The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  The storulvir darted between the trees without breaking stride, passing Fafnir and his men before flying past Flyn, kicking snow up all around him. They turned just beyond Inkstain, and came padding back to the center of the gorge. One came to stand near Flyn, between he and Ulfrun. Two others poised on the left of the giantess, while the last took a place to the right of Fafnir's formation. Flyn took all this in at a glance, noting that the ground to his immediate right between him and the Chain Maker remained uncovered. It was an ideal spot for the running dwarrow to form up, but only Hengest and Thorsa stopped to fill the gap. The rest fled past, and unlike the storulvir, did not turn around again. Hengest collapsed to the snow, but his wife paid him no heed. She whirled around to face the direction she had just come, brandishing her axes.

  “What happened?” Flyn called at the she-dwarf.

  Thorsa must have found the question amusing, for she laughed. “We attracted too many! Nearly overwhelmed us before we could withdraw!”

  Hengest struggled to his knees, his breathing labored. “Tried to hold them. Runes...failed.”

  Flyn saw Fafnir throw a glance at his fellow wizard, but the older dwarf said nothing.

  “Where was your bald friend with all his bloody wolves?” Deglan asked.

  “He will come,” Thorsa exclaimed with relish. “He will come!”

  The song of the vættir began to fill the gorge, reverberating off the surrounding stones. At the far end of the defile, Flyn saw shapes moving, obscured by the flurries. The dirge of the dwarrow grew and the first wight emerged from the haze, slack mouth singing beneath a filthy, black beard. More came, until the mass of silhouettes pullulated into dozens of individuals squeezing through the neck of the gorge. The dirge of the dwarrow shook the snow from the branches of the trees, the choir of dead voices a punishing weight. Flyn could feel it in his ears, in his bones. He felt short of breath, as if the song was crushing the air out of his lungs. His knees began to buckle and Coalspur became a nearly unbearable weight in his hands. No longer was the music beautiful. It was despair made manifest.

  To his left, Flyn saw Ulfrun struggling to stand. Behind, Deglan was unaffected and Inkstain too appeared immune. Flyn thought he saw a small smile at the corners of the man's lips. The storulvir howled in defiant protest, but the vættir could not be undone, their voices as inexorable as their steps. Coalspur fell heavily from Flyn's slack fingers as the music robbed him of strength. He wanted to run, but there was no will left to move his legs.

  Through the din of despair, a lone voice began to rise. It was deep and true, somehow making itself heard above the tumult of the wights. Flyn's head began to clear and strength returned to his limbs. He looked over to see it was Fafnir who was singing, he and his defending dwarrow unbent in the maelstrom of the dirge. The Chain Maker sung in dworgmál, the words lost to Flyn, but he felt an undeniable power rally his courage and he snatched Coalspur from the snow. The song of the vættir dwindled to his ear, eclipsed almost entirely by the slow, melodious voice of Fafnir. The storulvir ceased their howling and began showing the vættir their long fangs beneath snarling muzzles. Flyn hurried over and helped Hengest to his feet. Nearby, Thorsa's mad glee had been replaced with something akin to serenity, but she still made no move to help her husband. Hengest said something in the dwarrow tongue, his face full of disbelief.

  Flyn shot him a questioning look.

  “The Lay of the Sword-Dale,” Hengest said. “By the Ancestors, he has learned the rune.”

  “The song?” Flyn pressed, full of strong desire. “What are the words of the song?”

  Hengest peered at Fafnir, listening, and then he began to repeat the words.

  “My brothers bold! My brothers, hold!

  Honor now the oaths of old.

  Stand ye firm, in war and woe.

  Stand ye firm, against all foes.

  This day of doom, this hour of spears,

  Banish thought of flight and fear!

  For though we live, we yet may die,

  To rise again, a singing wight.

  I pledge my blade, I pledge my life,

  To kinsmen brave in this fell strife.

  Take steel in hand and steel your heart!

  Together stand, or die apart!”

  The vættir were nearly upon them, but Fafnir and his faithful stood fast, seven in the face of hundreds. They waited for the horde, stalwart in the face of living death. Flyn could not allow them to stand alone. Looking over, he caught Ulfrun's eye and saw she too had shaken off the effects of the dirge. The giantess winked.

  Flyn smiled back at her and charged.

  Coalspur was in his hands and the music of the Chain Maker in his ears. The wights were before him, his pumping legs bringing them closer. He flew past Fafnir's line, screaming the war-cry of the Valiant Spur. He could feel Ulfrun's pounding feet just behind him and saw the storulvir racing along on either side. He brandished his greatsword high and, as the vættir filled his vision, swung full into the mass of reaching, pale hands. His blade cleaved across arms and faces, slicing clean through the dead flesh.

  The storulvir barreled into the wights, their jaws snapping. They bit down on legs and arms, flinging the vættir aside with tosses of their large heads. Ulfrun leaped into the fray, scattering foes with sweeps of her powerful arms, picking up vættir and tossing them back into their fellows, preventing them from swarming her. Flyn continued to slash, severing heads where he could and limbs when he could not. Ridding them of a hand or arm did little to slow them. They did not cringe away from a cutting stroke, but came incessantly forward. Cutting off a leg felled them, but still they would crawl, blue-black fingers digging into the snow to drag themselves along. The wights felt no pain, they knew nothing of panic or fear. Fighting them was reduced to the killing stroke, the finishing blow. Nothing else mattered. Flyn allowed Ulfrun and the giant wolves to keep the vættir from grouping together, using their powerful forms to break up the masses. He quickly engaged the small, scattered groups and brought Coalspur down upon them. He became a butcher of filthy, half-clad corpses.

  Flyn heard a yelp and looked to find one of the storulvir in distress. The giant wolf snapped and spun, looking for an opening to escape, but was pressed in from all sides by the mob of wights. Flyn tried to reach the beast, to give aid, but too many wights stood in his path. He hacked at pale faces, tried to beat back the horde, but his progress was hopelessly impeded. The vættir overwhelmed the wolf, clambering upon it in droves, dragging it down until it was lost in a pile of grasping corpses. The size and strength of the vargulf was formidable, but beneath the press of bodies Flyn could hear the sickening sounds of the beast being torn limb from limb.

  Casting about, Flyn caught sight of Ulfrun struggling against the horde. The giantess towered over the wights, but they clambered atop one another, using the bodies of their own fallen to reach her, trying to bring her down. Swinging Coalspur in reaping arcs, Flyn fought towards Ulfrun, but again he was faced with the folly of his attempt. There were too many wights. He could not hope to reach her.

  A strident cry split the cold and Thorsa came cutting through the wights. Her axes whirled, dismembering the risen dead. The she-dwarf charged headlong into the thick of the vættir, heedless of the peril. She made straight for Ulfrun, cutting down countless wights in a swath that led directly to the aid of the giantess. Thorsa's fury was terrible to behold, each sweep of her blades felling a half dozen foes. Her warriors must have renewed their courage, for they followed her into the battle, though they could not match her speed nor her prowess. Hengest was with them, each fist clutching a runestone and limned with smoke. Thorsa reached Ulfrun, giving the giantess a chance to win free. Together, they were able to withdraw, using the path Thorsa had carved, kept open by her dwarrow.

  Fafnir and his band had also joined the battle. They kept a close formation, keeping the wights at bay with their shields and using their spears to bring them down. Fafnir stayed behind the rough circle of protection formed b
y his retainers, his sword dispatching any wight that broke through. Two of the storulvir aided the Chain Maker, guarding his flanks. Flyn fought his way through to join up with Fafnir and together they were able to reach Ulfrun, Hengest and Thorsa.

  The neck of the gorge was choked with fallen wights, but more were coming, streaming over the piles. Flyn watched them come. What strength of numbers he and his companions possessed were joined together. There was no time to plan, no time to rest his quivering arms. Flyn smiled to himself. This was how he preferred it.

  He looked up at Ulfrun. “Once more?”

  “Aye,” the giantess breathed. “Once more.”

  They formed up around Fafnir and his dwarrow. Flyn and Ulfrun stood to the left of the shield wall, Thorsa and Hengest to the right with their six remaining warriors. The storulvir paced about, slavering, ready to dart in when and where they were most needed. The vættir pushed over the heaps of their brethren and began to enter the gorge. Onward they came, dozens, then scores. Soon it would be hundreds.

  Fafnir called the charge and Flyn did not hesitate. With Ulfrun beside him he went smashing through the vættir once again, swinging Coalspur with arms nearly spent. His first stroke sheared through the skull of a wight with no lower jaw, but that was the last detail Flyn was able to discern before he became lost in a morass of enemies. He swung, he slew, he beheaded, each fall of his blade bringing him closer to collapse. And no matter how many fell before him, more were always there. Flyn flailed uselessly, hopelessly against a rising tide of pitiless death. He did not know how the others fared. Only vaguely was he aware of Ulfrun, somewhere at the edge of his vision, striving to overcome, to survive. Flyn's strength was failing, he could feel it. His blade-strokes were slowing. Soon he would be forced to let the heavy sword fall and, like Ulfrun, battle on with nothing but his bare hands. He had his spurs, sheathed in steel of elven-make, but they would be of little use against the vættir.

  The end was near and Flyn found he was content with the knowledge. He had fought once more and discovered no lack of courage. No cowardice dwelt within him. Gallus may have won their combat, but he had not defeated him, not utterly. He had done what was asked of him without fear, as was his vow, as was his duty. Perhaps his life had been unworthy of a knight, but his death would not be.

  A child finally brought him down.

  The murk of fatigue and death cleared for an instant, revealing a dwarrow girl nestled in the revolting drove of dead. She was so small, so fragile seeming, her burial smock covered in grime. Flyn hesitated for just a moment, checking the downward stroke of his blade before it split her skull. Coalspur bit into the ground, the impact sending the sword tumbling from Flyn's numb grasp. He fell to his knees, his stamina at its end. The dwarrow child shuffled towards him, now near his eye level. She was a wight, like all the others. Corpse pale and black of hair. The flesh of her bare feet was mottled and purple. Her eyes were vacant and colorless, her small mouth agape, singing her soft, lonely notes of the greater, unconquerable dirge. She would be only one of many which would rend him apart, but Flyn resolved to keep his eyes fixed on her face alone.

  He was still on his knees when the girl-child passed him by. Another wight, this one a male adult, brushed by as he also passed. Woozily, Flyn looked about. He was unarmed, on his knees, nigh helpless and surrounded by the vættir, yet none of them attacked. He reached out and dragged Coalspur over to him, using the weapon to help him stand. On unsteady feet, Flyn surveyed the gorge. Ulfrun still stood, battling alongside one of the storulvir against scores of pressing wights. And there, across the waves of the risen stood Fafnir and Skrauti, fighting for their lives against several dozen. The vættir still hungered to end life, still strove to drag others down to join them in death, yet Flyn remained unassailed. He was left alone, ignored, adrift in a sea of walking corpses.

  TWENTY ONE

  Ingelbert watched the battle turn ill through Gasten's eyes. The owl's dizzying perspective revealed the neck of the gorge boiling over with wights. In the valley beyond, more were coming, pressing into the backs of their fellows, sensing life and striving to extinguish it with terrible, single-minded purpose.

  Three of the storulvir had already been slain. The last fought fiercely next to the beleaguered Ulfrun. The giantess had put her back to the wall of the gorge, her fists caving in the skulls of every wight that came within reach, but the speed of her blows was flagging. The giant wolf next to her must have sensed the end, for it turned and scrambled up the rocks behind, turning to howl at Ulfrun, encouraging her to follow. The giantess beat back the vættir enough to turn and begin climbing. She joined the wolf amongst the boulders, out of the reach of the wights.

  The vættir began to climb, using not only the rocks for purchase, but each other, crawling relentlessly over the backs of the mounding pile beneath. Ulfrun lifted a sizable boulder and sent it crashing down upon the teeming dead, breaking the growing pile into a cascade of snapping bones. The wights were undeterred and immediately began their ascent anew, the whole treading upon the broken. The giantess and the wolf had bought themselves some time, but the outcome would be the same. Death at the pale hands of the vættir was inevitable.

  Gasten banked away, bringing Ingelbert to look down upon the main swelling of wights. Fafnir and his retainers fought back to back, completely surrounded. The Chain Maker's sword arm was tireless as he clove reaching arms and slack faces. Even from such a soaring height, Ingelbert could smell the power emanating from the runecaster. Skrauti's shield was gone, but he fought valiantly, felling wights with great sweeps of his spear. The Magic unleashed by Fafnir's song was potent, for not one who stood with him had fallen. Nearby, yet separated by scores of the enemy, Thorsa, Hengest and a trio of their warriors still stood. The might of the Bone Chewer was undeniable, her axes taking a brutal toll on the vættir. Thorsa showed no signs of fatigue and strove with unnatural vigor to keep her dwarrow alive.

  It would not be enough. Even now Thorsa cut the head off a wight who had been one of her hunters, fallen at the hands of the vættir only to rise as one of them.

  From his vantage, Ingelbert saw the truth. Only one would leave this gorge alive.

  Beneath Gasten's keen eyes, Bantam Flyn rose on unsteady feet. The young coburn looked around him, his beak agape, his large sword clutched weakly. Surrounding him was a tight circle of calm amongst fathoms of undulating horror. Strangely, the vættir left him be. Even when Flyn raised his greatsword wearily and struck the head off the nearest wight, the rest continued to pay him no mind. Dumbfounded, the knight began to push his way through the press, shouldering the vættir aside and making for Fafnir's position.

  Ingelbert became aware of a sensation back in his own body. A form struggling against him.

  Ah yes. Deglan.

  Ingelbert returned to himself and found he still had the gnome clutched against his legs, holding him tightly beneath the jaw. It was cruel, but it would not do for the gnome to rush into the fray bravely, foolishly, and die. It would not do at all.

  Deglan was spitting and cursing, his eyes rolled back to look up at Ingelbert balefully. The old stoat had not yet become so incensed as to strike at Ingelbert with the axe he still held. Even if he had, the steel would fail to wound. Ingelbert had hardened his flesh against weapons, consciously protecting himself with the same craft he had unknowingly wielded when Hafr tried to strike him down. He had also woven another ward, one that kept the sound of his heartbeat from reaching the vættir, prevented the heat from his skin and the smell of his blood from alerting them to the presence of life. Deglan too was within the boundaries of the ward, but if Ingelbert allowed him to break free, the gnome would be outside the protection in a single footstep. The wights would come for him then, and there would be nothing Ingelbert could do to save him.

  The vættir were less than a stone's throw from where they stood, drawing closer with every moment as more of them flooded the gorge. Soon, the dwarrow would be overwhelmed, even Thorsa and Fafnir, t
hen Ulfrun and the last great wolf, and finally, Ingelbert and Deglan. Though Magic protected them for the moment, Ingelbert could not move or the ward would be broken. They were safe, but trapped, and likely the vættir would sense them despite the spell once the others were dead.

  Ingelbert wondered how long Flyn would battle on after they had all fallen. Would he continue to slay the vættir, one at a time, until he died from the effort? For a coburn, such a thing was possible. Ingelbert found the thought of such hopeless courage pitiful. Flyn should do the intelligent thing and save himself, as Hakeswaith had done. As Ingelbert should have done. He had been given the opportunity, but for reasons unknown even to himself he had stayed. The only notion he possessed for such a decision was a vague sense of yearning, of wanting to witness what took place here. Was it that Ingelbert desired to stand with his friends? Or did he simply want to see their deaths?

  Through his own eyes, Ingelbert could just discern the shape of Bantam Flyn through the throng. He was now close to reaching Fafnir and his followers, the dwarrow standing atop a pile of dismembered wights. Of Thorsa and her band, there was no sign.

  A great baying echoed through the neck of the gorge. Ingelbert rejoined with Gasten on the wing and surveyed the ground below. The vættir in the valley lay scattered and motionless, destroyed by a sizable pack of storulvir that now charged into the defile, falling upon the wights in the gorge from the rear. Leading the pack was Kàlfr the Roundhouse, his massive axe sending heads flying with each great swing. The savage dwarf had left with only a score of the great wolves, but was now returned with near triple that number. The beasts tore through the wights, the head of the pack bowling through while those rearward savaged them with tooth and claw. Within moments, they had won through the neck and set upon the horde.