Enough! He had regained his courage. He did not need this mad endeavor, his oath be damned. Let the sword lie here in this tomb amongst the innocents it slew. He would rescue Deglan without the Chain Maker's help and then he would be free of this blasted land. With a bitter exhalation, Flyn stood and went for the passage. Hengest's voice stopped him.
“This was Gísla.”
The dwarf stood before one of the corpses, the same one he had knelt in front of when he entered the vault. He turned to look at Flyn, his face full of fond recollection.
“You should have seen her in life. Keen. Beautiful. Full of wit. She, Thorsa and I were of an age. And inseparable. I became Fafnir's apprentice just to be closer to her. I think she would have agreed to wed, but Fafnir refused me her hand. He knew, even then, what he was going to do. His choice destroyed his family. You know what became of Thorsa and it is unseemly to even speak of what befell Fafnir's wife. I have hated him for centuries, Sir Flyn. The curse of the vættir, the existence of the Corpse Eater, these had always been. I knew nothing else. To me they were ancient hardships, too vast to understand. I cared only for Gísla and myself.
“Now I know what Fafnir has known for a thousand years. The doom of the dwarrow will claim us all. It will be the end of my people, for none of us are greater than the curse. In the hopes of our salvation, Fafnir Rune-Wise did not just destroy his daughters, he destroyed himself. For the greater good of his entire race, he severed his happiness and his future. If this quest succeeds it will not be his name which is celebrated and hailed until the end of days as the savior of dwarf-kind. It will be yours.”
Hengest leaned his staff against the wall and went to the center of the chamber, plucking Coalspur from the ground. He held it reverently.
“This is the blade which pierced the heart of my love,” Hengest said. “She and her sisters died at the hands of their father a thousand years before you were born. You did not know them, you did not love them. Your grief is undeserved, Sir Flyn. And you cannot allow your soiled sense of righteousness to make their deaths meaningless.”
The dwarf held the weapon out to Flyn and looked at him with flooded eyes.
“Please.”
Ingelbert emerged from the vault to find King Reginn War-Loft waiting outside with a retinue of dwarrow warriors. The dwarf lord sat atop his throne which rested upon the doughty shoulders of its bearers. His warriors were arrayed in solid ranks behind him, beyond the low wall. Numbering two hundred, they were a bulwark of steel. Clad in plate armor, the warriors' black beards emerged past the lips of their helms. They were armed with broad shields and the stout hewing-spears favored by the dwarrow.
“An impressive company of field-reddeners,” Ulfrun said, her voice coming from behind.
Turning about, Ingelbert found her sitting upon the slope of the Warden's hill, just above the lintel. He hiked up and sat down beside her, adjusting his book satchel to rest in his lap. Together, they watched as Fafnir conversed with his brother in voices too low to hear.
“Why is the King here?” Ingelbert asked.
Ulfrun shrugged her corded shoulders. “Either to offer aid or hindrance.”
“Perhaps his warriors will fell the Warden,” Ingelbert said pointedly.
“I thought you too intelligent to try and talk me out of something,” Ulfrun replied with a wry smile.
“I am,” Ingelbert replied.
Ulfrun craned around to look up at the tree. “It matters not. The sword cock will never agree to aid the Chain Maker now.”
“You think him so fickle?” Ingelbert asked bitterly. The question boiled out, unbidden. His sudden anger surprised him, but Ingelbert did not avert the hard stare he gave Ulfrun.
The giantess removed her attention from the tree and regarded him quizzically. “The wizard's deed offends you.”
“Does it not offend you?”
“Aye,” Ulfrun said, rubbing a hand aggressively over her short, wild hair. “Had I birthed children from my own body, no doubt I would have ripped the Chain Maker's head from his shoulders. Mother to one, mother to all, as we giants say. Luckily, for Fafnir Rune-Wise I have not endured the birthing bed, so my anger resides not in my womb, a most potent cauldron for wrath. I am no mother, but neither am I a maiden. The contents of this charnel house will not send me running. And neither will they deter you.”
Ingelbert said nothing, allowing his silence to give credence to Ulfrun's words.
“I do not think the coburn fickle,” the giantess continued. “I think him from another world. He is noble. Molded in honor. No doubt you know a better word for him, one we cannot conceive of in Middangeard.”
“Gallant,” Ingelbert said without hesitation.
Ulfrun smiled. Her face was not mocking. She seemed to savor the word, judging it worthy. “As you would describe him in song. You are capable of great lays, Inkstained Crane.” She winked, making sure he understood her double-meaning. Ingelbert accepted the flirtation with a smile, his anger dispelled.
“I think you are mistaken,” he said calmly. “I think Sir Flyn will surprise you.”
“Why?”
“Because it is one of his gifts,” Ingelbert replied.
Ulfrun hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I must topple this forest-spar, if he chooses to proceed. Would not such a choice also vex you?”
“That is another of his gifts.”
They looked at each other and shared a quiet laugh. Ingelbert shook his head, exasperated and darkly amused.
“I will not try and stop you, Ulfrun. But I must understand why you so willingly embrace all that could end your life.”
The question seemed to sadden the giantess. “We giants are immortal, but like the elves who became the dwarrow, we were cursed. The legends say that when Magic fled Middangeard, it took the Element of Ice from our keeping and softened it into Water to be guarded by a new race in Airlann. There the dragons and loyal elves were allowed to live, but the svartálfar and my own people were left here and punished. The giants diminished in both size and power, but Magic could only corrupt our immortality. We live eternal if not slain, but are cursed to seek a glorious end. When a giant becomes enamored with a destiny, we pursue it relentlessly. The earning and fulfillment of our Doom Name is a source of great pride.”
“Even though it is a courtship of your own death?”
“Such is the nature of curses, lover.”
Ingelbert valued knowledge above almost anything, but he feared to ask the question gnawing at his heart. “Has this quest revealed to you your Doom Name?”
“No,” Ulfrun replied, disappointment etched into her voice. But then her eyes brightened, gifting Ingelbert with her incomparable smile. “Which is why I know, one way or another, this tree shall not be my end.” Reaching over, she squeezed his leg and then stood. “Come. Let us go and discover what the svartálfar discuss.”
Taking Ulfrun's proffered hand, Ingelbert pulled himself to his feet and together they walked down the slope. Fafnir and Reginn's discourse appeared to be done, for the wizard watched them come, his back to the king.
Ingelbert and Ulfrun bowed respectfully to Lord Reginn.
“Well met, Breaker, Master Crane,” the king said. “I come to bid you good fortune on your journey, but find that journey may be delayed.”
“Much is asked of Sir Flyn, my lord,” Ingelbert said. “He will do as he vowed.”
Reginn nodded sagely. “I share your confidence. I do not bestow gifts to those I deem without grit. Which reminds me.” The king reached under his robes and pulled a broad-bladed dagger from his belt. Flipping the weapon in his hand, he extended it down to Ingelbert handle-first. “My brother is not the only skilled smith in these halls.”
Ingelbert took the dagger, finding the weight daunting. “You forged this, my lord?”
“I am of little use wielding weapons, now,” the crippled king answered. “So, I make them. It does not do for a man to venture into the north unarmed.”
“Most gra
cious, my lord,” Ingelbert said. “I thank you.”
Reginn nodded, then swiveled to look at Ulfrun. “My brother tells me you are to fell the Warden.”
“Aye, War-Loft,” the giantess replied. Ingelbert looked down to hide a grin. Only Ulfrun could address a king as if he were a drinking companion.
Reginn thrust his arm out and motioned. From the ranks of his warriors came a dwarf bearing a great axe. The long haft was slightly curved and runes glinted upon the steel of the bearded blade.
“Perhaps,” the king said. “This will help you cleave limbs of wood and bone.”
The dwarf carrying the axe offered it to Ulfrun. The giantess gave the weapon the barest glance before addressing Reginn.
“I would not offend you, Shield-Borne,” she said, “but when my foes fall by my hand, they fall by my hands.”
Fafnir turned on the giantess, glowering. “You intend to challenge the Warden without the aid of a sharp edge?”
“Trust in the prophecy of your daughters, Chain Maker,” Ulfrun said with a hint of vitriol.
Just then, movement at the vault's entrance caught Ingelbert's eye. Hengest ascended the stairs and approached. He bowed before the King, then faced Fafnir.
“Sir Flyn is ready,” Hengest said.
Ingelbert could not resist giving Ulfrun a satisfied look. The giantess acknowledge his gloat with a wink.
“Ulfrun…”Fafnir began, but she was already making her way towards the hill.
Ingelbert watched her go, aroused and flummoxed by her sure strides. Behind, he could hear Fafnir addressing the King.
“Brother, best remove yourself.”
“We will wait in the barrowlands,” Reginn answered. “Should you need aid.”
The sounds of clinking armor signaled the withdrawal of the dwarrow warriors, but Ingelbert did not remove his gaze from Ulfrun. She had reached the crest of the hill.
The Warden was nearly ten times her height and the giantess regarded it for a long moment before beginning a slow circuit of its trunk. Ulfrun's head was bowed as she walked, and Ingelbert realized that she was studying the root base. As she moved behind the tree, she was briefly lost from sight, but soon came around the other side. She paused then, one hand drifting up to rest upon the bark. Ingelbert winced, expecting some repercussions from the contact, but Ulfrun remained unharmed. She ran her hand down the trunk and might have spoken, for Ingelbert thought he saw her lips move. Removing her hand, Ulfrun flexed her fingers, then, looking down at her feet, squatted. She must have gripped two of the exposed roots, for the muscles in her arms grew taut, straining as she tried to straighten her legs. Even from a distance Ingelbert could see the sinews writhing in Ulfrun's arms, her thighs rippling as she pushed upward. It seemed she labored for nothing. The tree stood tall and firm.
A low creaking began to be heard. The leaves of the Warden began to hiss as the branches shook. Ingelbert took a step forward, though everything about the tree was a warning not to approach. The air grew thin and cold, rife with fell energy. Ingelbert could almost see it wafting off the Warden. He looked to Fafnir and Hengest, finding the runecasters staring at Ulfrun's struggle with grim faces. A grunt of pain snapped his head back to the crest of the hill. Ulfrun's face was twisted in anguish. The exertion should have flushed the giantess' skin, but it was ghastly white. One of Ulfrun's hands suddenly jerked upward and she nearly spilled to the ground, but she ground her heels in and remained upright. A root had snapped, causing the upset in her balance. With a harsh snarl of celebration, Ulfrun seized another root and redoubled her assault. Incredibly, the tree began to lean. But the struggle was not only physical. Ingelbert could sense the Magic as the tree protected itself, could smell the abjurations pouring into Ulfrun. Another root broke loose just as the giantess choked out a gob of blood. This time, she did fall.
Ingelbert tried to go to her, but was stopped by Fafnir's strong grip around his arm. He whirled on the Chain Maker, but found the dwarf pointing up the hill. Ulfrun coughed and spat crimson, but again got her feet under her. She spun and put her back to the trunk, hooking the roots with her hands and pushed again with the might in her legs. Ingelbert saw the roots begin to separate from the turf, tearing free of the hill. Ulfrun screamed and red rivulets spilled from her ears, standing out horribly against her blanched flesh.
The Warden was beginning to bend, but the giantess beneath would break first. Ingelbert could see it plainly, the inevitable failure. For every bit of ground the Warden surrendered, it took thrice as much from Ulfrun in vengeance. It could be moved, forced to release its charges, but not without a fight. A fight Ulfrun was losing.
“We must help her!” Ingelbert shouted.
“No,” Fafnir said and the dwarf's grip on his arm tightened. “We dare not interfere with the augury.”
Struggling feebly in the Chain Maker's clutches, Ingelbert let out a moan of despair. Ulfrun's heels were scrabbling in the dirt, exhaustion causing her to quiver. She began to slide away from the trunk, her body wracked with spasms. Dying, she fought on.
Ingelbert was nauseous, sick with rage. He yearned for Gasten. With the owl upon his shoulder, he could end this, cast off the pitiful runecaster's hand and leach away his power. Hengest's too. He would use the two stunted wizards like the blunt instruments they were and turn his fury upon the Warden. Even elf-craft would not oppose him. Their pathetic tree would wilt under the dread focus of his will. No amount of Magic could protect it from the blight of worms and rot he would conjure. Within moments the great Warden Tree would be nothing but a decayed, etiolated log, the pride of elven Magic reduced to nothing but a breeding ground for mushrooms.
But he could not. Not without Gasten.
The Warden was now leaning heavily, but was far from falling. It clung to the hill, the gap Ulfrun had forced between tree and earth nothing but a maw, laughing at her defeat. The giantess crawled away from the tree, pink spittle drooling from her lips. Her head swung drunkenly as she rose on staggering legs and turned to face her opponent once more. With a gurgling cry of defiance, Ulfrun charged at the trunk, but there was no speed in her steps. Her shoulder thumped ineffectually into the wood and she fell to her knees.
Screaming and cursing, Ingelbert thrashed against Fafnir's hold. He managed to break loose, but stumbled forward. Reaching out to break his fall, his hand came down upon something smooth. Through tear-clouded eyes he saw the familiar pages of the elven ledger. The tome must have spilled from his satchel during his flailing and now lay open upon the grass.
Ingelbert saw his own fingers splayed upon the page, but they seemed distant, detached, floating serenely in his tears. He blinked to rid his eyes of the drops and they fell, becoming rain. He saw the back of his hand, the flesh suddenly soaked and within the brightness of reflection he perceived nine figures, shadowy and aloof. Eight stood opposed to one, drenched and occluded by the downpour. The single figure smiled and Ingelbert's sight was eclipsed by teeth running with rainwater. There was something familiar in that hungry grin, as if the owner of the bared teeth knew every crevasse of Ingelbert's hidden shame. The cruel smile faded and now only two figures stood in the midst of the storm, the smiler and a female. Between them, Ingelbert could see his own hand once more. He tried to remove it from the page, hoping to rid himself of the visions, but he was bound to the book. The female standing against the smiler turned her head and a pair of eyes appeared, lustrous and sorrowful. Ingelbert was reminded of Ulfrun's gaze, but as the eyes swallowed him, he saw they possessed none of her mirth. There was no dance of laughter, no spark of exuberance, only ancient wisdom and deep compassion beyond mortal boundaries.
The eyes spoke to him without voice, guided him without force. He felt his mind becalmed and he ceased trying to pull his hand away from the tome. Beneath, the written runes were moving, reforming, yet never settling. The eyes slowly closed and vanished.
Ingelbert inhaled sharply, realizing he had not been breathing. His hand was dry. There was no rain. Leaving the t
ome upon the ground, he stood and walked towards the hill. Nothing opposed him. His steps were light, his footfalls silent. The slope of the hill was as flat ground, so easy was the ascent.
Ulfrun was sprawled belly-down amongst the partially uprooted base of the tree, her face resting on one of the hard tendrils. Her eyes were open, glazed over and dim, but she still lived. Ingelbert could hear her breath coming in ragged shudders. Kneeling beside her, he wiped the frothy blood from her chin. He smiled at her and, keeping one hand upon her cheek, he reached out and placed the other upon the tree.
The Warden instantly tried to repel him with a power primal and patient. He did not resist its attack, merely allowed it to wash past him. Keeping his eyes on Ulfrun's, he comforted her without speaking and lulled the tree with his resting touch. The Warden was a sentinel of pure life, tasked with the keeping of death. Below, in the vault, the tree's roots were intertwined with corpses, the imprisonment of their cold flesh its sole purpose. Ingelbert fed it the purity of life, forced it to forget the presence of the dead. Slowly, the tree receded, relinquishing its long burden. As it succumbed, Ingelbert gathered all the life it had drained from Ulfrun and channeled it back to her. The vital force of the Warden was strong and Ingelbert was tempted to allow the giantess to have it, but he refrained. He gave Ulfrun only what was hers and allowed the Warden to leave the world with all it had brought.
Ingelbert could no longer feel the touch of bark on his hand. Ulfrun now lay fully upon the ground, the roots having fled. Pushing herself to sitting, the giantess blinked, her eyes beginning to shine once more. The pallor fled rapidly from her face. She stared aghast at the empty hilltop.
“The Warden?” she exclaimed.
Ingelbert extended his hand and opened his fingers, showing her the single seed that lay resting on his palm.
The giantess was still laughing when Fafnir and Hengest trudged to the top of the hill.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 51
