“Do not worry, Bantam Flyn,” Deglan tossed his words towards the front of the wain without turning. “Corc will not be brought down by some sorry rabble of skin-changers.”
There was silence for a long time, then Flyn's voiced drifted over the creak of the wheels.
“How can you be sure, Staunch?”
Deglan smiled to himself in the dark.
“A soldier's intuition.”
EIGHT
The hare perked up its ears, body going stiff with sudden alarm. Flyn rose, arm cocked back. His target bolted, long legs propelling it in unpredictable directions across the scrub and over the stones. Flyn threw the rock anyway, missing the retreating hare by miles. He laughed into the wind and slumped down to sit on the quivering grass.
“Bantam Flyn,” he said, shaking his head with amusement and watching his would-be prey disappear amongst the hills. “You are no hunter.”
He always fancied himself skilled with a throw. Many a restless night had he spent in the squires' barracks flinging knives into makeshift targets, drawing jeers or cheers from his fellows with each successful toss. Of course, grain sacks hung from the ceiling did not hear, see and smell you coming, then take to heel in panicked, dodging hops that made mockery of the surest aim. A rock was a poor missile, but Flyn knew he would have fared no better with the finest bow. He was outmatched.
“The contest is yours my long-eared friend.”
Standing, Flyn gave the now hidden hare a salute and turned to make his way back across the rolling terrain. Four days out from the Roost and they were still in the foothills of the Mounds, the ground alongside the track they followed rising steadily upon either side with every ponderous mile. The highlands of Albain were an inconsistent marriage of grass-clad glens, rocky tumbles and boulder-choked gullies. Stands of trees huddled sporadically in the hilly expanse, which Deglan had informed him were alder, birch and rowan.
Flyn enjoyed goading the old gnome, pretending not to listen during his tutelary rants, but in truth the herbalist's knowledge had served their bellies well. He constantly pointed out edible plants as they traveled and while Flyn could not recall every one of them over the last several days, he had become adept at spotting gorse, often handing the reins over to Deglan while he jumped down from the wain to gather the yellow blooms. Crow-berries were more scarce, but Flyn made a point to keep his eye out for them, more for the challenge than the sustenance. Due to the daily spring rains and numerous highland streams, water was plentiful and they were far from starving, but Flyn could feel the meager meals taking their toll.
It was the height of spring and game was afoot, but their need to stay on the move made trapping impossible. Flyn spent the early morning scouting ahead and hunting when the opportunity presented, but thus far his efforts had brought nothing to the cook fire. There were deer and wild goats that ranged the foothills and often Flyn saw them in the distance, but without bow or spear it would be a waste to pursue them. Still, his morning forays gave him something to do while Deglan tended to Inkstain and the ox, both better fed than their caretakers.
Returning to camp, he found Deglan carefully pouring watered down honey into the chronicler’s mouth. Flyn had wondered why the herbalist had wanted him to gather a pot of the stuff from his infirmary. He discovered the reason their first morning out. The sticky mixture was the man's only means of nourishment so long as he remained senseless. Deglan had thought of everything.
Flyn had stood guard the better part of that first day, while Deglan worked, grinding herbs and mixing potions. He made a plaster from wood anemone and other ingredients Flyn could not name, using it to cover Inkstain's broken arm. At one point, the gnome's face grew grim and he quickly drew a small, sharp blade. With a practiced, steady hand he made a small incision in Inkstain's side so that he could insert a hollow, bronze tube. There had come a hiss of rushing air and Inkstain took a deep, shuddering breath in his sleep. After that, Flyn had refrained from watching, finding his stomach stayed calmer if the mysteries of healing remained mysteries.
Three days later, the chronicler had not regained consciousness. Deglan told Flyn he had done all he could; it was up to Crane now. They had settled into a routine, their days spent traveling, foraging and seeing to Inkstain's comfort.
“Sneaking some of that honey while I am away?” Flyn asked Deglan as he approached.
“Herbs are good for healing,” Deglan replied casually, not taking his attention from feeding Crane. “They are also good for seasoning roast chicken.”
Flyn laughed. They were not fresh taunts. He knew Deglan would never do anything to endanger the health of one under his care, no matter how hungry he was himself. It was all part of the routine.
Flyn untethered the ox from a nearby tree and began yoking him to the wain.
He used to think about what life would be like as a Knight Errant. For years an image would form in his mind, unchanging. He, Sir Flyn the Jocular or Flyn Quickblade or the Laughing Cock, striding alone down a forested path in unknown lands, sword and armor his only possessions, seeking his next adventure. Bloody foolish notion. Daydreams do not provide for the necessities of the road; the beans that need boiling, the latrine that needs digging, the pack animal that needs tending. Such things did not fit well in tales and tapestries, where a hero needs nothing but shining steel and an honorable cause.
The disillusion was not fresh for Flyn. Sir Corc had taught him much, not least of which was a good mule was just as important to a knight as a sharp sword. Flyn found himself wishing Backbone were with them, but Corc's doughty beast was enjoying a life of ease on the island with Pocket, who would not be parted from him.
“You will have to do,” Flyn told the ox, tousling the shaggy hair between its horns. He had refrained from naming the animal, knowing that they would have to give him up once they took ship at Caer Caled, where they would likely trade him for passage. Of course, they would have to reach the port first.
At the end of the sixth day the track led them close to a small loch resting at the feet of the Mounds. The peaks rose all around, dominating the sky, conquering the horizon. Just beyond the loch gaped the mouth of a corrie, admitting the track they traveled into a shadowy pass between the mountains. They camped near the banks, using the entirety of the next day to rest the ox and attempt some fishing. Deglan gave over some of the gut string he used for sutures and Flyn fashioned a hook out of one of the herbalist's heavy needles. It was tedious business, but by dusk Flyn had caught a sizable charr. Deglan collected some herbs from the surrounds to season the catch and they shared it over their nightly fire. It grew quite cool after the sun fled, despite the warmth of the season, and they lay Inkstain near the flames as they ate.
“Do you think he will wake?” Flyn asked, knowing Deglan was sick of the question.
“He better,” the herbalist replied, sucking on a fish bone. “This is a long damn way to travel simply for a funeral.”
Flyn let it rest for another night. The cranky stoat liked to appear callous, but since their journey began Flyn had seen him checking on the chronicler through the long nights, hardly sleeping himself. He wondered what the gnome would do once Inkstain no longer needed him. Whether the man lived or died would soon be decided, but either outcome saw the end of Deglan's concern. Would he return to the Roost? He left eagerly enough, with no care for what the Order would think of his sudden desertion. It was a question Flyn did not voice. He knew the only answer he would receive was a bitter tongue-lashing. Besides, the old mushroom was most content when miserable.
The next morning they entered the mountain pass.
As slow as the wain had traveled on the track, this was worse. Flyn spent as much time clearing boulders from their way as he did on the driver's bench. The ox was strong and labored tirelessly against the steadily increasing slopes, but by midday Flyn had abandoned riding in the wain entirely, both to lighten the load and to help push the wheels over the worst of the boulders.
At last they came to
a saddle gap and Flyn marveled at how high they had climbed. The pass through the range went on ahead, but to either side the slopes gave way to a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. To the north, a vast loch spread out in a deep valley and the view south awarded dense forest. Such landmarks could be used to help determine their location, but without a map it was pointless guesswork.
They did not linger long in the saddle, for the wind tore savagely through the gap and the day still held hours of light. The pass became more level after the saddle as it ran the length of a wooded ridge and Flyn was able to ride in the wain once more. The trees gave way to thick scrub after a mile or two and soon the pass became flanked by irregular cliff face.
It was not long before Flyn spotted the first of the watchers, though they made no attempt to hide themselves.
Perched on the cliffs above, they were little more than silhouettes. They seemed taller than the Dal Riata, though no less muscled. Even from a distance their lack of clothing was obvious, but some did appear to be wearing helms. He saw spears in their hands along with axes and the occasional sword. One stood with a pair of dogs and two had falcons perched on their wrists. None moved, but simply stayed fixed to their vantages until the wain passed from sight. Flyn said nothing at first, but after the tenth sighting he tossed a warning over his shoulder into the bed.
“Deglan.”
“I see them,” the gnome's voice uttered from behind.
“Painted Men,” Flyn declared casting a reassuring look at Coalspur resting on the bench next to him.
“The Pritani, aye,” Deglan agreed. “Have not laid eyes on one in a long, long time. Was hoping they had gone and gotten themselves extinct.”
“Old friends?”
“Old enemies.”
Flyn kept the wain going at a steady pace, watching the path ahead, but threw continual glances upward, keeping a running count of the sentries. He was up to twenty when the wain passed away from the cliffs and entered a wooded bowl, blocking the sun and the view above. The trees pressed close to the trail, some of the boughs hanging so low Flyn had to duck his head to pass beneath.
“Fancy an ambush?” he asked no one in particular.
Flyn had his greatsword and one dagger, plus his spurs. His armor lay stored in the wain, the mail too encumbering for all the pushing and scrambling required over the course of the day. Deglan had retained the steel hand axe from the tower, but that was all the arms they possessed. The Painted Men would not even need to catch them off guard if they chose to attack.
They traveled through the bowl, sharing no words. There was nothing for it, they had to keep moving. Time passed, slowed by tension, and with the trees hiding the sun, Flyn lost all sense of how long they had been in the bowl. The ground began to gradually shift uphill and the trees thinned. Passing from beneath the shadows of the branches, the wain emerged once more into the sun. A broad, towering cliff face hugged the track to their left, while a bank of loose stones dropped away to the right, ending in a sparse mountainside wood far below.
Flyn looked up for signs of the Painted Men, but the cliff was too high, too sheer, to house any but an eagle. He craned around and looked down into the bed. Deglan met his gaze, a sour twist to his mouth, the axe in his hand.
“Are we to be allowed to pass?” Flyn asked lightly.
Deglan did not answer, but scanned the cliffs above before turning his attention back to Crane.
They passed the remainder of the day unchallenged and unwatched. The sun began to set before they found a good place to make their camp and they were forced to prepare for an uncomfortable night on the track. The cliff face still dominated the left of the trail, but the drop to the right had leveled off somewhat, becoming a mass of crags. Flyn released the ox from the yoke, tethering it to a boulder. There was little fodder for the animal and they all went hungry. They built no fire and Deglan stayed in the bed of the wain with Inkstain. Flyn donned his mail and stood watch, keeping his dagger unsheathed and in hand. Coalspur he left in its scabbard, propped against the tail of the wain, never out of arm's reach.
The stars were veiled by clouds, and most of the moon eclipsed by the surrounding cliffs, but Flyn would have no trouble seeing any attackers. It was difficult for him to comprehend a human's night blindness. Anything giving off heat, he could see. The ox, Deglan, Inkstain, all were visible to him as shifting phantoms of red and orange, almost as if they were made from dull flame. Unless they were colder than the surrounding air, he would see the Painted Men coming, likely before they saw him. Flyn hoped they knew as much about coburn and were discouraged from taking action.
“What sort of foes are these Pritani?” Flyn asked, knowing Deglan did not sleep.
“Not one to say,” Deglan replied quietly. “Never fought them myself.”
“You said they were old enemies.”
“To the Fae,” Deglan said. “Fought a war with them in the Age of Spring, long before I was born.”
Flyn chuckled. “Hard to imagine you were ever born.”
He expected a biting retort, but none came. There was silence for a long time. When Deglan spoke again, there was something in his voice Flyn had never heard before. Patience.
“We were all young once,” the gnome said. “Me. The world itself. Earth and Stone! Even the elves were once freshly woken. We always talk about the humans as a younger race. In truth, they are just as old as the Fae. But life is so short for them, they seem to be forever starting over, learning and relearning what they have already been taught. They are constantly...new.”
Flyn listened intently, but kept a watchful eye. He noticed Deglan did not refer to the coburn in such terms even though they were as mortal as man. Still, he did not dare interrupt.
“But slow as their progress is,” Deglan went on, “humans do eventually change. All except the Pritani. You can look at them and see man as he was ten thousand years ago. They were one of the first tribes to come to Airlann. Savage and naked, they struck the shores of the Source Isle in their crude boats, raiding and killing. The Seelie Court was all powerful in those times, but war and violence were a rarity, something that was discussed as a curiosity, not practiced or prepared for. The Age of Spring was a time of art and music and prosperity. Not bloodshed. The elves could have turned their Magic on the Pritani, but they did not. You do not seek vengeance on a spirited horse that escapes its pen and causes destruction. Man was something to be domesticated, not punished.
“What they failed to see was the Pritani's unwillingness to be tamed. All attempts at peace failed. The elves wished to share their knowledge and elevate these men out of barbarity, but the Pritani were scornful of such aid. They discovered the Fae weakness to iron and learned the mystery of its forging, casting aside their bronze weapons. They made ink from iron, tattooing their flesh so that their entire bodies were wards against immortals. That is how they earned the name Painted Men. They came in droves to Airlann, bringing ugly death to the Isle. The peaceful Fae, for all their power, could not combat such insatiable hunger for blood.”
“How did they emerge victorious?” Flyn asked.
“The fomori,” Deglan said, a slight hitch entering his voice with the words. “They were a mortal race then, living amongst the shore cliffs. Battle suited them well and they quickly learned the craft of war. They repelled fresh invaders from making landfall, then marched inland, crushing the Pritani as they found them. The Painted Men were pushed off the island and the few that survived settled here in Albain, never again able to manifest the might to threaten the Fae.
“The fomori continued to guard Airlann's shores. The Fae had all but neglected the big, bestial race to that point, but the fomori were now their salvation and could no longer be ignored. The elves gifted them with immortality and they continued to serve the Seelie Court.”
Flyn let the tale settle in his mind. He had never heard it before, but he was never one for history.
“Deglan,” he said, as something occurred to him. “The cob
urn also helped the Seelie Court win a war. We were not granted immortality.”
He heard the gnome grunt. Clearly, the thought had never crossed his mind.
“Different war. Different time,” Deglan ventured. “The power of the elves was severely diminished after the Rebellion. The Goblin Kings ushered in the Age of Autumn when they supplanted Irial Elf-King and it long held sway before we retook the throne. Irial's daughter died fighting the Gaunt Prince, and the king succumbed to grief. The Restoration is generously named, Bantam Flyn. We never did regain what was lost. The Seelie Court has remained silent for centuries, the Fae have all but withdrawn from the world and man backslides into barbarity. Another few hundred years and we may witness all of mankind once again resembling the Pritani.”
“Well, you will witness it,” Flyn pointed out.
“Perhaps,” Deglan grumbled. “Not sure I want to.”
“If it helps,” Flyn said, reaching for his sword, “we may not survive the night.”
A wash of red bodies was approaching. He counted about a dozen, appearing, disappearing and reappearing as they picked their way through the crags off the track.
“Buggery and shit,” Deglan hissed. Gnomes saw well in the dark, their eyes enhancing what light was available. Likely he saw the movement in the rocks, but to Flyn the warm flesh of the humans shone. He motioned for Deglan to duck down, fearing the Painted Men would begin hurling spears. They were certainly close enough.
Flyn's mind raced. He was confident he could approach his enemies unseen, but remaining silent would be near impossible. His steel spurs would sound on the rocks and even if he removed them, the clink of his mail might give him away. Armor was not something Flyn was willing to relinquish.
He spied one radiating form on the far left, well away from his companions. If Flyn could reach him unnoticed and dispatch him painfully, noisily, it might frighten the rest and send them running. It was not an honorable way to kill, but these Pritani courted such an end by sneaking up in the dark. It might work, but if the others were not spooked and rushed the wain, Deglan would be left exposed.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 12
