The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  Flyn's legs were trembling by the time he reached the top landing. A return climb up had not been a welcome prospect, but Coalspur had not fallen with Inkstain. He found the greatsword easily enough, though no sign of the short figure he had spied callously watching the chronicler's plight. Bending down, he retrieved Coalspur from the planking and with an exhausted sigh, began the long descent back to the ground floor.

  By the time he arrived, Corc had dragged the gruagach corpses against the wall and piled them up, heaving the iron net atop them. They had laid Inkstain out, using what was left of Pocket's old bedding to cushion him. The chronicler's face was pale, drawn up in pain even in unconsciousness. Deglan knelt beside the man.

  “Will he live?” Flyn asked, approaching on unsteady legs.

  “If he wakes,” Deglan said, scowling. “We need to get him to my infirmary.”

  Flyn took a deep breath, placing the sheathed point of Coalspur on the ground, he leaned heavily on the cross-guard.

  “We need to get him away from the castle.”

  Deglan looked up, his scowl deepening.

  “He knows,” Flyn explained, his words addressed to Sir Corc. “He knows Pocket is alive.”

  The knight walked a few paces closer, regarding him steadily. He said nothing, waiting.

  “We were wrong about him,” Flyn told him. “He is no gruagach. But he is clever and asked questions. About you, the boy.”

  “Does he know where?” the knight asked, betraying no emotion.

  “Not from my words,” Flyn replied. “But he will reason it out, mark me. It is too dangerous for him to stay. Too dangerous for Pocket.”

  “Let me get him stable,” Deglan said. “A day or two, then you can take him back with you.”

  “We may not have a day or two,” Flyn said. “Four gruagach lay here, but a fifth Crane and I slew. Corc, it was Worm Chewer.”

  The knight absorbed this, nodding grimly.

  “And something attacked Crane above,” Flyn continued. “I cannot be sure, but it looked to be a goblin.”

  “Buggery and toad shit,” Deglan spat. “They let it loose.”

  Flyn looked to Sir Corc for clarification, but the knight stared down at the gnome, equally puzzled.

  “They caught one,” Deglan told them. “A bloody, bandy-legged Red Cap! Killed some of the Dal Riata stock and murdered one of the cowherd's sons about half a year ago. Had it chained up since. They use it to proof iron.”

  “Torture,” Sir Corc said, a growl of displeasure in his voice.

  “No less than that gray skinned bastard deserved,” Deglan declared. “But I wager the gruagach set him free. Fire-loving fuck is running about, setting the Roost ablaze!”

  “A distraction,” Sir Corc said. “One that does not thin the gruagach numbers.”

  “They came after us,” Deglan said and then pointed at Flyn. “And him. Five dead. Likely all there is.”

  “We cannot know for certain,” Flyn said. “There may be more. Or will be given time. They killed at least three of us tonight, a formidable knight included. Crane must be taken away.”

  Sir Corc considered his words, looking down at the still form of the chronicler.

  “I will take him,” the knight said.

  “No,” Flyn returned forcefully, then dropped his voice, leaning close to the knight. “With Worm Chewer gone, the Grand Master will press you even harder to join the Knights Sergeant. You cannot accept that honor for the same reason you cannot shoulder this burden. Pocket needs you.”

  “I can take the man to the island,” Corc replied, his voice barely a whisper. “He will be safe there.”

  “And a prisoner,” Flyn said, his voice equally hushed. “We cannot save his life and steal his freedom. Enough innocence has been bound to that place.”

  Sir Corc fixed him with a hard stare, troubled at his words.

  “I will take him,” Flyn affirmed, losing the whisper to add weight to his words. “I know from whence he came. I will see him home.”

  “No,” Sir Corc shook his head. “This is not for you to do.”

  “I can, Sir,” Flyn assured him.

  “Listen to me,” Corc insisted, but Flyn waved him off.

  “My mind is made.”

  “You fail to—”

  “I will not fail, this I—”

  “DAMMIT, BANTAM!” Sir Corc grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, shaking him. His outburst traveled up through the tower, finally dying out in the shadows above. The old knight took a deep breath.

  “Heed me,” he said, his voice calm once more. “You fail to see. You are still a squire. If you do this, it will be desertion. A dishonorable act. Leave now and your knighthood will be forfeit. Flyn, you will never be able to return.”

  Flyn smiled, holding his mentor's gaze, and waited for him to understand. It did not take long. Corc's face softened, his grip on Flyn's shoulders relaxed. Flyn had known the consequences before he spoke and now Sir Corc was aware.

  “I was never meant for knighthood, Corc. Too brash. Too proud. Disdainful of rules. This is better.”

  Sir Corc struck him. It was an openhanded blow, little more than a cuff, but the force sent Flyn to his knees, as it was meant to. Flyn looked up at the knight, perplexed. It was the buffet, a ceremonial blow of humility delivered to remind the recipient of his oath. The knight's oath. Flyn had seen it performed before, the culmination of the dubbing ceremony.

  “Know you the words?” Sir Corc asked, drawing his sword.

  Flyn knew them well. Long had he yearned to speak them aloud.

  “In service shall I wander,

  my life a shield for the meek.

  All injustice shall I conquer,

  no wealth or mate ever mine.

  My honor undimmed, my vigil never ending,

  Until peace blesses all lands, or the sun sets its last.”

  Sir Corc nodded, extending his sword.

  “I, Sir Corc, Knight Errant of the Valiant Spur, do on this field of battle, dub you knight.”

  Flyn bowed his head, clinging to Coalspur and feeling the taps on his shoulders.

  “Rise now, Sir Flyn and take your place among us.”

  Flyn stood and as he did so, Sir Corc knelt, unbuckling the steel caps from his own spurs.

  “In the first days of our Order,” the knight said, “Mulrooster led the Five Score. One hundred knights, the first knights, trained by the elves. Those worthy warriors were given the first spurs, forged with elven-craft long vanished from the world. Forever sharp, they could not be sundered. Over the centuries many of the elven spurs were lost when the knights who wore them fell in forgotten lands. A few have survived and been passed down from one knight to the next over many generations.”

  Sir Corc buckled the spurs on Flyn's feet and rose.

  “Receive them now.”

  Flyn tried to keep the wonder out of his face. He knew of the elf spurs, every squire knew of them. Bronze Wattle's spurs were said to be one of the last pair extant. That Sir Corc possessed such a legendary heirloom was never spoken. Flyn should not have been surprised.

  “You need not gift me these, Sir,” he said.

  Sir Corc held up his hand. “They must be passed on.”

  Flyn looked down at Deglan, the gnome's sardonic grimace unable to keep the smile from his face.

  “Well,” the herbalist said, “if we are going, let's be off.”

  “We?” Flyn asked.

  “Yes, we. I will be going with you.”

  “No,” Flyn said, looking to Corc for support. “Loamtoes, you are too important to the Order. You are needed here.”

  Deglan's face crinkled and he jabbed a finger at the prostrate Inkstain.

  “Do you know how to set bones? Reduce a fever? Feed a man in a torpor? If you take him out on the road without me, it won't bloody matter what secrets he knows! He will die. Besides, bugger living in a place where I must burn myself just to prove I'm me!”

  Flyn looked to Corc again, unwilling to
fight the cantankerous old stoat.

  “Very well,” Sir Corc agreed.

  “I will need some things from the infirmary if he is to have a chance,” Deglan said, rising to his feet.

  “There is a sally port through the Under Hall,” Corc said, nodding towards the lower passage. “It is not far from here. Master Loamtoes, you and I will take Master Crane out. Tell Sir Flyn what you need and he will see it done.”

  Sir Corc then turned to Flyn.

  “We will meet where we last took leave.”

  Flyn nodded. He remembered the place. A small copse of scrubby trees at the base of the mount where he had first met Pocket. After Deglan made Flyn memorize his necessities, Sir Corc lifted Inkstain off the ground, eliciting some fussing from the gnome and they disappeared down the dark passage.

  Flyn slung his greatsword, then climbed the stairs once more, his legs working with renewed vigor. He retraced the route he and Inkstain had used to gain the tower. From the battlements, he could see no evidence of more fires, but kept an eye out for sign of the escaped Red Cap as he made his way down to the Middle Bailey. He kept to the shadows, knowing he could trust no face he encountered and, even were they proven friend, he wished to avoid questions. Inkstain's sudden disappearance would be easily accepted. Once the gruagach body was discovered in the records room, the missing chronicler would be blamed on the skin-changers or cowardice. Either way, he would not be long sought.

  Flyn himself would be branded a rogue and a deserter. Many, especially amongst the squires, already thought him a knave, and this act an inevitable end. Let them think what they will, he never cared overmuch for the opinions of others. There was only one in the Order whose esteem he valued, whose spurs he now wore.

  He feared for the future of the Order. Long had the glory of the Valiant Spur been in decline, but never in its history was it so beset. Flyn hoped they had snuffed out the gruagach threat this night, but it was a tenuous victory at best and one dearly paid. It would be many long years before the shadow of fear was purged from the Roost, years measured by the lifespans of the Dal Riata, who would tell stories of the cursed castle long after those who witnessed these dark days were in their graves.

  Flyn reached the infirmary unchallenged and quickly set to work gathering the required supplies. He took all he could carry, slinging a heavy rucksack over his shoulder. He paused before leaving, going over the gnome's list in his mind one last time. Certain he had forgotten nothing, he turned to leave.

  Gulver blocked his path.

  “Hold,” the huge squire said. He bore a halberd in his hand, but its haft rested on the ground.

  “Unless you are a skin-changer, step aside,” Flyn told him.

  “I cannot let you leave, Bantam Flyn.”

  “Supplies for the leech,” Flyn explained, hefting the rucksack. “Let me pass.”

  He took a step forward, but Gulver did not budge.

  “I know you,” the brute said. “You forget. I know the look of you when you flee.”

  “Gulver,” Flyn said, walking over slowly and placing a hand upon his shoulder. “I must go.”

  “No,” Gulver brushed his hand away. “It is a mistake you make. You will throw it all away. For your pride! Lackcomb refuses your knighthood, so to spit in his face you will forever shame yourself.”

  Flyn lowered his eyes to the floor. It was better for Gulver to think this than know the truth. Still, it was painful. He stepped forward, shouldering past. Gulver shoved him back.

  “You will not go! Not to where I know you are bound.”

  “You know nothing,” Flyn told him, anger edging his voice.

  “I do,” Gulver replied. “I know that look. The same one you wore the day we left. You mean to return. Tell me I read you wrong. Tell your brother he is wrong.”

  Flyn looked into Gulver's face. The brute was right, he did know him. He would not lie. It would serve no purpose. Flyn pushed through the doorway and this time, his brother let him pass.

  “He will kill you,” Gulver's voice followed him down the corridor. “If you return home, Gallus will kill you.”

  SEVEN

  Black thoughts.

  They always came, unbidden, when a life balanced on Deglan's skills as a healer. After thousands of years honing his craft, doubt rarely entered his mind, but the grim consequence of failure, the death of those under his care, he never kept at bay. Six thousand years had awarded him vast knowledge, and a vast number of dead to tally those he failed. Fae-folk never succumbed to age and only the most insidious diseases conjured by sorcery could lay them low, but violence could take an immortal's life, especially if inflicted with damnable iron. Deglan had watched many a Fae shudder to stillness beneath his hands, but they were only an acorn in the immense forest of mortals he had watched die.

  Fragile and ephemeral from the newly born to the venerable, humans had perished before Deglan's eyes despite his best efforts in numbers now impossible to reckon. Often he had been perfect; catching the malady early, having the exact medicines close to hand, administering them with precision, adapting to fluctuating symptoms seamlessly, doing everything correctly. And still they died. These simple, short-lived beings, almost witless in their immaturity, would pass away, spitting in the eye of great wisdom learned across hundreds of their fleeting generations.

  It used to enrage Deglan to be so denied, his careful attentions rejected by a thing so young, so ignorant. What right did a mortal child have not to survive when pitted against his powers? But die they did. All of them. Deglan would save a babe from fever only to return, seemingly a day later, to watch that same babe, now a bent-backed old woman, shivering with some ague that refused to be cured, forcing a final breath before the next sunrise.

  At his most bitter, he yearned for the days of the Rebellion. War was a calamity, a waste of life, but at least the wounds, the disease, the starvation, all stemmed from a single identifiable source. You could hate the enemy and vent your fury in the task of trying to bury more of his friends than your own. You would stitch, cauterize and amputate. It was bloody business filled with screams, and yes, dying, but during those long years in the gnomish army, riding proud as a Staunch of the Wart Shanks, Deglan never buried a child. Battle claimed its share of innocents, he knew, but he was spared such despair, locked away in a soldier's life, his service promised to those who swung the sword, not those who suffered in the path of the swath.

  It was selfish and shameful, but, by Earth and Stone, it was easier! There was something justifiable in a warrior's death, a fate accepted if not deserved. Deglan hated the war and like all the other crotch-rotten bastards he rode with, spoke a fine lie about wishing it would end, but once it did, had no place in a world of relative peace. Bugger him, there were many times he missed the war and bugger him twice if he would have voiced it aloud. He was not alone.

  Faabar had missed it, too. The noble fomori lacked the subtlety to hide it, however, and Deglan often chided him mercilessly for his wistful thoughts of past glory. They had both settled in Hog's Wallow, living pitifully within the shadow of Bwenyth Tor, the site of their last battle. The Wallow began as little more than an outpost for supplies destined for the fortress. The gnomes quickly abandoned their above-ground settlements after the Restoration of the Seelie Court and Bwenyth Tor, like so many of the great Fae strongholds, was abandoned to ruin. Soon, humans came there to live, to raise their families, grow their crops, tend their animals and die too quickly. Faabar became their champion, his mere presence enough to ensure they lived unmolested. Deglan earned the name Faery Doctor, much to his displeasure and they both faded into the tedious, miserable cycle of mortal tranquility.

  Then, after nearly nine hundred years of decaying pride, Faabar was injured in a ploughing mishap, crippled by a spooked ox. Deglan had done what he could to mend his friend, but for all his art it was not herbs or potions or salves that made the fomori whole again.

  It was the return of war.

  The phantom threat of an
Unwound rose in the countryside surrounding Hog's Wallow and, for the span of a firefly's glow, Faabar's sense of duty, of purpose, was renewed. They went on patrol together, unbeknownst to either, for the last time. They found no Unwound, but discovered the return of Torcan Swinehelm and the liberation of the last Flame Binder. Faabar died fighting them.

  Deglan had wept for him, helped to bury him, but even in grief he knew it was a worthy end for a warrior, far better than a pathetic death caused by a vacuous beast of burden. Deglan returned to the familiar habits of war and left the life of a Faery Doctor behind, discarded in the ash of Hog's Wallow. There were goblins to fight and he was a Staunch once more. Curse him, he had been relieved. No more human frailty, no more sheep blights, no more children to save. Or so he thought. In the end, he had saved another, a girl, though not from illness. Saved, and for her continued well-being, given up.

  Deglan shook his head, keeping the memory from nesting in his head.

  Black thoughts. And not one of which would help save Ingelbert Crane.

  The chronicler lay upon the turf. He was still unconscious and his breathing had become labored. His forearm was swollen, the skin turning an ugly purple, obvious even in the torchlight. There was a gash as well, caused no doubt by a heavy blade swung by that gap-toothed Red Cap, but Deglan was less concerned with the wound than he was the shattered bones beneath. If he did not tend to them soon, the man faced losing the arm entire and Deglan did not think he would survive the cutting. He also worried about injuries to Crane's organs. His slight build would have done little to help him endure the force of the fall he suffered. But for Flyn, he would be dead already.

  “Where is that preening wastrel?” Deglan demanded. He needed his herbs and instruments. There was little he could do for Crane in a benighted cluster of trees. Sir Corc did not answer, but continued to work, constructing a litter for Crane. If Deglan did not get his supplies soon, it would end up becoming the chronicler's bier.

  The sounds of someone approaching caused Deglan to look up from his wounded charge. Sir Corc straightened, his hand hovering over his sword hilt.