Flyn squeezed the chronicler’s shoulder. “I am sorry for bringing you here, Ingelbert Crane.”
“You forced me to Gipeswic, Sir Flyn. Not here. I do not, do not require pardons from you.”
Giving Crane a companionable pat, Flyn removed his hand. “I understand. Coming here to find him. I know something of troubling sires.”
Inkstain shook his head. “I did not come here to find him. That would be improbable and, and vain. But to see Middangeard, the place of his origins, his molding, that has an appeal. A chance to touch my own history.”
Flyn ran a hand over his comb, fighting the words that were forming on his tongue. He was not normally one for wise counsel.
“Just do not try and change that history,” he said at last. “Believe me, it is folly.”
“This entire venture is likely folly, Sir Flyn.” Crane gestured across the water at the frigid shore. “Does that appear to be a clime where I will thrive? A land of raiders and the rule of the sword?”
“Well, let us see,” Flyn said, lightening his tone. He directed Inkstain’s attention towards the broad backs of the men rowing on the benches. “You are half fjordman. You share their height, their flaxen hair. They are well-built, while you…have the physique of a spear shaft.”
Flyn met Inkstain’s curdling look and smiled. He clapped the man heartily on the back and grew serious.
“You are no coward, Master Crane. You proved that with the gruagach in your study. The ink? That was deadly clever. You are the keenest individual I have ever known, mortal or immortal. Such a mind is a rare thing in a world full of strong sword-arms.”
Inkstain pondered his words a moment, then gave Flyn a nod of gratitude.
The sound of Deglan’s chuckling brought their attention back to the interior of the ship.
“Ulfrun?” the gnome asked between chortles. “Tell us again what you did with Hafr just before we took ship.”
“I tied the beard of that nanny-goat to his testicles.”
The heap of furs shook as the herbalist let loose, followed by the throaty laughter of the giantess. Flyn joined them in merriment and Inkstain cracked a smile.
“I will never tire of hearing that,” Deglan announced when he caught his breath.
Flyn saw Hakeswaith look over, no doubt believing their laughter was directed at him. The whaler scowled for a moment, then went back to staring at the open water. It seemed they were not entirely rid of prickly pride, after all.
From the tent next to the man, Fafnir emerged and spoke to the ship's jarl, then thumped steadily down the center aisle of the ship. He passed Flyn and the others with nary a word, approaching the helmsman at the rear of the starboard side. The dwarf spoke a few words in the Middangearder tongue and the man at the rudder nodded once.
“Appears you shall get your wish, Sir Flyn,” Ingelbert pronounced.
“Yes,” Fafnir said, coming to stand among them. His face was ghastly pale. “We will put in today. Our time on the sea is at an end.”
“Thank Earth and Stone,” Deglan muttered.
The Chain-Maker said no more, and strode back up the aisle towards the bow. As the dwarf left, Flyn noted the sway of his back had increased and his hair was now completely black, visibly thinning.
“He does not look well,” Flyn said.
“Svartálfar always appear such in Middangeard,” Ulfrun told him. “Corpse-white, black as night.”
“Swart—?” Flyn could not get his tongue to form the word.
“Black elves,” Inkstain said, coming to his rescue. “The dwarrow. The curse upon them must become stronger the closer they are to Middangeard.”
“No,” Deglan barked. “This is their natural appearance. What you have seen in Sasana and Airlann is a falsehood. Closer to the Source Isle, to Magic itself, dwarfs swell with power. That damn runecaster's red beard, hale countenance, sturdy frame, all a product of absorbed Magic. In Airlann, the dwarrow become as close to their elven kindred as remains possible. For thousands of years they were forbade from even setting foot on Airlann soil, lest they attempted to wrest control from the Seelie Court. In the end, the elves were looking in the wrong direction and it was man who overthrew them. Still, we Fae have always been very suspicious of a dwarf in our lands.”
“You will soon know the feeling of such cold courtesy,” Ulfrun said lightly. “For you, gnome cub, are about to set foot on their land.”
Within the hour, the giantess' words came true. The men swiftly took the sail down, rowing the ship confidently between the skerries and into the mouth of a wide fjord. Cliff faces appareled with fog and snow rose sharply on either side of the inlet, standing in mute judgment of the ship as it slipped towards the shore. There was a sharpness to the air. The wind stilled, though something akin to a crackle played just at the edge of Flyn's hearing. The expanse of water was vast, the cliffs towering, and yet the clouds hung low in the sky, an oppressive ceiling of grey. The smell of the sea gave way to a hint of evergreens, the scent frozen in the air. Breath from Flyn's beak heralded itself in a vapor, joined by the fleeting phantoms of wet heat playing from the lips and nostrils of everyone on board.
Time slowed as the cold crept in, and the ship seemed to hold still. Flyn felt it was the cliffs that were indeed moving, pulled slowly away by the smothering march of clouds. The rocky slopes gave way to a haunting hinterland where ugly stalks of scrub grass reached pleadingly out of the snow. The channel began to narrow and a natural bay appeared before them.
“It seems we are expected,” Flyn said, spying half a dozen figures standing upon the stony beach.
Deglan rose slowly, impeded by the furs that he refused to relinquish. The gnome struggled onto the bench to better see over the side of the ship.
“More dwarfs,” he announced bitterly.
The beach held no buildings, no dock, but the sailors confidently steered the boat inland, throwing ropes to the waiting dwarrow so the vessel could be pulled close to the rocky shoals. Fafnir emerged from his tent, now wearing mail and a stout sword. Flyn felt the urge to don his own armor, then remembered his had been lost after Gallus defeated him. No doubt it now lay buried in the hole Wynchell had dug to be his grave. He had managed to acquire another harness for his sword, employing one of the sailors to fashion it from various leather trappings.
The fjordmen were vaulting the sides of the ship, landing competently in the shallows, the water reaching their knees. Flyn slung Coalspur's harness over his head and put a hand on Deglan's shoulder.
“Come, Staunch. I will help you to shore.”
The gnome batted him away with a grimace. “I shall not be carried to land by a chivalrous gamecock!”
“Pardons,” Flyn said, holding up his offending hand in a placating gesture.
“Ulfrun,” Deglan said, turning away with a smile. “Would you be so kind?”
Flyn gave the back of the gnome's head a withering glare. The giantess scooped Deglan up, furs and all, then jumped over the side. She barely got her feet wet.
“I have no such reservations, Sir Flyn,” Inkstain said. “And would welcome some aid.”
Glad to be of service, Flyn jumped into the water and turned to help the chronicler down. Inkstain handed his heavy satchel down first.
“Careful, please,” he instructed. “I would rather this did not get wet.”
Flyn gave him a reassuring nod, then reached up and took the satchel, holding it well above the water with one hand while using the other to aid Crane's descent. The man nodded gratefully once he was steadily standing in the shallows and together they sloshed to the shore. Once on land, Flyn returned the satchel to Inkstain's care, noticing the large green tome held within when the chronicler threw back the flap to inspect his possessions.
“Still carrying the records from the Roost?” he asked.
Inkstain looked up, a slightly embarrassed look on his long face. “Oh, um, yes I am, yes. Could not seem to, to part with them. They are pieces of history. It would grieve me
if they were lost.”
“I understand,” Flyn told him.
Inkstain made his way up the beach and joined Deglan and Ulfrun under a stand of trees, the gnome stamping his feet against the cold. Flyn remained behind, waiting. When Hakeswaith disembarked, Flyn stepped into his path. The hideous whaler's eyes snapped up, full of anger and rimmed with alarm.
“No quarrel,” Flyn told the man, though he did not bother with a friendly tone.
“What d'you want?” Hakeswaith demanded through his distorted jaw.
“For you to get back aboard ship,” Flyn answered. “There is no need for you to go further. The sailors can take you wherever you will. Go back, Hakeswaith. This is your last chance to get free of this.”
The whaler's glare flickered with doubt for half a heartbeat, then his lips sneered around his broken teeth. “I go where the stunty goes.” As the small man tried to step around him, Flyn grabbed his arm, pulling him close.
“Know this, worm! Deglan Loamtoes is under my protection.”
Curiously, Hakeswaith did not bristle at his touch nor try to pull free. He laughed wetly in his throat, looking up with his malformed smile.
“You daft pigeon,” he whispered. “Look around you. This is Middangeard. Protection or no, there is not a one of us is safe.”
Ingelbert struggled not to shiver. His nose was beginning to run and he found himself sniffling more than breathing. He fought a rising panic. It was day, the wind was slight, it was not raining nor snowing. This was likely to be the best clime he experienced and already he was freezing. How would he endure nightfall?
“Here,” he heard a voice from below him say. He looked down to see Deglan offering up one of his bear skins. “I am starting to sweat. And that is worse than shivering in these conditions, believe me.”
Ingelbert took the skin with a shaking hand and wrapped it around his shoulders. His shivering ceased almost instantly, but then his teeth began to chatter. Ingelbert locked them together and made a grunt of appreciation at the gnome. Deglan Loamtoes, ever the observant caretaker.
A rustling of the branches over Ingelbert's head sent a dusting of snow down upon him. He ducked deeper into the fur, not bothering to look up. He knew it was Gasten. The owl had spent most of the voyage in flight and rarely in view. His presence made the sailors nervous and Ingelbert had been grateful for his long absences. Now that they were back on land it seemed the great bird had a mind to stay close once more.
Bantam Flyn joined them under the trees and together they watched the sailors unload provisions from the ship. Ingelbert hoped there were more bearskins contained within the bundles. Four of the dwarrow who had met the ship loaded everything onto three sturdy sleds, while the remaining two hauled a large chest over to where Fafnir stood waiting with the ship's jarl. They set it down upon the rocks and immediately opened the lid. The chest was brimming with gold, silver and precious stones, wrought into torques, rings, crowns and bangles. Ingelbert saw the jarl smile as his eyes caressed the treasure. He extended a hand and clasped wrists with Fafnir, then motioned for two of his men to load the chest onto the longship. It did not appear the sailors would tarry long upon the shore now that they were paid. Indeed, Fafnir seemed to have no more use for them, for he quickly turned his back on the jarl and the ship, pulling one of the dwarfs aside, leading him to another stand of trees further inland.
Ingelbert focused on the distant branches and another scattering of fallen snow signaled Gasten's departure. The owl flew swiftly and silently, reaching the copse well before the dwarrow, and perched upon a shadowy bough. As Fafnir and his comrade walked under the eaves of the wood, the sounds of their voices filled Ingelbert's head. They spoke dworgmál, the dwarrow tongue, and Ingelbert listened intently with Gasten's ears.
“How many more?” Fafnir demanded.
There was a pause. The other dwarf was hesitant. “Two.”
Fafnir spat a word Ingelbert did not know, but it had the sound of a curse. “Why did you not send the valrôka to inform me?”
“I did, my lord, but the crows returned, saying there is an owl journeying with you, one that would not allow them to approach.”
“It is the man Crane’s creature,” Fafnir said, sounding pensive. “He does not yet have full mastery of the bird, nor all his craft. What of the lower meadows?”
“They are safe, Chain Maker. Undiscovered.”
There came another pause as Fafnir issued a sigh of relief. “Then there is still time. Which two fell in my absence?”
“The tree of the Boar Helms and that within the Fatwood.”
“Did the vættir escape?”
“The dead of the Boar Helms did not make it far before their kin cut them down. But—”
“The Fatwood tree was remote. Vulnerable. Aye, I know. Who has taken up the hunt?”
When the other dwarf answered, his voice was trembling. “Hengest and Thorsa's band.”
Fafnir cursed again, this time with much more vehemence. “And likely the Roundhouse is with them. Those three together can bode only ill! We must move swiftly.”
“There is more, Chain Maker.”
“Tell me.”
“At the barrow of the Fatwood. The tree was felled, but the valrôka claim the despoilers left one of their own behind.”
“Alive?”
“No, Chain Maker.”
“We must go there.”
“What of the lower meadows?”
“Soon,” Fafnir said, his tone losing patience. “Answers may prove more valuable than haste. The chosen slayers have been found, at last. Our people need not suffer much longer.”
“We never lost faith you would find them, my lord.”
Fafnir hummed a short laugh, tinged with sadness. “No, Skrauti, you did not. But there are many who did. Who, even now, will not believe. Come.”
Ingelbert allowed his mind to drift away from Gasten's. Fafnir had said his craft would grow swiftly, and the runecaster had not erred. Ingelbert had suspected a link with the bird the night he fetched Deglan to the Tsigani boat, and had used the tedious voyage from Skagen to further explore the possibility. He proceeded slowly at first, probing gingerly at the owl's mind as you would an aching tooth. He found no pain, no resistance. On the contrary, there was something welcoming in the sensation. Soon he was seeing through Gasten's eyes and hearing with his ears, though as yet, he could not accomplish both simultaneously. Several times he had been with the owl when it drove away flights of large, griping crows, but never suspected the black birds were attempting to reach Fafnir. Ingelbert could not have prevented it if he had known, however. He was not in full control of the animal, it was more that he was being allowed to share in something ancient and secret, and Ingelbert often felt as if Gasten was humoring him, as one would a child. It was unnerving, but with the trepidation came a certain longing.
Ingelbert had never feared to be a pupil, for at the end of all tutelage came an awakening of knowledge that could be possessed, stripped and molded, until it was his to wield upon command. History, languages, numbers, all these had begun as unintelligible mysteries, but at the end of the requisite schooling, Ingelbert could draw them forth with ease, to the forefront of his brain, if not always his tongue. This would be no different. Just as the truth of the green tome's contents had at last been laid bare, so too would this tangle of foundling Magic be forced into maturity and placed at his disposal.
Perhaps he should not have spied on Fafnir, but, Deglan's opinion to the contrary, Ingelbert was not blindly following the dwarven wizard. He knew there was much the runecaster had not revealed, this most recent conversation proved that, but it also proved that Fafnir believed in his cause, and thusly, believed in the allies he had gathered. Whatever path this Chain Maker was about to lead them down, they were not being baited with mummery and invented prophecies. It was a small comfort.
They left the banks of the inlet within the hour. The six dwarrow who had met them split into pairs and pulled the pack sleds. They were
each pale and black of hair, and outside of the one Fafnir had called Skrauti, Ingelbert did not readily learn their names. They spoke only dworgmál, rarely giving voice except to each other. They pulled the laden sleds tirelessly and without complaint, their competence with the labor clearly revealing a lifetime of such work. Even when Deglan's short strides failed to keep the pace and the gnome was forced to join the baggage in one of the sleds, the porters showed no signs of frustration at the added weight.
“I was a Staunch of the Wart Shanks,” Deglan proclaimed to balm his injured pride. “Always in the saddle. Never much of a foot-soldier. Still, even the most robust riding toad would not last long in this white waste.”
Ingelbert did not doubt it. They traversed a wilderness mostly covered in snow, though naming it a waste was unworthy. In truth, the land was quite beautiful.
Trees flourished around them, the dark green of their needles shining beneath cocoons of ice. The dense forests moated the open plains, the shadows beneath the verges an intrusive contrast to the white terrain. Above, the sky was the color of a sword blade.
Still, the inherent beauty of the country did little to blunt the toil of traversing its cold surface. Ingelbert's legs trembled after the first hour of trudging through the drifts, some reaching near his knees. His feet had been numb since wading to shore, and he feared what his toes would look like at day's end. If there ever was to be an end.
He found time difficult to judge. The sun was completely hidden behind the clouds, the light seeming to emit from the snow, not the sky. Whenever they were not sheltered by trees, Ingelbert was forced to squint against the glare coming off the blinding white ground. His face felt raw and burnt, and his lips began to chap, splitting painfully. With each breath, he felt as if his lungs grew smaller, atrophying with each infusion of frigid air.
Glancing up, he saw Bantam Flyn several strides ahead. The greatsword across his back must have become a hindrance, for the coburn now bore it across his shoulders, as if yoked to the weapon. He stepped high, his talons punching through the cold crust. Clearly, the going was not easy for the knight, but unlike Ingelbert, he showed no signs of flagging. Indeed, none of his companions appeared to know fatigue. Though the worst drifts neared their waists, the dwarrow took no notice of the snow, barreling through with a startling endurance. And Ulfrun may well have been strolling down a street of level cobbles. With Deglan in the sled and Gasten on the wing, Ingelbert felt abandoned, left to struggle on with only his own weakness for company.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 32
