“How long?” he asked without turning. “How long was Faabar to serve you?”
The answer came quickly. “Fifty years.”
Deglan winced, unable to stop himself from facing the dwarf.
“So now that giant whoreson serves in Faabar's stead?”
“As you say,” Fafnir nodded. “My wares still require protection and I have not another year to waste forging a new blade.”
“I warned Faabar against dealings with you,” Deglan said. “Bargains with dwarfs never end well.”
“And yet,” Fafnir replied, “his bargain with me was not his end. Fate chose differently. He went off in search of an Unwound instead, and if I recall, it was you who set him on that path. A path from which he never returned.”
The spit in Deglan's mouth soured. “Let us go, Master Crane.”
Outside, Hafr still waited, smiling as he watched his goat feed from a pile of refuse. Feeling weary to the bone, Deglan walked over and stood before the giant.
“You have many titles Hafr the Ever-Boastful,” Deglan told him. “But one thing you will never be is Faabar of the Brindlebacks.”
With that, he made his way out of the courtyard and along the narrow alley until the clamor of the craftsman’s district was well behind. When he reached the high street, he turned away from the direction of the docks and the fishwife's hut. He walked briskly, distancing himself from Ingelbert.
“What are you, um, what are you going to do?” the chronicler asked.
“Tomorrow? I have no idea,” Deglan replied without slowing. “Today, I am going to get very drunk.”
Ingelbert watched the herbalist go. He had no wish to pursue him. In truth, he had wanted free of the irascible gnome's company all day so he could devote time to the translation of the green book without distraction. Ingelbert could be obsessive, single-minded. It was a facet of his nature he accepted long ago. Once he set his acumen to a task, it was difficult to steer elsewhere. This might have been crippling were it not for another aspect of his cognition. He remembered everything.
Turning, Ingelbert headed back down the smith's alley. He found the giant now within the large smithy, standing in the center where the roof was highest. The dwarf was busy righting the rack that Deglan had upset with the flung hammer, picking up the scattered shields.
“Um,” Ingelbert ventured. “Excuse me.”
Hafr looked around, glancing down and smiling.
“Behold,” the giant snorted, getting Fafnir's attention. “The gnome sends the weakling back. Challenge you to a duel, maybe.”
The dwarf peered at Ingelbert for a moment. “How can I be of service?”
“The sword,” Ingelbert said.
A low growl bubbled in the giant's throat. “The sword is Hafr's now. It will be claimed by another only when I am slain. Come, puny one! Test Hafr's words.”
Ingelbert looked up at the glowering brute, then shook his head, ignoring him. “No,” he said, looking back to Fafnir. “Not that sword. Another, ah, another sword.”
The dwarf's eyes narrowed slightly. “Hafr. Leave us.”
Casting Ingelbert one final, threatening look, the giant curled his lip and shrugged, thumping out of the workshop, his goat following.
“Giants are uncouth,” the dwarf said apologetically. “But as guards, they have few equals.”
“Save fomori,” Ingelbert pointed out.
Fafnir touched the side of his nose. “Just so. Fomori are near as strong and more even-tempered. Of course, they are Airlann born. We immortal children of Middangeard are a lesser stock. Prone to chaos and wickedness, as the Fae are quick to remind us.”
Ingelbert knew his history. “Well, um, your people were slow to come to Airlann's aid, during the, ah, the Pig Iron Rebellion.”
“And only then for a price,” Fafnir said darkly, stooping to pick up a fallen shield. He held it in his thick, powerful hands for a moment, studying its shape. Then he shook his head with a sad chuckle and hung it on the rack. “I am afraid the grudges the Fae hold against we dwarrow go far deeper than their Rebellion. No, the roots of that enmity run to the eldest days.”
“When your people were still ruled by the huldu,” Ingelbert said.
Fafnir's gaze snapped up, a curious smile growing above his beard. “What is your name?”
“Ingel-um, Ingelbert Crane.”
“Ingelbert the Learned,” Fafnir said approvingly. “You know the dworgmál word for elves. Tell me, do you know any more of my people's tongue?”
“Yes,” Ingelbert said softly. “All, all of it.”
“Very good,” the dwarf nodded, looking Ingelbert up and down. “Though I would not say the elves ruled us.”
“That is the legend,” Ingelbert replied.
“Legend to you mortals,” Fafnir said, still smiling. “History to us. Let us just say the dwarrow and the huldu were once...allied, when we both dwelt in Middangeard. But those bonds were severed and the elves left our homeland, settling in Airlann. It was long, long ago and our kindred atrophied with the passing of many thousands of years. To this day, the huldu and their Fae subjects look upon the races of Middangeard with contempt. Magic's castoffs.”
Ingelbert had a vague notion of what the smith spoke. It was an archaic myth, with no written record that Ingelbert had ever encountered. It was little more than an oral tradition, one of many almost nonsensical stories concerning the creation of life. That Magic made the world was accepted, molding it from the Elements to create a celestial guardian against some unfathomably ancient emptiness. Airlann, the Source Isle, was said to contain the slumbering essence of Magic, near spent from its long struggle with chaos. The elves were Airlann's stewards, Magic's chosen people, and they were also given dominion over the Elementals, the Fae races charged with protecting Earth, Fire, Water and Wind, the foundations of creation. This, every orphan at the Dried Tear was taught.
But there was another tale, an older tale not oft told, of Magic's original keepers. The immortals of Middangeard. The dwarfs, giants, elves and an unnamed race inscrutably referred to as demons. They were each entrusted with an Element, but greed and lust for power drove them to conspire against one another. In some tellings there was a great war, in others a grievous betrayal. Whatever the events, the Elementals of Middangeard failed, their powers stripped and their land left a frozen waste. All except the elves, who were favored by Magic and given Airlann, to begin anew.
Ingelbert had never given the story much thought. He loved history and the discovery of knowledge, but the origins of the molding of the world were unrecorded, unreachable, lost to a time beyond mortal reckoning. As far as he knew, even the oldest Fae had not lived during those events. After so long, certainty was impossible, leaving only belief. Ingelbert was uncomfortable with belief, trusting only to what he could possess with proof.
“And mistake not,” Fafnir continued. “We may have come late to Airlann's aid, but we had our own concerns. Irial Elf-King lost his throne to the human sorcerers and their goblin worshipers, but was too proud to seek the help of the dwarrow for many years. At last, when things were most dire, the Fae stooped to treat with us. A bargain was struck, and yes, we demanded remuneration, but we paid dearly as well. Vindwor Secret Keeper, our high king, was laid low at the Battle of Nine Crowns, defeated by that wretched warlock the Gaunt Prince.”
This Ingelbert knew to be true. The Battle of Nine Crowns was the last bloody chapter in the history of the Rebellion. The Forge Born had been defeated, Jerrod the Second was dead and all that remained of the Goblin King's forces was an army of Red Caps led by his son. Though small in number, every goblin in the ranks was a fanatical veteran and loyal to the death, but the Gaunt Prince did not commit them. He commanded his generals to scatter and go into hiding, choosing to meet the armies of the Fae alone. And there, on a rain-soaked field, the last scion of the Goblin Kings challenged the leaders of the Rebellion to combat. Wishing to see no more of their subjects slain, the lords of the Fae accepted. One human
prince against eight of the most powerful beings to draw breath. But the Gaunt Prince was no ordinary man and by the time he fell only Goban Blackmud, king of the gnomes, remained alive.
Nine monarchs. Eight deaths. The Battle of Nine Crowns.
“Your herbalist companion hates my kind,” Fafnir uttered, “but his liege-lord survived that day. Since the fall of Vindwor, we dwarfs have had no other high king to unify us, only scattered, insular lords guarding their hoards and holds.”
“I think,” Ingelbert said slowly, “Deglan's ire is born from your mistreatment of his, um, of his friend.”
Fafnir looked at him with regret. “I cannot return the sword to the fomori's grave, Ingelbert Crane. I cannot.”
“Again, Master Fafnir,” Ingelbert replied, “I am not here about that particular sword. It is of Coalspur that I wish to speak.”
The dwarf's brow furrowed with confusion.
“That is,” Ingelbert clarified, “the sword forged for Grand Master Coalspur of the Valiant Spur. The blade now bears his name in honor and is carried by a coburn named Bantam Flyn.”
Fafnir nodded with recollection. “I know him.”
“Yes. Um, he said you met in Black Pool and that you claimed, claimed to be the maker of the sword.”
“I am.”
“Wonderful,” Ingelbert said. “I am, um, that is, I was formerly the chronicler of the Valiant Spur, and squire Flyn, now Sir Flyn, came to me in regards to the weapon. He had questions, ah, questions which I could not answer.”
Fafnir's face began to show mild impatience. “Yes?”
“Well, Flyn believed that you told him the sword was a gift for Grand Master Coalspur, who died only a few years ago, but he, that is, Flyn, Flyn saw what he believed to be the same blade depicted on an old tapestry celebrating the Battle of the Unsounded Horn. That, ah, particular battle took place many centuries ago. Even if the sword were merely used as a model, the tapestry predates Coalspur's captaincy of the Order by several hundred years. This is most puzzling, Master Fafnir.”
The smith stared at him for a moment, his expression blackening. Then he laughed, heartily and loud.
“You are a most interesting man, Ingelbert Crane! You are no longer in service to the coburn, yet you pursue answers like a wolf who has caught the scent of blood.” The dwarf chuckled for a moment longer, then gathered his breath. “Like you, the coburn are a mortal race. It is difficult for mortals, especially young ones, to conceive how we immortals view the past. I have lived a long time fashioning weapons and do not recall now which of the knights I forged the sword for. I know every inch of the blade, Ingelbert Crane, but the coburn who first received it is just another shadowed face in the throngs of those I have outlived. It seemed more...courteous to deceive Flyn then explain a lapse in memory. The coburn are a proud race, I did not wish to offend the young squire needlessly.”
“I see,” Ingelbert said. And he did. By his own admission, the dwarf found it easier to lie. “Well, I will not, um, trouble you further.”
Fafnir offered his hand. “Master Crane.”
Ingelbert took it, clasping the dwarf's thick forearm, feeling the corded muscles, hard as metal. He tried to break the grip, but Fafnir held him fast, looking at him intensely. Ingelbert had seen that expression before, in his own face. Parlan Sloane had secretly done a charcoal sketch of him one day at the orphanage. Ingelbert had been reading.
Just as he began to be alarmed under the dwarf's scrutiny, Fafnir released him.
“Fare you well, Ingelbert the Learned. I hope our paths cross again.”
Ingelbert merely nodded and hurried out of the workshop.
He spent the rest of the day on a quiet stretch of shore a fair distance from the docks, digging words out of the green book. There was a crowd of sick and injured milling about outside the fishwife's hut when Ingelbert returned at dusk. Deglan was not within, however, and Ingelbert was forced to tell the infirm hopefuls they would have to come back on the morrow. Once alone, he ate a light meal and toyed with the notion of seeking Deglan out. A drunken gnome should be simple to find, even in a place as big as Gipeswic. He dismissed the idea, however, knowing the cranky healer would not respond well to being sought out.
Unable to stop himself, Ingelbert recorded the information about Coalspur in what was left of the annals he still possessed. Fafnir had withheld something, of that Ingelbert was certain, but he had taken the inquiry as far as he was willing. What did it matter? He was no longer the chronicler, not truly. He was like Deglan, adrift, clinging to the wreckage of another life.
Rain began to patter on the roof of the hut and Ingelbert retreated to his bed. The plaster around his injured arm itched terribly. When Deglan returned, he would make a point to ask when the dreadful thing could be removed. He fell asleep listening to the rain, the runes of the green book still dancing across his closed eyes.
He had latched the door before retiring and awoke in the dead of night to a rapping on the swollen wood. It was light, irregular and it took Ingelbert's drowsy senses a moment to differentiate the knocking from the patter of the rain. Disentangling himself from his bedding, he shuffled across the room, surprised Deglan was not yet cursing at him. Ingelbert removed the latch and opened the door.
Ingelbert's breathe seized in his chest as something fast barreled out of the darkness, striking him at shoulder height. His face was slapped wetly and he flung his arms up for protection, but the attack ceased as quickly as it began. Leaving the door open in case he needed to flee, he turned into the hut, arms still raised.
There, perched atop one of his bedposts, orange eyes fixed on him, was an immense owl. Not just an owl, a rodzlagen eagle-owl. The owl. Ingelbert's brain was spinning as he stared, slack-jawed and panting. The coloring, the size, the markings on the feathers, all identical. He was certain. Only how could it be? He had watched the bird die!
Slowly, cautiously he approached, hands raised. The owl watched him come, unconcerned. By inches, Ingelbert reached for the owl and it allowed him to stroke its wet feathers. Carefully, he hooked his knuckle underneath the downy feathers of the owl's breast and lifted them up, finding the evidence. A thin, grey scar adorned the flesh beneath, exactly where Edric's dagger had sunk to the hilt. Breathless, Ingelbert looked into the owl's face. It regarded him for a moment, then blinked before turning once more to face the door.
The same bird, back from the dead. Ingelbert was certain, he just did not know what to believe.
TWELVE
Flyn slept with the pigs.
The old sow had grunted in protest when he crawled into the grub hut, but did not rouse herself in anger nor move even an inch to make space for him. Wedging himself between the sow's ample bulk and the side wall of the hut, he huddled just inside the dripping opening, hugging Coalspur to his chest. He had been content to sleep out in the warmth of the spring night, but the rain forced him to seek shelter. Gallus would not suffer another male in his hall, so that left Flyn with no other choice. It was not the first night he had spent in the company of his father's swine.
He often used the grub hut as a haven during his youth. Gulver, even at a young age, was soon too big to squeeze into the low, cramped enclosure, so Flyn never had to compete for this particular hiding place. Many a bitter, winter night had been endured nestled amongst the stinking warmth of the pigs, though he had been smaller then and now found the sanctuary far less comfortable.
Unlike the sunken huts inhabited by Gallus and his mates, the pigs' shelter was built at ground level, a long rectangle of stacked stones with a low roof of crude thatching. The pigs entered the hut at the end of one of the long sides, the first to enter turning to make its way to the opposite end of the enclosure, which was just wide enough for a full grown pig to lie down. The others followed, snuggling side by side until the last, always the big sow, had just enough room to lay with her head facing the opening. Seven sleeping pigs and Flyn, all squeezed in a row. He was suddenly reminded of the village in Airlann Deglan of
ten spoke of and once called home.
“Who resides in Hog's Wallow now?” he muttered to himself.
His feet stuck out into the rain, as did the last third of Coalspur's sheathed blade. Within minutes of hunching down, Flyn's back began cramping, protesting the tight conditions and the weight of his mail. It was for his armor's sake that he crawled into the grub hut, the steel rings already suffering from the effects of his errantry. The tarnish would soon turn to rust without proper time spent with oil and rag, time Flyn would need to spend out of his armor, which he could not risk. So, there was nothing for it but to stay out of the wet as best he could. Fortunately, Flyn had no such worry with his sword.
When he first received Coalspur, he spent countless hours tending the weapon with oil and whetstone. It was not until after the battle at Castle Gaunt that he discovered his efforts were needless. Despite cleaving into the hard iron skin of many Unwound, the blade suffered neither notch nor nick and had not dulled in the slightest. During his time on the island, the salty spray had done nothing to affect the metal's luster. Dwarf-forged steel was much prized, but Coalspur's undiminished edge and resistance to degradation was unlike anything Flyn knew to be possible. He reckoned it unique until Sir Corc gifted him with the spurs of elf-make, now strapped to his soaked talons and resting in the mud.
Mail. Sword. Spurs. He was well girded against the attack that was soon to come.
It was a marvel Gallus had not assaulted him the moment Flyn stepped into his miserable hall. For his part, Flyn gave no provocation. He had kept his head low, never meeting his father's eyes for more than a few moments. Surely the old bird suspected a challenge. It was not Flyn's intention to offer one. He simply made his presence known, which Gallus accepted with an indolent curiosity. Once the question of Flyn's parentage had been answered, Gallus returned to his seat and signaled one of the females to bring food.
It was rough fare; hard bread and a pottage made with peas, onion and pig fat. Flyn ate standing, while Gallus peered down at him, evaluating the threat. No further words were spoken and Flyn was careful to keep his eyes on his meal, knowing that even a lingering glance at one of the females would insight violence. To waste food was a sign of disrespect and weakness, so Flyn mopped the bowl clean with his bread before choking it down. The taste was painfully familiar. When he was finished, he placed the bowl on the ground and bowed his head to Gallus before turning and leaving the hall. The dozen strides to the curtain covering the door were the longest Flyn could remember taking, his ears straining for sounds of a charge at his back.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 19
