The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  “Just leave the jug,” Deglan mumbled, then turned back to the wall.

  “There is no wine,” Ingelbert told him. “And there is no time. You must come with me now. Flyn—”

  But Deglan had only heard the first statement. He rolled over with a scowl. “No wine? Dammit boy, what good are you? You have only—”

  Ingelbert knelt forward, getting right in the gnome's sour face. “Enough! You must rouse yourself from this besotted disgrace. Bantam Flyn is injured! He needs our help, Deglan! Your help!”

  Confusion wrinkled the herbalist's face. His breath reeked of stale wine. “Flyn? He is here?”

  Ingelbert nodded. “He is dying.”

  Deglan stared at him with a lost expression for a moment, then his puzzlement melted into a frown. He rolled to a crouch and reached out so Ingelbert could help him stand. He cast about the hovel and began stumbling around the tight space, gathering up his satchel and various jars strewn about the room. Upon inspection, several turned out to be empty wine jugs, which the gnome let fall back to the ground. Most of the oddments he stuffed into his bag, but one particular item he kept in his hand. Ingelbert was no herbalist, but he recognized the green, leafy plant. Boggard's posy. He was alarmed when Deglan began quickly tearing the leaves free and stuffing them into his mouth.

  “Stop!” he exclaimed, reaching over to snatch the remainder out of Deglan's hand. “It's poisonous!”

  “To you,” Deglan snarled through a mouthful of leaves and batted his hand away. “I am not so drunk that I need my judgment questioned.” He continued to chew and shoved a few more of the leaves into his mouth before waving impatiently. “Now lead on.”

  Ingelbert led them out of the camp swiftly. Deglan said nothing to the lepers, though his departure caused a stir in the poor wretches. Some of them stood, limping along behind until the edge of the wood. There they stopped following. Ingelbert glanced back at the shrouded, forlorn forms. Near a score stood together, watching him and Deglan leave. Near a score, and yet each of them seemed so very alone.

  “What happened?” Deglan demanded, his words thick with chewing.

  Ingelbert directed his attention forward. “I, uh, I do not know. Flyn is with some Tsigani, on a, on a boat on the river.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Barely.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  Ingelbert related the injuries as best he could as they walked, but was forced to stop when Deglan became violently sick, his sudden retching driving him to his knees. The gnome vomited a dark, thick gob of undigested plant, followed by a rush of sticky fluid. After, he remained on his knees, coughing and breathing laboriously. Deglan took a moment to collect himself, spat once then rose and waved Ingelbert onward.

  “Any bleeding wounds?” Deglan pressed.

  “Not that I could see,” Ingelbert told him. “Internally, perhaps. Um, I mean, definitely.”

  He heard the gnome curse in the darkness, then suddenly Deglan grabbed his wrist jerking him to a halt.

  “Easy! You almost walked directly into that damn hole.”

  Ingelbert peered ahead and in the poor moonlight could just make out a difference in the depth of shadows before him.

  “Best you follow my lead,” Deglan said. “It's a wonder you found your way with those human eyes.”

  Ingelbert stood perplexed for a moment. His vision did seem to suddenly be worse, though he had no trouble getting to the camp. He never did, and he never brought a torch or lamp. Curious. Before setting off behind Deglan, Ingelbert looked up into the dark veil of the sky with his now trammeled sight. Gasten was nowhere to be seen.

  Deglan's head was splitting. The boggard's posy had done its work, but it would be another few hours before he was fully recovered. He inwardly cursed himself for a drunken fool as he scrambled along the river bank.

  “Where is this damn boat?” he asked Ingelbert.

  “Should be just ahead,” the man replied. “Just out of sight of the walls.”

  And then, after a bend in the river, Deglan saw it. An ugly vessel, more akin to a small barge than a boat, though it did possess a single mast and a long bow. Lamps were lit on board.

  “Buggery and shit,” Deglan intoned slowly, separating each word. “There's a fucking bear.”

  “Right.” Ingelbert sounded a touch sheepish. “Forgot to, um, warn you about that.”

  “Damn thing is hurt,” Deglan grumbled. “Can see that from here. That what injured Flyn?”

  Ingelbert's response was uncertain. “I do not believe so.” A man stood on deck alongside the bear, speaking to it in soothing tones. Ingelbert hailed the man as they approached.

  “Milosh!”

  A ramp had been lowered from the boat to the shore and the chronicler traversed it in two easy strides, undeterred by the shaggy beast. Deglan was less eager to be so close and remained on shore.

  “Ah!” the one named Milosh proclaimed. “Ingelbert, you have returned as you said. Deepest thanks. The men you sent have already come and taken Flyn into town. You have the gratitude of the Ursari.”

  Ingelbert's mouth hung open. “Men? Um, I do not...wait, no—”

  “What men?” Deglan growled.

  Milosh looked down at him, his face falling, then looked back to Ingelbert. “Four men, they came with a mule and a litter. The dwarf that led them said—”

  Deglan's skin flushed. “Dwarf?” Forgetting the bear, he stamped up the ramp and looked up at the gypsy. “Reddish beard? Shaven lip?”

  Milosh nodded swiftly.

  “Fafnir,” Ingelbert said.

  “He said you sent him,” Milosh told the chronicler. “You and Master Loamtoes—”

  “I am Master Loamtoes!” Deglan fumed. “And we did not send anyone.”

  “Then why would he come?” Milosh asked. “I do not understand.”

  Deglan glared up at Ingelbert and they shared a long look, but the chronicler was equally perplexed.

  “What by Earth and Stone would that steel-peddling bastard want with Flyn?” Deglan muttered, mostly to himself.

  “He forged Flyn's sword,” Ingelbert offered.

  “Another debt?” Deglan snorted, rubbing a frustrated hand along his muttonchops. “What? Recollect the weapon and leave the strut to die?”

  “Is my daughter in danger?” Milosh asked, his voice taking on a new, almost panicked edge, while next to him the bear began to growl low in its throat.

  Ingelbert's head shot up. “Tsura?”

  The gypsy man nodded, his eyes widening. “She went with them. She would not be parted from Flyn. I let her go! I told her I would come in the morning when the gate opened.”

  Ingelbert was struggling to give the man an answer, some reassurance, but he only stammered, groping for words.

  “Milosh,” Deglan said firmly, infusing his voice with as much calm as he could muster. “I do not believe your daughter will be harmed. Fafnir...may be trying to help.”

  It might be true. He may have hated the dwarf, but there was no evidence to suggest his actions were malevolent. When Deglan and a band of other desperate fools had camped at the King's Stables, preparing to launch an assault on Castle Gaunt, the piskie Rosheen had told him it was Fafnir who helped lead the people of Hog's Wallow away from the Red Cap raid that destroyed their village. He had also prevented her from entering the fort of Kederic Winetongue and delivered her to Sir Corc in Black Pool, a deed which may have saved her life. Rosheen had borne no love for the dwarf, but by her own admission he was capable of worthy, if not altogether selfless, deeds.

  “How, how could he have known Flyn was here?” Ingelbert asked. The lad was shaken. He hid it well, but it was not like him to forget even the smallest detail.

  “Same way he found Faabar's grave,” Deglan reminded him. “Fafnir said no blade he forged could hide from him. Likely smelled Flyn coming or however dwarfs do it. He was prepared, that is damn certain.”

  “I must get beyond the walls,” Milosh declared. “Find
my daughter.”

  “Ingelbert will do that,” Deglan told him.

  “She is my only child. I must—”

  “You must stay here,” Deglan cut him off, trying to ignore the threatening sounds rumbling out of the bear. He cast a thumb at the animal. “I don't fancy trying to heal that damn thing without you present.” He did not wait for the man to raise further protest, turning quickly to face Ingelbert. “Get back into town. Find Flyn. Dawn is only a few hours away. Keep him from being moved further and send the girl back here so I know where you are. Understood?”

  Ingelbert nodded firmly. He was clever, not asking what he should do if he could not find Flyn and the Tsigani girl. Such a question would not do Milosh any good. Ingelbert hurried back down the ramp and was soon lost from sight around the bend.

  “Do you have any medicines on board?” Deglan asked Milosh. “Herbs? Unguents?”

  The gypsy nodded and went below decks, returning swiftly with several bundles. Deglan looked them over. There was some vervain and eyebright, both dried. Deglan had no way of knowing if they were harvested at the height of their potency, but it was better than nothing. His own supplies were severely limited.

  “I am going to look at the bear's wound,” Deglan told Milosh pointedly. “I trust you can keep him calm?”

  Milosh nodded confidently. The gypsy went and knelt by the bear's head, whispering to him in the Tsigani tongue and stroking his wide head, caressing his ears. Deglan approached slowly, his gaze shifting involuntarily to the claws curving out from the animal's massive front paws.

  “What is his name?” Deglan asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

  “Pali.”

  Deglan took another cautious step. He was now within the beast's reach.

  “Listen here, Pali,” he said. “I know I look small and delicious, but mark me, any great, smelly brute that tries to eat Deglan Loamtoes will choke on him. As our mutual friend Flyn likes to say, I am a moldy old mushroom and you can bet your shaggy hide I'm the poisoned kind.”

  The bear looked up at him with unconcerned eyes, breath rushing out of his big, wet nose. Deglan got close and circled the animal, examining it only with his eyes. There were a few small cuts around Pali's head and neck, but those appeared to be knitting fine on their own. However, there was a long, deep gash that ran along the shoulder and across the upper back.

  “I am going to touch him now,” Deglan told Milosh and waited for the man to nod an assertion. Even with the bear lying flat on its belly, Deglan had to stretch up on his toes to properly inspect the wound. Pali gave a grunt and shifted slightly when his fingers probed the split flesh. Deglan froze, hoping this was not the last patient he ever treated. Thankfully, Milosh was well in control and Pali quickly settled.

  “This is a sword wound,” Deglan said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Little,” Milosh replied, his voice still low and soothing. “It was night when we found Flyn, darker than this one. Pali got to him first and drove off the other coburn.”

  Deglan's brow furrowed. “Other coburn?”

  “Truly,” Milosh replied. “It was too dark to see much else, but it was a coburn that threatened Flyn.”

  “Another coburn with a sword,” Deglan mused darkly. “Might have been one of his brother knights looking to help him.”

  “No,” Milosh said firmly. “Pali would not have attacked unless Flyn was in danger.”

  Deglan stepped away from the bear. “I will need to prepare some herbs, but I think he will mend.”

  Milosh looked greatly relieved. “I thank you.”

  Taking his bowl and muddler out of his satchel, Deglan sat on a coil of rope. “You raised him,” he said to Milosh. “Flyn.”

  The man nodded. “He and his brother Gulver. Though only partially. They were adolescents when they came to us.”

  Deglan let his surprise show. He was not aware Flyn had a brother. Deglan knew Gulver from his time at the Roost, a bloody big bastard without any of Flyn's careless charm.

  “They were always very different,” Milosh said, picking up on Deglan's astonishment. “Flyn was like a river during a strong rain. Fast flowing, accepting all that life dropped upon him and using it to fuel his course. Gulver was more a lake, large and quiet, stagnant on the surface, but beneath, great depth.” The gypsy laughed softly, his face suffused with memory, and then worry crept in. “And Tsura. She is simply the sun. She is warmth and light, yet blinding and distant, too great for me to ever understand.”

  “She will return, Milosh,” Deglan told him. “Fear not.”

  “Do you have children, Master Loamtoes?”

  Yes. He almost said it, but caught himself.

  “No,” he said. “No, I have no children.”

  Damn the wine. Blink had been on his mind often of late. He had crawled into a bottle to drown out the pain of Faabar's lack of trust in him, but only succeeded in swimming through a choppy sea of tormented memories. Spirits summoned ghosts, funny thing that. He regretted giving her up, but only because he was alive. Had they all been killed at Castle Gaunt, he never would have doubted his choice. Of all the possibilities this was not the harshest. What if he had chosen to keep Blink close and the battle had gone ill? He could bear the pain of her absence, but he could never have lived with her loss. She was safer with Madigan. That was what he told himself then and that was what he had to keep telling himself now.

  The thought of the Sure Finder brought another thought to Deglan's mind and he took it up quickly, relieved to turn away from useless regrets.

  “I knew a man once,” Deglan told Milosh, “with an uncanny connection to a pair of hounds.” He remembered the words Curdle had used, repeating them aloud. “Three minds that function as one. Is that the way of it for you and the bear?”

  Milosh wore a thin, almost sad grin. “It is one of the rare gifts of my people. But for me it is less about the mind and more a sharing of spirit.”

  Deglan kept his focus on crushing the herbs. “That young man, Ingelbert Crane, has an animal connected with him.”

  “The owl.”

  Deglan peered up at the gypsy. “You know?”

  Milosh dipped his chin. “I sensed it.”

  Deglan found he was not at all surprised. He was beginning to like this crafty old bugger. “He thinks I have been too drunk to notice. But a week soused is not enough to make me blind. Tell me Milosh, this owl that is following him, it is not the same as the man and his hounds, not the same as you and Pali, is it?”

  Milosh was quick to answer. Quick to confirm his fears. “No. No, it is something different.”

  Ingelbert's mind raced, surging along even faster than his feet. He was not skilled at stalking men, but in the hunt for answers, he was more than adept. He headed swiftly for the River Gate, though he did not believe Fafnir had come from there. The dwarf undoubtedly had the coin to bribe the guards, but the sally ports would be too small to admit the mule and the litter Milosh spoke of. Likely, he used the Foot Gate or was already outside the walls when night fell. Either way, Ingelbert was certain the dwarf would be found back in Gipeswic.

  In the hallmote, the giant Hafr had told the guild masters he would soon be sailing back to Middangeard. He was in service to Fafnir. Gipeswic was the only port for many leagues.

  If Middangeard was the dwarf's destination, then leaving the town was fruitless. But what of the giant? Milosh had made no mention of him. His false leg. It slowed him, so the dwarf had not brought him along. Fafnir was in a hurry. Why? Even if he sensed the sword, could he possibly have known its bearer was injured. He had brought a litter and a mule to pull it, which pointed to either foreknowledge of the coburn's injuries or a premeditated plan to incapacitate him. Four men. Milosh said he brought four men. Did Fafnir believe that was enough to subdue one such as Flyn? Surely not. Ingelbert had little contact with the dwarf, but he did not strike him as a fool. They must have had a different purpose. In Gipeswic, the most numerous and readily available me
n for hire were sailors. So, part of a ship's crew and a necessity for haste. Fafnir meant to sail tonight!

  Reaching the River Gate, Ingelbert hailed the guards. The same man who escorted him out opened the sally port, a suspicious look on his stubbly face.

  “That gypsy boat gone?” he asked, blocking the tunnel with his body.

  “Just up river,” Ingelbert told him. “They will be returning when the gate opens in the morning.”

  The guard sneered sourly at that and for a moment, Ingelbert feared he would not allow him to pass. Then the man held out his hand and flicked his fingers impatiently. Ingelbert paid him and the guard stepped aside. Once through the tunnel, Ingelbert waited a moment as the guard locked the inner doors.

  “Four men and a mule did not come this way tonight, by chance?” he asked, trying to make the question sound unimportant. “Possibly with a dwarf?”

  The man looked at him curiously for a moment, then spit and shook his head. Ingelbert nodded and went on his way, waiting until he was around the corner of a building before breaking into a run once more.

  As he thought, Fafnir had not used the River Gate. Milosh's boat had been moored to the west bank, the ramp still down from when Flyn was offloaded. Fafnir would not have been able to ford the river with a mule pulling a litter, which meant he was on the wrong side of the water to use the Foot Gate. That left only the Bog Gate, located far along the wall, near the south side of town. Ingelbert may very well have entered Gipeswic first, giving him time to get to the docks ahead of Fafnir.

  He flew through the grimy lanes. In the lonely hours just prior to dawn, the streets were nearly deserted, inhabited only by the lowest of beggars, the most wretched harlots. The desperate. Ingelbert ignored the pleas for coin and the promises of pleasure as he headed for the waterfront. What if Deglan was correct and the dwarf was truly offering aid? Then why lie to Milosh? All of Gipeswic knew that Deglan now squatted with the lepers. If Fafnir had wanted to bring Flyn to him, surely their paths would have crossed between the camp and the boat. It was all wrong.