The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  “Good!” Prederi said, beaming.

  “That little shit came from the kitchen,” Bren said.

  “No, he didn’t,” Ingifrith returned. As the men set out, Trisker rooted, pulling the reins through her hands.

  Prederi glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t let her do that.”

  Ingifrith moved forward, gathering the reins. As the companions reached the narrow lane at the end of the path, the rangers got on either side of her. Birch trees lined the way, leaves shimmering in the wind. The long, golden beams of the setting sun shone through the pale trunks, brush and grasses. Birdsong filled the air. It smelled of the sea.

  “When do you think Lisefin will put us back on the North Branch?” Prederi said.

  “We’re both still healing,” Bren pointed out.

  Prederi glanced down at Ingifrith. “Shorten those reins up a bit more.”

  Ingifrith drew the reins through her hand to tighten the slack. Trisker, knowing that pulling a trick on her new rider was always worth a try, lifted up her head with a grunt and tossed it to one side in protest.

  “Trisker!” Prederi growled through his teeth. “Settle down or we’ll switch riders.”

  Ingifrith glanced sidelong at the ranger’s horse, big, dark and unassailable. Trisker wasn’t so bad.

  “Did you bring your imp?” Bren said to her.

  “No,” she replied, “and he’s not my imp. Why?”

  “I just saw him.”

  “You did not. Trisker would know.”

  Prederi leaned forward. “You two stop bickering over that fucking imp.”

  Ingifrith cracked a smile. Prederi, who had no interest in or skill with second sight, always had some comment on hand whenever Bren started acting “spooky,” as he put it.

  Bren said, “Does Fitch know we’re coming?”

  “Nah.” Prederi grinned. “Were you hoping he’d go upstreet to the Seashell and tell them?”

  “It’ll be a full house tonight.”

  Prederi snorted. “You walk in there with that sling and they’ll fall over you like nursemaids.”

  “What’s the Seashell?” Ingifrith asked. Foolishly.

  “It’s a cathouse,” Prederi said. At her blank look he added, “Prostitutes.”

  Her cheeks warmed. A brief yet intriguing image of Bren tangled in the embrace of a woman crossed her mind.

  “They have men too, you know,” Bren added casually. “If you’re interested.”

  “What?”

  “Male prostitutes,” Prederi explained again.

  The heat in Ingifrith’s cheeks crept down into her chest. She suddenly wished she had stayed home, hunger or not. She felt like a foolish child.

  Prederi, who was more sensitive than he let on, said, “We’re teasing you. I’m not going to the Seashell. You can stay with me.”

  Bren leaned forward in his saddle to catch her eye. “Och,” he said, punching her softly on the arm. “I didn’t want you to feel left out.”

  Ingifrith nodded, fighting tears, desire, anger.

  The companions reached the end of the lane, where it joined a wider road. The men spread out and broke into a trot. Remembering her arsenal of rules for how to post so she didn’t bounce all over the saddle like an idiot, Ingifrith got into the rhythm. Eventually. The men on either side of her handled their mounts effortlessly.

  They passed a wood where the trees had been thinned, still as dusk, the fading light vanishing in the boughs. Someone stood there, clad in black. Ingifrith blinked. Just a tree and its shadow. She took a deep breath to clear the chill from her bones. While the presence of the rangers gave her comfort, it had also caused the more subtle presences of sylphs, elves and wraiths to withdraw to the perimeters of her mind, leaving her exposed.

  There were other travelers on the road: riders, some armed and others not; messengers on swift steeds; farmers driving goats, sheep and geese; and merchants with carts emptied of the goods they had sold in the city that day. Ingifrith let her vision go soft, scanning the road and the surrounding lands, her nerves taut.

  Tower Sor rose up on the right, dark against the evening light. There was no sign of the Fylking company. Bren looked that way, his gaze sweeping the landscape. “Where’d they go?” he said.

  Ingifrith cleared her throat, spooked by the empty plain. “No knowing.”

  “I’ll ask a warden, once one comes into town. I can put a watch out.”

  “Relax and sit back on your bones,” Prederi said. That was the only warning Ingifrith got before the rangers picked up the pace again. She breathed deeply, rolling with the rhythm in a rush of excitement as Trisker began to canter.

  “Move your reins with the horse,” Prederi reminded her.

  As they rode, Ingifrith focused on her mount, the knot in her gut and, to a lesser extent, the gatetower, but the rangers’ talk of the Seashell hadn’t left her thoughts.

  Male prostitutes. What a fascinating idea. No explanations, no commitments, no awkward changes of heart, no risk of refusal. As she considered it, her thoughts drifted through memories: Cevin, the barman at the Witch’s Tree, holding a sprig of lavender in his fingers as he knelt onto the pallet beside her; the groom at the stables near the King’s Archive, his strong chest shining with sweat as he drew her close for a kiss; the handsome guardsman with the dark skin and curly hair who stood watch every other day by the armory, whom she’d never had the nerve to approach; the lust in the eyes of the old clerk who’d worked for her father at the Archive.

  Nor had she forgotten the bulge in Halogi’s crotch as he stood before her, smoking with agitation, on the last night she saw him.

  And then there was the Fylking of Tower Sie. How beautiful he was! Surely, the immortal warriors took lovers. But not mortal ones. Or broken ones.

  Finally, her memories betrayed her, like demons slipping through a crack in the earth. A sunny day. Wildflowers trembling in the wind. How cold, the shine in the farmhands’ eyes as they pushed her down—

  No, she panicked, pushing the image away. No, not here, not now. Not ever.

  She forced her mind back onto riding, the dusk, and the warriors at her side. The fields and woods thickened with dwellings and establishments. Torches and lanterns twinkled in the falling light. They passed a clearing, empty but for a lone barn. A figure stood there, darker than the shadows, cloak fluttering in the breeze.

  We have you, Klemet.

  Cold gripped her as she stared. Time slowed and spread out. The eyes of a beast glowered out of a pasty complexion, his mind poisoning her, breathing frost into her heart, fingers trailing down her spine.

  “Keep your attention ahead,” Prederi said.

  As Ingifrith swung around, a small gray shape streaked and plunged into the high grass beyond the road. The dark figure by the barn was gone.

  The men slowed to a trot, and then a walk. Ingifrith followed suit, albeit clumsily, though Trisker was too tired to take advantage of her. The horses breathed deeply, snorted and whisked their tales.

  “What were you looking at?” Bren asked her.

  “I think you were right. Bristle is following me,” she said quickly, grateful to the imp for helping her evade the question without having to lie.

  “It’s unlikely he would come this far out. He’s been bound to that house since—for some moons now.”

  “Might’ve been anything.” Ingifrith looked around, seeing black cloaks in every shadow. Why would Bristle have followed her? Was he trying to warn her? Perhaps Bren was right, and she had seen something else.

  “Heads up,” Prederi said, causing Ingifrith to jump.

  A short distance ahead, two riders came over a rise at a furious clip. They drew closer, King’s Guard dressed and armed in full battle complement. Others on the road moved out of the way. Ingifrith prepared to do the same, but the rangers stayed on course, as if there was nothing to note. As the guardsmen approached and parted to go around them, one of them shouted a rough expletive.

  Bren laughed. �
�Arrogant cocks.”

  “They must be late for that Ylgr muster,” Prederi said.

  “I can’t believe Crowler is sending them up there.”

  As they rode on, the men talked about a recent patrol in the place called Ylgr, far to the north, strange talk involving criminals, betrayal and war, as best Ingifrith could gather. She listened with half an ear, her nerves sweeping the deepening landscape as they entered Milfort. A sensation of drifting away, being isolated from her friends, descended over her.

  “What’s that?” Ingifrith asked, pointing. On top of a hill in the dim light was a grim stone structure that looked like a keep.

  “It was built during the Sie War to keep you bastards from overrunning our coast,” Prederi answered with a laugh.

  Ingifrith cast him a glance. “Bastards whose grandfathers died in the Kings’ War when your lot overran our coasts because King Septrius of Merhafr couldn’t satisfy his Fjorginan queen,” she returned.

  Bren exploded into laughter. “Och! A historian.”

  “The queen’s claim was proven false,” Prederi declared. “That ended the war.”

  Ingifrith clucked her tongue. “Says every Dyrregian male one end of the Gate to the other. The war ended because Queen Gretasil smuggled Septrius’s only heir into Earticael and threatened to raise him as a Fjorginan royal if the king didn’t stand down.”

  “A satisfied woman is less inclined to spite,” Bren noted.

  “Since when?” Prederi shot back.

  “You had to be a smart ass.”

  Prederi reached down and tugged one of Ingifrith’s braids. “I owe you a drink.”

  They turned down another road cloaked in darkness, trees crowding either side. In the distance, the sea whispered and hissed upon the shore. Ingifrith shivered with the sensation of being watched as they rode along the narrow way. They arrived at a wooden building with steep gables and rows of crosshatched windows shimmering with golden light. Music rose and fell amid the sound of laughter. Over the door, lit by a cresset, was a sign: Copse by the Sea.

  Ingifrith dismounted and tied Trisker to a stone post, then stroked the horse on the neck and under the chin. “You’re a fine girl,” she murmured. “Thank you for not throwing me into a ditch.”

  Prederi chuckled.

  Ingifrith went with the rangers into the tavern, inhaling the warm scent of food and wood smoke. Resisting the temptation to glance behind her into the night, she focused instead on the company of her friends, the music, and the noise and activity of people.

  We have you, Klemet.

  Not here, you don’t, she returned in defiance, closing the door behind her.

  Cat and Mouse

  The sounds of voices, laughter, clinking glasses and music became more raucous as the evening wore on. A fine meal of roast pheasant, potatoes and greens had sated Ingifrith’s hunger, but not the anxiety flowing like a cold stream on the edges of her mind. She didn’t believe the wicked emissaries of the Fenrir Brotherhood would set foot in here, cowardly as they were—but they wouldn’t need to. She would have to leave eventually.

  Bren shuffled a deck of cards with brightly colored animals on them. As far as Ingifrith got it, the game—Wildcards they called it—involved one-upping each other by the traits, abilities and powers of creatures that lived in the wilds of this land. A bottle of whisky, three quarters empty, stood between the two men. Ingifrith, too nervous to risk losing her wits, had declined.

  Bren tossed a card before her, and then Prederi, and finally himself. “Ready?” he piped. “Ingifrith, it’s your turn to start.”

  Ingifrith turned her card over. A dormouse crouched on a log in the moonlight, surrounded by ivy. The title, Mouse, was painted in pretty letters on top. “This game is daft,” she grumped.

  “Says a loser,” Prederi said, turning his card. Hawk. Smiling, he poured himself another glass.

  “You’d better hide,” Bren said to Ingifrith with a laugh. The ominous statement settled into her gut like a stone. The red-haired ranger picked up his card to reveal a lovely creature, sleek and black, with golden eyes. Cat.

  Prederi turned to her. “Not your night for Wildcards, eh?”

  “A drink could turn your luck,” Bren said, lifting his glass.

  Scowling, Ingifrith picked up her card. “I can keep you lot up at night. Raid your kitchens and leave little shits all over the place. Eat your grain.”

  Bren laughed. “That’s why we have a cat. You lose.”

  “So do you, when I catch you out in the open,” Prederi said to Bren.

  “I can get up a tree and eat your fledglings.”

  “Not if I eat you first.”

  Bren leaned forward. “You won’t.”

  “Says a loser,” Ingifrith echoed, her attention settling on the tavern door across the room. Guffawing, Prederi elbowed her in the arm. The tavern door opened. Darkness loomed there, swirling, confident, glistening with dew. A man turned his head and gazed at her, a plain man in plain clothes, as ordinary as any man here, though Ingifrith knew otherwise. His face was pale, pockmarked.

  Ingifrith reached for the whisky bottle and poured herself a glass. She lifted it to her lips and let it roll down her throat like a fiery storm. The liquor tasted faintly of wood and roots. Clearing her throat, she set down the empty glass and sniffed as her sinuses cleared.

  The rangers sat and stared at her in astonishment. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Bren asked, his brow raised.

  She picked up the bottle. “My father taught me. Well, and the barman at the Witch’s Tree.” She poured another glass, not taking her eyes from the sorcerer across the room, who evidently knew enough not to come in here in a black cloak. He leaned toward the bar, speaking to someone.

  “Friend of yours?” Prederi said.

  She snapped her head around. “What?”

  “The barman at the Witch’s Tree.”

  She relaxed a little, but not much. “I shared his bed for a time.” She drank again.

  Bren snatched up her mouse card and tossed her the cat. “This suits you better.” He threw a look at Prederi. “Big, sneaky cat.”

  The sorcerer with the pasty face moved to a blazing hearth and leaned against the mantel with predatory patience. He lifted a hand. His fingers, long and strangely shaped, moved. The sensation of being isolated, like prey, herded and cut off, crept over Ingifrith’s mind again.

  Bren leaned on his elbows, causing the table to creak. “Sure you don’t want to come to the Seashell? There’s a guardsman. He works there on his days off.”

  “Who’s that?” Prederi said. “Finn?”

  “The same. He hails from Ottersun, you know. He’s an expert bird mimic.”

  Prederi leaned back in his chair. “I might have known. Bloody Northmen. Fey as snow hares, the lot of you.”

  Bren smiled. “Says a man from Merhafr, City of the Fishy Goat. Fuck you.”

  “I heard Finn has a cock the size of a—”

  Laughter. A chill raced over Ingifrith’s scalp as she looked above her. Nonhuman laughter.

  Bristle landed in the middle of the table on all fours, waved his genitals around and kicked the whisky bottle with the force of a mule. It struck Bren in the chest, sending whisky splashing and running all over him. As the ranger shouted and pushed himself back, the imp grabbed the bottle and dumped the rest of it on his head. Then Bristle crouched down and laughed in Bren’s face like a spiteful girl.

  The tavern erupted into shouts and cries as imps began to appear and wreak havoc on the patrons. A woman screamed as her hair was yanked from its bounds. A man cried out and spun around as the knife on his belt flew out of its sheath and stuck into the side of the bar. Another held up her arms in open-mouthed outrage as a bowl turned over above her and some kind of sauce drooled down her face and hair. A bread basket sailed over a table, sending rolls tumbling over the floor. A loud, cracking, twanging sound brought a shout of dismay from a musician. Bottles, glasses and platters crashed from tables and ba
r shelves, and the fire roared out of the hearth as if a gale blew from the inside.

  The wildcards on the companions’ table rose into the air and fluttered away as Bristle picked them up and threw them. Prederi broke from his shock and jumped to his feet. “What the fuck—”

  “Imps!” Bren returned, whirling around with a murderous glare as Bristle used his head to launch itself into the room.

  A fight broke out. The cracking sound of a fist striking bone resulted in a big man with baggy trousers falling on a nearby table. “Do something!” Prederi shouted as he moved into the fray to get it under control. Someone smashed a chair into the wall, and people wrestled with each other. Food flew off a nearby table and splattered onto another’s chest. A sword flashed in the firelight, prompting Prederi to draw his blade to parry it. He punched the man in the face with his sword grip and knocked him to the ground.

  Ingifrith hadn’t moved. Alone in a dark well amidst the clamor, she gripped her belly with both arms, her gaze held by the sorcerer’s hand. A hideous claw of a thing, it pulsed like a spider feeding on a fly. It drew her out of the whisky maelstrom, commanding her, violating her.

  You will come with me.

  Bren cried out a strange word, his voice cutting through the silence and the noise. Ingifrith blinked and startled as she broke from the sorcerer’s spell. Something rose up on the table before her, a great cat with a second head of a goat, the long tail of a serpent, black tufts on its ears and eyes the color of hot coals. It spread its wings and breathed roaring white-hot fire, prompting Ingifrith to hit the floor as the flames filled the tavern like a sun, touching nothing but the eyes of seers, imps and sorcerers.

  Eerie silence fell. The sorcerer was gone. The imps had vanished before the flames. The winged creature leapt gracefully to the floor, sidled up to Bren and then returned to the Otherworld in a swirling mist. Looking around, groaning and whispering, people came to their senses and began to move. Only Bren and Ingifrith had the slightest idea what had just happened.