The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  “The Corpse Eater,” Flyn whispered.

  “Yes,” Fafnir said, nodding at the enormous remains. “This was once her consort. The Keeper of the Gales. The father of all coburn.”

  Flyn turned back to the bones, struggling to allow his mind to encompass what his eyes could not. “This is what you would have me fight?”

  Fafnir did not answer.

  “Would you have showed me this?” Flyn asked without turning. “If your brother had not brought me down here, would you have shown me this?”

  There was silence for a time, then Fafnir's voice danced in the dark. “I know not, Sir Flyn.”

  There was laughter in the chamber and it took a moment for Flyn to realize it was his own. He turned to look upon the Chain Maker once more.

  “You are right,” he told the wizard. “Though next time you say those words, do not pause. You know not Sir Flyn. But that is no fault of yours, Chain Maker. I joined your company upon the heels of an ignoble defeat. The fight was unworthy of me, yet I courted it with a foolish passion. Following my burning heart nearly killed me and I discovered a fear of death where once there was none. Upon my recovery at your hands, I found all passion gone and guarded against its return. Were it not for Deglan's insistence I never would have joined this quest. I thought you needed a different coburn. And I was right.” Flyn took a deep breath, aware that he was pacing, but unable to stop. His head kept swinging from Fafnir to the bones of the great bird and back again.

  “You needed a warrior who fears not the end of his life, one who will laugh in the face of all despair. You needed the squire you met in Black Pool. The young strut who would have charged down the gullet of any beast with the knowledge that in victory or in defeat, he would win glory worthy of song! If you knew such a coburn, you never would have hesitated to show him a worthy foe.”

  Fafnir's face was troubled. “What are you saying?”

  “That you, and the Corpse Eater, will soon become well acquainted with Bantam Flyn.”

  TWENTY FIVE

  Wake me.

  Save me.

  Ingelbert had slept indoors beneath thick furs next to a merry fire. He had eaten well, filling himself with rabbit and mushroom stew, boar ribs, and dark, dwarrow bread thick with butter. He was rested, sated and uninjured. Yet the words were still there, swimming before his eyes no matter which page of the elven ledger he studied.

  Wake me. Save me.

  He had spent his waking hours closeted in the chambers King Reginn had appointed him, near giddy with the blissful solitude. Only the occasional servant intruded to inquire of his needs. He accepted all offers of food, in the hopes that regular sustenance would dispel the entreating words upon the pages, but they were not the phantoms of a famished body or an overtaxed mind. They were real, incessant, and mutely desperate. After hours of study and contemplation, Ingelbert finally forced himself to perform an experiment he had been avoiding.

  “Who are you?” he asked the book aloud, feeling foolish.

  There was no answer. The same four words languished in the shifting ink.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “How do I wake you? Save you from what?”

  Nothing.

  Ingelbert set the book down on the bed, laying back amongst the pillows with a frustrated blow from his nostrils. He must have dozed, for when he awoke, his candles had burned down the length of several hours. In this underground realm, such candles were the only way to mark the passage of time, an elegantly simple innovation of dwarfcraft. Still, Ingelbert had lost all sense of night or day.

  Rolling off his mattress, he went to the silver basin that rested on the trestle and tossed water on his face. Such an innocuous act, yet one that would have been unthinkable out in the frozen wilderness. Middangeard made a man forget what it was to be warm. An unobtrusive knock sounded from the door of the chamber.

  “Enter,” Ingelbert said in dworgmál.

  A dwarf maid appeared, nodding respectfully. She crossed the room and quickly yet calmly fetched up the tray that contained what was left of the last meal.

  “Will you be wanting anything else?” she inquired pleasantly.

  “Um, could you tell me what the, uh, what the hour is? That is, on the surface?”

  “The dusk of the evening,” the maid answered readily.

  “Ah,” Ingelbert said with a show of understanding. In truth, he could not fathom how the she-dwarf knew that, but was too timid to ask. “Well, my, uh, my thanks.”

  The maid inclined her head and made for the door.

  “Umm,” Ingelbert stopped her. “Could I perhaps trouble you for ink and a, uh, quill?”

  The maid nodded and left, closing the door silently behind her. She was not long in returning, bringing not only the requested items, but also a scroll of blank vellum. Ingelbert thanked her and she left him to his task.

  The room contained a writing desk and chair suitable to his proportions, but he returned to his large mattress, coveting the feel of it after so many nights shivering on the ground. He was glad the maid had thought to bring the vellum, finding its presence comforting. No doubt he would find a purpose for it, but for now his quill was wed to a different mate. Taking the green tome in his lap, Ingelbert flipped through the pages until he found one mostly free of scrawled runes. It took a moment, but soon a section of the existing writing reformed.

  Wake me. Save me.

  Dipping his quill into the ink, Ingelbert raised it over the page. Finding a blank section, he lowered his hand, feeling his stomach sour as he sullied the ancient work with his own scribble. Mimicking the simplicity of the pleas and the elvish script in which they were written, he wrote a single word.

  How?

  He stared at the four words of entreaty, his eyes occasionally darting over to look at the besmirching wet ink of his own contribution. Nothing changed. His simple question was long dry before Ingelbert found the will to try again. Wincing, he wrote again upon the page.

  Wake. I, Ingelbert Crane, release you.

  It amounted to nothing but more defacement. Frustrated by his fruitless efforts, Ingelbert pushed the tome off his lap, set the inkwell upon the open page and threw the quill into the pot. What had he hoped to accomplish? Whatever sorcery affected the book, he was not likely to unravel it simply by random chance. Fafnir had told him the text's original obfuscation was an old, enduring spell to keep the contents of the ledger secret. The runecaster claimed it was Ingelbert's inherent powers that slowly unmade the ward, ignorantly dispelling the Magic as he worked at translating the words. Ingelbert could not wish to be so lucky with this new manifestation. Likely, Fafnir could take one glance at the tome and present a solution, but Ingelbert had not seen him since settling into his quarters. Of course, that could have been because he had not left this room. Rest and privacy had become rare commodities and were not to be wasted. Sooner than Ingelbert would like, the Chain Maker would come to fetch him, and the journey would be taken up once more. Wind and snow and rough camps. Plenty of time to ask questions then. For now, Ingelbert was more than content to wait inside his chambers and keep well to himself.

  Another resounding knock on the door caused his heart to sink. It was too soon for the servant to return and the raps upon the door were much more insistent. Cursing himself for conjuring this disturbance with thoughts of comfort, Ingelbert called for the knocker to enter. The door swung open and Ulfrun stepped into the room, stooping under the lintel. The rooms and corridors of the Downward Fields were constructed with ceilings easily able to accommodate humans and even giants, but many of the doorways were low. Ingelbert surmised this was a defensive feature of the architecture. A larger foe was far more vulnerable entering a room if he must partially crouch to do so.

  Ulfrun stood up straight as soon as she was inside. The dwarrow had provided Ingelbert with fresh clothing, but it appeared they had no garments readily cut to fit a giantess. Ulfrun wore what might have been a heavy, floor-length robe for a dwarf, but it barely reached the
top of her thighs. Ingelbert did his best to avoid looking at the sudden amount of well-muscled legs now standing before him.

  “The scroll-bird loves his nest,” Ulfrun pronounced, surveying the room with a grin. “Two days passed and you have not set foot out this burrow, Inkstained Crane.”

  “No need,” Ingelbert replied.

  Ulfrun seemed to chew on his response, nodding slowly. “No need,” she repeated vacantly.

  “You have, um, you have rested?” Ingelbert asked, needing something to say. Really he wanted to know why she was here, but could not summon the nerve to voice so forward a question.

  “Aye. But I grew weary of rest and have spent my hours treading Hriedmar's Hall. There is much to see here.”

  “I, uh, yes, I have no doubt.”

  Ulfrun squinted down at the tome upon the bed. “And what occupies your hours, loremaster?”

  Slowly, so not to cause offense, Ingelbert reached out and retrieved the inkwell before closing the book. “Riddles.”

  Ulfrun made a face. “Songs would be better.”

  “Not with, uh, not with my voice,” Ingelbert replied, laughing a little.

  “Stories, then. I recall you spun me a most pleasing word-yarn at our first camp in Götland.”

  Ingelbert smiled, remembering. Ulfrun had requested some blood-filled epic or tawdry romance. Ingelbert knew of no such tales and lacked the imagination to invent one on the spot, so he had settled on what he did know. History.

  He told Ulfrun about the lives of two dusk elves, Daigh Ulothdine and Easna Ulathdaigh. Both were born from a union of human and elf, but there their similarities ended. Daigh was a hunter, a warrior, as wild as he was fearless. Easna was patient and keen, a skilled ambassador as beautiful as she was insightful. Both joined the ranks of the Waywarders, the wandering agents of the Seelie Court. They found in their differences a rare power and together they became known as the Calming Storm, able to find a solution to any conflict. The pair proved to be invaluable to Irial Ulvyeh during the Rebellion and helped retake Airlann from the Goblin Kings. Though their partnership was forged in war, they came to know deep affection for one another. In the annals of elvish lore, the names of Daigh and Easna are lauded as lovers as equally as they are heroes.

  During his youth at the orphanage, Ingelbert had often heard accounts of the two Waywarders at the knee of Parlan Sloane. They were one of the old man's favorite subjects and often his history lessons diverged into a tale of the Calming Storm. Ingelbert had recited some of their exploits to Ulfrun that first night, hoping they contained at least some of the elements that would please her. He had chosen well, for the giantess had thanked him for the tale and gone to sleep smiling.

  “It was not a story,” he now confessed. “It was, uh, it was history.”

  Ulfrun shrugged, unsurprised. “The best word-streams spring from high up in the mountains of the past. I knew you for a learned mortal, Inkstained Crane, not a skald. Do you think we giants only find pleasure in pretty lies? That we value legends over the shaping events of time?” Her eyes grew hard. “Or is this simply what you think of those with milk-wells and a babe-canal?”

  It took Ingelbert a moment to unravel Ulfrun's inference. “Oh! No, n-not, uh, no. I do not...women are...I simply meant, uh, that I did not want you to think...”

  Ingelbert felt himself drowning in stammers, but Ulfrun came to his rescue, her smile over his discomfort widening until she laughed merrily, her white teeth shining.

  “Oh, but it is easy to pull your prick, Ingelbert Crane!” she proclaimed. “Come! Let us walk together and find some mischief.”

  Ingelbert held up a warding hand. “No. I, uh, I am in no mood for such things.”

  “Too much rest will make it all the more difficult when we return to the quest.”

  “Perhaps Sir Flyn would be a better choice of companion.”

  Ulfrun smirked. “I just came from the gamecock. He sleeps under a table where his dreams will be well sweetened with the mead we shared. Now I desire other sport. Come, I will show you the Hall of Scrolls.”

  Ingelbert shook his head. “Please, no, I beg you. I really have no wish to leave.”

  Ulfrun sighed deeply. “Very well. You may stay here, but I will keep you company. We have a bed and the many hours of night to pass. Enough to keep idleness at bay.”

  “The Hall of Scrolls, you say?” Ingelbert said, standing quickly.

  Ulfrun laughed and opened the door. For a moment, Ingelbert considered bringing the green tome, then decided he wished to be free of it, if only for an hour. Once in the corridor, Ulfrun motioned their direction, and Ingelbert was mildly surprised she led them away from Hriedmar's Hall. Though he had seen but little of them, Ingelbert knew the Downward Fields to be an expansive hive of corridors and chambers spread across several levels. Curving stairs and switchbacked ramps connected the upper floors to the lower depths. A system of canals wound through the entire subterranean community with sluice gates and ingenious locks employed to control the waterways. Despite its size and complexity, this kingdom beneath the earth was anchored by Hriedmar's Hall, which served as a sort of crossroads. Ulfrun must have been exploring for some time if she felt confident finding her way.

  She led them to a ramp and descended two turns before taking a narrow corridor running next to a small canal. As they walked, Ingelbert and Ulfrun passed a pair of dwarrow obviously tasked with keeping the braziers in the area burning brightly. Ingelbert wondered how many such teams were needed to ensure darkness never reclaimed the Downward Fields. Eventually, the canal entered a culvert and vanished, though the movement of water could still be heard behind the stone walls. Again, Ulfrun took them down and the air began to grow humid. Inwardly, Ingelbert questioned the wisdom of keeping a depository of scrolls in a place given to such moisture, but he followed without comment. By the time Ulfrun finally stopped at an open archway set into the side of the corridor, Ingelbert's shirt was soaked through.

  Peering through the arch, he saw a short stairway leading down into a murky room suffused with clouds of lazy steam. The vapors crawled up from the surface of at least a dozen, large circular pools. Benches lined the walls of the chamber and also sat intermittently along the central walkway. A handful of dwarrow relaxed in several of the pools with no separation between genders.

  “What about the Hall of Scrolls?” Ingelbert asked, still staring dubiously into the bath chamber.

  “Unlike you,” Ulfrun replied with a wink, “I have no trouble inventing stories. If such a place exists, you are free to go find it, but here is where I intend to linger awhile.”

  With that, the giantess strode down the stairs and began making her way along the walkway towards the rear of the chamber. Ingelbert almost turned around to begin the walk back to his chambers, but suddenly the thought of solitude was no longer so agreeable. The warmth of the bathhouse, the beauty of the carved stone tubs, the salubrious look of the waters, all were far more inviting. His mind made, Ingelbert began following the giantess.

  By the time he caught up, Ulfrun had seated herself upon one of the benches along the rear wall of the chamber and was removing her boots. She glanced up as Ingelbert approached and smiled.

  “That is the deepest bath,” she told him, indicating the unoccupied pool nearest them to the left of the walkway. “The others are built for the svartálfar.”

  “Construction with the forethought of taller races,” Ingelbert mused. “Fascinating for a dwarrow sanctuary, do you not agree?”

  Ulfrun hummed, clearly unconcerned, then stood and let her robe fall.

  Ingelbert looked away quickly, but the brief glimpse of the unclad giantess set his heart to pounding. He heard splashing as she entered the water and kept his eyes lowered as he removed his own boots. After pulling his shirt over his head, he risked a glance at the pool. Ulfrun's back was turned, but the depth of the tub must have been built with humans in mind, or more likely, elves, for the water barely reached her lower back. Ingelbert f
ound himself momentarily transfixed by the two dimples nestled within the muscles just above Ulfrun’s backside. The cleft of her buttocks was just visible through the steamy water and Ingelbert had to force himself to look away. He removed his breeches quickly, thankfully able to complete the task and enter the tub before the giantess turned around.

  The water embraced him, hotter than he expected. He allowed himself to sink, submerging his face. He felt the water working at his tangled hair and stayed down as long as his breath allowed. When he resurfaced, Ulfrun had turned to face him and settled down to recline in the tub, the water covering her from just beneath the collarbones. Her short hair was now soaked and slicked back, though somehow still appeared unruly. A somnolent look had crept into her face and she looked at him through half closed eyes.

  “Bless the svartálfar,” she said with a contented sigh.

  Ingelbert had to agree. The waters were miraculous.

  “They must have found hot springs,” he said. “Built the baths over them and harnessed the waters.”

  Ulfrun produced a languid smile. “Be silent and float.”

  It was good advice. For a long time they relaxed in silence. Ingelbert kept expecting the water to grow cold, but it never did. The heat kneaded his skin, caressed his muscles and blanketed his bones, chasing away the chill of Middangeard as no fire ever could.

  At last, Ulfrun broke the silence. “You remember everything.”

  The giantess had not said it as a question, but Ingelbert felt obliged to answer. “Yes.”

  “Will you write of this quest, when it is done? Record our deeds in ink and trap them within a book?”

  Ingelbert did not have a ready answer. It had never occurred to him to chronicle this journey that had abducted his life. Perhaps a part of him knew it would be a worthless effort. What good would a written account of this quest do if there was no one left alive to deliver it?

  “Why do you ask?” he queried, stalling.