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

by Jonathan French

  He paused. Spoken words were never his strongest ally and here he was referring to his own eloquence. It was needless pride. Deglan was a trained and learned being. Ingelbert was attempting to justify his unseemly origins to this skilled healer with displays of intellect. His quick mind would not allow him to conceal even his own vanities.

  Enough, then. Let the truth speak unmasked by feigned rhetoric.

  “I can still, I can still see her...her face, though I was no more than three when she died. Certainly, I would have followed ere long, if not for the kindness of a great man. He had come through Gipeswic many times and I was not the first Gautland cabbage he harvested. His name was Parlan Sloane and he took me to his, to his sanctuary, the Orphanage of the Dried Tear.”

  Ingelbert tossed any fear of judgment aside and looked down at Deglan. The gnome's face was grim, but there was confusion also, still forming along his sun-browned face. Ingelbert surmised it was his last words that caused the perplexity.

  “You, you know of the Dried Tear?” he asked.

  “I know it,” Deglan affirmed. “It was founded by the Fae, but I thought it destroyed.”

  “Ah yes, it was, yes,” Ingelbert said. “And rebuilt a century ago. It is an ancient place and there I was, um, educated. Through kindness and learning the lost can find themselves. Those were, those were Parlan's words. Twelve years I stayed, learning all I could, but those who find refuge at the Dried Tear may only do so until adulthood.

  “At fifteen, I left and found a place as, as a bee-keeper's apprentice not a dozen leagues from the orphanage. Nearly ten years later, I saw Parlan Sloane again. He traveled through the hamlet where I lived, returning from another long search for lost children. A coburn journeyed with him, a Knight Errant of the Valiant Spur called Sir Pikard the Lucky. They told me news of the Tin Isles, of the Red Cap uprising in Airlann and Sir Pikard expressed the Order's need for able minds. Of course, nothing was said of the gruagach incursion.

  “I, I had no intention of going, but before departing Parlan Sloane drew me aside. He repeated his old words to me. ‘Through kindness and learning the lost can find themselves.’ But then he said, ‘I have shown you kindness and you have learned more than any under my tutelage, but you will never find yourself so long as you continue to hide.’ There was…there was disappointment on his face. The next day, I began my journey to the Roost.”

  Ingelbert felt a sudden anger well up and he tossed the remainder of the tea out of the cup to splatter on the wet cobbles. It was a useless and petulant act, done before he could stop himself. He felt weak, sick and pained, his ample memory unable to conjure a time when he did not feel so.

  “You blame Flyn,” Deglan said. It was not a question.

  Ingelbert felt his throat constrict, an uncontrollable quivering taking hold of his chin. He often wished he possessed the ability to forget.

  “He accosted me,” Ingelbert managed. “Threatened to, to, to burn the annals. Took me to that tower. Put me in the path of that, of that burned goblin. Brought me here. Here!” He kept the tears from coming, another foolish feat of pointless pride. A burning question came to the surface, one he had convinced himself held no import. “Where has he gone?”

  “Inland,” Deglan answered, waving a hand vaguely. “To hunt a wyvern, he said.”

  Ingelbert's perception was not dulled by his self-pity. “You do not believe him.”

  The gnome brushed at his muttonchops with his knuckles and shook his head, lips down-turned with consideration. “He seeks to lead the life of a Knight Errant, though the Valiant Spur will never recognize him as one of their own. Not now.”

  “You think I should be grateful to him?”

  “He did save you from that fall,” Deglan said, looking up at him with an appraising frown. “But to your mind, he put you in the position that led to it. You may be right. Damned if I can answer that, but here is what I do know. He did not abandon his knighthood for you.”

  “The boy,” Ingelbert said. “Pocket.”

  Deglan nodded firmly. “Flyn. Corc. Buggery and shit, even me! We are willing to give our lives to protect him. You too now know he is alive. But it is not ours to decide if you should surrender your life for this cause. That is your choice to make. Flyn understood that. He took you away, so that if you survived, you could make that sacrifice or not. Many would have let you die, Master Crane. It would surely have been simpler.”

  “Who is he?” Ingelbert asked. “Pocket. Who is he?”

  The gnome seemed to wrestle with the question for a moment, his eyes leaving Ingelbert's to search the surrounding darkness. Eventually, he looked back.

  “The Dried Tear,” Deglan said. “You know your history. When was it destroyed?”

  “One hundred and twenty-two years ago,” Ingelbert answered immediately.

  “By whom?”

  “Festus Lambkiller. Lord of the gruagach.”

  “You say it has been rebuilt,” Deglan said. “Tell me, were any gurgs amongst the orphans while you resided there?”

  Ingelbert shook his head, certain Deglan already knew the answer.

  “When Lambkiller burned the Dried Tear to the ground,” the gnome said pointedly, “he caused the deaths of dozens of orphans, humans and gurgs alike. For centuries his people have slunk about, duping humans into their arms and creating these poor, stunted half-breeds. Gurgs have been around since man and Fae first made contact and up until recently, the gruagach seemed as content to abandon them as humans. But within the last ten years, Lambkiller, who once killed gurgs without a thought, is bent on finding every last one and returning them to the gruagach fold.”

  “They are important to him,” Ingelbert surmised. “Or one of them is.”

  Deglan pointed a finger up at him. “One of them is.”

  “You think it is Pocket he seeks.”

  “We damn well know it is!” Deglan barked at him in a whisper, then he took a deep breath and the sudden frustration left his face. “He is just like you, Master Crane. An orphan who will never know who his father was, only that he was an evil fuck who cruelly used a woman. You inherited your height and flaxen head from your Middangeard father. Pocket received the limited abilities of a changeling from his. But unlike other gurgs, his human half gave him gifts as well. His mother was a descendant of the Goblin Kings, possibly the last of Jerrod's bloodline. That is what Lambkiller wants! That is why Pocket is hunted! And that is why we can never allow the gruagach to find him!”

  Ingelbert absorbed all the gnome said. It was truly fascinating and explained much of what he had not already reasoned out. He still had a few minor questions, but refrained from asking them, knowing the herbalist was in no mood for further inquiry. Deglan turned to go back into the hut, taking the empty cup from Ingelbert's hand. At the door he paused.

  “One more thing,” the gnome said. “You can carry anger towards Bantam Flyn, or me, or whoever you like. We made the choice to save you and spirited you away. Now you know why. What you do from here is your choice. The Roost was a dangerous place and you are to be commended for serving there. But make no mistake, Ingelbert Crane, just because it held more threat than tending bees, you were still hiding.”

  After Deglan went back inside, Ingelbert remained without for a long while, contemplating the healer's words and his own mind. He was relieved to be away from the Roost and he was angry for being removed as well. Was there sense in the retention of such disparate passions? He wondered if an answer held any importance. He was away, whatever the cause or justification, and in need of new purpose. Entering the service of the Valiant Spur was a means of dispelling Parlan Sloane's disapproval of his sequestered existence. Now Master Loamtoes, who held equal wisdom, deemed he had accomplished little to that end. Ingelbert knew well his shortcomings, but he was not arrogant enough to dismiss the gnome's assessment without consideration. Such contemplation would have to wait, however, for his body grew tired, requiring the tedious business of slumber.

  Deglan was a
way from the hut when Ingelbert woke the next morning. His appetite was returning and he broke his fast on black bread with butter and weak ale. There was salt pork and herring on the board as well, but Ingelbert left them untouched. While he ate, his eyes fell upon the satchel he had taken from the library. It had lain nearly forgotten in the corner of the hut while he recuperated. Stuffed within were all the documents that Flyn had made him hastily gather from the records.

  Opening the flap, Ingelbert was surprised to find them intact, certain Flyn would have condemned them to the fire by now. He was even more surprised to find the great, green leather-bound tome within the satchel. It was the volume of lists he had been translating and had nothing to do with Pocket or Sir Corc. Ingelbert did not remember putting it in the satchel. Seeing the thick book sent a stirring through him, rejuvenating him more than any of Deglan's teas.

  He got dressed as quickly as he was able in breeches, boots, tunic and jerkin, then slung the satchel over his shoulder. It was quite heavy and his ribs ached at the weight. He briefly considered removing all but the green tome, then thought better of it. Deglan had said it was his choice to help protect Pocket or not. Ingelbert was uncertain how he could do that, but leaving these records lying about was not wise. And they still belonged to the annals of the Valiant Spur. He may no longer serve as chronicler to the Order, but the documents were still his charge and he would not abandon them. Deglan had acquired a stout walking stick for Ingelbert in preparation for his returned perambulation. It stood propped next to the door and Ingelbert took it up in his good hand before heading out.

  Gipeswic by day was a teeming hive of wet labor. The town was built on the estuary of the River Orr and centered on the docks. Construction and expansion of the quay was constant, with embankments and revetments raised to accommodate the need for sufficient moorings. Ramparts had also been built around the quay to deter Middangeard raids, but Ingelbert doubted Gipeswic had suffered its last sacking. He made his way along a slick lane parallel to the waterfront, which was alive with haggling merchants, scurrying urchins and mud-covered laborers working on the ever-expanding earthworks. Stevedores loaded and unloaded the numerous moored ships, while sailors prepared their vessels for port or a return to sea.

  Ingelbert avoided the press of bodies, not trusting his weakened state to stand up against such a jostling. He skirted the docks for quite a ways before putting his back to them, striking more to the north. His childhood memory of the town gave him few solid recollections, but he knew where to find the river. When he was young, the crossing was merely a ford, but in the years since his departure, Gipeswic had constructed a solid bridge of stone, linking the banks of the Orr and allowing passage just upriver from the estuary. He made his way through the cattle market and then was forced to go around a boisterous rabble of drunken knaves betting on the dog fights.

  His shoulders ached and his ribs were sore by the time he reached the outskirts of the northern edge of Gipeswic. Here the land began to rise, spreading away from the town in verdant downs to the horizon. This was the land used by the townspeople to bury their dead. Somewhere amongst the grass-covered barrows his mother lay in the earth. Ingelbert let the wind cool the sweat on his skin and surveyed the seemingly endless green humps, knowing not even his limpid view of past days could steer him to her resting place.

  Planting his walking stick firmly ahead, he set off across the downs. He had no destination in mind, merely seeking any quiet, secluded place he could rest with his book. The sky held few clouds and the sun covered the fields. Ingelbert grew hot from exertion and an irksome itching began to grow under the plaster encasing his right arm.

  It occurred to him that Deglan would not know where he had gone and it may very well appear that he had fled entirely. It was not something Ingelbert had considered before leaving, the sudden impulse to escape the confines of the hut allowing little forethought. He did not know what the herbalist planned to do once his services were no longer needed. It may be he intended to return to the Roost or his homeland in Airlann. Deglan would certainly not remain in Gipeswic, and without him Ingelbert would have no lodging. He very much doubted the fishwife had much use for a scribe or a beekeeper. Nothing for it, Ingelbert put such thoughts out of his mind.

  By mid-morning, he found a tiny copse that afforded good shade and a sweeping view of a shallow dale containing an expanse of flat heath. Ingelbert slung the satchel off and eased himself down amongst the roots of an old oak, resting his back against the broad trunk. Wishing he had remembered to bring a skin of water and maybe one of the fresh pears Deglan kept in the hut, Ingelbert looked out across the field, feeling the quivering in his legs begin to subside.

  After a time he opened the satchel and removed the green tome, his plastered arm making the task more difficult than expected. He opened it to a random page, marveling at the columns of strange runic script, so like the languages of Middangeard and yet indiscernible at first inspection. Thankfully, his own sheaf of parchment containing the translations of the two dozen or so words he had coaxed from the runes still lay nestled in the book. Oddly, the tome appeared to be nothing but a continuous list. There were no full passages or even sentences. It was a prodigious catalogue without any system of organization that Ingelbert could perceive. Initially, he had tried to translate the words in order, hoping to find some basic alphabetic structure, but after the first ten words he found nothing connecting the register.

  Leech.

  Coal.

  Beans.

  Tar.

  Fletching.

  And on and on. Every deciphered word as random as it was innocuous. The task was made even more difficult by the apparent lack of a set character meaning. The order of the runes was complex and yet subtle, the translation of one word giving little insight into linguistic rules that might govern the entire symbol structure. He had to wrestle every meaning one by one, pulling on every strand of language he knew until a definition began to form. The long hours he spent on one rune often made the script appear to swim on the page, his eyes watering from concentration. But then, as wax in a mold, the word would set and always Ingelbert felt an absolute certainty in the accuracy of his translation, as if the meaning should have been obvious from the start.

  Eventually, he abandoned all attempts at order and made a game of opening the book to any page and working on the first entry that struck his fancy. He would never complete the project, even with a lifetime of effort, not unless he could uncover some reliable key. Still, it was a distraction and a puzzle, one which he never grew weary of trying to solve. There was a solace he found within the pages of the mysterious book and a calm triumph whenever he dug out new understanding from the runes.

  He had no quill, nor ink and therefore no method to record anything he translated, but that did not concern him overmuch. In his weakened condition, Ingelbert doubted he would manage to make any progress. Nevertheless, he peered at the open pages, propping the weighty volume up with his thighs. He did better than he anticipated, chiseling the word for boar out of the archaic mess just before the sun reached its apex.

  The horsemen entered the field while he was trying to decide whether to head back to Gipeswic or attempt another word. There were three of them, all on fine steeds and bearing falcons on their wrists. They reined up less than a furlong from where Ingelbert sat, but took no notice of him. They did not dismount, but appeared to be waiting, talking amongst themselves while occasionally tossing looks back from the direction they came. Soon, a group of six men on foot caught up with the riders, coming into the field at a hurried pace despite the bundles they each carried. The majority of the baggage looked to be wicker cages. The riders at last dismounted as three of the servants took hold of their horses. The remaining men stayed by the stacked cages, each reaching inside one to remove what proved to be rabbits.

  Laughter drifted across the heath as the falconers jested with one another, one removing the hood from his bird. He gave a signal and one of the servants relea
sed his rabbit, the animal quickly darting across the open field. With an almost lazy motion of his arm, the first man released his falcon and the bird launched itself into the air, pursuing the fleeing rabbit with rapid and single-minded purpose. The falcon swooped low, its talons lowering and opening, before snatching at the ground. It pulled up and away, revealing the struggling rabbit caught in its talons.

  Ingelbert returned his attention to his book.

  Hunting held no interest for him. The men were clearly of wealthy, landowning stock, likely the sons of huscarls of some thegn that kept a manor nearby. Many powerful men dubbed themselves kings in Sasana, each wishing to expand his already vast holdings, but in truth no individual could claim rule over the land entire. This close to Gipeswic, it was Eorl Wehha who laid claim to a crown and his thegns were pledged to defend the town, but had they ridden to aid the port with any measure of swiftness during the last raid, Ingelbert would never have been born. The power of the gentry was never much use as far as he was concerned and it was an aspect of life he had not missed during his time in Albain.

  A cry of anger pulled Ingelbert back to the men in the field. The third falconer had missed his rabbit and was cursing as his fellows shared a chuckle at his expense. The bird was returning, its flight slow and silent as it made a wide turn. It was then Ingelbert noticed it was not a falcon at all, but the largest owl he had ever seen. Even from a distance Ingelbert estimated the wingspan nearly matched his own height. The owl returned dutifully to its fuming master, landing on his outstretched arm. Ingelbert had seen many a hunter use falcons, peregrine, goshawks, but never an owl.

  He watched four more rounds and the two falcons only missed once between them, whereas the owl failed to catch a single rabbit, much to the increasing fury of his handler.