“Memories are like a hot coal,” the giantess answered, her words at ease. “They are passed quickly from one person to the next, but once they cool there is no more need to pass them on. The dead are remembered by those who feel the pain of their loss, sharing the stories to ease that pain. But soon, even for we immortals, there are none left who feel pain, for they too die, and so the stories cease to be shared. That is how the dead are forgotten. But a life written is never forgotten. I would have people read of me and, though they knew me not, still feel the pain of my end.”
“You think this quest will kill you?”
“Possibly. But if it does not, something will, one day. The story you told me, of the álfar, the lovers, it did not contain their deaths, but they no longer live do they?”
“No,” Ingelbert answered, remembering when he asked Parlan Sloane the same question.
“I will remember them,” Ulfrun stated with certainty. “And I feel pain that they no longer draw breath, because someone wrote of them. You should write of us, Ingelbert Crane.”
“I could record what has transpired to this moment, but I doubt I will be witness to the end of this quest.”
Ulfrun's eyes opened wider and she grinned. “Who is it now who believes his days draw to an end?”
“With reason,” Ingelbert told her. “You and Flyn are great warriors, Fafnir is a potent wizard—”
“As are you.”
“No,” Ingelbert said, afraid to continue, but needing to say it aloud. “No, I am not. Fafnir is wrong about me. Without Gasten, I have no sorcery. I am sure of this.”
Ulfrun frowned. “The night-gull did not follow you here. Why?”
Ingelbert paused, unsure how to answer, unsure how to explain. “We...struggled. Within. I do not know if he wished to keep me from this place or merely did not want to enter himself, but he fought my every step. I lost sight of the sun and became confused. I do not even know when Gasten departed, but he was gone when Fafnir found me.”
“And he will return,” Ulfrun assured him, “once you leave here. Birds do not wish to go where there is no sky.”
“Ulfrun. I do not know if I want him to return. Without him I cannot survive in Middangeard, but with him, I...”
He lost all words. What was there to say? That the owl made him stronger and he relished it? That he had killed two men in Gipeswic and stopped a giant's blade with his bare hand? He had leached Magic from Hengest, held Deglan captive, compelled the storulvir to slaughter Thorsa. None of this he could have accomplished without Gasten and he feared what he was becoming, but he feared being helpless even more.
Suddenly, a torrent of hot water punched his face. Spluttering, Ingelbert wiped the water from his eyes and found Ulfrun staring at him with an expression both sheepish and scolding.
“Pardons,” she said. “But you looked about to weep. Giant men only shed tears for two things, the birth of their children and, if they be so unfortunate, the death of those children.”
“I am no giant,” Ingelbert complained.
“Which is why I offered pardon. Perhaps it is customary for mortal men to weep over some unspoken fear.”
She was right, of course. Sulking and brooding resolved nothing.
“Without Gasten, I am going to die,” he told her firmly. “With him, I am going to cause others to die. Mayhaps it will be only our enemies, but it could be one of my companions. One of you. Or all of you. No matter which...I will enjoy it. Do you not see why that causes me to fear?”
Ulfrun's lips drew tight. “With the bird present, you are a changed man. We all see it. Deglan worried for you. The knight worries for you still.”
Ingelbert swallowed. “And you?”
Something in Ulfrun's face changed. Her countenance hardened yet her eyes softened. She drew her legs back and gathered them under her, revealing a brief glimpse of her full breasts and firmly etched stomach before she lowered herself belly-down in the pool. She swam towards him, seeming to crawl through the water. Her shapely back and buttocks occasionally broke the surface, bright and wet.
“I have fought,” she said quietly as she drew closer. “I have killed. I have delighted in victory, but the sight of wound-dew upon my hands has never given me joy. Battle is a skill, but should not be a passion. Songs, love-play, the laughter of children, these are life and these should be yearned for. These are what I yearn for.”
She was very close to him now and knelt on the bottom of the pool, placing one hand upon the lip next to Ingelbert's head. He felt her other hand fondle him beneath the water. Ingelbert jumped slightly, not from shock or revulsion, but from the exquisite sensation of her fingers upon his rigid flesh.
“You want me,” she said, looking him in the eyes, clearly pleased with his body's response. “It is good and healthy to want a woman. It means you want life. Such desires should be pursued and celebrated. You remember everything, Ingelbert Crane, so remember this moment. Think on it often and allow it to fuel new desire. But, if one day the memory no longer arouses, if you find it no longer fires your blood, then you must ask yourself, what does? What does a man, or a woman, what do they want if not the wholesome pleasures of life? If, on that day, you find the answer is delight in slaughter, in ruin, in the mastery and pain of others, then you will have chosen death over life. But I do not believe that is your fate. So no, I do not worry for you.”
Ulfrun moved forward until her body was pressed against his, then she shifted her hips slightly, breathing out through smiling lips. Ingelbert's eyes widened and his own breath caught pleasantly in his throat as an aching part of him was surrounded by a warmth more welcoming than the waters.
TWENTY SIX
The Dread Cockerel raged.
The sounds of snapping chains and incomprehensible ravings filled the cell as the coburn struggled against his bonds. Deglan crouched well out of reach, behind one of the support beams and away from the cell door.
“Sir Wyncott, calm yourself!” he urged from his place of safety.
The Dread Cockerel did not heed him. He never did. Again he lunged for the door and again his chains rang stridently, defying his strength. The coburn's beak opened wide, issuing a string of hisses and agonized screeches. His talons scrabbled in the dirt as he tried to drag himself forward, but the steel links made a mockery of his efforts. The feathers beneath Wyncott's manacles had been rubbed thin long before Deglan was ever tossed into the cell, and blood ran freely from the raw flesh beneath the metal. The Dread Cockerel paid no more heed to his injuries than he did Deglan's voice. There was nothing to do but wait the frenzy out.
The first of these fits Deglan had witnessed awakened his healer's instinct and compelled him to approach the knight. He was rewarded with a cuff to the head from a wildly flung arm that nearly knocked him senseless. Since then, Deglan had learned to stay clear of the coburn when one of these rages was upon him. What he had not learned was what caused them to possess the grim knight.
At first, he thought them a savage bid for freedom, some brave yet futile display of a coburn unwilling to be caged, but they were not simply born from anger over imprisonment. Deglan had talked almost relentlessly at Sir Wyncott about their current plight, discussing possible means of escape, yet none of these one-sided conversations had sparked any anger within the knight. Indeed, when he had control of his faculties, the Dread Cockerel seemed almost resigned to his captivity. Near as Deglan could tell, the fits were random and came without warning, even descending upon the coburn while he slept. Conscious or not, his eyes would suddenly become wide and vacant, imbued with a feverish luster. Then the babbling would begin, low grunts quickly escalating into bestial screams. Somewhere within the inane growling, the coburn was speaking, Deglan had no doubt, but he had only been able to make out one word, and that only because it was so oft repeated.
Prize.
Once the physical struggles began, however, all chance of deciphering speech became impossible. The Dread Cockerel would begin pacing, wringing his fet
tered hands, then throw himself at the door with abandon. The rattle of the chains and the plangent cries of the knight filled the cell, forcing Deglan to clap his hands over his ears until the fit subsided. When the inexorable strength of the chains finally defeated the coburn's labors, he always kept his feet for a time, moaning and pacing, slamming his manacles together. It was not until the exhausted knight at last slumped to the ground that Deglan dared come from behind the beam.
“You going to talk to me this time?” he asked when this latest fit subsided.
Sir Wyncott only shook his drooping head.
“I cannot help you if you refuse to tell me what ails you,” Deglan pressed.
It was a well-used statement, grown feeble after days of fruitless utterance. The Dread Cockerel had a reputation for taciturnity, and being locked away beneath a wall had done little to loosen his tongue. All Deglan could gather was that the knight had come to Middangeard and been set upon by Crow Shoulders' men, specifically his twelve sons. The Dread Cockerel's face had become slack with haunted disbelief as he spoke of the berserkers.
“I never wounded one,” the knight had said, his voice low with shame. “Not one. They are strong as ten men, each of them.”
This was one of the longest strings of words Deglan had wrestled out of his cell mate. He sensed the pride of the coburn was fueling his words, forcing him to offer some explanation for his defeat and capture. The Knights of the Valiant Spur were formidable, and from his time at the Roost, Deglan had learned the Dread Cockerel was known as one of the most deadly. Certainly none other of the Knights Errant were spoken of with more fear. From Sir Wyncott's tone it was clear he expected to be able to best a dozen men without difficulty, yet Arngrim's sons had disarmed him and clapped him in chains without a drop of their own blood spilled. Deglan had feared the berserkers when he saw them in Crow Shoulders' keep. He feared them more now.
Reaching forward, Deglan took one of the Dread Cockerel's wrists in his hands. The knight did not protest or pull away, nor did he even bother to raise his head. Deglan frowned at the chaffed flesh beneath the manacles, knowing there was nothing he could do. He had been deprived of his herb satchel. Even if he still had it, his supplies would have been long depleted with as often as Sir Wyncott aggravated his wounds. Still, he had to look. It was his duty not just as a healer, but as the physician of the Valiant Spur. He and the Dread Cockerel were fellow captives, but they were also sworn to the same brotherhood. It was the only source of trust between them.
Sir Wyncott was an infamous blackguard amongst the knights, his drab appearance, laconic demeanor and dishonorable reputation making him all but an outcast. There were many, Sir Corc included, who believed his spurs should have been stripped from him. Well, they were now. The fjordmen had left the coburn with nothing, not even a stitch of clothing, but he seemed not to feel the cold. For truth, he seemed not to feel anything except the shame of defeat and the rage of his sudden fits. Not even curiosity intruded upon his torpor. Wyncott had not once asked Deglan how he too came to be a prisoner of Arngrim Crow Shoulders. For his part, Deglan volunteered nothing.
“What is the prize?” Deglan asked quietly, releasing the Dread Cockerel's wrist.
The coburn did not respond. Knowing it was pointless to press further, Deglan left him be, returning to the only tasks that kept him occupied; shivering and thinking.
Life in the cell was cold and cramped. Well, cold for Deglan and cramped for the Dread Cockerel. They were fed little, their meals consisting mostly of raw herring. Deglan had given his first few portions to the Dread Cockerel, but hunger eventually forced him to choke the nearly spoiled fish down. Other than keeping starvation at bay, the arrival of their rare provender provided an additional benefit in the form of Sigrun, the woman who acted as Arngrim's translator.
Long hours passed before the door of the cell opened. Deglan stood, wincing as his frozen joints popped, and went to meet the thrall.
Sigrun always removed their mess buckets first, passing them to a pair of other slaves waiting outside with the guards. Fresh buckets were brought in, along with the meager rations. As was her habit, Sigrun took a moment to inspect Deglan's face, cleaning the wounds made by the berserker's boot and scrutinizing the newer lump caused by Sir Wyncott. Under his guidance, she had managed to set his broken nose during her first visit, a procedure that had left Deglan in tears. Then, and every time since, the cell door was closed by the guards, leaving Sigrun alone with him and the Dread Cockerel. Deglan was no fool. He knew Crow Shoulders purposefully allowed the woman to linger by herself in order to gather information. Let the bastard think himself clever, so long as it provided Deglan a friendly face, even for only a few minutes.
In his week of captivity, Deglan had learned little about Sigrun, save that she had been born in Kymbru, but lived most of her girlhood in Sasana. Even this information was hard-won, for she spoke little, adopting the silent, servile attitude so common in slaves.
“Hakeswaith?” Deglan inquired as Sigrun knelt in front of him. “Any word?”
The woman's deep brown eyes left his bruises only for a moment. “No. I have still not seen him.” Try as she might to sound detached, Sigrun's voice contained an inherent compassion.
Deglan let out a deep sigh. For days he had been trying to gather some information on the whaler, but could not even discover if he were alive or dead. The beating Crow Shoulders' sons had given him was severe and it was not likely he survived. Still, Deglan wanted to know for a certainty.
Sigrun took a cold, damp rag to his cuts.
“They would heal faster if you brought me the herbs I asked for,” Deglan told her lightly.
“I have not yet procured them,” the woman replied.
Deglan gave an unconcerned grunt, hiding his disappointment. Days ago, he had asked for some specific supplies, claiming they would alleviate his and the Dread Cockerel's hurts. This was true, but amongst the innocuous medicines, he had included a few herbs that could be useful in helping them escape. Sleeping draughts and poisons were often better than a blade. Naturally, he had not told Sigrun any of this when he innocently rattled off the requested components. Herbs were difficult to come by in the frozen lands of Middangeard, but nothing he required was unknown here. Either Crow Shoulders was simply disinclined to grant any request from his prisoners or someone in his holdfast knew herb-lore and warned the jarl of Deglan's ruse. He wondered if it was Sigrun herself. Like all thralls, the duty to her master was born from fear not loyalty, which would make it nearly impossible to win her as an ally. In Deglan's experience, it was easier to kindle the fires of betrayal in the human heart than it was to ignite selfless bravery.
“He still has not spoken?” Sigrun asked, her concerned gaze flicking to the Dread Cockerel.
“No,” Deglan grumbled.
“His cries can be heard over half the fortress.”
“The fits are getting worse. Without the medicine I need, I cannot help him.”
Sigrun's jaw tightened. “I cannot get them for you.”
Deglan nodded. “Why does Arngrim keep him alive? What does he want with a captive coburn?”
“He is a trophy,” Sigrun replied softly. “Another display of Crow Shoulders' power. His sons would have him make a new cloak from the coburn's feathers.”
Deglan glanced behind him to make sure Sir Wyncott had not heard. “Earth and Stone. Then it is only a matter of time before they kill him. And what does he intend to do with my hide? Make a nosebag for his horse?”
Sigrun made a face, chastising his dark humor. “I know not. But you claimed you would help kill the dwarf wizard. Did you lie?”
Deglan faked a wince at the rag's touch before answering, inwardly reminding himself to be cautious.
“Like your jarl, I hate Fafnir Rune-Wise. From Fafnir's own admission he caused great harm to Arngrim's family. Well, he is doing the bloody same with my friends! Give me an opportunity and I will plunge a knife into that meddling dwarf's heart.”
/> Sigrun glanced towards the door of the cell, then looked back at Deglan and gave him a warning glare. “Such an oath will not help you. Would you have Crow Shoulders know you would deprive him of his vengeance? His must be the hand that slays the runecaster. None other.”
Deglan shook his head at his own stupidity. “You are right. I am weary. I am simply trying to—”
“Survive,” Sigrun cut in. “I know.”
Deglan looked into the woman's face. It was a strong face, once comely but now lined with years. Not the years of age, but the years of enduring sorrow and hardship. Even her deep brown hair was showing streaks of grey, much too early for one so young. But her eyes remained vibrant, the harshness of servitude not yet corrupting her gaze. Deglan found friendship in those eyes, something housed within giving him permission to trust.
“I will help Arngrim,” Deglan whispered. “If he agrees to spare my comrades, I will do whatever he asks of me.”
Sigrun leaned close, worry and relief at war upon her brow. “There is a dwarrow sanctuary—”
It was Deglan's turn to cut her off. “The Downward Fields, I know. I spoke the truth in the tower. I know not where they are.”
“Then how can you hope to save yourself? Your friends?”
“I do not know!” Deglan barked.
Sigrun did not recoil from his outburst. A thrall was inured to far greater callousness than the yelled frustrations of a bitter, old gnome. She simply looked at him with deep sadness.
“Perhaps you do not need to help them,” she said comfortingly. “The jarl sent men out to bring the runecaster here, but none returned save the riders who delivered you, and they lost two of their number in the doing. The dwarf has great Magic. That is what is whispered throughout the fortress when Arngrim and his sons are not present to hear. The warriors believe this Fafnir controls the birds and beasts, and has surrounded himself with invulnerable champions. The riders say one of them came after you the night you were taken. A swift fighter with a great blade.”
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 47
