It was all a dance. Displays of obedience and domination, each participant ever searching for signs of doubt, over-confidence, cowardice. All a dance, and one in which Flyn had come here to participate, at least until he could change the tune to suit his own steps.
He smiled to himself in the darkness. Only a Tsigani would think of this as a dance. Gallus knew nothing of music or grace or shared joy. Likely he now lay in his hut, at his ease with several of the youngest females in his bed, without a care for the sudden return of one of his wayward sons or the danger such an appearance could pose.
It was the coburn way.
No ruling male, no matter how strong, could keep his clutch forever. Some were claimed by disease or mishap, others killed by their own mates. Most though, most were simply deposed by a younger male, either an outsider in search of females or a son ready to replace his sire. And, at least once, an alliance of sons who thought themselves ready.
Flyn stared out into the downpour, at the ugly, old trees and the depressed clump of huts. In the rain they appeared as sodden lumps, boils upon the flesh of the forest. He had hoped to find his birthplace abandoned or, at the very least, under the reign of a new master, but in his heart he knew such a hope was a useless dream. Gallus would not have succumbed to illness or age. Gallus would not have been slain by some wandering strut lusting for a clutch to claim. Gallus' mates would never dare conspire to murder him. He was indomitable. An untamed, savage tyrant living in the heart of the wilds, his very presence keeping the settlement of mankind at bay.
During his youth, Flyn had seen his father defend his mastery from rivals on four separate occasions. Every challenger had been brutally defeated. Only one had survived. Gallus knew he would one day fall, but the thought plagued not upon his mind. No, within that decrepit hall rested a creature unafraid, while out here in the damp, reeking shadows, squatted a knight, the rain melting him back to childhood.
Flyn was awakened by the big sow pushing her snout into his shoulder and squealing with aggravation. She almost knocked him off his cramped and tingling legs when he stumbled out of the grub hut to allow her to pass. Grunting, the sow headed for the woods to forage, her six piglets following close at her heels.
The rain had ceased, the first shards of rising sunlight intruding into the forest from the east. Flyn attempted to stretch the soreness from his neck and shoulders, but only succeeded in increasing his desire to remove his hauberk and be free of its weight. He walked to the border of the clearing so that his blood could chase the stinging from his legs. He was careful to keep the door of the hall in sight, so that he would be visible when Gallus emerged.
Movement caught his eye and he looked across the clearing to see one of the younger females disappear into the birthing hut, likely bringing food to the mates lying in their confinement. Once Flyn saw her, he began to notice the others. The whole clutch was stirring with activity. Females fetching water, tending the toft, scraping hides. They were all about, over a dozen at the least with an equal number likely hidden from view within the hall. Counting the mothers Flyn had seen in the birthing hut, Gallus must possess over thirty females, more than he had before Flyn fled. Gallus had been conquering. How far must he have ranged to find clutches he had not already despoiled? How many other tyrants must he have slain to gather this many females? Flyn estimated half their number were active mates, the rest daughters, old and new. Known as beldams, these females were spared Gallus' desires, but were destined for a life of never-ending labor and servitude.
Despite the drudgery, the females of Flyn's memory were a garrulous lot, their chatter as endless as their chores. Now, they moved and worked so silently, Flyn had hardly known they were present. Heads were bowed, steps were cautious, communication limited to gestures. They only grew this cautious when a rival male was near, sensing the inevitable conflict, doing nothing that might hasten its arrival. Of the children, he saw no sign, their mothers having hidden them away in hopes of protecting them. Flyn yearned to tell them he had not come to spill blood, that he was a knight of the Valiant Spur. He wondered how many would know what that meant. It mattered little. To speak to any of the females, even the beldams, would only bring about what he sought to avoid. Besides, these were Gallus' brood. Nothing would ease their fear of him.
As he watched the females move about, Flyn felt a stirring in his loins. It crept up on him, sudden and disturbing, quickly rising from an unwanted twinge into a prepossessing ache. Lust for flesh, lust for blood. These females need no longer suffer the dominion of an aging, filthy brute, not when Flyn could throw Gallus broken upon the earth and claim all he once possessed. Flyn would protect the females, see them free, see them safe. He could take them away from here, he could take them to more civilized lands.
He could take them.
Perhaps only one, the youngest and most comely, the most willing. He was young and charming, his feathers resplendent. Surely the females would welcome his touch, desire his caresses. They would compete for his affections, fulfilling his every whim in order to become his favorite. His father's blood would still be hot upon his hands when he took the first to bed and expelled the balance of his passion in the release of willing flesh.
The curtain to the hall was thrust aside and Gallus ducked through the opening, a brace of spears clutched in one hand. Flyn saw him through a swimming haze of crimson, the sound of his own blood drumming through his skull.
No wealth or mate ever mine.
A cold weight settled into his gut and he looked to the ground, breathing deeply.
My honor undimmed.
The words of his knightly oath struggled to the front of his brain and he fought to hold them fast against the furious tide of red anger flooding his veins. Looking up, he saw Gallus approaching. Flyn kept very still, willing the teeming appetites to leave his body before his father sensed them.
The spears rode Gallus' fist carelessly, the butts almost dragging on the ground. It was a ruse. Flyn could see the readiness in his father's stride, the possibility of quick action loaded into every muscle in the old bird's body. It was infused in Gallus' motion just as it was in Flyn's stillness. Damn! He had been so careful, but now there was nothing to be done. In another few steps, Gallus would know Flyn's desire, however unbidden. He would smell it.
Coalspur was propped on his shoulder, still sheathed. Sir Corc had once told him that a greatsword was a weapon best used on the open battlefield or for the slaying of monstrous beasts. Unless in experienced hands, such a ponderous blade could prove a hindrance in a duel, a lesson Sir Corc had beaten into him when Flyn once drew the blade on the knight in anger. Luckily, he had learned a great deal since that defeat and now counted his hands well experienced.
Gallus stopped before him. Now that he was down from the platform in his hall, Flyn was reminded where Gulver received his immense size. Despite the passing years, Flyn still had to look up slightly to look his father in the eye. His age was impossible to determine. He looked to be somewhere between Sir Corc and Grand Master Lackcomb, but could have been older than both, or younger for all Flyn knew. Gallus was molded in the headwaters of barbarism, the weariness of existence fueling a bottomless well of spiteful vigor.
Flyn nearly struck out when his father's free hand raised. Pinching the edge of Flyn's mail sleeve with his fingers, Gallus emitted a derisive laugh from the back of his throat. He looked at the armor with disdain, then cast the same look into Flyn's face before removing his hand. He turned and walked several paces into the brush, keeping his spears in hand as he squatted. After a moment the stink of Gallus' emptying bowels filled the air.
Flyn silently cursed himself. A few scant hours in the company of females and he was nearly overcome by the territorial instincts that plagued his race. The Valiant Spur's vow of chastity was not an idle one. Without it, there could be no brotherhood and the Order would have torn itself apart centuries ago. It was mere luck that his father had not sensed his heat.
Finished, the old bird
rose and walked out of the bushes.
“Your mother? Which one?”
The sudden, blunt question took Flyn off guard. There was no care in the inquiry, just a selfish need for information.
“Eadlin,” Flyn managed to answer.
Gallus nodded with immediate recall. He knew all his property.
“Dead.”
Flyn fought to keep the rage from his voice. “I know. I was here. Claennis took me in, after. She was mother to Gulver.”
Gallus' expression darkened with uncertain anger. “The big'un?”
Flyn nodded. Gallus tossed a bitter breath of laughter in his face, the anger at the memory of the challenge replaced by the one of his triumph.
“Dead?”
“No,” Flyn replied, risking a mote of joy.
“You were t'other,” Gallus said. It was not a question. The look Gallus gave him caused Flyn to shift his weight subtly, but the attack did not come. The baleful look in his father's eyes faded as quickly as it had come.
“Claennis was a good hen,” Gallus pronounced as if that ended the matter.
Flyn did not need to be told. She had kept him and Gulver alive and unharmed for longer than their father would normally have suffered, using his favor of her to extend his forbearance. But even Claennis' influence did not last forever. Gallus went raiding, bringing fresh mates upon his return and Claennis found herself replaced by a younger female. After that, each passing day saw Flyn and Gulver's existence grow more treacherous.
“When did she die?” Flyn asked.
“Winter,” Gallus replied, pulling at his long, heavy wattle. “The one after you pair run off.”
There was no sadness in the response. It was merely a statement of fact. The only thing Gallus had buried more than enemies was mates.
“Come,” he commanded, heading off into the woods without a backward glance.
Flyn fell into step behind, shocked that Gallus would expose his back. Was it a trap? A test? No. Gallus' coarse brain understood the notions of honor, even if he did not adhere to them. Flyn was not the first knight his father had encountered and he expected no skulduggery.
They walked away from the brood huts and into the expanse of the forest. After a few minutes, they passed one final hut, smaller and well away from the others. Flyn had no memory of this lone dwelling. Gallus passed it by without consideration. Flyn began to hear a sharp, rhythmic sound cracking through the trees, soon joined by the unmistakable grunting of pigs. Gallus led him towards the sounds and eventually they came to a large oak. Beneath its branches, Flyn's former bed fellows rooted around for acorns. These were being knocked to the ground by a lone coburn brandishing a thin, long-handled club. Flyn's heart sank. There was another adult male in the clutch after all, if male he could be called.
He was barely out of adolescence, shorter than Gallus by a head, his comb and wattle pale and underdeveloped. His shorter stature made it difficult for him to reach the acorn laden upper branches, but he wielded his felling club purposefully, hopping up to strike the nuts from the tree. Flyn could see one of his feet was deformed, the talons curled inward on withered toes, making his task all the harder. The youth's body was fleshy and would likely have already fallen to fat if better fed. Capons were prone to heaviness.
Gallus called wordlessly, but in the midst of his labor, the lad did not hear. With a snarl of frustration, Gallus strode over and snatched the club from the plump coburn's hand. Startled and off-balance, the capon fell hard to the ground.
“Up!” Gallus ordered, throwing the club down at the youth. It struck against his warding arms and Flyn saw him wince as the wood bashed against his bones. The capon scrambled to his feet, his face the numb mask of one long accustomed to such abuse. His eyes, however, grew wide when they caught sight of Flyn. Within that stare Flyn saw a fate avoided.
Gallus' sons had three choices when they came of age. Challenge him. Flee. Or stay and be castrated. This poor young strut did not seem the fighting sort and, with his clubbed foot, must have seen little hope in flight. So, he stayed and surrendered to mutilation, becoming a slave to Gallus' will, a tormented servant who posed no threat of rivalry for mastery over the clutch. This was why the coburn race was so formidable. The weak did not breed.
Gallus, displeased at the capon's distraction, redirected his attention with a backhand across the beak. The youth stumbled again at the force of the blow, expelling a small whimper of pain, but managed to keep his footing.
“See to the traps,” Gallus instructed and the capon hobbled away into the woods.
Flyn found his fingers aching from gripping his sword so tight. He had suffered similar treatment at his father's hands and worse, but the life of a capon must have been the cruelest sort. In the pecking order of the clutch, a castrated male was beneath even the beldams. In a hard winter, he would be the first to starve. Gulver and Flyn, faced with this fate, made a different choice and it nearly cost them their lives.
“That one's not mine,” Gallus waved a spear contemptibly at the departing capon. “It's mother was already swollen when I claimed her.”
Flyn swallowed his rage and said nothing.
The rest of the morning was spent trekking circuitously through the forest, checking Gallus' many traps. Only one proved fruitful, the capon whistling back to signal them towards the game. The ensnared fox hissed and growled with vicious desperation right up until Gallus plunged a spear into its body. Freeing the limp animal from the trap, the capon draped it over a shoulder, the blood staining his russet colored feathers.
By midday they came to a sizable woodland stream and followed its banks until they reached the edge of a rocky rise. Here, the water cascaded over the boulders, forming a deep pool below before the stream continued on its course through the somber trees. Without pause, Gallus began climbing down the moss covered rocks towards the pool, one hand still clutching his spears. The way was slick with slime, but the old bird made the descent with ease, his movements sure and practiced. Flyn slung Coalspur's harness over his head and situated the sword across his back, inwardly cursing the drenching his mail was sure to receive during the climb. The capon had turned away from the ridge and was making his way down the sloping woods, skirting the outcropping to avoid the scramble down the rocks. Such a path was longer, but obviously easier and less hazardous with the youth's clubbed foot. Gallus had nearly reached the bottom, but Flyn stepped back from the rise and caught up with the capon.
“What is your name?” he asked.
The young coburn looked over at him quickly, taken off guard by his sudden presence, then cast another furtive glance back towards the ridge. Gallus was out of sight, hidden from view by the wooded slope.
“Wynchell,” the capon answered, his voice soft and high.
“I am Sir Bantam Flyn,” Flyn said, the words sounding strange as he spoke. His instinct was to be less formal, to eschew all knightly titles and laugh and clap the lad merrily on the back. He refrained from any joviality, however. This poor strut did not need any more hands laid upon him, nor be pandered to with forced friendship. “Have you heard of the Knights of the Valiant Spur, Wynchell?”
Regardless of good intention, Wynchell, it seemed, was not receptive to friendship, forced or otherwise. He did not answer and said nothing further as they made their way down the wooded hill, keeping his eyes on the placement of his unsure steps.
They reached flat ground at last and Wynchell led them assuredly to the pool. Gallus was hauling an eel trap from the water when they approached, turning to stare at them with a mocking leer.
“You take the cripple's way?” he asked Flyn. “Too craven to climb?”
Flyn refused to be baited. He pointed up at the waterfall and then tapped his mail-clad chest. “Rusted be the knight who courts a wet embrace.”
Gallus' brow wrinkled at this, trying to determine if he was being insulted. He took several paces forward, then tossed the eel trap roughly at Wynchell without taking his eyes off Flyn.
&
nbsp; “A true coburn,” Gallus growled, “fights in his feathers.”
Flyn had a dozen clever retorts for that, but he kept them to himself. He would not bait any more than he would be baited. He shrugged out of his sword harness, attempting to make the motion appear casual, but Gallus' eyes narrowed. Let him be suspicious, Flyn would have Coalspur close to hand. He propped the sword up against the rock face, then sat down on a boulder. He knew Gallus wanted to keep him in sight, but he would be damned if he was going to help the old tyrant hunt or fish.
Wynchell dared no such rebellion and was already pulling the catch from the traps. The eels wriggled in his hand, sinewy and slow, before he tossed them upon the ground where they lay to gasp in the open air. Gallus speared one deftly, lifting it up to pluck it off the blade. It was still writhing when he bit into the soft flesh at its belly, tearing a pulpy pale chunk free with his beak. Wynchell shot a quick, hungry glance at Gallus while he ate, which Flyn did not fail to notice. He and Gulver had cast that same look many times, envying their father's food far more than his mates. Sometimes the old bird would share, but they went hungry more often than not, relying on what little Claennis was able to sneak them. This day, Gallus was not in a charitable mood and made no offer to share.
“You should give the lad some,” Flyn said.
Gallus laughed at this. “It's fat enough.”
“He is hungry, Gallus,” Flyn pressed. “He works tirelessly.”
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 20
