The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  Leading Arvakr, Leofwine moved closer to the water, stepping over the rocks until he found a small tidal pool. Tiny crabs scurried away from the edge. He reached into a pocket and pulled forth a green stone in the shape of a shell, which he had found in the woods earlier that day. Breathing deeply, he knelt and laid the stone in the clear water. Then he gazed at the surface, projecting his mind into the pool, the surf, the waves, the depths and the horizons beyond.

  “What happened to the Wolf Lords’ ship?” he said softly. He waited for an answer, knowing he might not receive one. Water and the unseen beings therein answered to few. For a time he heard only the gulls, the waves on the shore, Arvakr’s movements and his own breathing.

  Then his mind went dark.

  What is this? growled a voice, grating, hollow and vast as the moving sea. Do you dare, Wolf, to touch me again? A slithery, hateful force twined itself around his throat and chest, creeping down. His heart climbed over itself with fear. He didn’t know this being, but she hated him. It was a woman’s hate, the kind of hate that destroyed realms.

  “I am a Wolf no longer,” Leofwine declared. He struggled deep underwater, entangled in seaweed and gray-green shadows. “I mean only to know what sank the Wolf Lords’ ship. I meant no disrespect.”

  The tentacles tightened around him as she boomed with laughter. Pale as corpses rotting in brine, she appeared, and then vanished, leaving him with an image of her eyes, black as pitch. You mean to know more than that, I think. Who is protecting you?

  Best not lie about this. “The Order of the Hooded One.”

  Liar! she snarled, sending icy knives through his chest. They protect no man, Wolf Lord.

  The water closed on him, burning his eyes and throat. In a brief, cataclysmic crescendo that punched him in the gut like a gauntleted fist, the demon bound him. A sea witch, he knew then, his blood running cold. An immensely powerful being that ruled the sea like a ferocious, unapproachable goddess, she had somehow overcome the Brotherhood’s runes. He had never heard of that happening before, and he couldn’t imagine why she did it, but whatever black thing lay between her and Fenrir, Leofwine was now guilty by association, despite his claims to the contrary.

  “What did the Fenrir Brotherhood do to anger you?” he risked asking. “By Hel, I’m not aware of it.”

  You will answer me, Wolf Lord. What do you seek?

  Leofwine hovered there, his life once more in the clutches of the Otherworld. If he told the witch the truth, that he sought to protect Ingifrith, he would expose his little sister. If he refused to answer, or lied about it, he would forfeit his life. “I seek someone I love,” he answered finally. “The Wolf Lords are hunting her and I need to find her first.”

  At that moment, Leofwine had a terrifying thought. What if Ingifrith had something to do with the Fenrir ship? The council is bending all their might on tracking her down, Nith had said. If Ingifrith fled over the sea to the Fylking’s domain, thinking to find shelter there, the Brotherhood would go after her. She summoned Halogi, High Commander of the Third Sun. Had the demon helped her to cover her tracks? Not likely.

  Ah, the sea witch purred, like water hissing over a rock. Her black eyes bored into him. You seek the Demon Tamer.

  Demon Tamer. “What?”

  She grinned, showing her nasty, sharp teeth. You know.

  And he did. Ingifrith. Always Ingifrith. So it was known she had summoned Halogi, though only the gods knew what she had given the demon in return for protecting her from Moust. “Ingifrith is my sister,” Leofwine admitted. “The priestesses of the Hooded One freed me from the dungeons of Ýr where I awaited execution. In return, I agreed to find Ingifrith in hopes she might free them.” He hesitated, feeling his life thread tighten. “I doubt she can. I seek to warn her, and protect her from the Wolf Lords. She is a threat to them.”

  The sea witch’s mood changed like a sudden squall. She is more than that. Leofwine was engulfed by a cold tidal wave of grief, a mother’s grief, a staggering pain that crushed the blood from his heart. The Brotherhood must have wronged this creature, provoking her to attack their ship. He didn’t know how the sea witch had overcome their runes, however. It wouldn’t have been easy, not even for her.

  “How did they wrong you?”

  The waters around him spun in a bleeding maelstrom. I had a mortal child. They took her for the Hooded One.

  Leofwine recalled what Nith had told him about the fate of female children taken by the Brotherhood to serve the order, especially those who refused. The mortal child of a sea witch, conceived by a mortal man, would not only have power, but be impossible to tame. Foolish, to take such a child, but not even a sea witch would have the power to assail Ýr. “Are you saying she’s there?”

  She growled with pain as if he had struck her. She is dead. They tried to force her. She escaped and threw herself from a tower, into the sea.

  Shocked by the image of that, Leofwine said nothing. Then he asked, “Why this ship? How did you break through the runes?”

  The sea witch made a hissing noise that sounded like a laugh. The treacherous father of my child stole from me an amulet. Demon Tamer took it back—in return for passage over the sea, and protection from the Wolf Lords. Clever, that one. Most clever, indeed.

  An amulet. Imbuing physical objects with power gave Others the ability to influence the physical world in interesting ways—such as sinking a Fenrir ship. Without the amulet, the sea witch was not able to wreak vengeance on the thief or the Wolf Lords. Ingifrith must have somehow retrieved the amulet and returned it to the sea before the Brotherhood caught up with her.

  As that piece of information sank into Leofwine’s consciousness, the waters swirled, the tentacles loosened from his body and light filtered into the darkness. I free you to your fate, the sea witch grated into his mind, and give you fair warning. Blood will flow with your sister’s tears.

  “It already has,” he whispered. It already has.

  Leofwine awoke on the beach in the long shadow of the hedges growing around the rocks. It was cold, the sun was low in the west and he had somehow ended up high above the strand, as if left there by the tide.

  The wreckage of the Fenrir ship was gone.

  Leofwine got to his feet, his body stiff with chills. How much time had passed here while he was in the Otherworld? He scanned the shore. Nothing else had changed. The shanties were still there. He released a short whistle. Higher up, toward the road, Arvakr lifted his head, chewing on a clump of grass.

  Relieved that it was probably still the same day, Leofwine went for his horse. A short time later, he found the road. Urging Arvakr into a furious pace along the narrow way, he headed back to Poes and the ship that awaited him. He had just enough time to make it before she sailed.

  Nith’s cloaking spell was gone. Perhaps the sea witch had destroyed it, in her wrath, but he hadn’t sensed that. More like it had faded away with time or distance. A subtle thing. He’d been right to doubt its efficacy, but in any case, he was now exposed to the Masters of Ýr.

  And his little sister was indirectly responsible for sinking their ship.

  The Welcoming Party

  Rain swept in gray sheets across the sea as the Elsa sailed along the western shores of Dyrregin. On the cliffs, the city of Merhafr, the ruling seat of Dyrregin, stood pale in the mist. Leofwine paced the deck beneath the forecastle in a dead man’s cloak, his heart heavy. He missed Ingifrith, and Sigbjorn; he missed being a respectable member of the Fenrir Brotherhood; he missed the comforts of ignorance. By Hel, he even missed the phooka.

  He wanted a good meal and some sleep. With equal longing, he did not want to ask Ingifrith to summon a demon, High Commander of the Third Sun no less, on behalf of the Order of the Hooded One. The priestesses had saved Leofwine’s life, and he owed them. But getting his little sister involved in their problems was something else.

  Assuming he could find her. Everyone but Leofwine seemed to believe that was possible.

  After the co
llapse of Nith’s protection cloak, Leofwine had fully expected to run into trouble on his return to Poes, while setting sail, or out at sea. By now, Ýr would have rallied to find him. He also feared Fenrir had found out the priestesses had helped him escape and had punished them. He still couldn’t bring himself to trust Nith’s blithe confidence in the balance of power between the Order of the Hooded One and the Masters of Ýr.

  But he had arrived here in peace, and as the small ship entered the mouth of the harbor, and his heart began to pound for no natural reason, Leofwine discovered why.

  Three figures cloaked in black stood on the wharf directly in the Elsa’s bearing. Leofwine didn’t need to peer or wonder; he knew they were Fenrir by the way they held themselves, waiting, inwardly seething, in command of the situation. Someone in Poes must have discovered he was chartered on the Elsa. One pigeon’s flight here would tell these men what to do. Evidently, after the sea witch had wreaked vengeance on them, the Brotherhood was too afraid to unfurl their sails in pursuit. It might even mean they feared Leofwine had a connection to the same powers.

  The comforting thought died ruthlessly as the Elsa drifted through the harbor. Leofwine considered asking the captain to dock elsewhere, even to flee. But these sailors had made room for him and Arvakr on short notice, and he couldn’t bring himself to involve them further in his ugly affairs.

  He went down into the hold. The stern had been equipped with ten stalls to accommodate animals, now full of horses, goats, and a cow. Arvakr stood farthest aft, as Leofwine had requested. Soothing the horse, he reached into a pocket and pulled forth the charm Agda had given him. Keep it close. It will protect you.

  Unless he could find a friend here, preferably one who held influence in high places, what he was about to do would dash his plans of finding Ingifrith. He grasped the horse’s bridle and recalled the layout of Merhafr. He had to get into the King’s Citadel.

  He and the horse shifted as the ship swung around to square the stern to the wharf. Above, men stomped about, shouting to each other. Someone came into the hold. Leofwine lifted his head over the horse’s withers as the captain approached, his boots thudding. A sturdy man, he had long, tangled locks of mousy brown hair, sideburns that covered half his face and bags under his eyes.

  “Master Klemet,” the captain greeted him. His voice was deep and resonant. A good man, by all accounts.

  “Captain Orso,” Leofwine returned with a nod.

  “Ready, I take it?”

  Leofwine glanced at the ramp leading to a wide door above. He could only hope the sorcerers kept their distance long enough for him to get Arvakr up and out.

  Orso pursed his lips. “None of my business, but are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Leofwine put his arm under Arvakr’s neck. “The most desperate maneuver in the history of idiots, I fear.” He gestured in the general direction of the city. “I don’t suppose you noticed the three men in black awaiting us?”

  “That, I did. Your welcoming party?”

  “Fenrir sorcerers.”

  The captain rumbled a laugh, his gaze moving to Leofwine’s hand clutching the bridle. “And you’re planning to ride ’em down.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well,” the sailor said thoughtfully, “how you got on their bad side I shouldn’t wonder. But I know a thing or two.”

  “Meaning?”

  Orso stepped forward, rolling up his sleeve. High on his forearm was a tattoo, a symbol woven around two swords with a sun shining in the center. Leofwine had seen it before. “That’s a military brotherhood, is it not?”

  “Blades of Light. A company in the Skolvarin Guard. We protected the southern border from the Catskolls.” He pushed down his sleeve. “It was oh, thirteen suns past, now.”

  Leofwine nodded. “What does that have to do with the Fenrir Brotherhood?”

  A grin. “Well, I don’t take to anyone troubling my passengers. I’ll handle it.”

  Leofwine coughed on a laugh. “That’s a bad idea, Orso. You don’t want to tangle with them.”

  The captain spat. “This isn’t Fjorgin. I don’t fear them. They much as break wind in this town and they’ll be thrown out on their arses.”

  Leofwine said nothing. That sentiment would apply to him, too.

  “You just wait here,” Orso said, pointing aft. “When that opens, you ride out like the king h’self. We’ll cover you.” He turned and strode quickly to the companionway before Leofwine could protest.

  He gazed into the dark. Warriors. Mad to a man. The animals began to snort and low as Leofwine drew out Arvakr. If he was lucky, the sorcerers on the wharf didn’t know about the phooka’s affection for Arvakr. An Otherworldly distraction, along with the good captain’s help, might be enough to enable his escape.

  His heart was in his throat by the time the door creaked open and slammed against the hull. Rain poured in. One of the crew appeared for a moment, disappeared, and then reappeared at the top of the ramp. He gestured, saying nothing.

  Like the king himself. Leofwine mounted, pulled his hood down over his face and leaned forward, pressing his horse up the ramp. As he emerged into the rain, Orso’s voice rang out across the deck. The first mate and another stood on either side of him, their hands on the hilts of their blades. There were two black-cloaked men there now; the third was not in sight. The sorcerer to whom Orso spoke, none too kindly, held up a piece of linen struck with a dark green seal.

  Leofwine, having lived in this city and served royals, knew exactly what it was.

  With a sharp word, he dug his heels into Arvakr’s flanks. The beast lunged forward, hooves striking the wharf. The men swung their heads around as he rushed by.

  “Halt!” One of them commanded. “In the name of the king!”

  Leofwine kept riding. Whether these men had already been here or had braved the sea ahead of him, they would be Adepts at the very least, they would know their business and they would be good liars. If they had procured an order to extradite him, the King’s Citadel would be off limits. He wove through the streets, heading for the center of the city. Defying an order from the king would get the Dyrregin Guard after him. He could find himself trapped in a gaol at the mercy of the Fenrir Brotherhood, once his brothers, now his foes.

  And that third sorcerer would be around somewhere. Leofwine doubted he had stepped away for a piss.

  As he neared the area close to the citadel, Leofwine slowed his pace, dismounted and did his best to merge with the crowd hurrying about in the street to avoid the rain. He moved on until he reached a narrow way between a brewery and a graveyard. Past it, he came to a stable. Scanning the street to make sure he was unobserved, he entered the barn.

  A short time later, after paying the stable master a pretty sum to keep Arvakr not only well cared for but hidden, Leofwine emerged, hugging the walls until he reached the graveyard. He slipped over a stone wall and headed into the murky shadows of old trees, stones, tombs and hedges, his thoughts filled with plots and plans. The ground was soft beneath his feet, and the air smelled like moss and fresh dirt. Through the trees, the dull gray of a street appeared.

  A chill crept down his spine like a bony hand. He swung around.

  A dark figure floated in the fog between the rain-blackened yew trees. The third sorcerer. Not surprised, Leofwine clenched a fist and mouthed a banishing command that would, at the least, make the man uncomfortable. Leofwine realized his mistake as he looked closer at the figure, hovering there, unaffected. His face, just visible beneath his hood, was deeply lined, pockmarked and framed by stringy gray hair.

  The Master of Curses. Leofwine remembered those classes well. For two suns, his dreams churned with sickness and doom. The story whispered between nervous apprentices said that the Master had received those pockmarks from a curse, and that had driven the sorcerer to his bitter calling.

  What was he doing in Merhafr?

  The sorcerer’s teeth flashed into an ugly smile. Adept Klemet, he purred into L
eofwine’s mind. Fool. Do you believe you can elude us? He lifted his hand, thin and pasty, like a mushroom. His fingers bent into impossible angles, as if there were no bones in his flesh. Then he vanished.

  Leofwine stepped back as something hit him in the chest. It felt like a glob of mud. Looking down, he moved his hands over his person. Nothing. A shudder rippled through his flesh. He pulled out Agda’s charm and touched the woven vines and the center stone. Keep it close. It will protect you. He returned the charm to his pocket.

  Taking a deep breath of the damp air, he moved through the trees and stepped out into the street. Rain dripped from the edge of his hood as he walked, calm but wary, his step light. Every person he saw in the gloom seemed to be wearing a black cloak.

  Finally, he reached the Wayward Duck Inn, an odd name for an outstanding establishment, if he remembered it right. A tickle crept down the back of his throat, causing him to cough. He was tempted to go inside the inn and get a drink, maybe even a meal and a room for the night. But he kept going, hearing the Master’s snake hiss in his mind.

  Fool.

  He turned into an alley that ran alongside the inn. At the end was a wall with a door in it. Relieved to find it open, Leofwine slipped through. Steep steps descended into the dark, lit faintly by a distant torch. The light wavered and blurred. The steps grew tall and wide, and the corridor below stretched out like a breath. The darkness began to swirl, ceiling and steps and walls spinning slowly to his own heartbeat. The torchlight dimmed.

  Fool.

  Leofwine clutched at the stones on either side of the stairwell, his feet cold and his knees quaking as the dizziness passed. He took one shaky step down, then another. When he reached the corridor at the bottom, his throat clenched into a cough. The sound was muffled in the dank space. Damp, cold air, he thought. Not enough sleep. He considered returning to the Wayward Duck, getting a room and going to bed.