He turned back towards the hall.
“Bantam Flyn?” he heard a voice, distant, nearly drowned in the throbbing furnace of his skull. “Sir? What are you doing? We must go!”
He saw red. A swimming crimson, the bodies of the females shining figures of hot white. They would be his. Shrugging out of the harness he ripped Coalspur free, tossing scabbard and belt aside. Why deny what he had come for? Why hide behind oaths and honor, vows taken to an order that no longer wanted him? He would take his vengeance and claim his prize. This tyrant would no longer roam the lands, drawing breath and breeding misery. He would die this day.
“GALLUS!”
His cry ripped through the trees, the echo lost in the pulsing of his raging heart.
The curtain of the hut was torn down and his father rushed forth. A round shield of rough bronze was strapped to his arm, the hand underneath clutching his spears and in his other hand he bore the weighty club. Flyn laughed at the sight. Bronze and wood! The uncouth barbarian and his crude weapons against the finest steel. Flyn felt his feathers lift away from his flesh and he sunk his talons into the loam, his sword held before him in both hands.
Gallus charged and Flyn rushed to meet him, raising Coalspur above his head. He would end this with a single stroke. The distance was eaten away and Flyn swung, bringing his sword down in a strike that would split Gallus from shoulder to belly. His blade struck nothing but soft earth as Gallus spun away, bringing his club around to slam into Flyn's exposed back. It caught him high at the shoulders, pummeling him through his mail and sending him stumbling forward. He whipped around to face Gallus once more, slashing out with the length of his blade, a warding blow to keep his enemy from pressing forward.
So. He was fast. Unarmored, he would need to be.
Flyn laughed.
Gallus' club was nearly as long as Coalspur, but he wielded it easily in one hand, keeping it low and to the side. Flyn lunged, feinting a thrust at his father's shield before whipping his blade around for a slash that would tear through the bronze. Gallus ducked the attack, hammering the edge of his shield into Flyn's thigh. He felt the blow even through his mail. Gallus was inside his guard, but Flyn released his right hand from the grip of his sword and punched downward, catching Gallus in the face, then slammed Coalspur's pommel into his shoulder. Gallus shrugged off the blows and continued his bull rush. Flyn did not resist, but rolled with the momentum, falling to his back and kicking his feet into Gallus' belly, sending him sprawling to the dirt.
Flyn scrambled to his feet, his back suddenly exposed. He turned quickly, but just as he faced his father, something slammed into his ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs. Looking down, he found a spear piercing his left side. Ignoring the pain, he looked up in time to see the second spear flying towards him. Swinging Coalspur, he batted the flung weapon aside, shattering the wooden haft. Gallus had dropped his club to hurl the spears and now retrieved it from the ground. Flyn used the moment to pull the first missile from his side.
His mail had taken some of the brunt, but not enough to prevent the head from sinking half its length into his body. Blood flowed freely through the torn links of his armor. Gallus also bore wounds. Two patches of feathers around his mid-section were slick with blood, the result of the elven spurs. His injuries, however, did not slow him. He charged again, his shield leading. Flyn swung a sweeping cut at his legs, but Gallus was already in the air, leaping the blade and hurtling towards him, swinging his club down with all the force of his descent. Flyn parried the blow, shearing a foot of length off the club, but as Gallus landed, he once again slammed the rim of his shield into Flyn's leg, this time just under the edge of his mail. Blinding pain was quickly replaced by a terrible numbness and Flyn felt his leg buckle. His fall brought him eye to eye with Gallus.
His father smiled.
Flyn flung an elbow into the hateful sneer, sending the brute reeling. Gallus rolled away, but stopped just outside of Coalspur's reach, regaining his feet. He began circling Flyn. The old bird was cunning, stepping to the side of Flyn's injured leg, knowing he could not match the speed for long and thus expose his flank. Flyn did not wait for the opening to appear.
He charged forward, but did not attack, allowing an opening in his guard. Gallus took the bait and swung his club viciously. Flyn caught the blow on his blade, the force of Gallus' stroke sinking the steel into the wood. With a downward twist of his sword, Flyn tore the club from Gallus' grip, then head-butted him in the face, sending him stumbling back. Pressing his attack, Flyn drug Coalspur into the air above his head, then brought it down in a fast arc. Gallus swung his shield up into the stroke, interrupting the swing before Flyn could put his full weight behind it, but the dwarf-forged steel sundered the bronze. A grunt issued from Gallus as steel bit bone and bright blood spurted, running in rivulets off the barbarian's elbow. The impact drove him to a knee and Flyn planted a foot in his chest and kicked him onto his back. He stabbed down with the greatsword, but Gallus cast the remains of the shield in his face, upsetting the finishing blow. The blade sunk deep into the ground as Gallus rolled away, kicking at Flyn's legs as he did and catching him with a spur. Gallus had no knightly caps of steel, but his natural talons were sharp enough to tear flesh, drawing blood.
Flyn pulled Coalspur from the mud, but Gallus barreled into him as he turned, knocking him off his feet and sending the sword flying from his hand. A fist punched into his face twice before the ground rose up and bashed into the back of his skull. Dazed and disoriented, blazes of sickening light splashed across his vision as Gallus struck him again and again. He could not breathe, a hand pinning him to the earth by the throat. Blinded and scrabbling, Flyn tried to break his father's throttling grip, but it was no use. Gallus' strength was unconquerable.
Desperate for air, Flyn kicked his legs free from beneath his father and slammed his spurs into him with all the force he could muster. He heard Gallus growl in pain and the grip around his throat slackened. He kicked with the spurs again, but Gallus did not release him. Again he drove the spurs deep. With a bestial scream, Gallus wrapped his other hand around Flyn's throat and began lifting him off the ground. Flyn dug in with his spurs, grinding them deeper into his father's back, but still the brute raised him higher. Gallus was standing now, holding Flyn before him by the neck. Flyn looked into his blood-crazed eyes, leaving one spur embedded to support his own weight, kicking again and again with the other. Gallus opened his beak wide in a terrible howl of fury, then thrust his face forward at Flyn's, biting into his wattle. There was a wet sound and excruciating pain as the soft flesh was torn away from under Flyn's beak. He felt Gallus fling him aside and he hit the ground heavily, sliding in the muck.
His vision cleared and he saw Gallus stumbling for his club. Hot blood pumped down Flyn's neck, but he paid no heed, casting about until his eyes fell on his sword, lying on the ground a dozen paces away. He crawled towards it, snatching at the grip and rolling to his back. Gallus advanced towards him, his steps unsteady, the club dangling in his hand. Flyn managed to rise, the weight of his armor trying to drag him back to the earth. Coalspur was an unwieldy weight in his hands, the blade swaying drunkenly in front of him.
He needed to end this. Now.
There was not strength enough in him for another great swing. He would need to get in close, plant the blade in Gallus' middle for a draw cut. Disembowel the bastard. Flyn widened his grip on the sword, placing his left hand down at the pommel, inverting his right hand so that the heel butted up against the cross-guard. It was something Corc had taught him, calling it the oar-grip.
Gallus was nearly upon him and Flyn planted his feet, crouching low. The club came up. Flyn sprung, ducking his head into his shoulder, allowing Gallus' blow to fall. He nearly lost his feet as the club slammed into his left arm, but he barreled through the impact and the agony, pushing the edge of the blade into his father with his full weight. He heard Gallus grunt in pain and Flyn stepped out to the side, dragging the sword along with him.
A scraping filled his ears, metal on metal. Flyn looked to the ground, and saw his father’s guts. One pale, glistening loop trailed amongst the remnants of Gallus' severed girdle of bronze discs.
Amazingly, Gallus kept his feet, his face still, his eyes drunken. He took one solid step forward before his legs gave out, but even as he struck his knees, the old tyrant continued to stare up at Flyn with stubborn wrath.
“Farewell, father,” Flyn said, raising Coalspur over his head for the ending stroke.
Something struck him hard upon the shoulder before he brought the sword down. A fist-sized stone tumbled to the ground at his feet. Another came arcing at his face, causing Flyn to duck gracelessly. Looking about, he saw the females closing in on him from every direction, flinging rocks.
“Enough!” Flyn demanded from behind his warding arms. “I only seek to help you!”
The stones continued to pelt him, many blunted by his mail, but others striking painfully into his fingers and head, his feet and elbows. The closer the pullets came, the better their aim and Flyn was now awash in a battering storm. He cursed and cried out in protest, trying to cease the assault while searching desperately for a way to win free of his encircling attackers. A rock cracked horribly into the back of his skull and Flyn screeched with rage and pain, whirling around with his sword drawn back. If he could not reason with these misguided harridans, he would cut them down!
The pullets did not recoil from his blade. They held their ground, well within Coalspur’s deadly reach, and continued to cast rocks, stooping to fetch clods of mud when the stones were exhausted.
Flyn paused, lowering his sword. He could not do it, would not. He could not fathom the females’ defense of their oppressor, but he would not slay them for it, peril to himself or no.
“Peace!” he cried at the pullets. “I will go! On my word! I will go!”
The hail of debris began to slacken. Flyn turned to make good on his promise and was lifted off his feet when the club smashed up under his beak. He felt a crack and blood filled his mouth, choking him. He must have risen, for he was on his feet when Gallus hit him again, the wood crushing his ribs. Somehow, the tyrant had regained his feet, holding his escaping entrails with one hand while he swung the club with the other. Coalspur remained in Flyn’s own hand, but he could not bring the sword up in time. He heard the dull rush of wind as the club swung again, slapping sharply into his mail, feeling bones snap beneath. Gallus disappeared. There was only the beating of the club, coming from everywhere at once, swatting him about in a maelstrom of pain.
He was on the ground.
Gallus loomed above him, visible through only one eye, the other swollen shut. The savage was gutted and yet lived.
Flyn laughed through his shattered beak. There was nothing else he could do.
Sounds. Soft and sharp and regular.
Flyn's eye opened and found Wynchell. Half of Wynchell. The capon struck downward at something unseen. Dirt flew. He was waist deep in a hole, digging. The plump lad took a breath, straightening his back and saw Flyn looking at him. Spade in hand, he stepped out of the unfinished grave.
Flyn's grave.
Wynchell stood over him, his face a melted candle of fear, fury and despair. Flyn tried to speak, tried to raise an arm towards the youth, but could accomplish neither. Wynchell swallowed hard, then raised the spade, poising the cutting edge over Flyn's neck. The tool trembled above him and Flyn, waiting for the descent, spat blood.
With a powerless moan, Wynchell dropped the spade and bent down, grabbing at Flyn's shoulders and tugging. Feebly, Flyn buried his heels in the dirt, trying to stop the lad from pulling him into the hole. He only slid a few inches and then he felt his mail being tugged off his body. Flyn choked on a hundred screams as the capon fumbled to get him out of the armor, but at last the task was done. Wynchell tossed the hauberk into the hole, while Flyn lay panting and whimpering.
“You must go,” the youth's face appeared above him. He was weeping. “Can you move? You must go!”
Flyn felt something being wrested from his grip. Coalspur. He clutched down hard on the grip, growling and shaking his head.
“You will go quicker without it,” Wynchell protested.
Flyn shook his head again and rolled onto his side, the pain in his ribs nearly ridding him of consciousness. His belt lay within reach, discarded after Wynchell stripped him of his armor. Flyn grabbed for it, looping it around Coalspur's cross-guard. Thrusting his other arm out before him, he sunk his fingers into the loam and pulled, dragging himself along.
“The pullets tend to Gallus' wounds. You must be gone soon.”
Wynchell helped him rise, but the lad was not strong enough to support him. Flyn managed only a score of steps before collapsing once more. After a few moments fighting to breathe, the capon helped him again, and again he stumbled along weakly before falling. Flyn did not know how long this occurred, but it was near dark when the lad finally gave up.
“I must get back,” Wynchell muttered and without another word he was gone.
Flyn lay in the grass, in the wind, for a long time.
He crawled through the long night, his injuries often forcing him into a swoon. His progress was torturous and he had no concept of time or distance. He still bled, leaving a trail behind him. Gallus would have no trouble finding him if he pursued. Flyn needed to cover ground, put space between him and his father. He crawled.
He fled.
Dawn came and Flyn emerged from a stupor born of exhaustion. His harness was gone and he dragged Coalspur along behind him, unsheathed, tethered to one foot with his belt. The sun grew high and Flyn had long left the shelter of the forest. He crawled through the scrub land, the heat pressing down on him from above. It had not rained and his tongue became a dry lump, his throat a dusty, empty well.
It was a row of hedges that defeated him. Thick with bramble, they grew across his path as far as he could see in either direction. He tried to crawl through, but the bracken was too dense. Flyn tore at the hedge, snapping the thorny limbs with raw hands. It was no use. Snarling, Flyn gave up the fight, lying limp in the underbrush.
Bested by a bush. Killed by his father. This was the death he deserved. A fool's death, sought and found.
Bantam Flyn. Deserter. Lost to an unknown end. A far better entry in the annals than the truth.
Flyn rolled to his back. He wondered how long Coalspur would lie with his bones until being discovered. Wincing, he reached down and untied the sword from his foot, using the belt to pull it to his chest. He unwrapped the belt from the cross-guard and was about to fling it away when his good eye fell upon his pouch. Fumbling, he undid the clasp and reached inside, finding a single object. He drew it out and held it before him against the harsh blaze of the sun.
It was the small wooden horse he had taken from under the stairs of the tower.
Pocket's horse.
He had meant to give it to Sir Corc to take back to the boy, but had forgotten during the flight from the Roost. Held between his fingers, Flyn used the little horse to eclipse the sun. He opened his split beak, muttering the words through the pain.
“Very well, my little king. Very well.”
Flyn carefully returned the horse to his pouch, then affixed Coalspur to his foot once more. Rolling back to his stomach, he chose a direction and began crawling along the hedgerow, looking for an opening. Hours later, he found one.
The sun was setting when he heard the river. He crawled on and at last he saw the water. Flyn tumbled down the muddy embankment and splashed onto the bank. He pulled his sword loose and struggled to his knees. With the last of his strength, he thrust the blade into the mud and collapsed. Coalspur was over five feet of bright steel. Flyn hoped it was enough to catch an eye, even in the dark. He shivered as the darkness spread, his body wracked with fever, but he failed to crawl up the embankment and out of the wet. Trembling and spent, he slept in the mud, waking in fits from tormented dreams.
It was full night when he
awoke, the moon glinting off the current. Something was approaching, treading boldly through the shadows. Flyn lay helpless, unable to move. Against the starlight a tall shape appeared, coming from the scrub land. It stood upon the embankment, facing him, looking down at him. Agilely, it jumped down onto the bank, landing solidly in the muck. Flyn saw talons approaching and the shadows of long tail feathers.
Gallus.
Come to finish him.
The figure loomed over him, its arm raising. Flyn thought he saw a glint of mail.
“Corc?” Flyn's voice was barely a rasp.
The figure did not respond, but continued to outstretch its arm, slowly. Towards Coalspur.
A bellowing roar sounded through the night as something thundered heavily along the shoreline, throwing water in massive torrents as it charged. The figure whirled to face the lumbering mass of shadow and Flyn heard a sword quickly drawn. Mud and water splattered Flyn as the two shapes met, the deep roar continuing to burst over the sounds of struggle. Then all went quiet, save for a low growl that came nearer. Four large feet squelched in the mud around Flyn and the moon fled, the huffing creature standing over him, straddling him.
Splashing signaled the rapid steps of others approaching, bringing voices.
“Father! They are here! Pali's hurt!”
The steps came closer and the moonlight returned as the bulk stepped from over top of him.
“I have him, Tsura. Check Flyn.”
The girl knelt in the mud next to him. He felt his head being lifted.
“He is alive. Father, it is grave.”
“Help me get him to the boat.” Milosh's voice was calm. “We will get him to the Atsinganoi.”
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 22
