“Roundhouse,” Fafnir said, his forced courtesy beginning to wither. “This is Sir Bantam Flyn of the Knights of the Valiant Spur. Ingelbert Crane, a scholar of the same order, and their boon companion Deglan Loamtoes. The giantess is Ulfrun, known as the Breaker.”
Kàlfr was nakedly amused by the introductions, but his laughing eyes fixated on Inkstain, or rather on the owl upon his shoulder.
“Surrounding yourself with hedge-wizards now, Chain Maker?” the Roundhouse inquired with a smile. “Don't figure you have enough craft within you to bring the vulture-bitch down?”
“These are the Foretold,” Fafnir replied, clearly nettled. “And yes, there is power here, Roundhouse. It would be wise to remember that.”
“Oh aye!” Kàlfr chuckled, casually cracking his knuckles. “Attached myself to some, as it happens. You are not the only rune-twiddler here, Fafnir.”
“Yes,” Fafnir said dismissively. “I heard tell you traveled with Hengest Half-Rune. Tell me, have you found success in dealing with the risen of the Fatwood?”
“Slaying vættir takes time, Chain Maker, you know that. Or would if you stayed in Middangeard for longer than it takes to have a quick shit. But we've been whittling away at them, you can count on that. My storulvir brothers are well-fed.” A sharp, meaningful smile split the bald dwarf's fiery beard. “Hungry for more, as always.”
Flyn saw a curl of disgust play at the corners of Fafnir's mouth.
“We would join the hunt,” Ulfrun broke in. “See an end to these disturbed dwarrow.”
Kàlfr's smile widened as he addressed the giantess. “Plenty of heads to sever. Hengest and Thorsa are with the rest of my brothers. They wait down in the valley, ahead of the vættir, preparing to carve off a few more chunks before nightfall. Follow me and I will take you to them. Then we will see if you can be of any use.”
With that, Kàlfr the Roundhouse shouldered his axe and began walking away, his giant wolves padding after him.
“Come,” Fafnir said and threw an arm into the air, signaling Skrauti at the sleds.
Flyn returned Coalspur to its sheath and shouldered the harness. As he started to move, he felt a hand snatch at his wrist.
“Half a moment,” Deglan said, his grip tightening. His hand restrained Flyn, but his words were for Fafnir. “That bald bastard one of them dead-eaters you dwarrow are so ashamed of?”
“He is,” Fafnir replied stiffly.
“And you bloody trust him?” Deglan demanded.
Fafnir shook his head. “Not at all. But Kàlfr lives to kill vættir and we will need him if we are to stop this throng from reaching the Corpse Eater. It is vital she not feed, lest she grow too powerful to slay. You are wise to be wary, Master Loamtoes. Especially of the storulvir. For all their appearance, they are not dumb beasts. They have their own speech and understand the tongues of Middangeard. It is possible Kàlfr has learned them in the language of the Tin Isles. Be mindful of what you utter, for their ears are keen.” Without another word, the wizard trudged off, following the strange pack.
Flyn gently freed himself from Deglan's clutching fingers. “Shall we?”
“Their ears are keen,” Deglan scoffed. Fafnir was now a dozen strides away, but Flyn had no doubt he could hear the gnome. Deglan did not seem to care. In fact, he pitched his voice louder over the wind. “It's their damn teeth that worries me! And what about that shave-pate barbarian? Eating the dead and cavorting with horses wearing wolf-pelts. Hob's Teeth! It is not damn near natural.”
“No,” Ulfrun agreed, “it is not. The Bone Chewers embrace aberration. They consume the flesh of their dead to rid themselves of the weakness cast down upon the svartálfar when they split from their huldu kin. It is the only way a dwarf can dwell in Middangeard and possess the power they enjoy in your Tin Isles.”
“They are a twice-cursed race,” Inkstain said.
Flyn was startled by the chronicler’s voice, though it barely broke a whisper. Inkstain rarely spoke of late and when he did, Flyn was not certain the man knew he was speaking aloud, so distracted was his tone. Indeed, he sounded as if he talked only to himself.
“First condemned by Magic for their betrayal,” Inkstain continued, “and then by the Corpse Eater, so she might save herself from mortality. The Bone Chewers use one curse to dispel the other. Intriguing.”
“And are thrice-cursed in the doing,” Ulfrun said.
Inkstain roused himself at these words. “Thrice?”
“Aye,” the giantess told him. “With time, wight flesh is all that will sate them. The meat of beasts, the fruit of trees, the crops of the earth, these no longer sustain. The hunt for the vættir becomes necessary for them to survive.”
“And when pickings are slim?” Deglan asked. “When some vengeful, dwarrow-hating fjordman is not running around felling Warden Trees and freeing the dead? What then?”
Flyn did not wait for Ulfrun to respond. He knew the answer. “They murder their own, Staunch. They turn kinslayer.”
“I bloody well knew that, you young, empty-headed rascal!” the gnome barked. “I am asking the question so the rest of you can hear the answer!”
Flyn forced a smile. “So that later, when all this turns ill, you can crow about how right you were?”
Deglan scowled up at him. “If I am as right as I think I am, there will not be anyone left to crow to.”
“Think on it this way,” Flyn said, laughing. “If you put as much energy into marching as you do in complaining, we would have reached the Corpse Eater by now.” He clapped the gnome heartily on the shoulder and passed him by, quickening his stride to catch up with Fafnir. Deglan's voice called after him.
“I've no wish to speed you to your death, Bantam Flyn!”
Flyn did not stop, wishing to put some distance between himself and the old mushroom. He fought not to show it, but his patience with Deglan was thinning. His constant grousing, the barbs he cast at Fafnir and the other dwarrow, all of it was beginning to grate. It was an unworthy thought for a knight, but Flyn often felt they would have been better off if the gnome had stayed behind. He only slowed them down while on the march, but produced deep wells of energy when he wished to gainsay and cast aspersions. It was his way, Flyn knew, but it was beginning to take its toll. Deglan was deep in wisdom and experience, but he had a habit of forcing Flyn to think. Likely that was prudent, but in his heart, Flyn wanted to return to the comfort of courageous impulse. He yearned to draw steel and charge into a battle without first gnawing at every outcome.
The defeat at Gallus' hands still weighed upon his mind. Flyn could feel shame burrowed deep in his guts, holed up with fertile doubt. He feared the two would rut in the darkness of his placidity, and give birth to cowardice. He needed to shake these skulking intruders loose, smoke them out of hiding with blood set to boil in battle, send them scurrying with the sound of ringing steel. His chance to do that lay ahead of him, with the wights and with the one who called them. The Corpse Eater.
For some time, Flyn walked alone, finding a pace between Fafnir ahead and the others behind. It was a welcome bit of solitude. His desire to be alone must have announced itself in his body, for none approached, though Ulfrun or even Crane could easily have closed the distance. Likely Deglan held them back, the perceptive old stoat.
Coalspur rode across his back, the tip of the scabbard dragging in the snow. Flyn hooked a thumb under the strap and hitched the harness down so the sword would ride higher. He often missed his squire's quarterstaff. A lighter, faster weapon, without the weight of steel, the weight of responsibility. The possession of Coalspur was a source of pride now turned into a constant burden. Many times over the long, cold trek through Middangeard Flyn wished he wore a broadsword at his side as Sir Corc preferred. A falchion, a mace, anything quick to hand. But he had fought for Coalspur in the tourney, then argued for the privilege to bear the weapon when his victory became disputable.
It mattered little now. The sword was his. A large weapon meant for the scattering
of superior numbers, and for the taking of heads, qualities well-suited for a battle with the army of wights he witnessed in the valley. Soon, perhaps, he could wade into them, sword swinging and deliver himself from the cares of his unwanted thoughts.
Kàlfr led them down into a wooded gorge, using a treacherous switchback littered with frost-crowned rocks. From a few turns up the steep trail, Flyn watched the dwarf and his wolves drift sure-footed down into the defile. Before descending himself, Flyn used his vantage to survey the landscape. The gorge opened off the valley proper, a sizable, slightly wooded outcropping. A good place to tuck away for an ambush. At the pace Kàlfr set, they were likely now in front of the risen dwarrow. Flyn suspected they were about to join up with the rest of Kàlfr's band and engage the wights. He found his steps quickening and soon reached the bottom of the slope.
The smell of wood-smoke reached Flyn's nostrils. Towards the center of the gorge a group of dwarrow and storulvir milled around a modest campfire. Kàlfr's wolves padded over to join at least a dozen others lounging near the flames, and Flyn spotted several more sitting amongst the rocks that formed the walls of the gorge, eyes and ears facing the entrance to the valley.
Sentries.
Kàlfr and Fafnir already stood amongst ten other dwarrow. As Flyn drew closer he heard the guttural lilting of dworgmál being spoken between them. Fafnir conversed with a pair of dwarfs, one male and one female. The male wore no beard, but the hair atop his head was wild and dyed a bright blue. He was as slumped and pale as Fafnir, the skin beneath his eyes sunken and dark. A sleeveless coat of filthy skins draped to his ankles. His bare arms were crossed in front of him and he listened with a guarded expression to Fafnir's words.
The female dwarf turned her attention away from the Chain Maker as Flyn approached, staring at him boldly. Her hair was long and unbound, so blonde it was nearly white. Like the Roundhouse, she appeared infused with a palpable vitality, standing firm beneath furs and brigandine. Twin hand axes were thrust through her belt, well-used but sharp. As she eyed Flyn, he detected a feverishness in her gaze and a flush to her lips. So, another Bone Chewer.
The remaining dwarrow were as bent-backed and coarse-haired as Fafnir, though all had well-honed weapons close to hand. Of armor there was little, the odd shield, here and there a hauberk, but everything spoke to a group girded for fast movement and long, grueling stretches living in the wilds.
Flyn did not interrupt and soon he was joined by the rest of his group. Only when they were all assembled did Fafnir turn and introduce them. The blue-haired dwarf was Hengest, also a runecaster. Flyn detected a hint of derision in Fafnir's voice when he acknowledged this and a ripple of injured pride in Hengest's face added weight to the assumption that there was a difference between the two wizards' skill. Thorsa was the name given for the dwarf woman and Fafnir indicated she was Hengest's wife, but otherwise pointedly ignored her presence.
“Enough of this prattle!” Kàlfr the Roundhouse spat. “Best not get overly acquainted. Not all will survive this day and I do not bother learning the names of the slain.”
The bald dwarf snatched up his axe and strode off towards the valley. The storulvir pack swiftly fell in behind him, and together they left the gorge. Only four of the giant beasts remained, the ones standing watch on the rocks above.
“The Roundhouse and his wolves will secret themselves in the valley,” Hengest explained. “He shall strike from the rear once the vættir are contained within this gorge. Thorsa and I will take our warriors to the mouth of the valley and wait for the vættir to pass. We will bait the end of the throng and lead them back here, where you shall remain to bolster our trap.”
“How many do you hope to bait?” Deglan demanded.
The blue-haired dwarf eyed the gnome for a moment before answering. “Half a thousand. Perhaps more.”
Flyn started doing the calculation in his head, but Inkstain was quicker to the result. “Nearly twenty to one.”
“Aye,” Thorsa laughed, her bold eyes blazing. “Best to keep the odds easy for you maidens!”
Ulfrun returned the female dwarf's mirth. “I shan't hesitate to measure my cock against yours, she-dwarf.”
Thorsa peered at the giantess with disdain before shifting her attention to Flyn. “Oh yes. The famed coburn so long sought by my misguided uncle, the Chain Maker. Tell me, rooster-man, have you the resolve to bear so weighty a mantle as an augury made flesh? Or will you break under the burden, as all the—”
“Silence, Thorsa!” Fafnir growled.
Hengest stepped forward to defend his wife, but he faltered when the Chain Maker turned his fury upon him.
“You do not yet have the craft to cast me down, Hengest Half-Rune!” Fafnir snarled. “Do not feign courage you do not possess for the sake of my sister's daughter, to whom you foolishly bound your troth.”
Flyn saw the ten dwarrow under Hengest's command grow tense, their knuckles tightening around the hafts of their weapons, but he saw in their faces a reluctance to stand between the two runecasters. Thorsa had no such qualm and stepped full into Fafnir's face, quivering with fury.
“You speak of feigned courage, uncle?” she hissed. “You would not dare say such things to my love were the Roundhouse still near, runemaster or no.”
“The Roundhouse?” Fafnir asked, a deep pity weighing upon his words. “He that is your true love, lost niece of mine? He with whom you place horns on your husband and consume the flesh of our dead kin! You are damned, Thorsa. It is no longer within my reach to bring you back from the pit within which you have flung yourself.”
Flyn saw the Chain Maker's words cut, but Thorsa twisted the pain into a crazed smile. She leaned forward and whispered something in Fafnir's ear. Flyn could not hear what she said, but the pain passed from her face and settled in the countenance of the Chain Maker. Gloating with cruel satisfaction, Thorsa stepped back.
“We tarry too long,” Hengest insisted, pulling at his wife's elbow. “Come. We must go before the vættir pass completely by.”
“Of course,” Thorsa said, almost merrily. “Remain here with your destined followers, uncle. We shall bring the catch to you.”
Hengest and Thorsa gathered their dwarrow together and led them towards the neck of the gorge. Soon, they were lost from sight amongst the boughs of the evergreens and the haze of flitting snow. The four remaining storulvir came down from the rocks and followed after them.
Fafnir turned on his heel as soon as they were out of sight, looking to Skrauti and the other porters.
“Weapons,” the Chain Maker commanded.
“My lord,” Skrauti said, reluctance flooding his voice. “Perhaps it would be wise to quit this place. Take the trail out and leave these swine to their fate.”
“Agreed,” Deglan threw in.
Fafnir shook his head morosely. “If only we could. But this must be done.” He approached Skrauti slowly and placed a broad hand on his shoulder. “Weapons.”
The loyal dwarf nodded, then humbly removed himself from his master's grip.
“Master Loamtoes, Master Crane,” Fafnir said, as the dwarrow began retrieving their heavy spears from the baggage. “It would be best if you removed yourselves to the safety of the trail. Should this go ill, you would have a means of escape.”
“Where the stunty goes, I go,” Hakeswaith barked quickly.
Fafnir gave the diminutive whaler the barest of glances. “Fear not, fisherman. I did not expect you would fight.” The Chain Maker then turned to look at Flyn. “Though I would beg your sword-arm, Sir Flyn.”
Flyn nodded. “You have it.”
“And me, Chain Maker,” Ulfrun said. “I will stand with you in this coming weather of weapons.”
“My thanks, Breaker,” Fafnir replied with a bow.
“I don't stand on a stool every time a mouse runs by,” Deglan announced. “Hakeswaith can climb up on the hill if he wants, but I'll not stand next to him while his courage runs down his leg and turns the snow yellow around our feet
.”
Hakeswaith snarled and made to take a step towards the gnome.
“If you've no mind to fight, Hakeswaith,” Flyn said, halting the man with a warning look, “it would be best not to test me.”
The whaler's crooked jaw stretched back further over his hideous teeth. “Reckon I will enjoy watching all of you die.” With that the man hustled off towards the rear of the gorge where the winding trail to safety waited.
“Whatever you intend, best do it with haste,” Inkstain said. “Hengest and his band have engaged the wights.”
Flyn turned towards the chronicler and found him staring vacantly, the owl gone from his shoulder.
“Right,” Flyn said. “No more time to argue, Staunch. Get to high ground.”
“Bugger that,” the gnome muttered, plucking a dwarrow hatchet from the sleds.
“Suit yourself,” Flyn conceded, drawing Coalspur. “But stay close to me or Ulfrun.”
“I pick you. Big lass is likely to step on me in all the excitement.”
They fanned out across the width of the gorge, near the center. Flyn chose a spot relatively clear of trees, so his blade would not be hampered. Deglan stood behind him, safely removed from the reach of the greatsword. Ulfrun stood at Flyn's left, rolling her shoulders, flexing her fingers. Inkstain had decided not to join Hakeswaith and remained behind Deglan, his gaze still far away.
To Flyn's right and slightly ahead, Fafnir and his dwarrow took position. The porters all bore their hewing spears and broad, steel-rimmed shields. These they fixed close together as they stood shoulder to shoulder. Behind their small line, Fafnir drew his sword. It was a stout weapon, wide in the blade with a heavy cross-guard. The wizard also produced a runestone from his pouch and gripped it tightly in his fist.
From behind, Flyn heard Inkstain's voice.
“They are coming.”
Gripping Coalspur in both hands, Flyn widened his stance. He had not replaced his armor since losing it at Gallus' clutch. He felt suddenly thin, weak and exposed. Nothing for it now.
A figure darted out of the snowfall and Flyn raised his sword, but the shape proved to be one of the storulvir. The giant wolf sped towards them, its lean, savage muscles propelling it with preternatural grace. Three more came swiftly behind, followed closely by Thorsa, an axe clutched in each fist. Hengest and his dwarrow were at her heels. The blue-haired runecaster looked stricken. Flyn quickly counted the dwarrow. Nine remained, where twelve had ventured forth.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 37
