“You will find only one stone,” Fafnir managed, his words thick and labored.
Hengest removed his hand from the bag and marveled at what he held in his palm.
“The Lay of the Sword Dale. My lord, why? With this, you would not have fallen.”
“And exhausted the power of the rune,” Fafnir managed, “sundered the stone. Take it. Learn the rune. One day, you will sing behind your shield so that your allies shall stand firm. The Lay will serve you well on the path now before you.”
“What path, my lord?” Hengest asked.
Fafnir’s eyes drifted over to Deglan and tarried for a heartbeat before rising to settle on Flyn. When he spoke again, his breath was spare and ragged.
“To aid those who have aided us so faithfully,” the rune master answered. “Master Loamtoes, Sir Flyn, you have my thanks.”
Deglan remained silent, but Flyn shook his head, finding he had no stomach for gratitude. “Others are deserving, my lord. Not I. I am not the one you needed.”
Fafnir’s eyes closed, and for a moment the pain fled his face. “You are wrong. The chain is now complete. You were the stoutest link. Had you broken, this destiny would have lay snapped, unfulfilled. Because of your bravery, the doom of the dwarrow is over.”
“The vættir are no more,” Hengest declared softly, placing a hand on Fafnir’s shoulder. “You can rest.”
Fafnir’s eyes opened once more and agony flooded over his brief serenity.
“Then,” the wizard pushed the word passed his swollen tongue, “I will not rise?”
“No, Chain Maker,” Hengest assured his former master. “You will not rise. Rest. Go to your daughters.”
Fafnir smiled weakly, drew in a shuddering breath and stilled.
Flyn and Deglan withdrew and waited silently while Hengest said some words over Fafnir in dworgmál. Looking towards the western edge of the vale, Flyn saw the distant lump of the Corpse Eater's fallen form. He ran a weary hand over his comb, unable to fathom why he still lived when so many other powerful beings breathed no more. Once Hengest's respects were concluded, they made their way towards the monster's carcass.
She lay not far from the base of the cliffs, the ground around her littered with fallen rock and ice, and the decapitated remains of at least a dozen vættir. The Mother of Gales was twisted grotesquely in death, her beak agape, her tongue lolling upon the snow. Her large eyes were open, devoid of madness and life. Flyn felt they stared at him accusingly.
“Earth and Stone,” Deglan said, scowling distastefully at the beast, then jumped back as one of her wings twitched. “Buggery and shit, she lives!”
Flyn tensed, then laughed as the pinion feathers were thrust aside, revealing the limping form of the Dread Cockerel. The grim knight paused when he saw them, standing a moment beneath the wing of the creature he had slain. After a moment, he stepped forward, releasing the curtain of feathers to fall back behind him. As he approached, Flyn noticed his right hand was drawn up close to his chest, bloody and mangled.
“Well fought, Sir Wyncott,” Flyn said, nodding his head with respect.
“My thanks, Sir Flyn,” the Dread Cockerel replied in his gravelly voice. “Especially for the use of your blade.”
Flyn gave the drab coburn an incredulous look. “Mine?”
The Dread Cockerel issued what might have been a laugh. Whatever the sound, it was not pleasant.
“The property of no one now,” he said, motioning at the Corpse Eater with his uninjured hand. “The blade lies shattered in her heart, though a few slivers I still carry.” He held up the ruin of his sword hand.
Flyn found he could not look at the Dread Cockerel's wound, could not face the price he might have paid himself.
“And what of Ulfrun?” Deglan asked.
The Dread Cockerel looked about, frowning. “I know not.”
They found her kneeling between two of the tree's massive roots, cradling Ingelbert's head in her lap. Ulfrun looked up as they gathered around. She did not weep, her sorrow dammed up behind her strong face.
“Who will write of him?” the giantess asked, her voice brittle. “He was to record our deeds, but... who will write of him?”
Flyn had thought no one who fell from that tree would reach the bottom. He had been wrong. Yet, Ingelbert was oddly whole, filthy from the fall, but not bloody or broken. Only his sightlessly staring eyes and blue-tinged flesh gave evidence of death.
Hope igniting in his heart, Flyn turned on Hengest. “Save him.”
The dwarf looked at him with confusion.
“Save him,” Flyn repeated, stepping towards the runecaster. “Surely you can do something?”
“Sir Flyn—” Hengest began, his face full of pity.
“Look,” Flyn pressed, hearing the pleading in his own voice and pointing at Ingelbert. “His wounds are not great! Restore him. Do something!”
Hengest remained silent. Looking about desperately, Flyn saw Deglan.
“Staunch,” he said, rushing over to the gnome. “You can heal him. I know you can! Please.”
Deglan shook his head, his face begging with Flyn to stop. “He is gone, lad.”
“But he looks hale. It should be possible!”
Hengest's voice drifted through his mounting despair, saying things Flyn did not want to hear. “The Magic in his veins was strong, Sir Flyn. Even at the end. Do not let his appearance deceive you. He is beyond help.”
Flyn paced, tearing at his comb, unable to accept it. He himself had died and been restored, along with others. Pocket had done it, using the power of the iron crown.
“Slouch Hat!” Flyn exclaimed, casting desperate looks at his companions. “I will find him, bring him back and—”
“BANTAM FLYN!” Deglan roared. “This is what Crane wanted!”
Flyn snapped, screeching at the sky, every feather standing away from his body. Looking up, he saw Gasten sitting upon a low branch of the great tree, staring contemptuously down at him.
“YOU!” Flyn screamed, pointing violently at the owl. “You! I will end you for this! Do you hear? Do you see? Look upon me Gaunt Prince and behold your slayer! I swear on the life you have taken, I will turn all purpose to your destruction!”
Gasten unfurled his wings and took flight across the vale.
Flyn flung his words at the retreating bird. “This I vow!”
Deglan stared critically at the Dread Cockerel's injured hand and took a deep breath.
“Sorry to say, but I doubt you will ever wield a sword again.”
The grim coburn stared at his crippled appendage for a moment, then dismissed it as he turned his eyes on his other hand, raising it up before him.
“Yes,” the knight intoned. “I will.”
Finding he had no argument, Deglan continued the bandaging as best he could.
Not wanting to tarry in the death-covered vale, the group had left through the caves, taking Crane's body with them. Hengest had insisted Fafnir remain where he fell, claiming the Chain Maker would desire nothing else.
Using the tunnels, they were able to avoid the plateau where the draugr still milled and made a rude camp in a pitiful, frozen stand of firs well away from the yawning caverns and their troll inhabitants. The night had been long and cold, yet Deglan slept soundly, rising with the sun to do what good he could with no supplies.
As he tied the last strip of scrounged linen about the Dread Cockerel's wrist, Flyn approached with Ulfrun beside him. Hengest remained deeper in the copse, conversing with several of those bloody big crows that had torn Arngrim to pieces.
“Sir Wyncott,” Flyn said, “can you escort Master Loamtoes safely back to the Tin Isles?”
The Dread Cockerel nodded once.
Deglan peered at Flyn. “You truly are staying?”
“I am.”
Deglan shot a look at Ulfrun. “You going to watch out for him?”
The giantess smiled. “I am.”
“What of you?” Flyn asked. “Where will you go?”
<
br /> “The Roost,” Deglan replied readily. “The Guild Masters of Gipeswic be damned. My scruples can weather a broken promise to those fat fishermen.”
Flyn hesitated a moment, but finally found his tongue. “Do you think the Roost is truly where Ingelbert would have wanted to be?”
Deglan forced himself not to look at the shrouded form lying amongst the trees. “For truth, I do not know. If you have a better place in mind, I would hear it.”
Flyn ran a hand over his comb while he thought. “He mentioned the orphanage of his youth with some fondness, and a man there named Parlan Sloan. Perhaps that would be best.”
Deglan nodded, remembering Crane mentioning both the place and the man. “Then Sir Wyncott and I will go to Sasana first, lay him to rest there.”
Flyn turned and gazed at the body, forcing Deglan to do the same. It would be a long journey, but the cold of Middangeard would keep Crane preserved until herbs could be found suitable to the task.
They relaxed their morose vigil when Hengest joined them, the runecaster glancing up to watch the crows quickly receding into the sky.
“The valrôka bear word to Hriedmar's Hall,” the dwarf informed them. “Lord Reginn will send an escort for you, Master Loamtoes. Keep a southerly course and the birds will report your movements. You will have supplies and a company of dwarrow warriors within a few days. They will see you safely until you take ship. If you feel you need them in the Tin Isles, you need but say the word and they will follow.”
Deglan nodded his appreciation, trying not to seem too pleased with the prospect of leaving this hoary waste behind.
“And what of you two?” he asked, wagging a finger between Flyn and Ulfrun.
“We follow Beladore with all haste,” Flyn answered. “The Gaunt Prince will stay near her, so that is our road. Hengest has agreed to join us.”
“How will you track her?” the Dread Cockerel inquired.
“Through the rune Sir Flyn had me inscribe and conceal on an item he gave her,” Hengest replied.
Deglan frowned. “You do not think Slouch Hat will sense it?”
“Most likely,” the dwarf admitted. “But he would need to destroy the item to dispel the rune.”
“Something Beladore will never allow,” Deglan said, looking approvingly at Flyn.
“That is my hope,” the coburn said. “If she does, then I am wrong about her. About everything.”
“We should make haste,” Hengest urged.
Flyn nodded his agreement, then looked up at Ulfrun. “What say you, Breaker? Fancy a chase?”
“Aye,” the giantess said, grinning hungrily.
Flyn laughed. “I feel naked going on errantry without a sword.”
“Well, there is a bloody sharp one lying near Crow Shoulders' bird-scattered bones,” Deglan told him.
Hengest grunted in approval. “The sword of Tyrfing. Fafnir forged that blade. It would serve you well, Sir Flyn.”
“I remember the spot,” Ulfrun announced. “Come.”
“I will be with you in a moment,” Flyn told them. “Your pardon, Sir Wyncott, I need a word with Deglan.”
The Dread Cockerel strode off with the dwarf and giantess, leaving Deglan and Flyn alone.
“You must tell Sir Corc everything, Staunch,” Flyn whispered.
“I intend to,” Deglan assured him. “The question remains, what do you intend to tell Beladore? Would you risk revealing that Pocket still lives?”
“Not while she is surrounded by warlocks and evil counselors, no. But if I can rid her of those influences...” Flyn paused for a moment, weighing his thoughts. “Then yes, Staunch, I will tell her. She deserves to know. We may fail. I may fail. Slouch Hat is not to be trifled with and the threat of the Gaunt Prince is far worse. He could very well return to Airlann. Ingelbert said he could be stopped, but only by some woman. Do you know what he meant?”
Deglan blew hard through his nostrils. “Crane said it was history. So, not a woman. An elf.
“At the Battle of Nine Crowns only Goban Blackmud survived, the king of my people at that time. He always said that he would not have lived were it not for Aillila Ulvyeh, daughter of the Elf-king, that she defeated the Gaunt Prince at the cost of her own life. It appears now they did not die. Perhaps Aillila trapped the Gaunt Prince, banished him somewhere and she went as well. Hob's teeth, I do not know, I am no damn mystic! But I think the elf princess is who helped Crane, who he believed could help us.”
“Then she too must be freed, as the Gaunt Prince was freed,” Flyn ventured.
Deglan shrugged. “All I can do is bring what is left of the ledger back to Airlann and try to make contact with the Seelie Court. But Slouch Hat was not wrong, Flyn. The Source Isle is no longer strong. There may be little we can do.”
“Save try.”
Deglan smiled at the young knight. “Save try.”
Flyn clapped a hand down on his shoulder. “Thank you, Staunch.”
“I am not going to bloody kiss you good-bye.”
“No,” Flyn laughed. “I thought not.”
Deglan shooed him off. “Get you gone, you puffed up rascal.”
Bantam Flyn smiled broadly and began to depart, walking backwards. “Farewell, you mouldy old mushroom.”
Deglan watched the young knight join his new companions and, with a parting nod to the Dread Cockerel, led them out of the copse. The trio struck off together across the white land, coburn, dwarf, and giantess, the fallen children of Middangeard.
Deglan chuckled to himself. Flyn was right. He did look naked without a sword.
EPILOGUE
Wynchell's clubbed foot ached from walking under the weight of the armor. Using the long haft of the pole-hammer as a walking stick, he trudged through the underbrush, each step taking him farther from the clutch than he had ever been. He kept casting furtive looks over his shoulder, fearing he would discover Gallus pursuing him. Hating his lingering fear, Wynchell pressed on.
The shaft of the hammer was not exactly straight. Wynchell had fashioned it himself, working during the precious hours of night when he was left forgotten in his little hut. It had taken him near a month to find the tree Sir Flyn had described, and he had almost given up hope of its existence when, one morning in the hazy glow before the dawn, he spied the carving in an elm. Two spurs, carved into the bark. The resting place of Sir Haward the Lambent, a knight slain by Gallus and buried by a young Flyn.
Wynchell's chores prevented him from digging immediately and he spent the entire toilsome day thinking of the tree, his mind distracted. Had Gallus been in good health he would surely have noticed and beat Wynchell bloody for his daydreaming, but the tyrant no longer left his hall, trying to recover from the wounds Sir Flyn had given him.
Finally, night came. Wynchell had spent a lifetime yearning for the embrace of darkness and the seclusion of his hut, struggling through each day's labors just to escape to the solace provided by the fleeing sun when Gallus took to the pleasures of his mates and neglected his crippled slave. Wynchell would flop down on his palette and partake of what meager food he had before slumber claimed him. Sleep was his only pleasure, a blissful absence of all things save dreams. The clutch, Gallus, the beldams and brood huts, they all vanished behind his exhausted lids.
But not that night.
Quivering with anticipation, Wynchell had gathered tools and set off for the tree, renouncing his bed for more work. Only this was not Gallus' forced drudgery. He dug for his freedom. Under the moon, he battled the dirt with his spade until finally, neck-deep in a pit, he found what Flyn had covered all those years ago.
The bones of Sir Haward gave Wynchell a moment's pause, but he reminded himself that the foul deed had already been done. Gallus had condemned the knight to this rude grave, not he. He was unearthing the pride of the Valiant Spur, bringing it back into the light. Removing the mail, the spurs and the steel hammer-like head of the weapon Flyn had called a raven's beak, Wynchell returned the bones to the soil. He took his treasu
res back to his hut and spent the night not in sleep, but in awed study of the artifacts.
Over the coming weeks, Wynchell set to the task of cleaning and repairing the mail, polishing the spurs and scouring the hammer of rust. Sleep became as unwelcome a distraction as his daily chores. Sir Hayward's hauberk was riddled with holes and grown ragged at the edges, the corroded links falling free in places. Wynchell had played with the idea of digging up Flyn's mail, but that supposed grave was still fresh in Gallus' mind. If he found it disturbed, then all would be lost. Wynchell could not take the risk.
For nights on end he wore the armor, growing accustomed to its weight and restrictions. He drilled himself in the use of the raven's beak, swinging the weapon inexpertly at the air, not daring to strike a tree lest the new pole snap or the noise awake Gallus. And then, one day, there was nothing else he could think to do, no more preparations to make. Doubt filled his thoughts, causing him to stall. For days he waited, going about his work during the day and sleeping once more at night, his armaments hidden in his hut. Fear of death plagued him, but so too did the fear of staying. He found himself taking little rebellious chances, leaving tasks undone, courting Gallus' ire, but it never came.
Unable to endure his own reluctance any more, Wynchell donned the hauberk and took the raven's beak in hand, thumping through the stretch of forest separating his hut from the clutch. The morning was dreary, the leaves pattering under a spitting rain. Wynchell's heart beat painfully in his steel-clad chest as he approached the filthy curtain covering the door of the hall. Cursing all doubt, he stepped through, leading with his hammer.
The stink of the place was gagging. Many of the mates and beldams were within, fleeing to the walls as he entered. Wynchell looked up at the raised platform which housed Gallus' chair of lashed bones, expecting to find the tyrant glowering down at him, radiating murder.
The chair was empty.
Half a dozen pullets occupied the platform, squatting behind the chair where Gallus' pile of sleeping furs lay. The females cast glances down at Wynchell, their faces full of a nervous curiosity. Approaching carefully, he mounted the stairs of the platform, keeping his hammer poised before him in both hands. He had never in his life set foot upon the platform. As his head drew even with the floor he saw the pullets clustered around the furs. They drew back when he reached the top and Wynchell froze.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 64
