branch and yelling at Ingifrith to return to the haunted wood from whence she came. It was the first time in days anyone had seen through the illusions that cloaked Ingifrith’s presence, causing her to wonder if the woman had seen something that wasn’t her.

  In the short patches of time she was able to sleep, Ingifrith dreamed. She saw companies of tall, strong warriors, men and women with pale skin, pointed ears, bewitching eyes and beautiful voices. They weren’t dressed in shining robes or the accoutrements of pleasure, but in armor, mail, shiny embossed breastplates, helmets and magnificent weapons. They gathered around her as if to stand guard. She awoke knowing they were elves, but what that aloof and elusive race wanted from her was a mystery.

  Another night, she dreamed of goblins, scores of them, their squat legs bowed, noses and ears sharp and long underneath a mop of scraggly hair. They were clad in vines, moss and bark, and carried swords, knives and cudgels. They bowed to the phooka and talked together in their guttural tongue, some of them in verse, others growling curses. Ingifrith had awoken with a shaggy black horse standing over her, its red eyes glowing. It vanished as she saw it.