The Errantry of Bantam Flyn (The Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  At last, a mournful creaking signaled the tree's impending fall. Stig took one final, furious swing and the wooden wound yawned wider as the trunk tumbled over. The thick branches snapped with deafening finality as the tree struck the ground, infesting the air with swarming snow.

  Stig found himself lying on a pile of bodies. He coughed, spitting bile into a dead face and began to crawl over stiff arms and legs, away from the splintered, accusing stump of the fallen sentinel. There was no sign of the berserkers or the warriors. Nothing moved on the hilltop, nothing except the falling snow and Stig. Grasping with blue-black fingers, he dragged himself along, every breath an ordeal. He could feel something leaking out of his eyes, his ears, leaking only to freeze upon his flesh. His heart had slowed to a flutter, he could feel it dwindling in his chest, barely pulsing against the frozen earth, which began to tremble.

  Beneath him the trembling became a tremor, the snow dancing over itself as the hill shook from its core. Stig crawled for the edge and tumbled down the slope in a cascade of snow and soil as the ground eroded beneath him. He rolled to a stop at the base of the rotting hill, watching numbly as the slope began to fall in on itself. Swiftly, horribly the hill decayed and a great, gaping hole opened in the remains. From within the dark cavity, a sound grew, beginning as a vibration, then growing into the low, undulating rhythms of song.

  Figures appeared, slowly lurching out of the hole. They were thick of limb and short, the dirt of the grave settled in hair and beards black as pitch. The moonlight caught in their colorless eyes and was sucked in by flesh paler than the snow. Mouths open, they sang their dirge, crawling forth from the ruined hill, too many to count.

  Stig struggled to stand, turning away to flee on feet crippled with frostbite. He stumbled into something, the sudden hindrance spilling him back to the ground. He rolled onto his back and found a familiar, bloodless face staring down at him. It was the thrall who fled, the points of two spears protruding from his chest. The dead man reached for him, but Stig knocked its hand away, scrambling to his clumsy feet once more.

  He ran, ran as best he could across the tundra. The song of the exhumed dwarfs chased after him, the unending tones enveloping the night. Stig stumbled and careened across the white expanse, seeing the arrow-ridden bodies of Crow Shoulders' warriors, the men who died charging the hill. They began to twitch, to move, heeding the song. Stig felt his breath failing, but still he ran on legs no longer flowing with blood. He was dying. The tree had killed him and there was nothing to be done now. Nothing save run and hope when he soon fell, he was far from that dread song and did not rise again.

  ONE

  The cattle were diseased.

  Ingelbert knew little about livestock, but the poor health of the beasts showed with every plodding step as they passed through the main gate of the Roost. He risked a glance at the Old Goose.

  The aged knight was not pleased. He glared sourly as the clansmen entered the castle yard, their shoulders loaded with goods and despondence. Ingelbert looked away, finding the featherless, slick-scarred flesh of the Old Goose’s head difficult to behold for long. Coburn were a fearsome sight even when not so viciously deformed.

  The clansmen had already begun dropping their burdens, putting them down with no care for order or organization. Making a proper count would be difficult, but Ingelbert said nothing.

  He never did.

  The half dozen cows were easy enough to note, but Ingelbert did not dare open the heavy ledger he held close to his chest. He waited between the Old Goose and Worm Chewer, feeling every bit the weakling human beside the intimidating knights. Behind them, a trio of squires stood vigilant, spears smartly in hand. Ingelbert felt the first runnel of sweat liberate itself from his skin and run unpleasantly down his back. He busied himself ensuring that none of the clansmen had neglected to wear visible iron. Thankfully, he found bracelets made of old horseshoes on every wrist. The collar of blunted nails around Ingelbert’s own neck was already beginning to chafe and he resisted an ever-present urge to tug it away from his throat.

  Dawn was an hour old, a bright promise for another suffocating day. Ingelbert shuffled his grip on the ledger, not wanting his dampening palms to further curl the pages. The coburn surrounding him did not sweat, but Ingelbert’s nose gave evidence to what his eyes could not prove. For all their proud bearing, in the midst of an unseasonably hot Albain spring, the rooster-men stank.

  Worm Chewer gave a grunt and spat out a sticky gob of something that had entered his beak still wriggling. Ingelbert was unable to suppress a shudder. He turned his attention back to the yard where three of the clansmen had detached from the pitiful caravan. Áedán mac Gabráin led from the center, the exertion of the uphill approach to the castle had reddened his face to match his beard. The men flanking him were younger, but of similar coloring and bore the stocky build inherent to the Dal Riata.

  “You can begin your count,” mac Gabráin said before he stopped walking. “Me and the lads will be gettin’ on.”

  “The cows are stricken,” the Old Goose replied, never taking his gaze from the animals.

  Mac Gabráin drew to a halt before them, taking a moment to rub at the callouses on his hands before answering. Ingelbert noted a bitter amusement in the chieftain’s face.

  “They’ll serve well enough for the tannery.”

  It was true. The coburn ate little red meat, but their need for leather was constant. Still, it was a waste. Ingelbert and the other human residents of the castle would miss the beef.

  “To it, straw-head,” mac Gabráin tossed his words at Ingelbert and a thumb at the goods behind him. “I’d be home before the heat’s much higher.”

  Ingelbert looked to the Old Goose, drawing several impatient expulsions of breath from mac Gabráin and his men. The scarred knight nodded.

  “Proceed, Master Crane.”

  Relieved, Ingelbert opened the ledger, freeing the charcoal stick from between the pages and moistening the tip with his tongue. He was of a height with the coburn, who over-topped the clansmen by a full head, but for all his stature he could not match any in this company with brawn. As he took his first steps, he was keenly aware of his gawky frame and weedy limbs punctuated by knobby knees and elbows. Living in the midst of such fearsome creatures as the coburn was a constant reminder of his feeble physique.

  “Wait.”

  Ingelbert was pulled back roughly, a strong, feathered hand closing around his thin arm with a jerk. He stumbled, dropping the ledger to the dust of the yard. Still fighting for balance, he found himself in Worm Chewer’s grasp.

  “Who is that?” Worm Chewer demanded, his free hand pointing across the yard.

  Ingelbert followed the coburn’s outstretched arm to where the remaining clansmen sat scattered amongst the haphazard piles of goods. Worm Chewer’s gesture singled out one man in particular.

  “Who is that?” the knight repeated, his head turning with the words to look upon Áedán mac Gabráin.

  The chieftain turned to view the man in question, giving him the most cursory glance before returning to face them.

  “My wife’s sister’s boy,” mac Gabráin’s voice betrayed his irritation. “Domnal.”

  The Old Goose took a step forward.

  “We’ve not seen him before.”

  “Nor would you,” mac Gabráin returned. “He’s not been here before!”

  The Old Goose did not match the clan chief’s raised tones. “Bring him forward.”

  Mac Gabráin rubbed at his beard and took a few frustrated paces. For a moment, Ingelbert thought he meant to defy the Old Goose, but then, with a resigned slump of his shoulders, mac Gabráin waved his arm at the man.

  “Domnal! Come here, lad.”

  Domnal advanced without hesitance, only a hint of sore feet slowing his steps. He came and stood next to his chieftain. He was freckled and hare-lipped, but clearly not a simpleton. Homely and clever. Ingelbert knew such a face well. He considered them to be of similar age, past the m
iddle twenties at least, but the muscles and careworn lines granted by a life of hard work could have fooled Ingelbert’s estimation. The Dal Riata often appeared older than they were.

  “Have a look,” Áedán mac Gabráin said, hooking a finger up under the bracelet on Domnal’s wrist. “He wears what you require!”

  Ingelbert went to tug at the ugly torque about his own neck and found himself still in Worm Chewer’s grip. Feeling his movement, the knight released him.

  The Old Goose looked the newcomer over. To Domnal’s credit, he met the coburn’s eye.

  “Bring the anvil,” the Old Goose commanded. The squires behind him went swiftly into the keep as Áedán mac Gabráin muttered a string of curses.

  “You trust not my own kin?”

  “Pardons,” the Old Goose replied with little courtesy. “We must be sure.”

  “Then test him on the one you wear,” mac Gabráin demanded, pointing at the Old Goose’s neck.

  The collars were an uncomfortable nuisance, but one from which even the Knights Sergeant were not exempt. The Old Goose ignored the suggestion and merely watched as the Dal Riata chieftain grew more incensed. Ingelbert felt the tension mounting and hoped this was not the day that saw the long alliance between the Valiant Spur and the clansmen crumble.

  The squires were not long in returning. Ingelbert heard creaking wheels and the babbling voice of the prisoner long before they were drug into sight. The anvil was affixed to a sturdy cart of oak and pulled into the yard by two of the squires. The third hauled the stumbling goblin along by a length of steel chain connected to manacles that bound the creature at wrist and ankle. His short, bandy legs could not meet the coburn’s long, sure strides and he fell several times as they crossed the yard. The goblin’s scalp was raw and freshly bleeding, what remained of the normally grey-toned flesh now an angry red. Scraping his head along the wall of his cell again, Ingelbert surmised. All in loyalty to a uniform the fanatic was no longer allowed to wear.

  The squires brought both anvil and captive to where Ingelbert and the others stood. Domnal tried to remain resolved in the presence of his chieftain, but Ingelbert saw confusion and fear rippling at the corners of the man’s face at the appearance of the Red Cap, who kept up a steady stream of vile insults at everyone surrounding him, spitting at them when words failed. His curses turned into wordless squeals of protest when the three squires began forcing him towards the anvil. The goblin was half their height and could not have matched one of them in strength even were he not under-fed and bound, but desperation powered his struggles. The squires were grunting with effort and issuing curses of their own by the time they forced the goblin to his knees before the piceous weight of the anvil.

  “Iron,” the Old Goose intoned, the word directed at Domnal.

  At this, one of the squires seized the goblin's left arm, locking the elbow straight. Another grabbed the goblin's wrist and began pushing his hand towards the anvil’s base. The goblin strained so firmly against this effort that Ingelbert feared he would break his own arm. His eyes bulged, his teeth ground together, but inch by unstoppable inch his hand moved toward the metal. At the last second, the goblin tore free, wrenching his arm away. The sudden movement unbalanced the coburn and they stumbled, their weight pushing the goblin forward. His face slammed into the anvil. The sound of sizzling flesh was quickly drowned out by the goblin's screams. Ingelbert’s tightly closed eyelids were powerless against the distinct smell of septic skin burning.

  “Iron,” the Old Goose repeated. “Virulent to all Fae.”

  Ingelbert opened his eyes to find the goblin being drug away. He was still conscious, though half his face was a bubbling ruin. The curses and threats still dribbled weakly from his half-fused lips.

  “Yet nothing but a common metal to the mortal races of coburn,” the Old Goose continued, “and man.”

  The knight gestured for Domnal to approach the anvil.

  “And this man,” Áedán mac Gabráin yelled as he stepped between Domnal and the anvil, “has iron about his fucking wrist! He is no Fae skinchanger, he—”

  “If he is not gruagach then he has nothing to fear!” The Old Goose’s voice rose for the first time.

  “The ornaments can be cheated,” Worm Chewer stepped in, his tone blunt. “Made from pewter, lead. Or enchanted, given time. The anvil lays all doubt to rest. Lay hand upon it boy, and let’s have done.”

  Domnal looked to Áedán mac Gabráin for guidance. The chieftain cast a fiery look at both knights before giving him a nod. The young clansmen took a hesitant step towards the cart. Next to him, Ingelbert felt Worm Chewer tense slightly. The Old Goose’s stance changed subtly, the butt of his spear no longer resting on the ground. Ingelbert took a deep breath, hoping no one heard it shudder. Domnal’s next steps were swifter, his arm raised. He paused, his hand hovering inches above the pitted surface of the anvil. Ingelbert saw the apple of the man’s throat raise and descend heavily. He lowered his hand onto the metal. The only noise was Ingelbert letting the wind out of his lungs.

  Domnal stepped away quickly, rejoining his chieftain.

  “We are through here,” mac Gabráin muttered, waving his men to follow as he turned to go.

  “All of you,” the Old Goose stopped them.

  The clansmen turned as one, the anger of their chief reflected on every face. There was a long moment of terrible stillness. Neither side moved nor spoke. It was mac Gabráin who finally broke the silence. He no longer shouted. His voiced had dropped to a low growl.

  “Damn you. We are not like this one,” the chieftain flicked his chin towards Ingelbert. “We are not your servants to be ordered about.”

  “My duty is to safeguard this castle, mac Gabráin,” the Old Goose replied. “Not your injured pride.”

  The clan chieftain’s eyes widened, the whites burning amidst his ruddy face.

  “You would speak to me of pride? The swell-chested cocks of the Valiant Spur?!” Áedán mac Gabráin thrust a finger at the Old Goose. “Do not think I do not know where this danger comes from, coburn. This castle that you safeguard is the womb that birthed this evil!”

  “It matters not,” the Old Goose said, keeping control of his own voice. “The gruagach are a threat to your people, as well.”

  “Because of you!” mac Gabráin gave the coburn a final jab of his finger, then used it to tap his own chest. “You came to me. Yours were dying behind these walls and I offered aid. Not one in my clan was taken before that.”

  “You do not know that,” Worm Chewer threw in. “The gruagach do not reveal themselves needlessly. It is impossible to know when they infiltrated the Roost or your clan before we began to be vigilant.”

  “Vigilant,” the clansman scoffed, pulling the twisted horseshoe from his wrist and casting it disdainfully upon the ground. “Trinkets and charms and anvils. How have they helped? How many have the gruagach murdered in spite of all your precautions?”

  “Twenty seven.”

  Ingelbert found every face in the yard turned to him. He had not meant to say it aloud.

  “In, in total,” Ingelbert stammered, unable to stop himself under the harsh scrutiny of the clansmen and the grim stares of the knights. “Eight from the castle servants. The former chief steward, the smith's, um, the smith's daughter. Two...two from the kitchen staff, one scullery boy. The kennel, that is, the kennel master, the tanner's apprentice and the, um, the chronicler. Not me, the one before, the chronicler before me.

  “The clansmen have lost nineteen, but two of them were not, not Dal Riata but from neighboring, uh, neighboring clans. Both were men, shepherds who were more than likely killed some distance away in their own lands and their forms worn by the gruagach to come here. Áedán mac Gabráin's folk, that is, your folk, make up the remaining seventeen. Six men, two of which...were elderly, seven women all fairly young, though one was a widow. And four, um...four children. Three girls and, and one boy.”

  Ingelbert was sweating freely now, the sun bearing down on h
im less intensely than the eyes of Áedán mac Gabráin.

  “And how many coburn have the gruagach slain, straw-head?”

  Ingelbert had not expected the question, but he knew the answer. He responded immediately, knowing hesitation would not soften the number.

  “None. That is...no, none.”

  “None,” mac Gabráin repeated, giving both the Knights Sergeant bitter looks.

  “Our order knows your people have suffered greatly,” the Old Goose said, breaking the awkward silence. “No knight or squire has yet been slain, but though our own have not yet bled, do not mistake, Grand Master Lackcomb values the friendship of the Dal Riata and grieves for your losses. Do not allow the gruagach to divide us now.”

  Áedán mac Gabráin did not respond, but after a moment he strode purposefully over to the anvil and placed his hand firmly upon it, gesturing for his men to do the same. They obeyed without hesitation and none of them suffered ill at the iron's touch. Satisfied, the Old Goose bowed his head to the chieftain. The clansmen made their way across the yard and out the gate without another word.

  “That may be the last we see of Dal Riata goods,” Worm Chewer said, pushing another wad of night-crawlers into his beak.

  The Old Goose nodded gravely. “I will report to the Grand Master. Áedán mac Gabráin is not an ally Lackcomb would want lost.” He turned to Ingelbert. “Begin your count, Master Crane. And be sure to have the squires touch iron to the cows before you approach.”

  Ingelbert did not risk a verbal answer. He simply nodded and stuck the tip of his charcoal to his tongue. Worm Chewer stayed in the yard while Ingelbert began his inventory of the dry goods. He worked quickly and efficiently, comfortable in his task and eager to be out of the yard before the sun was much higher. The squires touched an iron horseshoe to each of the cows and found nothing sinister about them save their health. The beasts were herded out of the yard, destined for the pens near the tannery and the knacker's mallet.