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

by Jonathan French

  Flyn strode slowly towards one of the immense tapestries that lined the walls. Each of the huge and ancient works depicted a momentous scene from the Valiant Spur's long history. Flyn craned his neck up to the shadowed recesses of the ceiling where the hulking tapestries began their dizzying descent. He shook his head in amazement. Pocket used to clean these dust-laden fossils. Flyn could not imagine a more tedious, thankless and needlessly dangerous task.

  A memory crept up on him, something Pocket had told him, disregarded at the time and quickly forgotten. Flyn cast about the Hall until he spied the tapestry depicting the Battle of the Unsounded Horn. Here the weavers had attempted to capture the first time the Knights of the Valiant Spur went to war, winning a great victory against one of the Goblin Kings. Flyn's knowledge of such history was spotty at best. The battle was some eight hundred years in the past, he thought, and waged against one of the Sweyns. The Second? Third? He could not recall.

  Pocket had known. The boy's memory for Order lore was impressive. Flyn now dug into his own memory, trying to recall what the lad had told him.

  “To the left of Mulrooster,” Flyn whispered aloud, trying to conjure Pocket's own words. “Two! Two to the left...sundering the Red Cap banner.”

  Flyn found the figure. A coburn, charging with the rest into the goblin ranks. He wielded a large, two-handed sword, cleaving the standard of the goblins along with its bearer. Flyn shrugged the harness which held his own blade off his shoulder. It was the only way to draw a sword of such length. He pulled the wide blade free from its scabbard, the steel flawless, rippling and beautiful.

  Coalspur.

  The sword was named for its previous owner, a former Grand Master. Flyn had come into possession of the sword after the tourney held in honor of the fallen and well-respected knight. Pocket seemed to think the weapon was depicted in the tapestry, but during his time at the castle had never gotten close enough to the actual sword to know for certain. But after living on the tiny island with Flyn, the boy had become quite familiar with the blade.

  Flyn held Coalspur up before him, between his eyes and the tapestry. The weavers had been skilled, imbuing the embroidery with remarkable detail. The size of the sword was accurate. The shape of the cross-guard and pommel exact. It could be the same sword, in so much as a sword rendered in cloth could compare to an actual weapon. His momentary curiosity sated, Flyn was about to turn away when something in the tapestry caught his eye. Upon the grip of the sword, between the hands of the wielder, was a mark, a symbol of some kind. Flyn looked at the grip of Coalspur, wrapped in old, stained leather. Drawing his dagger, Flyn split the leather and unwrapped the grip. There, inscribed on the handle, was the same mark. It was a simple symbol, but like the rest of the sword, expertly wrought. Flyn inspected it for a long time without gaining further insight into its meaning.

  At a loss, he sheathed his dagger and slung the harness across his back once more. Propping the greatsword up on his shoulder, he turned to leave the hall and stopped short. A dozen paces away, silently watching him, stood the Dread Cockerel. Even in the ill-lit vastness of the Great Hall, the knight was an imposing figure. Tall and predatory, the Dread Cockerel's armor was the same soot gray as his feathers. Flyn noted he still bore mud stains from the road, his longsword at his hip.

  “Just arrived?” Flyn ventured in his friendliest tone.

  The Dread Cockerel said nothing.

  There was a grudge here. This was the knight that Flyn was supposed to fight at the tourney to determine the champion and the rightful winner of Coalspur. But the Dread Cockerel had killed Sir Tillory the Calm, a late comer to the contest, and disgraced himself. The sword had gone to Flyn. Judging by the way the Dread Cockerel now stared, it was obvious he still coveted the weapon.

  Flyn laughed.

  He had avoided a fight with Gulver. And been robbed of one with Drincoin. If this, the most debased and villainous of the Knights Errant wished to cross blades, then Flyn was happy to oblige. He saw the Dread Cockerel's hand drift slowly to the grip of his own sword.

  “Sir Wyncott!”

  The voice resonated across the Great Hall. The Dread Cockerel's head swung slowly towards the doors of the Great Hall and Flyn followed suit. Sir Corc walked purposefully towards them, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  “Sir Wyncott,” Corc repeated as he drew near, stopping mere paces from the Dread Cockerel, whom he addressed. “Unless you have dealings with my squire, I would like a word with him.”

  The Dread Cockerel stared down at the older knight for a moment, then turned his attention back to Flyn. His eyes flicked from Flyn to the sword in his hands and back again. He then strode out of the Hall without a word. Flyn watched him go, waiting for the thud of the closing doors before taking a deep breath and facing Sir Corc.

  “Well?” he asked, “Am I to be knighted?”

  The knight's normally stolid face told him all he needed to know. Flyn gave a resigned nod to the floor and another thump on Sir Corc's shoulder as he passed, a sign of no ill will. Flyn needed a strong drink, unfriendly company and blunt advice. He knew where to find all three.

  “Where are you bound?” Sir Corc called after him.

  “To the infirmary,” Flyn tossed the words over his shoulder, “to find Master Loamtoes.”

  THREE

  “Curse all constipated shepherds,” Deglan muttered through grit teeth, leaning heavily into his muddler. Twisting his already sore wrist, he worked determinedly at the flax seeds, grinding them into powder. “Not a proper ailment amongst the whole lot. Red-haired, ruddy-faced, sheep-shaggers! Nothing ever wrong with them but boils and backed-up bowels.”

  “Still talking to yourself, you mouldy old mushroom?”

  Deglan looked up from his work to find Bantam Flyn leaning into the infirmary. The young coburn was armed and armored, a cocky smile playing across his face. A smile Deglan was pleased to see wither when Flyn noticed Banyon Deaf Crower was also in the room.

  “I was just telling the Knight Sergeant, here,” Deglan said casually, “about the inherent hardiness of the Dal Riata.”

  “Sir,” Flyn greeted Deaf Crower respectfully, but Deglan noted he did not straighten his relaxed posture. A tiny defiance, but obvious. The squire was angry.

  “Successful journeys, Squire Flyn?” the Knight Sergeant asked.

  “In purpose, if not in promise,” the squire answered with a laugh, taking a few swaggering strides into the infirmary.

  Deglan saw Deaf Crower frown at this elusive answer.

  “Sir Banyon,” Deglan said to the Knight Sergeant. “Clearly, young Flyn needs something to do. Why don't we let him take over your duties here for the day. I think I can find plenty of unpleasant tasks to occupy him.”

  “Aye,” Deaf Crower agreed. “This one was always troublesome when idle.” The Knight Sergeant gave Flyn a warning glower as he passed.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Deglan said.

  “Staunch,” Deaf Crower replied, giving Deglan a quick nod before leaving the infirmary. The Knights of the Valiant Spur had their own ways and customs, but they had taken quickly to using Deglan's rank from his days in the gnomish army. It was a small victory, but one which gave Deglan a small twinge of pride.

  “Your bodyguard?” Flyn mocked after the Knight Sergeant was gone.

  “Make yourself useful,” Deglan said, tossing the muddler at the young cock's smirking face. Flyn caught it deftly.

  “I came for a drink,” he protested.

  “Then bloody well earn it,” Deglan told him.

  The young coburn removed the harness that held his ludicrous sword and began unenthusiastically grinding the flax, the task quickly chasing some of the rancor from his body.

  It was well over a year since Deglan had last seen the young strut and he was suddenly struck with his vibrant appearance. Most coburn possessed impressive colors in their tail feathers, but Flyn was truly unique. The rich golden brown feathers which covered his head and shoulders gave way
to blazes of deep blue on his arms, while his legs were a lustrous green. Even the ubiquitous comb and wattle were a deeper red. The observation surprised Deglan. He had never given the appearance of individual coburn much notice during his long life. His tenure at the Roost was clearly affecting him.

  “How are you still alive?” Deglan jabbed, digging through his shelves until he found the right ceramic jug. He pulled the stopper and sniffed, just to be sure. The whiskey the Dal Riata distilled was rough stuff, but it served well enough.

  “Even I find difficulty getting myself killed charting islands,” Flyn replied, throwing a bitter chuckle into the last two words.

  Deglan poured two cups and handed one over. Flyn put the muddler down and drained the cup in one toss, extending his arm for a refill. Deglan handed him the jug instead.

  “Wise healer,” Flyn said with a wink, taking the jug and upending it for a long pull.

  While the squire was drinking, Deglan saw Sir Corc step through the door. They locked eyes for a moment, all the greeting needed between two old soldiers. Flyn noticed the knight now, too. Sir Corc took a few slow steps over and held his hand out for the jug. Flyn had the decency to look mildly ashamed and after a moment's reluctance, relinquished the whiskey. Sir Corc regarded the jug for a moment, then raised it and took a measured pull. Deglan could not help a bark of laughter at Flyn's shocked expression.

  “I am sorry, Flyn,” Sir Corc said, his voice unaffected by the liquor.

  “No pardons needed, Sir,” Flyn replied, taking the muddler up once more. “I have found a new calling. Leech's apprentice.”

  “Who would have you?” Deglan asked, getting a laugh from Flyn and managing the barest grin from Sir Corc.

  “True,” the squire said, returning to the grinding. “I could simply challenge Lackcomb and become Grand Master.”

  Deglan felt a momentary flutter in his gut as he saw the idea take root on Flyn's face.

  “Do not even think about it, you puffed up popinjay!” he warned. “We are plagued with enough dangerous creatures in this castle pretending to be something they are not, without you having delusions of leadership!”

  Flyn shook his head. “Even if I could best the old bird, there would be no end to the challengers. The Dread Cockerel first among them, I'd wager.” Flyn seemed to remember something, then looked quickly to Sir Corc. “What was it you called him? Sir Wyncott?”

  “Every one of us comes here with a name, Flyn,” the knight replied, “before we are draped in pride and titles.”

  “I have a name,” Flyn said, thumping the muddler ineffectually into the bowl. “I have a title. And I have pride. Seems I shall have no knighthood to accompany them.”

  “Not until the gruagach are driven from the Roost,” the knight agreed.

  “Should they not have moved on by now?” Flyn asked, looking up at Deglan as he did. Sir Corc also looked to him.

  Deglan bit back a string of retorts. They thought he failed. They needed to be told the right of it, but not here.

  “I have some medicines to deliver to the clansmen,” Deglan told them. “Fancy a walk in the hot sun?”

  Soon, the three of them passed through the main gate and began the slow, sloping descent from the escarpment which the castle surmounted. The highlands of Albain spread out below them, the grey-green of the rocky landscape adorned with smears of purple heather and yellow wildflowers. It was a rolling country, beautiful in its ruggedness. Not too distant, the placid waters of Loch Halket rested heavily in the embrace of the rocky hills, the human village of Glengabráin near its banks. The mid-morning sun blazed across the surface of the water and warmed the wind, which flowed in rhythmic pulses across Deglan's face. He had not seen a Spring since last he left Airlann, well over a thousand years ago. It was a welcome change from his homeland, the Source Isle of Magic, where Autumn now held perpetual dominion.

  The steepness of the grade was tough on Deglan's short legs, but he voiced no complaint, waving Flyn off when the squire offered to carry the heavy satchel laden with remedies for the Dal Riata. Deglan could accomplish what he set out to do and of that these two needed to be reminded. Despite the growing distance from the walls, they did not speak for a long while.

  Deglan had not saved Pocket's life. Whatever dread Magic he inherited from his human half had done that. But the malice and power of the Goblin Kings' iron crown had left the changeling hanging on the brink. His Fae blood was poisoned, his flesh scorched, his organs failing. Deglan had mended all that, saving the boy from a life of permanent decrepitude. He lived, but the Red Caps and the gruagach, both of whom sought the gurg for their own ends, needed to go on believing him dead. A body needed to be taken to the Roost and burnt in the tradition of the Order. For that, Deglan volunteered. Pocket was thriving, there was no more need for a healer on the little island where they hid. Besides, the task at hand would require deeds that would test the honor of a knight. Deglan had left the Knucklebones with nothing but his herb satchel and a letter from Sir Corc. By the time he reached the Roost, he had a corpse to pass for Pocket.

  “I upheld my end,” Deglan said at last, keeping his voice low and his attention fixed on the downhill path. “Your damn ruse did not work.”

  “It was a fool's hope that it would,” Sir Corc said. “The blame is not yours, Master Loamtoes.”

  Deglan whirled around. The coburn were more than twice his height, but he fixed them with his most baleful stare, thrusting a warning finger up at their faces.

  “Do not coddle me! I put on your little mummery, and placed myself in the service of your precious order on top of that. I have seen more wars than every coburn in the history of the Valiant Spur combined. So get your teat out of my mouth!”

  “Pardons,” Sir Corc said humbly.

  “And like the young cock said,” Deglan hooked a thumb at Flyn, “no apologies from you, either.” Deglan waited a moment to be sure his words had sunk in. Satisfied, he lowered his hand. “How fares the boy?”

  “Well,” Sir Corc replied. “Moragh keeps great care of him.”

  “Who guards him while you are here?” Deglan asked. By necessity of secrecy he and the coburn had shared no correspondence since he left the island.

  “Curdle Milkthumb arrived a day before we departed,” Sir Corc said.

  “Good,” Deglan approved. “I was worried you were going to say the other one.”

  “Muckle remains in Toad Holm,” the knight assured him.

  Deglan was relieved. Of the two hobgoblin sorcerers, Curdle was the more unlikely candidate for a guardian, but Deglan would rather have the seer watching over Pocket than the corpulent Jester. Muckle Gutbuster was not to be trusted, though Deglan refrained from voicing it to Sir Corc, who had a longstanding alliance with the fat scoundrel.

  “What news from my cesspit city?” Deglan asked, turning back to the path and beckoning the coburn to continue their trek with a wave of his hand.

  It was Flyn that answered, taking a few hurried steps to draw even with Deglan. “Curdle says they have weeded out some of the corruption. But there remain Red Cap sympathizers within the Wisemoot and among the people.”

  Deglan gave a growl of disgust, spitting off the side of the path to rid himself of the sour taste that filled his mouth. He hated goblins, always had, but now he hated the gnomes even more. His own damn people! They were distantly related of course, gnomes and goblins, but it was a fact that should fill any decent gnome with shame.

  “They need to supplant that lack-wit, King Hob!” Deglan declared, more to himself than the coburn. He was convinced the king was behind the treachery that had taken root in Toad Holm. It was Hob's fool decree that the goblins be allowed back into the city, in order to reintegrate them into gnomish society. Infection was supposed to be purged, not invited to be a bloody neighbor. That was the reason Deglan had renounced his city so long ago, vowing never to return. He broke that vow, only to find his worst fears come to life. After helping stop the Red Cap resurgence under Torca
n Swinehelm, Deglan had been all too happy to resume his self-imposed exile, this time leaving Airlann behind entirely.

  “And what of the Seelie Court?” he inquired. “Did Curdle manage to contact the elves?”

  Deglan scowled as Bantam Flyn dodged the question, looking back at Corc for aid.

  “No,” the older coburn answered.

  “Buggery and spit,” Deglan swore. “Then Jerrod's crown remains at Castle Gaunt.”

  Corc nodded. “As does the last Forge Born.”

  Deglan grunted. “Coltrane is a capable guardian, but that damn crown needs to be destroyed and Irial Ulvyeh is likely the only one left with the craft to do it!”

  “The Elf King remains unfound,” Corc told him.

  Bitter bile rose in Deglan's throat. Blasted elves and their elusive ways! If the Seelie Court had only made itself known, the Red Caps may never have regained power, but Irial and his kin had been silent for centuries. Their absence had forced Deglan to seek aid in Toad Holm and, when that failed, to try and stop Torcan Swinehelm's uprising with nothing but a handful of allies. They had succeeded, but it nearly cost them all.

  “We never should have left the crown,” Deglan groused.

  “There was no other choice,” Corc replied.

  The truth of the knight's words made Deglan's whiskers itch and he ran an aggravated hand down his chops. None of Kederic Winetongue's surviving men dared go back into the citadel after witnessing the terrible frenzy of the Unwound, no matter that they were once again inert. As Fae, the hobgoblin sorcerers Curdle and Muckle, could not have handled the iron crown and lived. Neither could Deglan, plus he was bound to the same task as Sir Corc and Flyn; Pocket's safety, and the boy needed to be as far away from the heirloom as possible. That left only the piskie Rosheen's companion, the man Padric, and he had not the power to keep the crown safe. Indeed, the remaining Red Caps holed up in Black Pool still believed him to be the Gaunt Prince's heir. Likely, they would be seeking him and it would not help the lad's safety to have possession of the Goblin Kings' artifact. So, it had been left at Castle Gaunt, under the guardianship of Coltrane. Deglan was thankful the Forge Born never needed to sleep.