The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  “You know where he is?” Hengest asked from the rear of their little column.

  “Within the vale,” Flyn called over his shoulder. “In the Corpse Eater's nest.”

  “And you know the way?” Deglan asked, his voice dubious.

  “Up,” Flyn answered. “We need to keep going up. The vale is littered with caves. It is how the vættir reach the tree. If you hear their singing, we should head towards it.”

  “Comforting,” Deglan grumbled.

  “Sir Flyn,” Hengest said. “The Magic living in Master Crane is most potent. The spirit of this Gaunt Prince nearly killed Fafnir Rune-Wise and that is not something to scoff at.”

  Flyn paused, turning around to face his companions. “I know. He broke the Corpse Eater's mind on a whim. She would have killed me if the Dread Cockerel had not intervened. He fights her now, if he yet lives.”

  “The Chain Maker and Ulfrun the Breaker have gone to aid him in her destruction,” Hengest told him.

  “Good,” Flyn said, though inwardly he wondered how well Wyncott would take to allies. “As for whoever holds Crane enthralled, I know not his full intentions, but he is up there with that husk from Castle Gaunt and...a woman.”

  “Beladore,” Deglan intoned.

  “You saw her too?”

  “I did.”

  Flyn looked into the gnome's frowning face and they shared a look which bespoke of shared secrets, shared vows. They each asked and answered the same question without speaking, and were each relieved to find all secrets, all vows, intact.

  “Who is she?” Hengest asked, clearly noticing their silent commiseration.

  “The last surviving heir to the crown of the Goblin Kings,” Deglan replied evenly.

  “Inkst—,” Flyn started, then caught himself, “rather, this Goblin Prince, wants her for something, though he is not afraid to harm her. She is in grave danger.”

  “We all are,” Deglan said, peering up at the tunnel ceiling as if he could see through stone.

  Flyn took a deep breath. “I need to stop him. Hengest, can you protect me from his sorcery?”

  The runecaster thought deeply for a moment. “There are stones I have which will ward you, but they will not guard for long. You may have mere seconds.”

  Flyn nodded his understanding. He turned to set off up the tunnel, but a thought made him pause once more. Looking over Deglan's head, he locked eyes with Hengest.

  “There is one other thing I would have you do.”

  Through the owl's keen eyes, Inkstain watched the Corpse Eater and smiled. She had made short work of Flyn and was now engaged with the other coburn on the nearby slopes just inside the Gale.

  “The dark one is doing quite well,” Inkstain said. “Far better than the fop. He wields that sword as if he were born to it, which, of course, he was.”

  The grey-feathered coburn did not have Flyn's alacrity, yet moved with the undeniable persistence of the tides, wading in to slash dauntlessly at the Mother of Gales. The great bird stuck to the ground, hindered by the one injury Flyn had managed to deliver. Inkstain's smile broadened at the sight of the battle and the feeling of the chronicler struggling to reassert his own will. With the owl away, the mewling man had found a foothold and was feebly trying to reemerge. It was a treat to sense him squirming about, clinging to the small belief that he would regain control.

  Tired of witnessing the Corpse Eater snap and hiss, Inkstain returned to his own vision to bask in a different spectacle.

  The woman convulsed upon the ground, her jaw clenched so tightly she could not even scream out the agony that wracked her body. Slouch Hat knelt over her, his thin-fingered hands fighting to restrain her thrashing.

  “Women are so very difficult to hurt,” Inkstain mused. “The nature of childbirth naturally inures them to pain. Indeed, they welcome it. As lusty girls they yearn for their first tearing penetration, hating and craving their own desires. And then they endure the birthing bed, wishing against all reason to return to that nightmare of sweat and blood again and again until they are old, dried up crones, nursing the memory of the pains they savored in youth.” The woman managed a squeal through clenched teeth, a sharp, high sound of torment. “So, you must slather them with the most excruciating energies just to get their attention.”

  Inkstain could feel the husk trying to break his spell, thumping crudely and ineffectually at the edges.

  “You see, straw slave, there is more to sorcery than simply stealing a crown of power. You must know where to strike and how. For all your cunning, you must use every ounce of the craft you have stolen simply to keep that slattern alive.” Inkstain clicked his tongue, reveling in the husk's helplessness and the bending spine of the woman flopping upon the squalid floor of the nest. “Let her die, Slouch Hat. Then you can turn the crown on me. You may emerge the master of such a contest. Truly, I do not know how much the body of this skinny annalist can suffer. It might be you are the victor.”

  The husk did not respond, redoubling his efforts to calm the woman's affliction. Inkstain paced around them.

  “You were right not to crown her. I concede she is my descendant, but no human has worn that circlet for a thousand years. It would have destroyed her. Mortal blood has such a fickle memory, so easily diluted by time.” Inkstain knelt down beside the woman, opposite the husk. “But you, hollow man, you have no blood. Nothing for sorcery to pollute. You are a perfect vessel. Which, I suppose, is the reason father's little cunny used you to leave the Tower of Vellaunus. And so, here we all are.”

  The woman whimpered as Inkstain traced a finger between her tightly closed eyes and down the bridge of her nose. Her flesh was damp with sweat, despite the cold. Inkstain brought his finger to his tongue, tasting her salt.

  “I can see why you strive to save her,” he told the husk. “But it leaves you vulnerable. I could set you afire at my leisure, or summon a flock of ravens to pick you apart, one stalk at a time. Mayhaps I will force the woman to wear your hat while I rape her.” Inkstain stood suddenly. “Half a moment! The cockfight has once again become interesting!”

  Returning to the owl, he saw the Corpse Eater had at last returned to flight, the grim coburn clutched in her claws. He struggled most valiantly, still battling with the big sword, but had not landed a telling blow by the time the Corpse Eater reached the vale. Inkstain was able to leave the owl and watch with his human eyes as the great bird shot over the tree, quickly entering a dive towards the vale. She tried to release the coburn, drop him to his death, but he clung to the chains still tangled about her talons as Flyn had done before. Quickly, they dipped beyond the heights of the nest and Inkstain once more used the owl as his vantage.

  The grey coburn waited until they were near the ground, then let go of the chain, rolling to break his fall. The Corpse Eater swooped level with the ground, quickly leaving her foe behind. The Mother of Gales was fleeing.

  Inkstain wrinkled his mouth in disappointment. Perhaps he had not broken her mind enough if she could resort to such tactics. He started to turn away, but movement caught the owl's eye.

  Ulfrun emerged from a cave mouth directly in front of the Corpse Eater and near level with her flight. As the great bird sped through the air, flapping her wings to pull up and leave the vale, the giantess leaped out. She caught the bird's neck, gripping it in a bear-hug with her arms and legs. Using her powerful muscles to exert tremendous torsion, Ulfrun wrenched the Corpse Eater's neck around, forcing her flight into a headlong twist. The giantess still held fast as the bird slammed into the ridge. A small avalanche accompanied the tumbling monster to the floor of the vale.

  Inkstain grinned. “I can see why you tumbled the giantess, chronicler. Most impressive.”

  Dazed, but alive, the Corpse Eater struggled to rise against the press of snow and ice. Of the giantess there was no sign. The grey coburn came rushing across the vale, towards the grounded beast, cutting down every wight in his path. Inkstain felt a surge of power enter the vale and directed the owl
to look at another cave, this one opening at the ground. Here, the runemaster strode forth, though visibly still frail from the chastising he had received from Slouch Hat. The vale was now teeming with wights and they began to shuffle towards the dwarf, a tide of corpses.

  Inkstain smiled. “Fafnir truly is tenacious. Could it be his augury will be fulfilled?”

  Uncaring, he shrugged and turned back to Slouch Hat.

  “Have you not broken that little curse? If you do not hurry she will be quite insane. You deserve to be so humbled, husk. To be reminded of your proper station. That is why I do not burn you now. I will not stoop to taking what is mine by force from a servant who should offer me my crown on bended knee!” Leaning down, Inkstain pushed his face beside the husk's and whispered at him. “You will know your place and then this woman will be bent to hers.”

  “Buggery and shit,” Deglan cursed, scowling at the twisted, rime-covered branch before him. “You do not expect me to cross that?”

  “I am afraid so,” Flyn replied.

  After hurrying on cramping legs through the caverns, keeping up with the strut's blistering pace, Deglan had finally gained some relief when the tunnel they traversed leveled out. His comfort, however, was short lived, for they had only gone a few hundred paces before they saw a glaring portal of white sunlight ahead. Reaching the exit, Deglan had gawked at the massive trunk before him.

  They were high up the ridge, the underside of the horrid nest they sought visible above. The cave mouth was joined to the tree by one thick, serpentine branch that had pushed its way into the rock face with the slow, irresistible growth of countless years. Though wide as a wagon track, the limb's curved surface was encrusted with frost and a covering of snow, no doubt hiding all manner of knots and knobs ready to trip a foot and send an unsuspecting gnome plummeting to his death.

  “Bugger that,” Deglan declared, stepping back from the edge of the tunnel. He watched as Flyn clambered down the eroding stone and dropped to the branch, his taloned feet clutching the slick bark.

  “Come on, Staunch,” the coburn urged, holding a hand up.

  Clutching the tome tight to his body with one arm, Deglan took Flyn's hand and lowered himself down, sliding painfully on his backside until his feet touched the branch. He had to move forward to make room for Hengest, so he grabbed the back of Flyn's belt and eased his feet forward. Once the dwarf gained the bough, Flyn led them slowly across.

  Deglan fought the urge to look down and when he failed at that, he fought the urge to piss himself. He could hear the spike on the butt of Hengest's staff striking the crust behind him, the dwarf jabbing the steel deep to steady himself. Flyn had his talons to keep his footing and Deglan had Flyn, unwilling to relinquish his hold on the coburn's belt. Thankfully, Flyn never asked him to.

  After a ponderous eternity of shuffling his feet, Deglan reached the hoary wall that was the tree's trunk. The branch widened where it joined the tree and the three of them were able to stand in a cluster while Flyn surveyed the best possible ascent. Deglan watched with a growing sense of unease as the coburn's eyes followed the path of a narrower, up-sweeping branch just above where they stood, which thrust out over the vale for a dreadful distance before curving to cradle the edge of the nest.

  “No,” Deglan groused softly as he saw Flyn decide on their course.

  “It is the only way,” the knight said, reaching out for the tome. Deglan handed it over and Flyn tucked it between his ragged surcoat and his mail. Squatting, Flyn motioned at his back. “Up you come, Staunch.”

  “Why me?” Deglan asked, then pointed at Hengest. “Take him first. I will wait here and see if you make it.”

  “I will manage on my own,” the dwarf said.

  Deglan flicked a squinted eye at the runecaster's heavy staff. “You going to climb one-handed?”

  “No,” Hengest replied and reached into his pouch to produce a runestone. Muttering something in the dwarrow tongue, he placed the stone in the socket of the staff's wrought ram's head. When the dwarf released the staff, it remained suspended in the air at his side.

  “Clever,” Deglan admitted. “I don't suppose you have another of those stones to shove up my arse.”

  Still crouched, Flyn laughed. “Come on, you.”

  Groaning, Deglan clambered onto the coburn's back. As soon as Flyn stood, Deglan shut his eyes.

  “Bugger. Shit. Bugger. Shit. Bugger. Shit.”

  He felt his own weight sway as Flyn made his way out onto the smaller branch, certain that he was going to cause the coburn to become unbalanced and drag them both down. Slowly, Deglan felt his head pitch forward as Flyn leaned down to grab the bole, proceeding on his hands and feet. The coburn went alarmingly fast in this manner and soon Deglan felt himself raised back to nearly upright. A sudden jostle signaled Flyn's initial bound as he began to climb the nearly vertical branch. Deglan opened his eyes, only once, immediately regretting the impulse. He hung out over the brink, beyond the other branches, nothing below but laughing wind and the blurry white of the vale, mind-numbingly distant. Beyond and above Flyn's head, Deglan saw the edge of the nest, the ends of dozens of sundered, jumbled logs drawing closer.

  Deglan lay face down on one of those logs when Flyn deposited him at the top, breathing in grateful, shuddering breaths. The coburn went back to the edge and leaned an arm down to help haul Hengest up the last stretch. The dwarf's staff rose up beside him and he took it in hand once more. Deglan got to his feet as Flyn handed the tome back.

  “You think this will help him?” the knight asked.

  Deglan could only raise his eyebrows, but Hengest was more certain.

  “That book is rampant with huldu Magic,” the runecaster pronounced. “I think it may be what kept Master Crane from succumbing for so long and what prevented Fafnir from sensing the warlock's presence.”

  “A blessing and a curse,” Deglan said.

  “Yes,” Hengest agreed. “But, if anything has the power to deliver Master Crane, it is within those pages. Here,” the dwarf handed Flyn his staff. “This will make a good mace and the craft used to forge it may deter some of the Gaunt Prince's sorcery.”

  Hengest then proceeded to tuck various stones in the coburn's surcoat, beneath his vambraces and in the pouch on his belt.

  “My thanks,” Flyn told him, once the dwarf was finished.

  “Thank him if we survive,” Deglan said, receiving a clap on the shoulder from the knight.

  Flyn then took the lead, swiftly traversing the fog-laden nest. Deglan glanced back at Hengest when they passed the first pellet bursting with dwarrow bones, but if the dwarf was unnerved he showed no sign. Walking through the unhealthy vapors, they soon came to the center of the nest.

  Slouch Hat knelt on the ground next to Beladore, who twitched weakly as she lay, blood and vomit leaking from the corners of her palsied lips. Deglan tried to run to her aid, but Flyn shot out a restraining arm. Following the coburn's stare, Deglan saw what should have been a familiar figure appearing out of the haze. The tousled mop of coarse, flaxen hair, the thin limbs and narrow shoulders, the large, long-fingered hands, all features which defined Ingelbert Crane, yet it was not he. The splayed stance, the arrogant set of the head, the proud, confident bearing, none of it belonged to the chronicler.

  Deglan had never laid eyes on the Gaunt Prince in life, but looking now upon the visage that once belonged to Crane, he had no doubt who was behind that ravenous smile. The voice which greeted them was painfully familiar, but everything in its inflection, its mocking cadence, was an affront to the gentle, hesitant tones of the man they knew.

  “Still alive, Bantam Flyn? Living things have grown more stubborn while I slept.”

  “Ingelbert!” Flyn exclaimed. “Hear me. Fight him.”

  The Gaunt Prince threw back his head and laughed throatily at the sky. “Do you expect such an entreaty to be of any use? Your simpering annalist cannot heed you! He has gone somewhere shrunken and cold, believe me. He no longer has thought or voice,
and yet you think you can bid him return with naught but brave words!”

  Laughter filled the air once more and Deglan nearly choked on bitter rage. Clutching the tome, he scanned his surroundings quickly, looking for the owl, which was forebodingly absent. At his side, Flyn joined the Gaunt Prince in laughter.

  “You have the right,” the knight said, the mirth leaving his voice as quickly as it had come. “Forget the words.”

  Flyn charged, swinging Hengest's staff one-handed in a swift upward backhand. Still laughing, the Gaunt Prince leaned away from the blow, proceeding to step nimbly and also avoid Flyn's return strike. It was disturbing to see Crane's gawky physique move with such speed and grace, comfortable in the deadly dance of combat. Flyn pressed the attack, but Deglan could see he was holding back, not willing to use his full prowess against what he still perceived as Ingelbert Crane. His clemency quickly cost him.

  Dodging a downswing, the Gaunt Prince lunged forward and Deglan heard Flyn grunt in pain. Springing back just as quickly, the man smiled, a dripping dagger in his hand. Blood flowed freely from Flyn's side, staining his surcoat. The Gaunt Prince had punched the blade through the mail as if it were not there. Deglan's trained eye saw that the wound was not mortal. Flyn was being toyed with, used to increase the warlock's pleasure.

  “I can smell the wards on you, coburn,” the Gaunt Prince needled. “All the little dwarrow trinkets.” He laughed again, rolling his mocking eyes at Hengest. “You are more pathetic than your master. Scribbling runes! I wonder, have you left any protection for yourself?”

  Hengest's hands suddenly shot to his head as a scream erupted from his lips. Blood leaked from his eyes. Deglan went to the dwarf's side, catching his fall. He pawed ineffectually at the suffering runecaster, unable to do anything to curb his pain.

  The Gaunt Prince returned his attention to Flyn, watching him calmly as the knight tried to quell the blood flowing from beneath his ribs. “I need no sorcery for you. A thousand years ago I was the most feared fighter living. Of your kind alone, I have slain scores. It will be a sweet delight to kill again with my own hands.” He smiled, thinly. “Or rather, your friend's.”