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

by Jonathan French

  “You need but call and I appear,” Bantam Flyn announced, striding out of the darkness and into the little clearing.

  He came swiftly to where Deglan knelt, swinging a rucksack off his shoulder and handing it down. Deglan emptied the contents quickly, but carefully. The young strut had done well. A hasty inventory revealed nothing forgotten. Selecting a certain bottle, Deglan peered at it in the flickering torchlight, verifying its contents.

  “Liss-more and yarrow,” he muttered to himself, breaking the wax seal and pulling the cork. Titling Crane's head back, he slowly poured the potion past the man's slack lips. That done, he went to work setting and splinting the fractured arm. Much more was required, but he needed fire, boiling water, better light and time. None of which they appeared to have.

  Corc had finished the litter and Deglan waved his permission to move Crane as he got to his feet, gathering up his supplies and repacking them. Thankfully, Flyn had remembered his satchel and Deglan filled it with the vital components, placing the surplus back in the rucksack. This he placed on the litter between Crane's feet alongside the chronicler's own bag. The damn thing had still been around Crane's body when they reached the copse. Deglan had removed it during his examination, paying it no mind at the time. Now he saw it was stuffed with books and scrolls.

  “Do we need this extra weight?” he asked, thumping the bag with his foot.

  “It all comes,” Flyn answered.

  “Comes where, exactly?” Deglan pressed.

  “Gipeswic,” Flyn said. “On the eastern shore of Sasana.”

  Deglan's knowledge of the lands to the south was limited. “And how long will that take?”

  “A month overland,” Sir Corc said, frowning down at the litter and its occupant. “Mayhaps longer. You could go east from here to the coast of Albain. A fortnight would bring you to Caer Caled where ships may be found to bring you south.”

  “Ships,” Flyn agreed, “and Middangeard raiders.”

  Sir Corc only nodded once, clearly aware of the risk.

  “East would also mean crossing over the Mounds,” Flyn went on.

  “Or through,” Corc added. “There are passes.”

  Deglan knew enough about the landscape of Albain to recall that the mountain range crossed nearly the width of the region. It would be unavoidable if they made for the opposite shore. The port of Grianaig on the western banks was nearer the Roost, but that would leave them facing a long voyage either around the top of Albain through the Knucklebones or an even longer one down the length of the western shore through the Airlann Channel between the Source Isle and the unforgiving land of Kymbru. Those were dangerous seas, filled with storms, bloodthirsty kelpies and kraken that could drag a boat down to its doom. Even if they made it through the channel alive they would still need to round the southern end of Sasana and circle back north to reach the eastern shore.

  Deglan did not much care for sea travel, preferring his feet pressed solidly to Earth, but at present, the route was not his primary concern.

  “We need to get this gawky scribbler out of these damn trees and somewhere I can work. Let's begin there.”

  Sir Corc nodded his agreement and handed his torch to Deglan, then stooped to pick up the head of the litter. Bantam Flyn took up the other end. The knight led them out of the copse and down the last stretch of hill from the escarpment, reaching the relatively flat ground below the castle.

  In the distance, Deglan could see the glow from the hut fires in Glengabráin and the moonlight reflecting off the loch behind. If only he could take Crane down to the village and see to his injuries there, but it was too dangerous. Any gruagach hiding amongst the Dal Riata would be on the watch for them. One or even two would not likely cause a threat. Skin-changers rarely moved openly against their quarry without numbers in their favor. For all Deglan knew there were half a dozen of the slippery bastards hiding amongst the clansmen, there was just no sure way of knowing.

  Not unless they asked.

  “Bugger me for a blind fool,” he chastised himself, then raised his voice at the coburn walking ahead. “Make for the pasture land.”

  “Why?” Flyn tossed the word back at him.

  “Where else would you look for a cow?” Deglan barked.

  “Deglan,” Flyn said slowly. “I am sorry to tell you this, but planting yourself in manure will not make you taller.”

  “Shut up and walk, you!”

  They skirted the borders of the village, Deglan extinguishing the torch before they entered the fields. Despite their differences, gnomes and coburn saw equally well in the dark, the moon providing adequate light to guide them. The Dal Riata kept a night-watch over their livestock and it took some doing to avoid the eyes of the drovers. Deglan took the lead, moving low and quiet towards the edge of the pasture.

  It was impossible for the cowherds to keep an eye on every beast during the night and there were always strays. So long as the majority of the herd was kept safe from predators and thieves, the few that wandered were rounded up the next morning. It did not take Deglan long to spot an animal separated from the rest in the warm night, unseen by the clansmen. He motioned for the coburn to set their burden down and wait. Leaving then, he crept into the pasture.

  The cow shied away from him as he approached, but did not retreat. Deglan was not overly fond of the brainless brutes, but he had need of this one. Reaching into his satchel, he produced a bundle of dried speedwell. Deglan valued the plant for its aid in curing congestion, but it was a rare find due to the livestock and their tendency to eat all they could sniff out. He held the fragrant plant out towards the cow. It caught the scent, its wet nostrils flaring, and plodded forward in single-minded pursuit.

  Deglan led it back to where the coburn waited and shot Flyn a warning look against any remarks as he passed. He made for the edge of a small wood bordering the pasture where the Dal Riata swine foraged. The cow was in tow and the coburn came along behind, bearing Crane between them. Deglan stopped at the tree-line, casting a long glance back the way they had come to make sure they had not been spotted.

  “Needed to visit your sweetheart before we left?”

  “I know over a hundred plants that can kill you, Bantam Flyn!” Deglan growled. “Now put that litter down, both of you. I will need help.”

  The coburn approached, Corc with silent patience and the young strut with bemused uncertainty.

  “Flyn,” Deglan said, handing over the bundle of speedwell. “Feed this to the four-legged lout. Slowly! And get a good hold around its neck. Sir Corc, help keep hold of her.”

  When he was sure the coburn had a firm hold, Deglan took a bronze lancet out of his satchel, gently feeling along the beast's neck. He found a good vein, ensuring it was not the artery and quickly pierced the flesh with his lancet. The cow gave a groan of protest and lurched, trying to pull away, but the strength of the coburn held her fast. Deglan stuck his free hand under the flow of blood, cupping his palm to allow the fluid to pool, hot to the touch. He approached the edge of the wood, his dripping hand raised.

  “Deglan what—?” Flyn began, but a hiss from Sir Corc silenced him.

  Deglan waited, watching the trees.

  The cattle of the Dal Riata were prized. Hearty and strong, they produced sweet milk, supple leather and tender meat. When Deglan had arrived at the Roost, he tended to the clansmen as often as needed, but was never summoned to treat the stock. He should have suspected then, but he had other concerns on his mind. The gruagach were in the castle and among the Dal Riata. Murder, fear, distrust, all of these the gruagach spread. And disease. However, only in the last month had the cattle become afflicted. Curse him for a blind old gnome, he should have seen the clue.

  Fae are protectors.

  From the beginning, that was their purpose. Magic had made them, gifted them with immortality and entrusted the greatest among them with the guardianship of the Elements. Above them all were placed the elves, destined to be the stewards of Magic and the guiding hand for al
l Fae. Upon mortal man's arrival to Airlann, it was the elves who decreed that all Fae-folk should help elevate them from savagery and further distance them from the caves they had so recently left behind. Even the least of the Fae found purpose then. The piskie, the clurichaun, the fenodyree, once mere servants of the Seelie Court, established themselves as tutors to the humans, using their gifts to aid and protect aspects of mortal life.

  For years uncountable it was so, until man betrayed the trust of the elves, using Magic learned at their knee to supplant them and attain dominion over the Source Isle. These human oathbreakers became the Goblin Kings and though they were few in number, the atrocities committed during their reign sullied all of mankind. Some Fae, like the gruagach, refused to forgive and turned their powers to man's destruction. Many, however, kept to the old ways.

  The blood covering his hand had cooled, becoming sticky between his fingers.

  She appeared at the edge of the woods, walking between the trees, silent and graceful. Her tall, lean form was clothed in a simple dress of rough wool, darkly dyed. Even in the moonlight, her unbound hair shone, the deep red of fallen leaves. The bright eyes and pointed ears suggested elf-kind, but her skin was grey and beneath her dress Deglan knew her feet would be hooves.

  After the Restoration, the baobhan sith had sided with the gruagach, refusing the Seelie Court's command that humans be left in peace. All but a few. Those who honored the peace were driven from Airlann by their vengeful kin, forced to find homes in other lands where they could continue to live in harmony with humans. Here in Albain, they were called glaistig and their province was bestowing blessings to livestock. Of course, such a boon did not come without price. The glaistig were blood-drinkers.

  “Why do you summon me, Earth warden?” the glaistig demanded, fixing Deglan with a penetrating stare. “And why do you dare lay hands on animals under my protection?”

  Deglan refused to be intimidated. “Are they? Because it looks as if you have failed in your duties. These beasts are ill.”

  “Some natural culling is needed for the good of the herd,” the glaistig answered, defiance lifting her chin.

  “Toad shit!” Deglan scoffed. “The gruagach have driven you away. Why do you protect them?”

  He watched anger flare in the glaistig's face, anger mated with fear.

  “I protect myself, gnome!”

  Deglan chose to soften his approach. “Why did you not come to me? Surely you must have seen me, another Fae aiding the people here.”

  “You aid the coburn,” the glaistig accused. “It is their interests you serve.”

  “My lady,” Sir Corc said, taking a step forward. “The Knights of the Valiant Spur wish for the prosperity of the Dal Riata. Long has it been so.”

  “You held them off,” Deglan jumped in, not wanting to give the glaistig time to dispute the knight's statement. Sir Corc had not been here over the past year and seen the extent of the rift the gruagach had driven between the Order and the clansmen. “The cattle only recently took sick. What has changed?”

  The glaistig did not readily answer. Her eyes left Deglan, looking beyond him into the night, towards the village.

  “The gruagach left me be,” she replied, her gaze returning. “When they first arrived. They told me they had dealings with the coburn, but the Dal Riata would not be touched. They lied. They began murdering the humans...their children, using them to gain access to the castle. I stood against them, but more arrived. Too many now to fight.”

  “How many?” Deglan asked, fearing the answer. “How many now live as clansmen?”

  The glaistig looked from him to Sir Corc and back again.

  “Thirty,” she told them at last. “More are coming.”

  “Buggery and spit,” Deglan exhaled.

  It was more than even he feared. The five they killed tonight were meaningless. They could not take Crane into Glengabráin. More than that, the gruagach had Pocket's scent, they were not giving up the hunt now. If the glaistig was right, they would soon have the strength to challenge the Roost.

  “My lady,” Sir Corc said again. “Do you know the faces these gruagach now wear?”

  The glaistig eyed him for a moment, then nodded.

  Sir Corc went to one knee before her. “You need not trust my Order, you need only trust me. If you help me unmask these gruagach, I swear I will do all within my power to see that they do no more harm to the Dal Riata. Come with me to the castle and I will marshal the Valiant Spur to this cause. What say you?”

  The glaistig fixed the knight with her bright eyes, evaluating him. “Agreed.”

  “Then it shall be done,” Sir Corc promised, rising. “My friends must journey far from here. Can you procure an ox and wain to aid them? You have my oath, the family will be well compensated for its loss.”

  “Wait here,” the glaistig said and slipped back into the woods without a sound.

  Deglan turned to Sir Corc, dropping his voice. “Is this wise? Removing yourself from the Roost may be the best way to deter an attack now.”

  “I agree,” Bantam Flyn said from behind them.

  Deglan looked to the young knight and saw that he still stood next to the cow, arm firmly around its neck. He let loose a snort of laughter.

  “Who is in love now?”

  Flyn glanced down at the cow, then chuckled himself, releasing his hold. The animal took several quick, skipping steps away, then continued its retreat back towards the pasture at a more leisurely pace.

  “Corc, I agree,” Flyn repeated, coming to stand with them. “Best we all get far from here.”

  “I cannot continue to ignore this threat,” Sir Corc told them. “If it means open war, so be it. Too long have these killers been allowed to skulk about unchallenged.”

  “You can kill rats in a barn as you find them,” Deglan offered, “but you will never know how many hide underneath the straw.”

  While Corc considered this, Deglan went to check on Crane.

  The liss-more was taking effect. The man's breathing was more even, his face less pained, but Deglan was far from satisfied. He had bought a little time, maybe eased some of the internal bleeding, but the chronicler's survival was not certain. He hoped the glaistig did return with a wain. An ox was slow, but Deglan did not fancy trying to haul the man about on a makeshift litter over the highlands. He remained kneeling next to Crane, glancing up to find the knight still deep in thought. Flyn stood close by, scanning the darkness. Eventually, Sir Corc came to stand over Deglan, motioning the younger knight over.

  “The Roost is not yet overrun,” he said. “There is still strength enough within the Order to fight. The Knights Errant are returned, we may never have a better chance.”

  “And what of Flyn's words?” Deglan asked. “About where you are most needed?”

  This gave the knight further pause. He was clearly torn between oaths. The first, the same Flyn had sworn not an hour ago, but for Corc it was decades old and long adhered. The other was newer, more personal and once melded seamlessly with the demands of knighthood. No longer. The old bird was at a crossroads. Deglan knew such a plight well, but he suspected the knight had chosen his path.

  “I intend to return where I am needed,” he said slowly. “After.”

  Deglan saw Flyn tense, his head darting over to look hard at the older knight.

  “But,” he barely whispered, “Pocket?”

  Corc put a reassuring hand on Flyn's shoulder.

  “The gruagach wish me dead and in that they may succeed, but my life is all they will get from me. In victory or in defeat, Pocket will be safe. A more formidable guardian than me watches over him and will continue to protect him once I am gone. He is not where he is by chance.”

  This should not have surprised Deglan. Sir Corc the Crafty, he should be named, though the knight would appreciate it no more than any other title. He was a great warrior, but along with skill at arms he possessed foresight, patience and a good head for strategy. Deglan had lived on that litt
le island for several months and never saw any sign of the protection to which Corc now alluded, but he did not doubt it was there. It would be no damn good if it were obvious. He wondered if even Pocket was aware of its existence. Deglan was impressed. If Corc had been alive during the Rebellion, he would have been a great asset. In that war or any other.

  A creaking sound drifted towards them out of the dark. It did not come from the wood, but from the stretch of field between them and the village. They all turned and saw the slow progress of an ox outlined in the moonlight. The glaistig walked beside, the beast following her without the use of lead or switch. Tethered to the shaggy animal was a two-wheeled haywain, its deep bed empty.

  “I have cured this one of the skin-changer's malady,” the glaistig said, stroking the ox's wide head. “He will go as directed without the need for much prodding. Treat him well.”

  “You have my word,” Deglan told her.

  Flyn and Corc loaded Crane, litter and all, into the bed of the wain.

  “There are few settlements between here and Caer Caled,” Sir Corc told the younger knight. “Once you leave the lands of the Dal Riata, be wary. The Mounds are inhabited by none but the Painted Men. They are unpredictable.”

  Bantam Flyn accepted the advice with a nod.

  “Here,” he said, shrugging out of his harness and holding his greatsword towards Sir Corc. “Trade swords with me. Coalspur should serve the causes of the Valiant Spur.”

  “It will be,” Sir Corc said, pushing the weapon gently back. “I wish you success in errantry, Sir Flyn.”

  “Luck in battle, Sir Corc,” Flyn replied. He lingered a moment, then jumped up onto the driver's bench of the wain and took up the reins. Deglan crawled up into the bed next to Crane and hunkered down. Sir Corc walked around to the back of the wain.

  “Fare thee well, Master Loamtoes,” he said.

  “Until our next meeting, good knight,” Deglan replied.

  Flyn gave a click at the ox and the wain began to trundle forward, jostling Deglan a little until he settled into the rhythm. He watched behind as the figures of the glaistig and the coburn grew steadily distant. Before they were lost from sight, Deglan raised a hand in parting and he saw Sir Corc return the salute.