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

by Jonathan French

  “A torch,” Flyn explained. “You will find flint in a pouch on my harness. Light the torch when the fighting starts.”

  “More fighting,” Ingelbert said dispassionately.

  “Oh yes,” Flyn chuckled softly in the darkness. “This will not be won with words.”

  The squire turned away, but a thought made Ingelbert reach out and grab his surcoat, stopping him.

  “What, um, what is the signal?”

  “Inkstain. Cut. The. Rope,” Flyn replied softly. “Except I will be yelling.”

  “Buggery and shit.”

  Deglan uttered the curse under his breath as the four servants emerged from the tunnel into the base of the tower. The words had come unbidden and, quiet as they were, Deglan worried he might have been heard. Skin-changers had keen senses.

  He peered between the support beams of the tower stair, under the landing where he had concealed himself. They skulked in wearing their false identities, their movements so fluid, so predatory, Deglan wondered how they ever passed for human. He need not have concerned himself with discovery. They had eyes only for Sir Corc.

  The knight stood a few paces from the base of the stairs. Though his back was turned, the composure with which he awaited the gruagach was obvious in his stance. Deglan had never seen a worm on a hook behave with such serenity. Of course, no worm was ever so well armed. The broadsword and stout mace hanging close to hand on the knight's belts were both iron, replacing the similar weapons of steel he normally carried. To say nothing of the honed steel caps strapped over the coburn's natural spurs, prominently visible from Deglan's low vantage point. Plate covered Corc's torso and mail his legs, sure protection against fishhooks. Deglan hoped they would be enough against these shape-changing killers. He would feel more confident if Corc had more support than one gnome herbalist hiding in a changeling's former hovel.

  Flyn had been here, Deglan was certain. The steel hand axe was in place under the stairs, next to the thick rope tethered to one of the beams as planned, but no sign of the young strut. He and Corc had arrived earlier than arranged, for the fire had forced their hand. The gruagach were making their move and the time for planning was ended. Deglan clutched the axe, waiting, hoping he would know when to strike.

  The gruagach spread out in front of Sir Corc, not yet brazen enough to attempt to surround him, but Deglan could see in their movements the attempt would not be long in coming. Aonghas, the tanner's apprentice and Earc, son of the master mason he had expected. A tragedy. Each lad was no more than fifteen. He had been less sure about the mute laundress, Muirne, but here she was, none of the wide-eyed meekness present now in her face. The fourth wore the guise of a Dal Riata clansman Deglan did not recognize. It no longer mattered. Likely there were many and more that slipped his notice, damn them.

  “You intrude here,” Sir Corc's voice resonated off the tower walls.

  “Do you mourn, coburn?” Muirne mocked the knight and mocked the memory of the girl who in life never spoke a word. “Do we interrupt your false respects? Paid to a boy not dead.”

  “You intrude upon this castle,” Sir Corc replied evenly. “Leave here, do not return and you will be spared, though you deserve death.”

  “Death is ours to deliver,” Earc proclaimed, his freckled face turning sinister. “We dispense it at our desire. It is not within your power to bring us to our end, mortal duckling.”

  “Enough,” the knight commanded sharply. “Show your true selves. I'll not parley while you wear the faces of the innocents you murdered.”

  The gruagach laughed at this.

  “You think to set terms, knight?” Muirne asked, amused at the notion. “Your fellows flutter about while your glorious dovecote burns. The young cock you have taken for a minion is dead. We have come for you, Sir Corc the Constant. For ten years you have defied us. Ten years which must have seemed so long a resistance to you. So tiring, such unyielding vigilance. To us, the time was but a moment, no longer than it takes to yawn.”

  Deglan tightened his grip on the axe as the gruagach began to close around Sir Corc. The knight did not take so much as half a step backward, calmly drawing mace and sword.

  “The boy you seek is dead,” Sir Corc said. “If you think to find him through me, you will find that course futile.”

  “We know he lives,” Earc's voice dripped. “We need you not to find him. We need you dead for when we do. Lord Lambkiller commands.”

  Laughter filled the tower. The sound made Deglan smile.

  Bantam Flyn plummeted from above, slashing as he fell. His blade caught Earc where neck met shoulder, cleaving him to the belly. The ugly wound hissed as Flyn landed behind the twitching gruagach, its human features changing violently as the creature died. Sir Corc wasted no time, stepping forward with a sweep of his mace, catching Aonghas in the hip and sending him sprawling. In the same motion, the knight tossed his broadsword to Flyn, who caught it and engaged the remaining two gruagach, a sword whirling in each hand, driving them back. Muirne and the clansman moved with preternatural speed, splitting off from each other and retreating to the far wall. Flyn did not pursue, but kept his attention on his adversaries as he stepped back to join Sir Corc who kept watch on Aonghas, now recovered from the mace blow. Knight and squire stood back to back, one slain foe at their feet. Deglan could see their time on the island had not been wasted. They fought well together.

  The three gruagach watched the coburn intently, eyes blazing with calculated malice. They began to change, soft flesh giving way to scales and black fur, fingers stretching into vicious claws. Tusks emerged from faces now devoid of humanity, shoes burst to reveal cloven hooves. The gruagach gave Sir Corc what he demanded.

  They showed their true selves.

  Deglan checked the angle of his swing and waited for the signal to cut the rope.

  Ingelbert lit the torch as soon as he heard Flyn's mad laughter. He had only caught glimpses of the squire making his way stealthily down the stairs, often losing him in the uncertain light. The daring coburn had been half a turn above the final landing when he leapt, at least a dozen yards above the ground, a feat which would have pulped the bones of a man. Bantam Flyn landed unharmed, cutting down one of the figures below. It was difficult to discern what was transpiring from such a height, but the transformation of the gruagach was plain. Flyn, and what Ingelbert guessed to be Sir Corc the Constant, were standing against three creatures of the same ilk slain in the records room. If the prowess of that gruagach were any indication, a victory for the coburn was far from certain.

  Flyn had instructed Ingelbert to cut a rope at his signal. In the light of the torch, Ingelbert could now inspect his surroundings and the trap he was supposed to help spring. What Flyn had called a net turned out to be at least two dozen rusty mail hauberks haphazardly fashioned together to create a ponderous web of iron. A crude framework of wood held the thing splayed wide. At the junction of the planks an iron ring had been fastened and tethered to a rope, suspending the entire construction over the tower shaft. The rope appeared to run down the wall behind the stair scaffold, no doubt to its final tether point.

  Ingelbert was impressed. He would have thought the use of a pulley to be beyond the ken of one like Bantam Flyn. The squire had even thought to give him Coalspur, the reach and weight of the greatsword being necessary to sever the sturdy rope. If the net fell true, the gruagach would be crushed and, even if they survived, held fast by the weight and the iron. Of course, so would anyone else unlucky enough to be beneath when it fell.

  Placing the torch in a wall sconce, Ingelbert glanced over the landing. The coburn still battled the gruagach, staying close together near the center of the tower floor. Trying to lure their enemies in, Ingelbert surmised. He hoped the coburn were sure in their ability to get clear if the signal came to cut the rope.

  Unless...

  Ingelbert's hair stood up with the revelation. It was a failsafe. A last, desperate measure to ensure the gruagach did not prevail. The coburn were not
staying close to the center to lure the gruagach in, they stayed so that should they fall, their defeat would place the gruagach in position to be destroyed. Ingelbert knew Flyn's dedication to his cause was strong, now he knew just how strong.

  The door to the tower was flung open. Startled, Ingelbert turned to find a short, soot covered figure lurching onto the landing. The torchlight fell upon a face half covered in oozing blisters and blackened flesh. It was the goblin captive, the one the Order kept to test on the anvil. Bulbous, crazed eyes fixed on Ingelbert. A halberd, the shaft broken in half, dangled from the goblin's hand, the head spike scraping across the landing boards.

  “Smoke,” the Red Cap gibbered, advancing. “Smoke! And Fire!

  The goblin charged, shrieking and swinging the halberd wildly. Ingelbert stumbled away, trying to bring Coalspur up to ward the blows. The halberd blade crushed into his forearm, snapping bones. The agony forced a scream from Ingelbert's lungs and he dropped the greatsword. The goblin pulled the halberd back, preparing to ram the spike into Ingelbert's bowels. He stumbled away from the coming thrust and his guts jumped to his throat.

  His foot struck nothing but empty air.

  He fell, terror screaming in his skull. Twisting, Ingelbert caught the dangling net with his good hand, but his sudden weight caused the wooden framework to snap. He fell again as half the mail tore free, swinging him further away from the landing. His hand had caught in a jagged hole in one of the hauberks and the rusted links bit into his flesh. He kicked desperately over the dizzying void, his motion tearing more of the net free from its moorings. Sweat and blood slicked his fingers and they began to slip. He cried out in helpless anguish, trying to bury the metal deeper into his flesh so it would hold him. There was nothing else to do. Ingelbert looked up to see the grinning face of the goblin staring down at him, waiting lustfully for him to fall.

  SIX

  Flyn took his eyes off the gruagach for half a moment. Hearing a stricken cry from above, he shot a glance upward. Someone dangled from the net.

  “Inkstain,” he cursed.

  Deglan's voice burst from underneath the stairs behind him, bellowing a warning. Flyn barely got his blades up in time to parry the skin-changer's claws. The gruagach were fast, too damn fast, and one had wasted no time exploiting Flyn's momentary distraction. Claws swept and raked, squealing against iron as Flyn interposed his swords. Sir Corc made no move to aid him, ensuring the other two gruagach did not rush in and overwhelm them. Turning the scything attacks aside with the broadsword, Flyn whipped the falchion low at the creature's legs. The gruagach sprung away, as Flyn had anticipated, the blow a feint for the thrust of the broadsword which followed. He went for the throat, the kill, but the gruagach ducked its head, knocking his blade away with a crooked tusk. Flyn pressed the attack, but could not find an opening, succeeding only in driving the gruagach back.

  “This dance grows tiresome,” he said, stepping back to Sir Corc's side.

  “Who is above?” the knight asked, nodding upwards without taking his eyes from the gruagach.

  “Crane,” Flyn replied. “The human chronicler.”

  “He will fall.” It was not a question.

  “And bring a lot more than the weight of one skinny man with him,” Flyn said.

  Corc took a moment, considering.

  “Go,” he ordered.

  “That will leave you three to one,” Flyn pointed out.

  “I will deal with them,” the knight said.

  “I do not doubt,” Flyn went on, “but such a deed is worthy of song. The notoriety, Sir, you would never survive.”

  Flyn rushed the middle gruagach. It braced to meet him, its arms held low and wide. They no longer ended in claws, having reformed into sinewy tentacles, flexing and curling with anticipation. That was unexpected. Movement at the edge of his vision told him the other two were converging. Flyn smiled. He brought the falchion up in a great arc over his head and around for a powerful disemboweling slash at the creature in front of him. It hopped backwards, avoiding the cut. Flyn released his hold on the grip, sending the curved blade spinning at the gruagach coming in from the left. The creature could not check its charge. The falchion wind-milled, thumping through the air before slamming into the gruagach, the blade biting deep. The gruagach was knocked off its feet, landing hard on the stones and sliding to a halt, the sword still embedded in its chest. Flyn dove to the side, over swiping tentacles, and rolled to his feet next to the fallen gruagach. It yet lived, struggling to stand, smoking black blood pumping out from around the falchion's blade. The gruagach from the right was almost upon him and Flyn waited a final heartbeat before turning to bolt for the stairs.

  “Stay there, you old mushroom!” he yelled as he passed over the first landing, knowing Deglan was below. “I shall return in a trice!”

  Heavy thuds resounded on the stairs behind him. One of the gruagach had given chase. He had hoped for both. A tentacle whipped up between the stairs ahead of him, coiling around the boards. So, the other was not chasing, it was climbing to head him off. A high pitched squeal issued from below and, just as quickly as the tentacle appeared, it was gone. Corc must have wanted a word.

  Flyn ignored the sounds of pursuit behind him and pounded up the stairs, looking up the tower shaft on the run. Ingelbert still hung from the net, but the man was flagging. Even had he the strength of a fomori, it would not save him. The rig holding the mail was coming apart, shaken to pieces by the chronicler's panicked movements. Someone else was up there as well, leaning over from the top landing, but making no move to help Inkstain. Flyn climbed as swiftly as he could, but he still had several turns to complete before reaching the top.

  He was not going to make it.

  Deglan waited for Flyn and the gruagach to pass over before crawling out from beneath the stairs. He did not care what the young strut said, he was not about to cower under there any longer. Something had gone amiss. Keeping the axe in hand, Deglan emerged to see Flyn across the tower, flying up the stairs, already half a turn up, the gruagach not half a dozen strides removed. The other tentacled monstrosity had climbed under the stairs, hauling itself up by a one of its loathsome appendages to intercept Flyn. Sir Corc had already covered the distance, swinging his mace around to land a crushing blow to the creature's fur covered knee. The tentacle uncoiled from the support beam, the gruagach squealing as it came tumbling to the ground. The knight raised his mace for the killing stroke when the beast swept a tentacle into his legs. Sir Corc fell onto his back, the mace flying from his hand.

  Cursing, Deglan moved to help him. Something grasped tightly at his ankle and his leg was jerked out from under him. He hit the floor, wrists and elbows bashing painfully. His chin scraped across the rough stones as he was drug backwards. Flipping over he found a tentacle wrapped firmly around his leg and the gruagach Flyn had felled with the thrown falchion pulling him in. The beast had traded its tusks for a mouth full of fangs, its jaw unhinging, ready to receive him. Deglan still had the axe and he hacked at the heavily muscled coils. The blade chopped deep, but the creature held fast, undeterred by steel. He kicked hard at the mouth with his free leg, the fangs snapping at his foot. Hot, viscous blood splattered Deglan's face and the tentacle went loose, twitching and writhing against his liberated leg.

  Sir Corc pulled his mace out of the ruin of the gruagach's skull and helped Deglan to his feet.

  “Took your damn time,” Deglan grumbled, glancing over to the broken remains of the other gruagach beneath the stairs. “Should have known you would not need my help.”

  The knight did not respond. His gaze was fixed skyward. Deglan looked up just as a horrible, hopeless scream pierced the tower.

  Ingelbert Crane fell, his limbs flailing helplessly. A second later, the heavy iron net broke free and plummeted after him.

  Deglan and Corc began to shuffle back, out of the path of the crushing trap and the poor, doomed youth. Above, Deglan spied Flyn on the stairs. He was two turns below the top landing and n
o longer running. The gruagach was almost upon him, but the squire ignored the danger, his eyes fixed on Crane, tracking his plunge. The squire dropped the sword in his hand, bouncing slightly on his feet.

  “No, you daft cock, no,” Deglan muttered.

  Flyn jumped.

  The gruagach launched itself after him. Arms outstretched, Flyn sped towards Crane, seeming to hang in the abyss for a single, terrible heartbeat. Behind them, the gruagach reached out with a clawed hand. The iron net slammed into it from above, denying its pursuit, missing the coburn by a finger's breadth. Deglan winced when Flyn collided with Crane midair, his forward momentum altering the man's dive into a rapid, diagonal descent. Flyn held onto Crane as they fell together, twisting his body to direct their flight towards the narrow stairs. If he overshot, they would crash into the tower wall above. If they fell short, the inevitable floor would be their end.

  The mass of mail, and the ensnared gruagach struck the ground. Deglan threw his arms up against the dust and debris, his ears ringing with the concussive impact. He coughed, grit filling his mouth. A strong, feathered hand clapped him on the back and he followed Sir Corc as the knight ran for the base of the stairs.

  They found Crane half a turn up, bloody and motionless. Flyn lay underneath him. He had taken the brunt of the fall.

  “Do not move them!” Deglan called to Sir Corc, while he scrambled to catch up. He stepped carefully around the knight and inspected Crane. The man was unconscious, but breathing.. His pulse was weak and he had at least one broken arm, though Deglan's battlefield days saw the work of an axe blade, not the fall. His spine was intact, so Deglan motioned for Sir Corc to move him. The knight lifted the chronicler carefully, laying him back down just up the stairs before returning to stand over Deglan's shoulder as he examined Bantam Flyn.

  The squire's eyes were closed and he was not breathing. Deglan slapped him.

  “Enough of your foolery!” he admonished the young strut.