The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  Flyn took a careful step forward. Ingelbert's stammer was gone, his words certain. The mask was slipping.

  “So, the mystery I have been trying to solve is this gurg child, Pocket. Flyn, wh—”

  Flyn darted forward, knocking piles of parchment aside to snatch the dagger from the desk. He grabbed Inkstain around the throat with his free hand, lifting him out of the chair to slam him into the shelves behind. The chronicler's eyes bulged with fear and he tried to scream, but Flyn squeezed down on his throat, choking off the sound.

  “You will never find him, skin-changer!” Flyn hissed, pressing the blade of the dagger against Inkstain's sallow face, just beneath the eye. An eye that was weeping. Flyn waited a long span, keeping the iron pressed to the flesh. Deglan said the strongest gruagach could endure its touch, but there was no strength in the man he held pinned to the wall. Only tears and choked sobs.

  At last, Flyn let Ingelbert down gently. The man's knees gave out as soon as his feet touched the floor, spilling him into his precious papers.

  “Master Crane,” Flyn said feebly, stooping to help him rise. “Forgive me.”

  The chronicler recoiled, a wordless protest forced between his coughs and gasps. Flyn tossed the dagger back on the table, disgusted with himself, and took a few steps away to give the man room to breathe. It was some time before Ingelbert regained his composure, clutching the chair to help himself stand. He rubbed at his throat with a stained hand.

  “It, um,” the man said at last, his voice thick. “It was just curiosity. Sir Corc clearly, um, clearly loved the gurg. I just, I just wanted to know why he died.”

  “Dangerous questions, Master Crane,” Flyn replied, grateful the man kept his face turned away. He was too ashamed to look him in the eye.

  “Less dangerous than, than the answers, it would seem,” Inkstain returned. “The boy is not dead. That is why, that is the reason the gruagach are here.” They were not questions. This man's mind worked quickly, and accurately.

  Flyn could think of nothing to say. He bent and began gathering the strewn papers.

  “Leave them!” Inkstain snapped.

  Flyn let the papers drift back to the floor. He turned to the door and was stopped by a sudden knocking.

  “Master Crane, are you within?”

  Opening the door, Flyn found Worm Chewer in the corridor. The Knights Sergeant frowned, looking over Flyn's shoulder to the disheveled room.

  “What goes on here?” Worm Chewer demanded. “Master Crane are you well?”

  “I am, I am fine, Sir,” Inkstain replied.

  “I can explain,” Flyn began.

  “You can explain as we walk,” Worm Chewer cut in. “It was you I come to find. The Grand Master wants a word.”

  “The Grand Master?” Flyn asked. “Why would he—”

  And then he noticed it. The smell. Rather, the lack of smell on Worm Chewer's breath.

  “The taste of worms not to your fancy, gruagach?” Flyn asked with a smile.

  Worm Chewer lunged.

  FIVE

  Ingelbert tried desperately to dodge the struggling coburn as they plowed through his storeroom. He was not quick enough.

  Bantam Flyn, reeling from the speed of Worm Chewer's charge, bowled into him, knocking his feet from the floor and the wind from his lungs. Blinded by roiling nausea and a storm of falling parchment, Ingelbert pressed himself against the base of the bookshelf. His shins and knees were struck painfully as something battered into him. He drew up into a ball and threw up his arms, but his warding limbs continued to be pummeled. Through watery eyes, Ingelbert saw the coburn grappling above him. His own chair, toppled during the combat, was caught between him and the combatants, bludgeoning him as the coburn fought. A grunt of pain and frustration escaping between his teeth, Ingelbert seized a chair leg in each hand and shoved. The chair struck the coburn in the legs, upsetting their balance. They toppled, still grappling, onto the floor less than an arm's length from him.

  Bantam Flyn was pinned beneath Worm Chewer, the knight's hands around the squire's neck. Ingelbert issued a wordless noise of dismay. This was madness! First, he is threatened by the rash young squire who believed him a gruagach and now Flyn levels the same accusation at one of the Knights Sergeant! Let Worm Chewer beat him bloody. Such a harsh lesson would serve him well.

  An acrid smell filled Ingelbert's nostrils, the same awful reek given off by the goblin's flesh when it burned against the anvil. He watched, terror and understanding rising, as Worm Chewer's hands began to sizzle, smoke appearing beneath his fingers where they gripped Flyn's iron collar. A trilling noise came from Worm Chewer's throat, shrill and rhythmic. It was not a cry of pain, Ingelbert realized. It was laughter.

  Flyn strained against Worm Chewer's grasp, fighting to break the hold, but the knight continued to throttle him, continued to laugh, his beak opening wider. As the laughter reached a peak, Worm Chewer's beak split, peeling back over his head, swallowing the feathers that now began to recede about his neck. The pink, fleshy interior of the coburn's mouth began to swell, growing upward out of the maw formed by the ever-widening rictus. Three slits appeared in the damp, puffy tissue, two blinking open to reveal black, merciless eyes, the third widening into a mouth filled with yellow, horse-like teeth.

  Ingelbert kicked away from the revolting sight, crawling backwards until he hit another bookshelf. He gained some distance, but could not turn away from the gruesome transformation. The gruagach's newly formed head stretched, as bones hardened beneath the malleable flesh, lengthening into a leering visage. The face moved inexorably towards Flyn's, slavering.

  “The gurg,” the gruagach's wet voice demanded. “Tell me.”

  “I’m prettier than you,” Flyn rasped.

  The gruagach raised Flyn's head off the floor, then slammed it back down against the flagstones.

  “Tell me.”

  The smoke was now pouring from the skin-changer's hands, but he showed no sign of slackening his grip. Ingelbert looked frantically around the debris for his own collar. Once safely in his study, he had removed the irritating choker, placing it on his desk, the contents of which were now strewn about the room. Ignored by the gruagach, Ingelbert scrambled to his feet and rummaged desperately for the iron chain.

  He found his dagger first.

  Snatching it up, Ingelbert looked back to the gruagach. It paid him no mind, repeating the simple command to Flyn, bashing his skull into the floor when he would not answer.

  “Tell me.”

  Flyn said nothing, a defiant grin lodged across his beak.

  Ingelbert gripped the dagger firmly, blade held down. He fought the churning in his gut, raised the weapon above his head and charged. The gruagach's arm whipped out, almost too fast to see. Light exploded across Ingelbert's vision as he was backhanded across the face, sending him reeling against the edge of the open door. His shoulder smashed into the heavy wood, delivering a final blow to his balance. He felt the cold of the floor against his face before the pain from the gruagach's strike. Blood filled his mouth, the metallic taste oddly invigorating. He placed his hands flat against the floor, dimly aware neither of them held the dagger, and pushed himself to his feet.

  Ingelbert found himself facing the open doorway, the empty corridor beyond beckoning him to flee. If he ran, he could get help, but not in time. Flyn would die. If he stayed, they would both die. Ingelbert was no warrior. There was nothing he could do against the speed and strength of a Fae assassin. The gruagach had swatted him down, an insect crushed and forgotten. He was insignificant. A maker of candles, a scribe, hiding amongst his books with black smudges on his hands, saddled with an ignominious name by the proud warriors he served.

  Inkstain.

  Ingelbert turned away from the portal and stumbled to a cabinet. Flinging open the door with a shaking hand, he removed a sizable ceramic jar from amongst its dozen identical fellows. He made it himself. The ink. He doubted that any in the Order knew that, or cared. He was the chronicler, a
nd often wrote, but the stains mostly came from the process of making the ink. His own recipe. Dried hawthorn. Water. Boiled wine. Those were little more than thickeners. The main ingredients were oak galls, for their acid. And iron salts.

  The gruagach was screaming at Flyn now, the squire barely putting up a struggle, all but limp in the skin-changer's clutches.

  “TELL ME!”

  Ingelbert did not bother with the stopper. He strode up behind the gruagach and smashed the jar into its open mouth, using the force of the blow to pull its head back. A howl erupted from the skin-changer as the thick, black fluid flowed into its mouth. It spat and sputtered, spraying ink and spittle into the air. Ingelbert ground the remnants of the jar into its mouth, feeling his hand sliced by teeth and pottery shards. The gruagach reached up to tear at its own throat as the liquid burned down its gullet.

  Flyn was free.

  Ingelbert pulled back hard on the gruagach, giving the squire room to plant his feet in its midsection and kick, launching the skin-changer away. Ingelbert clung to its back, the force of the coburn's kick sending them careening into the door, slamming it shut. Even wounded, the gruagach's power was monstrous and Ingelbert felt his hold slipping as the creature pulled them forward. He heard the sound of iron scraping on stone as Flyn snatched up the fallen dagger and leapt to his feet. Ingelbert and the gruagach were hammered back into the door once more as Flyn thrust the blade home. Ingelbert held fast to the screaming skin-changer, his shoulders, back and skull thumping painfully into the iron-studded wood as the squire stabbed again and again.

  After an eternity, the screaming stopped and the creature went limp.

  Ingelbert shoved it away to fall in a heap and let his own legs relax, sliding down the door until he sat on the ground. Dull pain burrowed into his entire body, except in his lacerated hand where it declared itself sharply. Bantam Flyn seemed to be well recovered already, though his feathers still stood out from his body with residual aggression. The coburn looked down at the body of the gruagach, but seemed to stare past it, deep in thought.

  “We thought they would come for Corc,” he half whispered, then shook himself out of his momentary brood and quickly gathered up his fallen greatsword. “On your feet, Master Crane!”

  Ingelbert found it difficult to blink. He stared numbly at the ruin of his makeshift library. It should have irked him, seeing it in such disarray, but he was too exhausted to fuel any emotion.

  “We must move,” Flyn urged, striding over and lifting Ingelbert to his feet. The strength of the coburn seemed undiminished after the gruagach attack. Ingelbert felt a sudden flush of anger at the physical contact. This strutting ruffian had laid hands upon him enough this night! He shoved the coburn back, surprising them both. Words failed him, as they often did, so he simply glared at the squire, hoping the look would warn against any future attempts to touch him.

  “Pardons, Master Crane,” Flyn said. “But time is short. You must gather up any of these records about the boy Pocket and come with me.”

  “Gather, gather up?” Ingelbert felt a laugh creep into his voice. “Look at this! I will not be able to find anything rightly for days. Weeks! It will take time.”

  “We do not have time,” the coburn replied. “We must get to Sir Corc with all haste.”

  “We must get to the Knights Sergeant, you mean,” Ingelbert corrected him. “Inform them of what has happened here.”

  “Use your eyes, Master Crane,” Flyn gestured at the still form of the gruagach. “A moment ago that was one of the Knights Sergeant. We would be fools to trust in any of them. Now, I beg you, any information you have on the gurg orphan must not fall into gruagach hands.”

  “Impossible,” Ingelbert said throwing his arms up with defeat.

  “Then we will have to burn it all.”

  Ingelbert's blood went cold. He met the coburn's insistent stare, fearing and hating the certainty he saw entrenched there. But he did not look away when he spoke.

  “These, these are the annals of the Valiant Spur,” he told the squire, failing to keep the incredulous tone from his voice. “The collected history of the Order beginning with Mulrooster and the Five Score, leading down for sixteen centuries to this very day. You, who have inherited that mantle of honor, would, would, you would burn it?”

  “Find the records, Master Crane,” was the squire's cryptic answer.

  Ingelbert did not know why the gruagach wanted this boy Pocket, nor why it was so important to keep him from them. He had stumbled onto something with his damnable curiosity, something Flyn did not want known. That the squire believed strongly in his cause, Ingelbert had no doubts. Flyn's needless assault on him proved his devotion to protecting the gurg. If burning the annals was the course Flyn chose to ensure the secret, Ingelbert would be unable to stop him.

  He set to work, ferreting through the scattered documents. There was not much here, in truth, that pertained to Sir Corc or the boy, but laying hands on it became the challenge. He found the ledger containing Sir Corc's supply record without difficulty, then used it to secure the loose documents as he unearthed them. Bantam Flyn had moved to the door and opened it enough that he might peer down the corridor, dagger in hand, watchful for anyone approaching.

  Ingelbert hoped someone would come, the Old Goose perhaps, someone who could stand up to this hot-headed bravo and deter him from this unfathomable path. They remained undisturbed, however, and soon Ingelbert had all he was likely to find. He doubted it was everything, but for the safety of the library, he would not divulge such to Bantam Flyn. Plucking a large sling bag from its peg on the wall, Ingelbert shoved the recovered records inside then looped the strap over his head and onto his shoulder, finding the weight greater than anticipated.

  Flyn turned from his vigil at the door and gave Ingelbert a confirming nod, then checked the corridor once more before stepping out, motioning him to follow. The squire led them quickly down the passage and up the stairs to the main floor of the Campaign Hall. The place was still and quiet. None were about. They discovered why when they stepped outside.

  An unmistakable glow could be seen pulsing over the Steward's Gate, a flush of orange invading the night sky. Somewhere, beyond the wall in the Lower Bailey, the castle was afire.

  “The tannery,” Ingelbert surmised.

  “Damn,” Bantam Flyn hissed, his hand running quickly across his comb as he wrestled with some thought. “Come!”

  To Ingelbert's surprise the squire turned away from the glow and led them at a run up the slope towards the Midden Gate and the Upper Bailey. Four squires were usually posted here at all times. They found only two, lying in the undignified sprawl of death. Flyn paused at the corpses only long enough to relieve one of its iron falchion, then pressed on at speed. Ingelbert kept pace, the strap from his heavy satchel pressing painfully into his collarbone. The squire made straight for the nearest stairs to the battlements, ascending them two at a time. Grateful for his long legs, Ingelbert stayed on the squire's heels, following him along the wall walk towards a neglected corner of the stronghold. Here an ancient drum tower stood, devouring the battlements in the bloat of its old, curved body.

  Flyn approached the closed door to the tower, pausing to listen before carefully pushing it open a hand's breadth. Ingelbert waited while the coburn listened again. Flyn then turned, flipping the dagger in his hand deftly to catch it by the blade and extended the grip to him. Ingelbert took the weapon, uncertain of what Flyn expected him to do, but before he could give voice to any questions, the squire put a finger up to his own beak, signaling silence. Ingelbert swallowed hard as the squire crept through the tower door, the curved blade of his newly acquired falchion leading.

  They carried no torch or lamp and Ingelbert caught a brief glimpse of a wooden landing before moon and stars were banished as Flyn closed the tower door behind them, leaving Ingelbert in a darkness deeper than night. He felt the squire advance past him, but feared to move lest he step off the landing and into the hungry abyss of
the tower shaft. Ingelbert knew the vision of the coburn far exceeded that of humans, even in the dark, but it seemed the squire was ignorant of such a fact.

  He was about to issue a hiss at his would-be guide, when he detected a slight variation in the sea of darkness. Just at the edge of his slowly adjusting eyesight, Ingelbert made out a hint of contrast. It grew clearer with each passing moment and Ingelbert was able to deduce the outline of the platform on which he stood against the slightly brighter interior of the tower shaft. A line of shadow became rope, suspending a large, irregular shape over the drop. The scant light seemed to come from below and Ingelbert cautiously slid his feet along the square of blackness that was the landing until he came to the edge. Far below, a lone lamp burned, revealing five figures; one faced by the remaining four. Ghosts of voices echoed up along the round walls, rendered unintelligible by distance.

  Motion at the corner of Ingelbert's trammeled sight made him look over to see Flyn's silhouette crouched at the landing's far end, near the stairs that descended the tower in a long spiral along the wall. The coburn's head appeared to be cocked, as if listening to the conversation below. After a moment, Flyn gathered something from the floor of the landing and approached.

  “Stay here,” he hissed. “Deglan may not be in position. If I give the signal, cut the rope tethering the net. You will need this.”

  Flyn's shadow gave a quick motion and Ingelbert felt the leather of the harness and the balanced weight of Coalspur placed into his hand.

  “Flyn!” Ingelbert whispered, feeling a sense of panic rising to match his confusion. “I cannot—”

  “You can,” Flyn insisted.

  “No, listen!” Ingelbert felt his hushed tone slipping. “I cannot, cannot see!”

  Ingelbert felt the dagger snatched from his hand and shoved into his belt, then something smooth and wooden put in its place.

  “A torch,” Flyn explained. “You will find flint in a pouch on my harness. Light the torch when the fighting starts.”