The Fylking: Outpost and The Wolf Lords

by F. T. McKinstry

  She lifted her chin, her jaw set. She had courage, he gave her that. “I worked for the sorcerer. Rangers burned my place and put me out. I had nowhere else to go.”

  An interesting tale. Full of hate, vengeance...and something else that raised a sliver of ice along the back of his neck. He stood, walked to the hearth and leaned against the mantel. “What are you called?”

  “Bothilde.”

  “Tell me more, Bothilde,” he said with a smile.

  ~*~

  The trouble with wielding the sword of love and hate is that it could so easily be turned upon the wielder. Bothilde’s heart, seething like an infestation with hatred only a woman scorned could summon, had been struck by none other than the Norn’s warrior lover, a spiteful bastard who had not only tricked Bothilde into compromising the Fenrir sorcerer’s operation in Ylgr, but also put his henchmen on the run.

  Tricked her by fucking her, no less, unless Vaethir had lost his perspicacity altogether. A warrior of that man’s ilk would not visit only one bed, especially when his woman had left him for the higher realms. But he was not acting like a man whose shining lover had returned from the light to comfort him. In fact, by all accounts, he acted like a bitter, grieving man, a man who had lost his love and not recovered.

  Love, again. The only conclusion Vaethir could make from this information was that the Norn had not returned through the Gate, and that she would not, or so the ranger believed. His actions were not those of a man with hope, however small.

  The wrath that rose in the Niflsekt’s heart upon this realization burned like a conflagration. It was as if someone had ripped a piece of meat from his mouth, leaving him starving. Taking the Gate had become almost secondary to snatching up the Norn from her lover’s arms, away from the protection of the Hooded One.

  Smoldering with hatred, he returned to Ýr to continue his business with the Wolf Lords. He did not need to tell the Archwolf to whom the tattooed scrap of flesh belonged. They denied everything. They stuck to their original story. No control over the demons coming here. No knowledge of their plans, beyond killing witches. The Adept in Ylgr must have been working for Isarvalos alone.

  Lies.

  The Archwolf made one tactical mistake, and that was not mentioning Magnfred’s Pact. Isarvalos had been waiting for a chance to avenge himself on the Blackthorn Guild, and he might have kept waiting had he not been told about the spell, which allowed him to send his army in physical form. At this point, Vaethir could not have cared less about the demons in Dyrregin. He had dealt with much worse over the ages of his existence. But the fact that Alorael was dying and the Niflsekt was not going to get a chance to take the Norn along with the Gate turned his wrath at the Wolf Lords’ betrayal into a howling cataclysm.

  He made good on his promise to the Archwolf. Using the bloody, still-beating heart of the maimed Master of Demons, he opened a rift to the Supreme Order of the Severed Kingdoms, gave the Archwolf to the High King and not only told him to use his imagination, but also to take his time.

  How he hated being lied to.

  War devoured trust like a demon hungry for light, and the more power one had, the harder trust was to come by. Fortunately, Vaethir still had one useful member of the Wolf Lords, a singularly wicked man named Moust. This sorcerer excelled at the darker side of his art, he balked at nothing, and he did not whine or make excuses for failure. On the contrary, Moust made the best of every situation.

  Moust was a shifty wolf. Somehow, he had escaped Fenrisúlfr, summoned to kill him. How he had escaped when his cohorts had not, he either did not know, as he claimed, or he was not telling. But Loki’s wolf would not make an oversight like that unless the gods still had a use for Moust.

  Vaethir was more than a little curious as to what that was.

  Of all the babble he had extracted from the late Archwolf before handing him over to the Severed Kingdoms, one thing stood out. The Adept who had summoned Fenrisúlfr had a sister who was capable of summoning the High Commander of the Third Sun. They called her Ingifrith Klemet, a hedge witch who had managed to elude the Wolf Lords and of whom they still did not know the whereabouts—for she held the favor of the Otherworld.

  The first and only time Vaethir had seen Moust uncomfortable was when Vaethir had questioned the sorcerer about Ingifrith Klemet. Like the others, Moust was a cesspool of secrets, and he held one around Ingifrith, a mighty secret indeed, to make him so cagey that he dared to claim ignorance about her. Vaethir did not believe the witch had the power to summon Halogi; that claim reeked of the kind of lurid nonsense desperate men used to protect their asses. But something set her apart. And Moust knew what it was.

  The Niflsekt had considered torturing Moust for the information, or simply finding the witch himself. But then he learned something that gave him another idea.

  In addition to holding the favor of the Otherworld, Ingifrith Klemet also held the favor of one of the rangers who had burned Bothilde’s place and indirectly caused Alorael’s fall. Facing death through aging, the dark elf would be looking for something worthwhile on which to wield his magical skills. It was the least the High Vardlokk of Chaos could do, and if his instincts spoke truly, capturing the witch might expose Moust’s secret as well, thus granting Vaethir the satisfaction of destroying the Wolf Lords once and for all.

  Love and hate. Useful, to the last.

  The Hooded Crow

  The sun beamed in one last burst through the heavy gray band of a coming storm. Othin gazed west as the light slowly faded. At the bottom of a ravine thick with hardwood trees, a stream murmured over a rocky course cloaked in shadows. Halfway up the hill, an enormous rock formation provided shelter for a camp. A small fire burned there. Smoke hung in the damp, heavy air.

  Prederi knelt by the water, dressing a hare. Leofwine sat by the fire holding his rune pouch as if he might throw it into the flames. And Magreda had situated herself a comfortable distance from the two of them, tucked into the trees like a fox, the brisk sound of her whet rasping over the water as she sharpened a knife.

  The three of them had spent the day competing over who could be more surly.

  Othin sat watch at the top of the ravine, his backside damp against the base of an old maple tree. Leofwine, with his spit and a fistful of plants he’d gathered in a bog, had summoned a watcher to guard the camp. Now and then, it flitted through the trees, a steel-gray, skeletal shape hung with rags, or flesh—it was hard to tell. Othin had claimed he needed to come up here and guard, Leofwine’s watcher notwithstanding. He had needed a reason to get out of the pall of his brooding friends.

  A restless breeze stirred the forest like a tired sigh. When this storm passed, the temperature would drop. While the southlands were still hot, the north saw summer’s end, when the shadows grew long and the nights cool. It would be autumn soon.

  Over a week had passed since Ingifrith had vanished into the wilds, hidden by the Otherworld. The rangers’ ravens had been able to come and go without harm, but whether that was because Ingifrith’s protection from the dark elf held, or because whatever had brought demons across the Veil into this land had gone silent, no one knew. No demons marched from the north. After battling guardsmen, rangers, Otherworld armies and Blackthorn votaries wielding elemental magic, the beasts abandoned their siege on Merhafr as well. They had scattered like cockroaches, leaving the city to its own, relieved yet watchful.

  King Angvald celebrated victory, and it was widely speculated that the demon prince had finally had enough of the Hooded One’s magic. But Leofwine didn’t think Isarvalos would give up that easily. In keeping with his dreary—albeit seasoned—way, Leofwine preferred to believe that the Demon Prince of the Severed Kingdoms was either regrouping, or had withdrawn out of fear of something worse.

  Now considering ways to reclaim Dyrregin from the Niflsekt, the king had sent orders to Helasin to put her rangers on the hunt for any surviving Fylking or wardens. Companies of Niflsekt had been seen roaming the land, and it was assumed they
were doing the same. However, the Niflsekt were conducting their business quietly, not questioning or terrorizing the populace, unwilling to sow sedition or bring on a war with mortals. Wide scale conflict would not only drive their enemies deeper into hiding but also give the Fylking a cloak of distraction under which to plot.

  As for Ingifrith, Leofwine had convinced Helasin that his sister had abilities that could not only aid them in finding the Fylking, but also undermine the new overlords’ control. And so the rangers’ mission included searching for her.

  To these ends, and to make their activities look like business as usual to anyone watching, Helasin had broken the company into small groups and focused them north, believing that both the Fylking and Ingifrith would stay as close as possible to Faersc and to the Vale of Ason Tae. The companies spread out, some riding around Lake Ceirn and heading north across the western flank of the Thorgrim Mountains; east through Mimir Forest to the city of Vota; the North Mountain Road through Thorgrim into Ason Tae; and into Wyrvith Forest, the tall, whispering eaves of which stood a day’s walk from Othin and his companions’ camp.

  Familiar with these lands, rangers of the North Branch went with each group. There was a good chance that Ingifrith, riding Trisker and traveling in unfamiliar land, would keep to roads and paths, and perhaps find shelter at farms or in village inns, paying her way with the coin Leofwine had given her to buy supplies to care for the company.

  At the bottom of the gorge, Magreda had finished with her knife and sat, sullen as the black water, nearly invisible. Helasin had put her with the company as if to tell Othin she was his problem now. And she was exactly that. He had hurt her, and now he was shut from the warmth of her companionship. She felt that he had only cared for her in Millie’s absence, or worse, to ease his grief. It took a falling out to make him realize that wasn’t true.

  Earlier that day, Prederi had joked that Magreda and Othin needed to fuck and be done with it. It was the wrong thing to say. Othin had suggested to his friend that he sleep with one eye open unless he wanted to awake with a knife in his gut.

  Othin reached into his tunic and pulled out the charm Millie had knit him many suns ago, a hooded crow she had fastened lovingly around his neck with a kiss. He had removed the charm after leaving Merhafr, telling himself he didn’t wish to lose or damage it. That was nonsense; he had not worried about that before. But after his dream of Millie and the spinning wheel, something had changed.

  Until the war, he had never thought of the gift as anything but a token of love. But Leofwine and Arcmael, then a Warden of Dyrregin, had seen the crow with the eyes of seers, and Magreda had seen it with the eyes of a lover and a witch. All agreed the charm had power, though no one understood it, save perhaps Arcmael, who had used the charm to break a devastating spell he had cast against his Guardian Fylking.

  A jolt hit the ranger’s heart as it occurred to him that Arcmael was probably dead. In a recent message, Lord Halstaeg—after swearing on his ancestors he had nothing to do with exposing Magreda’s secret—had said he’d heard no word from his son.

  Othin caressed the tiny stitches in his hand. It is connected to everything, Magreda had told him. Old magic, Leofwine had called it. Magic that set Melisande apart, magic that marked her to the Old Gods. Magic that took her away. Where did the charm fit into his life now? A sentimental reminder, or something he couldn’t let go?

  Othin lowered the charm with a start as something fled by the corner of his eye. Damned creepy thing, he thought, shaking a chill. It had begun to drizzle. A breeze rustled the leaves at his feet, and the air gathered into shapes. A foul smell rose, like rotting bark, dung and swamp slime.

  Let us have that pretty crow, said a shrill, croaking voice. And we’ll give you a treat.

  Something you need, said another.

  Something you eat! said a third.

  Goblins. With their bowed legs, long curved nails, bristly hair, pointed ears, ugly noses and shining eyes, they appeared around him like livestock wanting food. They wore mail, leather and what looked like woven thorns beneath an odd assortment of weapons, all of them sharp. Othin scrambled to recall what Arcmael had told him about these creatures.

  Give us the bird, you weak bowelled turd! one of them screamed.

  None of it was good.

  It’s all you’ve got!

  And you need it not!

  Never, ever bargain with goblins; Arcmael had pressed this advice upon him more than once. The warden also said a goblin would take advantage of any weakness, including doubt or anguish. Othin put the crow back into his pocket. “Don’t you lot have demons to kill?”

  The goblins moaned and slavered over him, pounding their chests and making rude gestures. Demons ran away! one of them cackled. To die another day!

  Give us that crow, and then you’ll know.

  “War God!” Prederi called up from below. “What’s going on up there?”

  “Nothing!” Othin returned. He stood up. “Be gone, you little shits.”

  The goblins scattered, shrieking obscenities. No pretty girl for him to take! one of them cried on the wind. The witch would rather fuck a snake! Howling with laughter, they vanished in the trees.

  Othin gathered his cloak around him and headed down to the camp. Low shot, bringing Magreda into it. But, unpleasant as they were, the ugly bastards had given him an idea.

  ~*~

  The drizzle turned to rain as the four companions sat close to the fire beneath the leaning rock, their bellies full. Their horses, fed and watered, stood quietly in the trees on the south side of the camp, out of the wind.

  Othin held the crow charm draped through his fingers. Magreda didn’t look at it, or him. Prederi took a swig from a water skin with whisky in it, and Leofwine gazed into the flames.

  “The crow’s a powerful talisman,” the sorcerer said. “I don’t know how to use its magic, but as you say, we could offer it as an exchange. There are many things that could find Ingifrith for us. But I worry it would be an unfair trade.”

  “Haven’t you summoned creatures to find her already?” Prederi said.

  Leofwine frowned. “Nothing big enough to get past whatever is hiding her—but then again, I didn’t have the work of a Norn to offer them.” He moved his chin toward the crow in Othin’s hand. “Trouble is, anything I summon with that might be too big to control.”

  “We could use it to find the Fylking,” Magreda suggested, poking at the edges of the fire with a stick. She glanced up to find Prederi and Leofwine glowering at her. “Fine,” she snapped. “Hel, let’s use it to summon something to kill the fucking Niflsekt then, if it’s so powerful.”

  Othin clenched his jaw. “Magreda—”

  “Fuck you,” she growled, hurling her stick into the flames. She got up and stomped away from the fire, out into the rain.

  For several moments, the men said nothing. Finally, Prederi looked up. “What, by the Allfather’s balls, did you do to piss her off so bad?”

  Othin gripped the crow and pressed his fist against his forehead. “I don’t know.”

  Leofwine snorted. “Hel, you don’t.”

  Prederi grunted in agreement. “Keep it up, War God. It’ll be you getting a knife in the dark.”

  Othin dropped his hand and rubbed his face. “I was tired. I said something stupid.”

  Leofwine cleared his throat. “She’s been protecting you. Are you aware of that?”

  “No,” Othin replied. “I’m a fucking idiot. What are you talking about?”

  “I first noticed it in Helasin’s camp. Something unseen creeping around you as you slept. Old magic, dark magic. I didn’t know what it was, and I feared the worst: demons, my own brotherhood, even the Niflsekt. One night, I decided to test it, maybe banish it. I was attacked by a cat.” He paused and rolled up his sleeve. Across his forearm was a purplish patch of claw marks.

  “Bloody hell,” Prederi said, leaning over to see. “Magreda did that?”

  The sorcerer pulled down his s
leeve. “Something did. The next day, she brushed by me and told me to mind my own business. I did.”

  Othin gazed into the fire as he recalled the shadowy impression of a cat shift across Magreda’s features after she had told him her secret. Too many secrets. Why was she protecting him? From what? He had always loved Magreda’s wildish way—a bit warrior, a bit mysterious. Now, he was dealing with a snakepit of mysteries, causing him to question if he ever knew her at all.

  He held up the charm. “She made a good point. Could we summon something nasty enough to take on the Niflsekt?”

  “Not with that,” Leofwine said.

  “Are you so sure?”

  As the sorcerer tilted his head to consider it, Prederi said, “The goblins were bent on getting it. Would they have harassed him like that if it wasn’t valuable?”

  “Probably not,” Leofwine conceded.

  “When you were abed in the healing hall,” Othin said, “the night before I arrived to Merhafr, I dreamed. Millie—or whatever she is, now—came to me. Before leaving me for good, she told me the Niflsekt fears the Norns, the Spinners of Fate.”

  “He certainly had good reason to fear her,” Prederi noted. “She undid him.” Then his face changed. “What do you mean, left you for good?”

  “She was never coming back to me. Just this once, with a warning. Whatever the reason the phooka had for telling me to learn second sight, it had nothing to do with her. I just assumed that. I was grieving and I wanted it to be true.”

  Prederi set the skin aside and lowered his head. “I am sorry, Othin.”

  “Don’t be. I’m better for it.” He looked over his shoulder at the dark. “My problem will be convincing Magreda.” He released a breath and studied the crow. The stitches shimmered in the firelight. “I think we can use this.”