The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  Half Fae. Half warlock. Sought by two immortal races bent on using him to subjugate the Source Isle. Such a person was too dangerous to live and so, Pocket had died at Castle Gaunt. A few knew the truth, that he still lived, but fewer still were aware of the deeper truth. He was no longer a danger to anyone. The Magic of the Goblin Kings no longer coursed through him, but also gone were his Fae gifts. Pocket had not been able to change his form since recovering from the ruination of the iron crown. Not the slightest change. Flyn was certain, for he watched the poor gurg try and try again. He was nothing now but a young boy, forced to live out the rest of his mortal life in exile because of who he once was, what he could have become. Flyn knew the Red Caps and the gruagach would never stop hunting Pocket, just as he knew that he and Corc, Moragh and Deglan, Curdle and Muckle, would remain steadfast in their guardianship.

  It had been difficult to leave the island, especially for Sir Corc. Flyn had grown restless during their sojourn and secretly yearned to be away, back to the Roost to receive his spurs and on to greater challenges. But when it came time to depart, Flyn found he was reluctant. Pocket occupied his normal fishing spot on the rocky shores, the wind and the spray playing in his hair. Napper lay close by, contorting his body to match the rare patch of irregular sunlight that managed to peak through the bleak clouds.

  “Never known a cat to be so comfortable near the ocean,” Flyn said as he approached.

  “He knows fish are soon to follow,” Pocket replied, reaching back to scratch the cat's upturned belly. Napper soaked up the attention as he basked in the sun, his eyes blissfully shut. Flyn came up and stood beside them, unable to sit comfortably on the rocks while wearing his sword harness. He looked out over the choppy, slate-grey waters that he would soon cross to return to Albain.

  “Weather could turn against us,” Flyn said, knowing it was a falsehood. “We may not sail today.”

  “I think you will,” Pocket stated, scrutinizing the sky. “Curdle arrived in the night. Sir Corc will want to be gone soon.”

  “Only so he can return sooner,” Flyn told him.

  “Without you.”

  It was a statement of fact. Pocket placed no blame or guilt in the words. Flyn squatted down beside him.

  “I will come back when I can,” he said.

  Pocket looked over at him and smiled. “You were meant to be a knight, Flyn.”

  The boy never failed to surprise him. It was permission. Permission to seek glory unfettered by any attachment.

  “I will come back,” Flyn insisted. “Who else will listen to all the tales of my many great deeds?”

  “Not Sir Corc,” Pocket giggled.

  “No,” Flyn agreed with a laugh. “Not Sir Corc. Moragh, mayhaps?”

  “She will pretend to,” Pocket retorted, his laughter growing.

  “Oh, you wound sir. You wound,” Flyn said, placing a hand over his chest. He reached back and quickly, but gently, plucked Napper off the ground. “Surely, you will lend ear to my heroic exploits, Old Orange One?” The cat adopted the wide eyes and flailing limbs of unwanted handling, quickly wiggling free to hop back down onto the ground before turning to give Flyn an earnest look of wounded dignity.

  “Or perhaps not,” Flyn said with feigned defeat. “Looks like you will be the sole recipient of my boastful tales, Pocket my lad! Be honored!”

  “Where will you quest?” Pocket asked, a hint of the old eagerness coming back to his face. “Once you get your spurs. Will you go back to Airlann?”

  Flyn knew the answer to that readily. He had for years, but it was not a quest Pocket would want to hear. Or Sir Corc. Neither of them would find it worthy. He would not smother Pocket's rekindled ember of enthusiasm with talk of deposing tyrants.

  “I think,” Flyn said with an embellished sign, “I shall find a lonely bridge over calm waters and let none cross unless they best me in honorable combat or give me a single white rose.” Flyn leaned close to Pocket, fixing him with a droll stare before whispering, “Of course, I shan't tell them about the rose.”

  That was the last laugh they had shared. Flyn had ruffled Pocket's hair and then embraced him. Unlike Napper, Pocket did not struggle to free himself.

  The fat lamp was sputtering when Flyn shook himself out of his revelry. He began to back out of the nook when the dwindling light fell upon something in the remains of the mattress. Flyn reached in and plucked the small object out of the squalid straw. It was a horse, skillfully whittled out of wood. A toy. Flyn placed it carefully in his belt pouch. He would give it to Corc so that the knight could return it to Pocket. As an afterthought, he took the map of Airlann as well. It would give him a good excuse at his next destination.

  Dusk was old when Flyn emerged from the Under Hall. He was not to meet Corc and Deglan for several hours yet, and he still had one more task to perform. Of all the humans Deglan suspected of being a skin-changer, only the chronicler, Ingelbert Crane, had yet to act in a way which confirmed the gnome's suspicion. The man stayed closeted away in his makeshift library most of the day and on the rare occasions he did emerge, he took no interest in anything other than candle-making and the tallying of supplies. Deglan said that Crane had never been ill, despite his gawky frame. The gnome had also managed to dose the man's food with herbs which should have induced a severe, though fleeting, sickness with no apparent result. Still, thin as Crane was, it was possible he was not eating what was brought to his chamber. They needed to be sure and Flyn had taken it upon himself to discover if the chronicler was indeed a skin-changer. The gruagach did not possess the knowledge of their victims, and Flyn had just the test for the supposed annalist of the Order's history, one which would help prove his true nature.

  Quickly crossing the Middle Bailey, he made for the Campaign Hall and the storeroom beneath. The door to the squint opened much more quickly than the last time Flyn had knocked.

  “Yes?” the uncertain voice matched the look in the eyes that stared through the bars.

  “Master Crane,” Flyn said, casually hooking a finger under his collar of nails and giving it a superfluous shake. “It is Bantam Flyn. I have something here for you and a few questions if you can spare the time?”

  “Oh,” came the reply. “Um. Yes. Yes, certainly. A moment.”

  The door to the squint closed and Flyn heard a bolt thrown back and a key turn the lock. Ingelbert Crane opened the door to admit him, then quickly secured it with the bolt once more, though he did not bother with the key. Once inside, Flyn turned to face the man, causing the tip of the sword on his back to knock over a stack of books resting on the floor. Ingelbert gave a choked cry of alarm and Flyn watched as he darted forward, eyes wide with distress. He moved awkwardly yet nimbly, managing to right the stack quickly without upsetting any of the other precarious piles.

  As a coburn, Flyn was unclear on the physical attributes that humans found appealing, but he was fair certain this gangly scribbler possessed none of them. His face was long, punctuated by a hooked and protruding nose, beneath which rested thin lips and a knobby chin. The whole unfortunate visage was surrounded by a thick mass of hair the color and texture of wheat chaff. He was young and tall, but slump-shouldered and sunken-chested, his arms barely discernible beneath the sleeves of his voluminous tunic. Flyn noted strength in his hands, however, the fingers long, the knuckles pronounced. They were also covered in black smudges, especially under the nails and on the heels.

  “Inkstain?” Flyn said aloud.

  Ingelbert straightened, though his eyes kept darting back to the pile of books he had fussed over. “Yes? Um. Yes. I'm sorry. What?”

  “Inkstain,” Flyn repeated. “I was curious if you were aware that was the name the squires have given you.”

  “Oh,” Ingelbert gave an over-exaggerated nod. “Aware. Yes, I was aware. That they call me that. Inkstain, yes.”

  “Good,” Flyn said cheerily. “Because I was likely to slip and call you that instead of Master Crane. Did not want to offend.”

  �
�No! No no. Offend? No,” the chronicler said, though it was obvious he did not much care for the name. “It is, ah, it is an appellation far superior to straw-head, as, uh, as the Dal Riata have taken to calling me.”

  “Titles find you in the Order,” Flyn told him. “Best to embrace them, believe me.”

  “Right,” Inkstain agreed with a nod, his attention still on the pile of books.

  “Here,” Flyn held the rolled map out. “I thought you would want this.”

  “Oh, yes,” the chronicler said, taking the map. “I have been anxiously awaiting this!”

  Flyn found himself confused. “You have?”

  “Oh yes,” Inkstain said, sidling past to get to his beleaguered desk. “Your map of the Knucklebones, yes? The charting done on errantry by, um, Sir Corc the Constant?”

  This chronicler was well-informed.

  “No,” Flyn clarified. “Those are not yet complete. Likely years before they will be. No, this is just an old map of the Source Isle I found.”

  “I see,” Inkstain said, sliding into his chair and unfurling the map with no dampening of enthusiasm. “And where, um, where did you find it?”

  Flyn had the dodge ready. “I should not say. I was ducking guard duty. You understand. But this was all that was around, be assured.”

  He waited while the man inspected the map with care, his substantial nose pressed close to the faded illuminations. After several tedious minutes, it dawned on Flyn that the chronicler had forgotten he was in the room.

  “Well?”

  Inkstain jumped slightly, looking up sheepishly.

  “Um,” the chronicler cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. It is old. I will have to examine it, that is, examine it alongside other maps I have of Airlann to, ah, get a firm estimation of the age. Um, thank you. Yes. Thank you for bringing this to me.”

  “A trifle,” Flyn waved him off. “And I will give you something more. A word of advice. Sir Corc and his title? Best not to use it around him.”

  “Right,” Ingelbert replied, nodding more thoughtfully than Flyn felt warranted. “He does not, ah, he does not embrace the Constant as you have Bantam, and I, Inkhead Strawstain?”

  It took Flyn a second to realize the man had just jested. He laughed approvingly, drawing a shy, but proud smile from the chronicler. If this endearingly awkward man truly was a gruagach, then Flyn was a one-legged goblin.

  “No,” he said still chuckling. “Sir Corc does not approve of titles for anyone. I must remember to ask him the Mad Capon's true name.”

  “Is he?” Inkstain asked. “Is he, ah, as fat as they say?”

  “Fatter,” Flyn replied, shaking his head. “But fast and fierce for all his suet.”

  “Remarkable,” Inkstain marveled. “It will be most interesting to see the names made manifest. Put faces to all the reports.”

  “You come from Sasana,” Flyn stated, noting Crane's accent.

  “Oh, um, yes. Gipeswic,” the man replied, his face momentarily reflective. “So do you. That is, come from Sasana. Not Gipeswic. Arrived and pledged to serve on the same day as Squire Gulver. Though no community of origin was listed for either of you, if I recall.”

  “You have a good memory,” Flyn said, shrugging out of his shoulder harness. “I was hoping your memory might contain something about this.”

  Flyn held Coalspur out to the chronicler, still sheathed.

  Inkstain stood slowly, his mouth going slightly slack. He looked the sword over with widening eyes and glanced up with uncertainty. Flyn nodded and held the sword out an inch farther. The man's black smeared hands took the weapon firmly, the blade resting horizontally across his palms.

  “The sword of Grand Master Coalspur,” Inkstain began. “Dwarf-forged. It was carried by him until his death by fever and, in honor of his final wishes, offered as prize in a tourney to honor his memory. A tourney won by Squire Flyn. Um, that is, you. A tourney won by you.”

  The man had the right of it. Still, that was recent history.

  “Is there anything prior to that?” Flyn pressed. “Anything from the annals mentioning such a sword being wielded earlier, perchance at the Battle of the Unsounded Horn?”

  “The Unsounded Horn?” the chronicler pondered. “That was before the annals were kept. We have, uh, songs written much later in commemoration, but nothing contemporary, nothing from the day. The Order was in its infancy, still governed mostly by elven war masters. All of the original knights, The Five Score were, ah, illiterate. All recruited from feral coburn communities. Even Mulrooster, the first Grand Master, was little more than, uh, than a barbarian.”

  “What about this here?” Flyn asked, directing Inkstain's attention to the glyph he discovered beneath the grip wrapping. Inkstain inspected it for a long time, before answering.

  “I, um, I cannot say off hand. I have seen similar runes, certainly, but it is not, um, it is not something I can immediately decipher. A mark of the maker, perhaps?”

  “I met a dwarf who claimed to be the maker,” Flyn told him. “In Black Pool. His name was Fafnir. One of Corc's many contacts. He said he forged it for Grand Master Coalspur, but a near identical sword bearing this same mark appears on a tapestry of the Battle of the Unsounded Horn in the Great Hall.”

  “Ah,” the chronicler sounded, still peering at the rune on the grip. “Well, that might solve it. The tapestries were made centuries after the events they depict. It is possible the artisans used knights and weapons of the current day as the basis for their images.” Crane squinted as his thoughts grew deeper. “However...if the dwarf you met in Black Pool told the truth, this sword is no more than fifty years old and the tapestry was commissioned at least two hundred years ago. It is interesting. I will, um, do some research and see if I can find an answer.”

  “My thanks,” Flyn said as Ingelbert offered the sword back gingerly. This man was no danger. He could confidently tell Deglan he had been mistaken. “I will take no more of your time, Master Crane.”

  Inkstain gave a tight lipped smile and a bobbing nod. He gathered the key off his desk and headed for the door, but stopped short, remembering something.

  “Oh! Squire Flyn. Could you maybe help me with, um, my own little mystery. That is, if it's not too much trouble?”

  “Learn to sing,” Flyn said with a small laugh. “The women will swoon in droves.”

  “Women?” the chronicler was puzzled for a moment. “Oh! No, um, no. Singing, right. Swoon. Um. No, Sir Corc the Con—” he caught himself. “That is, Sir Corc.”

  “Sir Corc is the mystery?” Flyn asked.

  “Well in a way, in a way, yes,” Inkstain said, slinking back to his desk to rummage through the stacks until he produced an aged ledger. “I was hoping you could, well, because you have traveled so much with him, that you could answer something for me?”

  Flyn found himself intrigued. Sir Corc was not, in truth, a knight that was often the subject of much interest. Ingelbert seemed to be looking through the ledger, his fingers flipping deftly while his eyes scanned the pages. After a moment, he held up a finger, but kept his eyes focused on the book.

  “Sir Corc has served the Order as Knight Errant for thirty one years,” the chronicler stated. “His very first errantry, he requisitioned from the quartermaster one mule, one broadsword, one dirk, two daggers, one mace, one shield, one hauberk, one breastplate with pauldrons, one surcoat, one cloak, two tunics, two blankets, one iron pot, one pound smoked herring, three pounds beans, five pounds oats...”

  Flyn's mind wandered as the chronicler continued to list the provisions. Where was the mystery here? Was the man mad?

  “...and one sack of onions. This list does not change for thirty years. Every errantry, the same supplies without deviation.”

  Ingelbert looked up from the ledger with a look of amazement, even respect. Flyn decided he was mad.

  “Sir Corc the Constant,” he shrugged, heading for the door.

  “Yes,” Inkstain's voice agreed. “Constant. Unchanging. Until
Coalspur's funeral, when suddenly the list of supplies changes. The provisions more than double—”

  “Because I went with him.”

  “—in addition, a pot of honey—”

  “I have a weakness for sweets,” Flyn laughed, unbolting the door.

  “-and one page's tunic, newly made in the colors of the Valiant Spur.”

  Flyn froze and slowly turned to face the chronicler.

  “In his earlier days,” Inkstain continued, his face a mask of fascination, “Sir Corc often did not return for the two-year, preferring to remain on errantry and only send written reports. He begins coming with regularity about ten years ago, after bringing a foundling to the Roost that was entered into the castle book only as Changeling Infant, later amended with the name Pocket.”

  Flyn tensed. His gaze fell to Inkstain's neck. He wore no iron collar. Flyn cursed himself for a fool. How had he missed it?

  “The boy is later reported to have run away after being suspected of poisoning the castle's former steward, a man named Bannoch. He died the same day you and Sir Corc left for Airlann.”

  Flyn quickly surveyed the room. Coalspur would be useless in such tight confines. Besides, the sword was steel. He would need iron. His eyes found a dagger on the desk.

  “The boy's body was later returned to the castle by the current leech, Master Loamtoes, who also bore a letter from Sir Corc vouching for him and relating a report of a Red Cap uprising put down at the ruins of Castle Gaunt. Now Sir Corc, after questing unfailingly in Airlann for three decades, has begun inexplicably charting the Knucklebones.”