The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  Clearing his raspy throat with a growl, he started walking, the tunnel network unfolding in his mind. He headed for the Rangers’ Square, a comfortable garrison in which the rangers lived between patrols. He hadn’t wanted to come down here, but it would get him to the right people without having to approach the citadel. Having served as seneschal to Lord Halstaeg, the rangers’ erstwhile commander, Leofwine would be recognized. But there was also a well-known animosity between the King’s Rangers and the Dyrregin Guard. If the Guard had been deployed to find him, the rangers might hide him from them.

  Or, they might put him out into the street. Some of the rangers had disliked him, thinking him a spy. Perceptive bunch. He was a spy, of course, but no one could prove that, and aside from bedding Halstaeg under his wife’s nose, Leofwine had never given the rangers a concrete reason to do anything but speculate.

  Friends in high places. If Othin of Cae Forres, now Captain of the North Branch, was here, Leofwine would be in luck. A wistful thought. Othin, being the man he was, would spend as little time here as possible. That left Diderik of Lisefin, High Constable of the King’s Rangers, who had replaced Halstaeg after the king stripped his titles for gross misconduct. While Leofwine and Diderik had a stormy history to say the least, they were on the same side, and parted after the war on good terms.

  A rat scurried across his path. Talking quietly, two men loomed in the shadows beyond the torchlight, then came into view, their woad blue cloaks swirling at their feet. Rangers. They greeted him as they passed. As Leofwine returned their greeting, he coughed again.

  He moved like the rat through the passages, familiar with every turn, door and intersection, having run these tunnels often on his errands. His throat began to bother him with more insistence. It hurt, and his chest tightened with each breath. He continued to imagine that his battle with the phooka and his escape from Fjorgin had finally caught up with him. But imagination made a pretty drape.

  Fool.

  The truth was less pretty. Had the Master of Curses caused this, a common illness, the sort of thing children, lovers and overworked shopkeepers fell afoul of? Hedge witchery. It was the sort of curse a bitter old woman would spin in revenge for malicious gossip. People came to his mother for curses like this, so petty and spiteful that she would refuse to cast them. Perhaps that was all the Master could risk doing, in this realm. Or perhaps he was finally getting old, the miserable bastard.

  Do you believe you can elude us?

  Weakening and yet refusing to accept his condition as anything other than stress and a long journey, Leofwine reached the Rangers’ Square. His nerves taut, he threaded through the halls, passing rooms, a bath and a training hall. Anyone he ran into here would question him. But it was his best chance of finding someone he could trust.

  He entered a large room with a low ceiling and blackened beams. Worn rugs covered the floor beneath tables, benches, weapons racks and a row of kegs. A brightly burning cresset hung from the ceiling, and a fire struggled in the hearth. Two men stood there, talking quietly. Another sat alone with a mug in his hand.

  His steps suddenly heavy, Leofwine leaned on the corner of a table. His vision swam. His head felt as if an iron spike had been driven into it.

  “May we help you?” one of the rangers by the fire inquired. Another man entered through a door on the far side of the hall. He was tall and grim. Dark hair hung in damp strands on his shoulders.

  Something laughed near Leofwine’s face, high pitched and grating like a dull saw. It wasn’t a man. It wasn’t human.

  “Sir?” repeated the first man. He stepped away from the fire and approached, his expression drawn with concern.

  “Master Klemet!” called the man who had just entered. “Is that you?”

  Leofwine turned his head. A face loomed before him, dark as coal, with red eyes. It grinned with rows of razor sharp, jagged teeth. He cried out and staggered back, coughing, waving a hand before his face. The rangers closed in on him like a harsh, annoying light.

  “Leofwine? Are you unwell?”

  The words made no sense. Something skittered over the sorcerer’s shoulders, causing his hair to stand on end. Groping fingers dug into the back of his neck, moved down his spine and closed around his knees. They were ice cold and strong as steel. His breath heaved in his chest. Leofwine buckled, blood pounding in his head, a steady, driving hum.

  Fool.

  Mortals, touching him. Their hands burned like fire. Leofwine screamed, clutching his face, his arms. He bent over and erupted into ferocious paroxysms of coughing. He vomited up something blackish green and slimy. It splattered onto the floor and crawled away like a slug.

  Shouting. Questions in a language he didn’t understand.

  No old woman’s spell, this. Leofwine searched his crumbling mind for scraps of curses, counter curses, blessings, banishing commands. Gibberish. The Master’s mushroom hand bent into an impossible word.

  Do you believe you can elude us?

  Floundering in a sea of blood, spit and runes, Leofwine groped in his pocket and closed his hand over Agda’s charm, crushing it. Keep it close. A foolish, simple thing, now wilted and dead.

  Hedge witchery.

  It will protect you. He began to fall. “Help,” he choked, his throat closing up with a gag. Icy wind howled in his ears. “Othin! Help me—” He fell into darkness, now silent as a tomb.

  Fool.

  And kept falling.

  In the Company of Rangers

  A fortnight had passed since Ingifrith arrived in Merhafr at the mercy of the Catskoll pirates she had tricked for passage. Prederi, deeply grateful for her help in freeing his love and their child to the next world, had helped her in turn by bringing her to his mother’s house on the outskirts of the city southwest of the river. An old place surrounded by a tangle of new woods, overgrown hedges, apple trees and blackberry thickets, the cottage was tucked neatly out of sight but for a distant view of Tower Sor, perched upon the cliffs like a raptor.

  Giselt, Prederi’s mother, was tall, with graying reddish hair she kept tied in a knot on the nape of her neck. Kind and sad with the passing of suns and loved ones, she was grateful to tears for what Ingifrith had done for her son, and happy to give Ingifrith a bed in the house in exchange for work and her knowledge of hedge witchery. Not that the woman lacked the company of the Otherworld. The place was teaming with not only plants, trees, birds and wildlife, but also the spirits of the natural world which, though Giselt wasn’t aware of it, had gathered around her in response to heartbreak.

  One of these, an imp the size of a cat, with yellow eyes, long hair that stood out from its head like the bristles of a broom, large genitals and a laugh like a little girl, lived in the kitchen pantry. Ingifrith called it Bristle. Once it discovered she could see, the little monster began following her around, something she tolerated in return for a promise that he would stop vandalizing Giselt’s kitchen.

  Ingifrith was grateful for her shelter here, and found comfort in doing what she could to help. Prederi and sometimes Bren visited every few days. In a barn that Prederi often complained he’d never finish repairing, Giselt kept an old horse called Trisker, a dark mare with a surly disposition. Prederi, perhaps to give the horse something to do, had taken it upon himself to teach Ingifrith to ride. After a good ten days, Trisker finally tolerated being groomed without Prederi being present—though Ingifrith wasn’t presumptuous enough to arrive without a treat from the garden.

  She had a suspicion that Trisker’s unfriendly temperament had more to do with Bristle than anything. The horse was terrified of the imp, prompting Ingifrith to add staying away from the barn to her and Bristle’s agreement.

  The rangers often invited Ingifrith to go into town or out into the woods, but she always declined, citing this or that she had to do. She hadn’t told the men about her trouble with the Fenrir Brotherhood. She hid in the sanctuary of the cottage, surrounded by shades and whispers, knowing the sorcerers would find her sooner or la
ter. They would know she had arrived on these shores and, increasingly, she felt pressured to follow Halogi’s advice and get on the road to Faersc. But she still didn’t know how she would accomplish that.

  If her fear of black cloaks and ravens wasn’t enough, Tower Sor was proving just as unsettling. It loomed afar through the window in the upstairs room where she slept and was clearly visible from the garden. She saw its shadow in her dreams. Not that she held any fascination for the gatetowers—if anything, she had felt heavy upon arriving here, realizing she was in the tower’s sights like a field mouse. No, it was worse than that. Worse and strange enough that, in the course of her time here, she never missed a chance to look that way.

  Giselt called the tower the Guardian of the Goat, a weird colloquialism that referred to the standard of Merhafr’s kings, a goat with long, spiraling horns and a fish tail. It was a mystery to Ingifrith what the locals here thought Tower Sor was protecting them from. Invasion? Not likely. Everyone knew the Fylking served themselves and didn’t generally get involved in mortal affairs.

  Ingifrith had begun to wonder about that.

  One evening, she walked by the garden carrying an empty water bucket. It was clear, with gold and peach clouds drifting by, and a warm breeze blowing from the south. Bristle bounded ahead of her on all fours, swift and devious as a weasel. Ingifrith moved past the rows of beets, green beans and tomatoes, her gaze creeping toward the sea and the cliffs on which the tower stood.

  Being Fjorginan, and not having lived close to the only gatetower there, Ingifrith never considered that the Fylking living in this dimension would bring what they needed from their homeworld. Like horses. Beautiful, shining, Otherworldly horses with coats of silver, white, black and gray. Nor had she thought of how many of the immortal warlords might be here. Leofwine had once told her there were five warriors in each tower, and around that many with each of the wardens. Altogether, that made for at least a hundred, not to mention those who lived in Faersc. From what she understood, the Fylking didn’t go out of their way to be seen, even by seers, and no one knew where they lived or what they did in the higher dimensions.

  And yet, on the plain beneath the tower, a large company of warriors, shield maidens and their horses had been assembling for the last three days, sparkling and bristling with weapons, armor and all the trappings of war. Ingifrith stopped and studied the spectral host spread out over the plain in neat patterns. There were more than there were yesterday.

  Perhaps this sort of thing happened sometimes. So she comforted herself, brushing aside the dreams she’d had not long ago in Fjorgin, visions of elves and goblins gathering armies, images that moved in and out of her sleep like a warning. She didn’t believe in coincidence, but that didn’t mean the two things were related. She continued walking.

  The well near the cottage had been overtaken by wild rose bushes. Thorns clutched at her clothes as she stepped up to the edge of the mossy stones plunging into darkness. Bristle perched on the edge, glancing around. He looked nervous.

  “What’s bothering you?” Ingifrith asked, not expecting an answer. The imp spoke in an eerie, guttural language she didn’t understand. She hooked the bucket onto the rope and lowered it. As it splashed, she heard voices.

  Bristle’s hair stood on end—then the creature vanished.

  Two men came into view between the crooked trunks of apple trees. They were clad in plain yet functional clothes, like hired blades: dark leggings and boots, coarse linen tunics and scarves, leather hauberks and straps and buckles holding weapons. Their cloaks, gray and green, swept over the weeds between the trees. Smiling with excitement, Ingifrith drew up the bucket full of water, unhooked it and hurried down the overgrown path to greet them. It had been several days since they last came.

  “Where is that little bastard?” Bren said, glancing around, holding his broken arm close while beating the brush with his other hand. “I can smell him.”

  Prederi opened his arms. Ingifrith set the bucket down, ran to him and hugged him. He smelled like sweaty leather and horses. As he let her down, she said to Bren, “You mean Bristle?”

  The ranger made a face. “Is that what you call him? You realize I caught him in the kitchen building a tunnel beneath the pantry.”

  “He’s not doing that anymore,” Ingifrith assured him. “We have a deal.”

  He snorted a laugh. “No one makes deals with an imp.”

  Rolling his eyes, Prederi picked up the water bucket. “I need to talk to Mother.” He headed back toward the house.

  “Bren,” Ingifrith said when he had gone. She glanced toward the sea. “I need to show you something.” She led him down the path toward the garden.

  “Is it bigger than an imp?” the ranger joked behind her.

  “I should say.” When they came into view of Tower Sor, she pointed. “Beneath the Veil.”

  His smile fading, Bren gazed with his interior vision at the Fylking company. “How long have they been there?”

  “They’ve been arriving over the last three days. Is this normal?”

  Still studying the plain, Bren shook his head. “Not that I know of. But I can find out.” He looked down at her and smiled. “You could stand to get away from here, I think. Prederi and I are off-duty tonight. We’d like your company.”

  Ingifrith opened her mouth to decline, as usual, but something appeared in the corner of her eye, dark as a night terror, wings spread wide. The bird soared over her, coming in low before circling around. Ingifrith dropped to all fours with a shriek, certain the Brotherhood had finally caught up with her.

  Bren looked at her with a puzzled brow, his good arm raised. The raven alit there with a squawk, folded its huge wings and tilted its head, one eye peering. “Hail, love,” Bren murmured, transferring the bird to his slung-up arm. He stroked the shining feathers. Then he gently removed something wrapped around the creature’s leg.

  Her heart racing and her cheeks flushed with heat, Ingifrith got up. Her stomach was upset and she felt like an idiot. Clearly, this bird did not belong to the Fenrir Brotherhood.

  “What’s the word?” Prederi called out from the house.

  “Genfawr is giving us the day for the festival,” Bren replied as Prederi approached.

  “Perfect.” The blond ranger regarded Ingifrith, not fooled by her attempt to look calm. “You look like you’ve had the fright of your life.”

  Bren had pulled something from his tunic, a white band which he slipped over the raven’s leg. He released the bird to the sky. “You scared of the birds?” he asked Ingifrith.

  “No!” she blurted. “It just surprised me.”

  “You’re coming with us,” Prederi said. He looked over his shoulder at the house. “This place is making you crazy.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Bren put in. “Been hanging around that damned imp too long.”

  “Stop picking on him,” Ingifrith said. While still rattled by the Fylking army and the rangers’ winged messenger, she knew the men were right. Hiding here forever was not a solution. And she was hungry. She wrapped her hands over her arms with a shiver. A sorcerer wouldn’t bother her in the company of rangers. Or so she hoped.

  Bristle leapt out of the air and landed on her shoulder, ignoring Bren’s dark glance. The imp growled something into her ear in its strange tongue, raising the hair on her neck.

  It had the marked feel of a warning.

  ~*~

  Ingifrith sat astride Trisker on the path outside Giselt’s cottage, her feet in the stirrups and her hands entwined in the reins. Bren mounted, settling himself in his saddle with seasoned ease, and joined her on a dappled gray warhorse with a creamy mane, tail and fetlocks. Prederi’s mount, dark brown with a black mane and tail, milled around on the end of the lead Prederi had left tangled in a hedge. The horse was casually eating the nasturtiums Giselt had planted on the edge of the yard.

  Ingifrith gestured. “Shouldn’t we stop him from doing that?”

  Bren twisted in his s
addle, briefly observed the horse and turned back around. “I wouldn’t try it. That brute’ll take your arm off.”

  “So where are we going?”

  Bren moved his chin toward the river. “I’m of a mind to avoid Merhafr, which will be crowded because of the festival.”

  “What festival?”

  “Day of the Lily. It marks the end of the Kings’ War. There’s a tavern in Milfort, a village south of the tower. The food is good. The tavern master was friends with Prederi’s father.”

  “Was?”

  “Prederi’s father died when he was a boy.”

  The door to the cottage opened, and Prederi and his mother emerged, talking in low tones. Giselt stood up on her toes and hugged him. As she withdrew from her son’s embrace, she turned and wagged a finger at Ingifrith. “Don’t let these louts get you into any trouble, now!”

  Bren pointed to his own chest, as if hurt.

  Ingifrith smiled. “I won’t!”

  Prederi moved past his companions. “Relax,” he said to Ingifrith. “Trisker will sense your unease.” Wondering how he knew she was nervous, Ingifrith abruptly relaxed the tension in her shoulders and thighs. The tall ranger was a kind teacher, but he didn’t miss anything.

  Prederi drew his horse from the flowers and mounted, bringing the beast around. Just then, Bristle shot out of nowhere and landed in the privet hedge on one side of the path. Predictably, Trisker began to prance, the whites of her eyes lolling in fear.

  Bren barked a nasty curse at the imp, but the creature didn’t answer to him.

  “Bring those reins down,” Prederi called out as Ingifrith battled for control of the horse. “Circle her around.” Remembering not to yank the reins or press in her heels, Ingifrith pressed Trisker forward, drawing down and using her legs to make her come around. Surprisingly, the horse did as she bade. She rode up to the men, her cheeks flushed.