“He says that you are in league with the dwarrow wizard, Fafnir Rune-Wise.”
Deglan's answer was simple. “No.”
Arngrim needed no translation and his scowl deepened.
“Brami,” he said, and one of the berserkers approached.
The man smiled, showing a mouthful of bright teeth behind a flaxen beard. In a motion almost too fast to see, he hammered a fist into Hakeswaith's ribs. The whaler cried out and fell to his knees. Over the whimpers, Arngrim asked another question.
“Where are the Downward Fields?” the woman translated.
Deglan searched his memory, but came up with nothing. “I do not know.”
Arngrim again gestured over his shoulder. “Reifnir.”
Another of the jarl's sons stepped forward.
“Wait,” Deglan told the woman. “I speak the truth. I would tell him if I knew.”
Reifnir's foot took Hakeswaith under the chin, splattering the floor of the hall with bloody spittle and broken teeth.
“Stop!” Deglan exclaimed. “I know of no such place!”
“Where are the Downward Fields?”
“I do not know. I swear it.”
“Hrani.”
“Dammit! No!”
The third berserker was laughing, motioning for his brothers to cheer for him. Hakeswaith lay upon his back, mumbling for mercy through his shattered mouth. Hrani circled him wolfishly, deciding how to hurt the man. Deglan dropped down, shielding Hakeswaith and extended an imploring hand at the fjordman.
“Please. He will not survive much more.”
Hrani looked to his father, his pitiless eyes dancing. Arngrim considered, then spoke two words.
Deglan's vision exploded with color, Hrani's backhand blow tossing him to the ground. Sharp pain floating in a dull, aching pressure. His nose was broken. Deglan swallowed blood, waiting for the numbness to take hold and relieve the agony. He spat, shook his head to clear the swimming, sickening splotches from his eyeballs and sat up.
Crow Shoulders stared down at him and asked the same question. The woman looked pained, keeping her own gaze averted from the bloodshed.
“Where are the Downward Fields?”
Deglan probed his throbbing skull for a place, any place, within Middangeard. “The Ironwood,” he ventured. “The Downward Fields are in the Ironwood.”
“Hadding.”
One of the twins stepped forward, his red hair heavy with filthy braids.
“Buggery and shit,” Deglan swore and braced himself for the blow.
The twin hopped forward, raising a foot aimed for Deglan's face. At the last second, he brought it down hard, stomping Hakeswaith's knee. Deglan heard the crunch of bone even over the whaler's wailing.
“Dogs!” Deglan screamed at them. “We do not have the knowledge you seek!”
Hakeswaith continued to howl and Deglan wished the man would pass out, but even that small mercy was denied him.
“Where are the Downward Fields?”
Deglan had no answer, he could not even hazard another lie. He needed to keep the punishments focused on him. Eight sons remained, all eager for their chance to inflict pain. Hakeswaith would not survive one more assault. Arngrim gave him little time to think.
“Tind.”
As the next berserker stepped towards him, Deglan began to chuckle. He had not the answer to save himself, and Crow Shoulders would not be fooled by desperate lies. That left only the truth. The truth was he did not know, but that would not satisfy this man. But life consisted of many truths.
Deglan continued to laugh, blood flowing from his nostrils. The son called Tind stopped, a look of confusion on his face. These berserkers knew what it was to laugh while dealing death, but it seemed they had never encountered one who would laugh in the face of it.
“You brainless swine,” Deglan guffawed, rising to his feet. “You do this all wrong.”
The woman remained silent, unwilling to deliver his insult.
“Tell them!” Deglan snapped at her.
Jumping at his outburst, the woman quickly repeated his words in the tongue of Middangeard. Arngrim's face grew grim and Tind surged forward with an upraised fist, but was held back by his father's hand. Deglan did not waste the chance.
“Hakeswaith is a coward,” he told the jarl, relieved to hear the woman's voice right behind his. “He would tell you all you wished to know if it would avoid the spilling of his own blood. He knows nothing. I know only that you wish vengeance on Fafnir the runecaster. You hate the dwarrow and him most of all, for what he did to your ancestor, Tyrfing.” Deglan took a step forward. If the man was surprised at his knowledge, he gave no sign. Ignoring the blood flowing from his nose, Deglan held the warlord's stare, allowing him to see the truth in what he said next. “You need not beat me, Arngrim Crow Shoulders. Or this poor man here. If you want Fafnir dead, I will gladly help you kill him.”
He said no more and the words of the woman ended a moment after his own. Crow Shoulders peered down at him, looking for him to falter, for evidence of the falsehood.
The jarl tilted his head back slightly, towards his sons. “Hervard. Barri.”
The named men came forward, moving for Deglan. He let out a breath, resigned to his end. He did not care that his own life was about to end, but was bitter with the knowledge that Hakeswaith too would die. Deglan hated the whaler, but the lifetime habits of a healer told him that not saving a life was a failure. With a final, defiant grin at Crow Shoulders, Deglan closed his eyes and waited for the fists of the berserkers to fall.
Powerful hands grabbed him under the arms, lifting him bodily off the floor. He felt himself being carried backward and only when he heard the doors of the hall kicked open did he open his eyes. The two berserkers hauled him between them, taking one of the roads towards the palisade. Just before the gatehouse they turned, striking off across the yard towards a low structure built into the earthworks under the wall. Wooden timbers framed a stout door guarded by four warriors. Seeing the berserkers coming, one of the men fumbled with a ring of heavy keys and unlocked the door, pushing it aside. The berserkers flung Deglan through the open portal and he landed hard in the dust. The door was slammed shut before he could rise and he heard the key secure the lock.
Wiping fresh blood from his nose, Deglan got gingerly to his feet. The only light came from the sun intruding beneath the door and sneaking through the narrow spaces between the slats, but it was enough for Deglan. The cold chamber was dug out of the embankment supporting the walls. Towards the back, Deglan could see the thick timbers of the palisade peeking through the dirt. A latticework of timber framing kept the room from caving in and was tall enough for a man to stand upright.
The sudden clanking of a chain caused Deglan to stumble backwards as a shadow detached itself from the far wall, growing as it stood. The thing took a step forward, then another. A third step brought a metallic snap as the chain went taut, preventing the figure from coming further. The blaze of light from under the door fell upon a clawed foot, three toes ending in long talons.
It was a coburn, naked and fettered. He was so tall, he was forced to stoop in the confines of the chamber. His feathers were filthy, but beneath the dirt Deglan could see they were a drab grey, the colors of smoke and ash. Even his comb and wattle were near black.
“I know you,” Deglan said, his voice still hushed with alarm.
The coburn bowed his head slightly and when he spoke, his voice was deep and gravely.
“Sir Wyncott, the Dread Cockerel, at your service.”
TWENTY FOUR
Flyn looked up at the range of sullen mountains dominating the horizon. Crowned with snow and clouds, the tops of the peaks stood out sharply against the midday sky. He estimated the foothills were only a mile or so distant, waiting across a stretch of tundra. Fafnir stood out in the white field alone, his head raised skyward. The wizard kept a steady watch on the sun, which was now beginning to reach its zenith above the peaks. The last few days, Fafnir
had taken to traveling well ahead of the group, sometimes with Hengest, but more often in complete solitude. Since the death of Skrauti, he spoke but little, even to the remaining porters. Flyn and the others followed his path, rarely seeing the runecaster until their nightly camps. Now, nearing noon, they had caught up to him keeping this strange vigilance. Flyn, Inkstain and Ulfrun had instinctively paused, deciding it best to wait for some signal to proceed.
“The Crone Fells,” Ulfrun announced, nodding up at the mountains. “Beyond you will find few owners of speech and no hearth-ships of mortal men. It is a land of hunger and frost.”
Flyn squinted at the march of peaks and chuckled. “How does that differ from the lands we have crossed?”
The giantess smiled. “More trolls.”
“Grand,” Flyn said with little enthusiasm.
“You have walked but the tamed side of Middangeard, sword cock. Once in the northlands, you shall see why it is a place even we giants rarely venture.”
“How long will it take to cross the fells?” Inkstain queried. Though his words regarded the mountains, Flyn did not fail to notice the man's stare, like that of the owl on his shoulder, was fixed on Fafnir.
Ulfrun shrugged. “That would depend on which passes we take. But I do not believe we are to cross those breath-stealers. I wager the Chain Maker means to take us beneath.”
“The Downward Fields,” Flyn declared.
“Aye,” the giantess said. “Likely the wizard looks now for an entrance.”
Flyn found it difficult to imagine a place Ulfrun had not dared set foot. “You have not ever been there?”
“No giant has. It is a jealously guarded secret of the svartálfar.”
“Then why allow us admittance?” Inkstain wondered aloud.
“We are the Foretold,” Ulfrun replied, certainty in her voice.
“You put a great deal of faith in Fafnir's prophecy,” Inkstain said. The chronicler's voice was so numb, Flyn could not discern if he was complimenting or chastising the giantess. Either way, Ulfrun's face shone with amusement.
“I am giant-kin. It is rare that I encounter something greater than myself. When such things are before me, I easily recognize them, Inkstained Crane.”
“I wonder what manner of welcome we will receive in this secret dwarrow haven?” Flyn mused.
“One fit for a returning king,” came a voice from behind.
They all turned to find Hengest standing nearby. The beardless dwarf had spent the morning bringing up the rear with the porters. Flyn had not even heard him approach.
Despite his initial grief, the death of Thorsa seemed to be having a salutary effect on Hengest. His shoulders no longer stooped with guilt, his face was less creased with malingering shame. He was allowing the blue dye to fade from his unruly hair, an affectation Flyn suspected the dwarf had taken on to better match the vital appearance of his Bone Chewer wife and her lover. Beneath the woad, Hengest's head was as black as any dwarf's.
“They can crown me if they desire,” Flyn jibed, “but I think they would come to rue my rule.”
“He refers to the Chain Maker,” Ulfrun said, laughing.
Flyn looked to Hengest. “Fafnir is a king?”
Hengest shook his head as he came to stand beside them. “His ancestors established the Downward Fields in ages past. Fafnir was to inherit from his father, but the burdens of leadership did not sit well atop the weight of prophecy. Fafnir bequeathed his right to his brother Reginn, who has reigned since before I drew breath. So no, Bantam Flyn, Fafnir Rune-Wise is many things, but a king he is not. Still, the Chain Maker will be received with honor.”
“Even though many dwarrow believe him to be mad?” Inkstain asked with a hint of challenge.
Hengest did not rise to the goad, but merely gave a resigned nod. “As you say.”
Inkstain turned his attention back to Fafnir, clearly bored with the younger runecaster. Flyn tried to catch Ulfrun's eye to see if she found the chronicler's growing arrogance disturbing, but the giantess seemed oblivious. Not for the first time, Flyn wished Deglan were still with them.
Turning to Hengest, Flyn saw a phantom of the old hauntings upon the dwarf's face.
“What ails you?” he asked.
Hengest took a deep breath, then shook himself out of his sudden malaise. “It is simply that I have not been here for a long time and never thought to return.”
“This King Reginn,” Ulfrun ventured. “He is your wife's sire?”
“You are more insightful than you appear, Breaker,” Hengest replied without rancor. “Aye. Thorsa would have one day ruled the Downward Fields with me by her side, but...her fate lay down darker paths.”
“So it is grave news you bring home this day,” Flyn said, placing a hand on the dwarf's shoulder.
Hengest snorted. “Thorsa was dead to her lord father long ago. He will be glad the shame she brought upon his house has ended.”
“What birthed her ire?” Ulfrun asked, her curiosity still courteous. “She bore such hatred for the Chain Maker. What did he do to make her turn Bone Chewer?”
“Forgive me, Breaker, but I cannot answer you. Fafnir was once my master and my uncle by marriage. He is no longer either, but he is still my kin. It is not for me to tell you his tale. But you shall know it soon enough. You three are the Foretold. I believe that now. Though as Master Crane says, I was long blind to the truth of the Chain Maker's purpose. As the augury's champions, no answer will be kept from you and no respect denied you, but all must come from its rightful source.”
Fafnir was now approaching and Flyn waited with the rest until he stopped before them. The Chain Maker's face was dour as he addressed the group.
“It is time,” he said curtly. “Only those with the will to relentlessly pursue the luster of gold may enter the Downward Fields. Keep your eyes fixed upon the face of the sun as you cross the field. Do not avert your gaze until you have reached the lee of the mountain. The porters shall go first to bring news of our arrival. Then you, Hengest. Ulfrun you shall follow. Then Sir Flyn and Master Crane. I will be last to ensure you all find your way.”
With that, Fafnir commanded the porters to proceed with a wave of his arm. The three dwarrow began hiking across the snow without hesitation, single file, each with his head turned skyward. Flyn watched as they grew distant. They were still in sight when Hengest began to follow. Ulfrun waited for a nod from Fafnir before beginning her own trek. The height of the giantess allowed her to remain visible long after the dwarrow were obscured by distance. Flyn's eyes were keen and he had no doubt he would be able to see Ulfrun even once she reached the shadow of the mountains. He must have blinked, for he lost sight of her for an instant when she neared the end of the field and, try as he might, he could not descry her again.
“Go ahead, Sir Flyn,” Fafnir's voice urged. “Remember, do not falter your gaze from the sun.”
Flyn adjusted his sword harness, then looked up at the bright disc in the sky before setting off. It was more difficult than he imagined. Within moments, he was certain his feet were not cutting a straight path, though it seemed the others had found no such difficulty. He had to will himself not to look down and make sure he walked a direct course. Unsteady as his strides felt, the sun was still directly before him. Surely if he had strayed too far, his head would be turned to keep it in view. He trudged on, his world nothing but an increasingly bright nimbus eclipsing his vision. His eyes began to water and he squinted against the brilliance, needing desperately to blink, to turn away. He would be blinded if he kept this up much longer. Where was the mountain? He had come far enough, the damn blazing should have dropped behind the peaks by now.
Flyn became aware of a change in the air. Warmth, so long absent, fought for dominion against the chill that had taken up permanent residence beneath his feathers. The wind had ceased howling. Flyn’s vision was still dancing with coruscations, but at the edges the sky had grown dark. Taking another step, he no longer felt snow beneath his talons. No, i
t was stone. He blinked hard, finding the normal blackness behind his squeezed lids now incarnadine. Quickly, the blotches of red began to fade and Flyn opened his eyes to find Ulfrun standing in front of him. The giantess, her mouth open in wonder, still looked upward. Upward, where there was no sky, no sun.
A cavernous hall of carved stone loomed above, stretching up, ahead and away. Massive damasked pillars supported a ceiling shining with gilded decoration. Etched runes and carved knot-work bordered the grim visages of dwarf-folk, all worked in intricate gold. Renderings of dragons and storms, lightning and mountains, eagles and trees, they stood out against countless other images Flyn could not decipher. Stone braziers were carved directly into the supporting columns, the flames within infusing the gold with a molten light. Flyn could see no end to the hall ahead and turned to look behind. A solid wall of carved stone greeted him, unadorned save for an arch of runes carved directly into the surface. From beneath this arch, Fafnir emerged supporting Inkstain, man and dwarf passing through the very stones as if they were no more solid than air. Crane's face was haggard and drawn.
“Is he well?” Flyn asked, hurrying to help support the stumbling chronicler. As he placed Inkstain's arm over his shoulder, Flyn noticed the owl was nowhere to be seen.
“He will be fine,” Fafnir grunted. “He faltered in the face of the sun. It can be a difficult passage for some. Where is Hengest?”
“He went ahead,” Ulfrun answered. “Said he must needs speak with the guardian of these halls.”
Fafnir did not look pleased with this news, but said nothing. A group of armored dwarrow warriors was approaching, the clink of their mail echoing upon the stones. Relinquishing Inkstain entirely to Flyn, the Chain Maker went to meet them. The warriors struck the butts of their pole-axes on the flagstones and bowed low at the sight of the wizard, though they quickly rose as Fafnir began speaking to them in dworgmál. As the dwarrow conversed, Flyn looked to Inkstain.
The man was conscious, but just now beginning to take in his surroundings, his face as slack with marvel as Flyn's must have been a moment before.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 44
