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

by Jonathan French

  Milosh stared at him over the fire, a calm grin cracking beneath his black mustachios.

  “So,” he said, nodding at Coalspur leaning on the log next to Flyn. “A dream fulfilled.”

  Flyn considered this. “Almost.”

  “There is more to being a knight?” Milosh had a way of asking questions that both mocked and displayed deep concern.

  “For me there is less,” Flyn replied. “And more.”

  “You once loved song, not riddles,” Milosh said, wagging a finger at him.

  Flyn looked from Milosh to Tsura. They waited, their gazes neither impatient nor imploring. The same eyes.

  Flyn considered telling them everything. His time as a squire, the tourney, his travels in Airlann, the siege of Black Pool, battling the Unwound at Castle Gaunt. Once he would have enjoyed boasting of these exploits, but now he simply wanted to unburden himself of them. He could relate everything that had happened to him in the intervening years, even explaining his unsanctioned knighthood and Pocket's importance. Flyn trusted Milosh and Tsura completely, knowing any secrets he shared would never be betrayed. He wanted them to understand him, what time had made him, but it was nothing but a self-serving wish. Such knowledge would only endanger them.

  “You are right!” Flyn proclaimed, jumping to his feet. “No more riddles. I am a Knight Errant of the Valiant Spur. Sir Bantam Flyn, at your service!”

  He performed an ostentatious bow, drawing laughter from his audience.

  Milosh's gold teeth shone in the firelight as he smiled mischievously. “Bantam? As in...small?”

  Flyn knew where this would lead. “It is a champion's title,” he said quickly. “Bestowed to honor my singular achievement of early knighthood.”

  “Did I not also give you such a name?”

  Tsura shoved Milosh's arm lightly. “Father. Stop.”

  Milosh beamed at them both, took a deep breath as if he were going to say something and then clapped his mouth shut.

  Flyn gave him another bow, this one of relieved gratitude, then sat back down.

  “What of your brother?” Tsura asked. “Did he attain the same dream?”

  “Gulver still trains,” Flyn said with a show of pride. “He will one day be a member of the Knights Sergeant, I have no doubt. Perhaps Grand Master. Such paths as I will never walk.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” Milosh admonished, retrieving a wine jug sitting nearby and holding it forward.

  Flyn reached around the flames and took it. “That is not something I am often accused of.”

  He took a mouthful from the jug, fond memories flooding his mind as the wine touched his tongue. Position within the Order was forever lost. Sir Corc had dubbed him knight, but he lacked the power to erase his desertion. Flyn could live the life of a Knight Errant and even claim allegiance to the Order, but he could never return to the Roost, nor elevate his position. Unless...

  Unless he challenged and defeated the reigning Grand Master. That remained the traditional right of all coburn. Grand Master Lackcomb himself had won leadership without ever having been a knight, or even a squire for that matter. He famously came striding into the Great Hall as an unknown youth and bested Grand Master Coalspur, winning both the leadership of the Order and the respect of his predecessor. A similar act would be Flyn's only road back to the fold, but he had never been driven by a lust for leadership. No, he was now what he aspired to be and that was enough.

  “Let others bear the burden of governance,” Flyn said, handing the wine jug to Tsura. He winked at her. “Me? I was made to wander.”

  Milosh laughed heartily at this. “Then you have returned to the proper bosom!”

  Tsura took a swallow of wine. “You mean to travel with us then?”

  “Is this allowed?” Milosh asked with feigned shock before Flyn could answer. “Can a knight stoop to travel with we Tsigani on his, how do you say, errandry?”

  Flyn chuckled, knowing the man had purposefully misspoke.

  “Nothing would give me greater joy,” he answered. “But first I must ask a boon.”

  “You need but name it,” Milosh said with a wide smile.

  “Take me back,” Flyn told him, “to where you found us.”

  Milosh's smile plummeted from his face. He looked at Flyn unblinking for a long moment, then took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his mustachios.

  “You wish this?” he asked at last.

  Flyn nodded.

  Milosh regarded him grimly for a moment. “A boat may sail upriver, but the waters that bore it downstream have long since moved on.”

  “Wise words,” Flyn said. “But you know me for a fool, Milosh.”

  Milosh smiled sadly, then stood. “Very well. I shall take you there.”

  Flyn met his eyes. “My thanks.”

  The man dipped his chin, then bent down and kissed Tsura. “Fair night, my Cricket.”

  Milosh headed for the bright Tsigani tent that would shelter twice their number. As he passed, he thumped Flyn on the shoulder with the heel of his fist without pausing.

  “And fair night to you too, Little Pecker.”

  Tsura threw a hand over her mouth, her eyes squinting with mirth.

  “Lovely,” Flyn said with a chuckle. “Too much to hope he would abandon that.”

  Tsura removed her hand, revealing her smile and shook her head at him. “Never.”

  “I still say Gulver had it worse,” Flyn insisted.

  Tsura broke out in fresh laughter. “Big Pecker!”

  Flyn added his merriment to hers. “Yes! Much, much worse. By the Hallowed, my brother is an enormous bastard. I am far from small for a coburn!”

  “If you say,” Tsura said, placating him.

  “Alas,” Flyn breathed. “Well if nothing is to change, let us keep to all traditions.”

  He extended his arm to the side, beckoning Tsura with his hand. She gave a girlish giggle then bounded over to nestle under his arm. Flyn relaxed his shoulders against the log, legs stretched out before him and hugged the girl close, remembering when she were small enough to curl up in his lap, encircled in both arms. As a child she was fascinated by his feathers and used to run her finger along the edges. That habit returned as they sat together staring into the campfire.

  “Did you ever accomplish them?” Tsura asked after a time. “All those daring deeds you told me you would do?”

  “No,” Flyn admitted. “I am afraid I have slain no kraken nor dragons. The Slip Noose Gang is still at large and I have never even seen a giant.” He paused a moment for effect. “Oh. I did best one of the greatest knights of the Valiant Spur in single combat, scale the walls of Castle Gaunt, fought at least a dozen Unwound and played a small part in saving the Source Isle from war, enslavement and death from the Red Caps. Otherwise...no, I have done nothing daring of any significance.”

  Tsura gave a sleepy breath of amusement, clearly believing he jested.

  “When Father saw you standing on the bank, he said, 'What took him so long?'”

  Flyn chuckled at that.

  “He is proud of you, Flyn,” Tsura told him, looking up from his chest to catch his eye.

  “I ask too much of him,” he replied.

  Tsura's face pinched into an expression of soft assurance. “That is not possible.”

  Flyn accepted this with a nod, then returned his gaze to the fire, stroking Tsura's hair until she fell asleep. He remained awake a long time, knowing he did ask too much. So much was already owed this family.

  It was Milosh who agreed to tell Gulver and Flyn where to find the Roost. They were lost youths then, with no knowledge of the world. The Ursari tribe, such that it was, had taken them in, given them a place. They were anxious to become knights, but barely knew north from south, much less the distance to Albain and the location of the legendary fortress of the Valiant Spur. Milosh promised to tell them, but only when he deemed them ready and not before. That was the bargain, to live with him, his wife and their toddling girl-child, le
arn to be more than they were and when the time was right, he would set them on the path they desired.

  Eight years passed before Milosh made good on his promise. Those years bore sweet and bitter fruit. Flyn and Gulver learned much from the Tsigani. They shared their labor, their laughter, their music. They also shared their pain. Milosh's wife died giving birth to a son. The Atsinganoi mid-wife did all she could, but the child followed his mother to the grave within a day. Milosh bore his grief with pride, but for many nights after the loss, Pali could be heard moaning mournfully in the darkness. Tsura had been no more than six and it was Flyn who held her close while she wept, beginning this nightly ritual of comfort in his embrace. The Tsigani do not speak of the dead, believing the words of the living snatch their departed loved ones away from paradise, so Tsura's mother's name was never uttered again.

  Flyn spent two more glorious days on the river with the Ursari and then, on the morning of the third day, Milosh steered the boat to shore. It was an unlikely spot on the bank with no discernible place to make a good landing. Thick reeds hung out over the water from a muddy embankment. Flyn turned to give Milosh a questioning look and then he saw the man's face.

  “Here?” Flyn asked.

  Milosh's silence was an answer.

  Flyn looked back to the shore. He knew Milosh would remember, but seeing the spot he was amazed. There was nothing to distinguish it from the shoreline for a league in either direction. It was an inconspicuous stretch of river that Flyn would have sailed past without a thought. And yet, he knew in his bones it was the exact location he sought. His complete faith in Milosh's knowledge of the river told him so and something else, something deeper, almost a pain that crept into his chest and soured his guts when he looked at the reed-choked bank. He never would have found this place on his own, but having been led here, his body screamed to be away.

  He had dragged Gulver as far as he could, his brother's blood mapping their slow, cruel progress. Fatigue had long overtaken him, but Flyn had continued to pull, hauling on the limp bulk until he was reduced to sliding backwards on his rump. Reaching the river defeated him. His body was spent and his brain exhausted, neither offering any way to attempt a crossing. Flyn did not know how long they lay in the reeds, surviving on river water and worms. Gulver rarely woke and his periods of lucidity grew shorter and shorter. They were filthy and starving, their world shrunk to mud, blood and the gurgle of the river.

  And then, around a bend came a boat. With a bear in the bow.

  “How long do you need?”

  Flyn came out of his haunted memory to find Milosh standing beside him.

  “A few days,” he replied. “No more.”

  Flyn made ready, donning his mail and strapping the elven-made spurs to his feet. Straightening, he found Tsura standing before him, Coalspur held in her hands. Flyn found the sight oddly disturbing. He had never seen Tsura touch a weapon and it appeared the greatsword held her, even as it lay sheathed in her grip. Reaching out, he took it from her quickly.

  “My thanks,” he said, slinging the harness across his back.

  “We will continue on,” Milosh told him. “But I will sail back through here in five days’ time.”

  Flyn nodded, extending his hand and they clasped arms firmly, Milosh giving him an affectionate slap on the face. Next, he embraced Tsura, the girl stiffening a little at the feel of his armor.

  “Safe travels, Cricket,” he said when he released her.

  “Safe travels,” she replied. “Sir Bantam Flyn.” Then she reached up under his beak and shook his wattle, making them both laugh.

  Flyn glanced to where Pali sat in the bow, gazing at the three of them impassively.

  “Take care of them, you hairy lummox,” he called to the bear.

  Pali snorted at him, then turned his attention upriver.

  Flyn stepped up onto the side rail and jumped to shore, his talons sinking into the mud as he landed. He turned to face the boat once more. Milosh held Tsura to his side.

  “If I am not here in five days,” Flyn told them. “Forget my name. I do not want to be pulled out of paradise.”

  Father and daughter raised their hands in acknowledgment and parting. Flyn raised his own hand, then turned away and began to trek through the reeds.

  Nearly fifteen years separated him from the last time he had come this way, desperate and fearful. He was unsure of the exact path, so he simply struck out directly away from the river, traversing the marshy land slowly. Soon, the reeds and mud gave way to overgrown fields and sparse woods. The sun was concealed behind a mantle of clouds which relieved themselves by midday, sending heavy, warm drops to accompany Flyn as he marched across the scrub land. The shower passed swiftly and the clouds were burned away, leaving the afternoon air clammy.

  Flyn found nothing in the landscape familiar. It was possible he would explore the country for days and never find his way. This was a fool's errand. Time and happier memories had dispelled any hopes of retracing those agonizing steps he had taken while dragging a dying brother. It was for the best. Too long had he held onto the burning notion that this was where his errantry must begin. He could make his way swiftly back to the river, cutting across country to get ahead of Milosh's boat. There was no need to wait five days, he could be back amongst the Ursari by nightfall and begin his life anew. All Knights Errant chose how and where they lent aid. If Blood Yolk could sail with a rabble of pirates and pay them to hunt Middangeard raiders at sea, then surely Flyn could find a place on the rivers. The Tsigani were an abundant source of information. He could live with Milosh and Tsura and Pali, wander Sasana and go where his sword was needed. By the Hallowed it would be a good life!

  Laughing to the world, he set off at a run, holding the sword harness tight against his body, vaulting rocks and logs. He must have sped a league before slowing, the landscape becoming too wooded to allow such headlong flight. Making his way quickly through the trees, Flyn emerged onto an expanse of field adorned with hedgerows and he went sprinting once more over open ground, knowing the river would soon appear before him.

  And then he saw it.

  It was nothing really. A break in the hedge, one among dozens, and beyond, a measure of sun-dappled field edged with forest. He stopped short, halted in his tracks by the sight. Just as Milosh had recognized a seemingly insignificant stretch of riverbank, so now did Flyn see a clear and memorable path. He nearly screamed aloud, fury igniting inside of him. He could have run right past, he should run right past. Flyn took a deep breath and looked back across the fields, in the direction he knew the river lay not an hour's run distant. Making a choice, he turned and walked slowly through the break in the hedge and across the field. Within minutes he reached the edge of the forest and without pausing, strode into the trees.

  The smell was the first reminder. A rank, leaden stench born from a mating of life and death. Cooked meat, rotting food, wet feathers, smoke from dung fires, piss, shit and blood. Not the blood of the battlefield, the blood of birth. All these fetid odors settled into his nostrils, growing more pronounced as he walked deeper into the wood. He fought the urge to draw his sword, knowing that the comforting weight of steel in hand could quickly bring death charging to claim him. Ahead, in a dark clearing of long felled trees stood a miserable cluster of crude buildings.

  Each was made of a pit dug an arm's length deep in the soil, then covered by a rough framework of branches smeared with manure. Most of these pitiful structures were roughly rectangular, but the largest was round, situated near the center of the clearing, standing a broody sentry over the half dozen smaller huts. Black smoke rose from a hole in the conical roof, a foreboding testament to its continued occupancy. Flyn had hoped to find it in ruin.

  He approached the nearest of the sunken huts, grimly aware it had been expanded since his youth. A small, muddy slope at one end led down to the door of the hut, covered only by a filthy hide. Ducking, Flyn pulled the curtain aside and leaned into the murky hut. Nine coburn females lay with
in on beds of squalid straw. They turned to stare at him, squinting at the sudden light. Most were greatly pregnant, their feathered bellies swollen. Two, however, had recently delivered. A sinewy, pulsing cord ran from between their legs to translucent, blood-filled sacks laying in the damp straw. Beneath the thick, gently writhing membrane, Flyn could detect the curled forms of the infant coburn within. In another moon's turn, they would emerge, tearing free of the egg sack and entering the harsh world of the clutch.

  Flyn only recognized one of the females. She had been brought to the clutch the year before he and Gulver fled, a young, new prize. Fifteen years of endless child-bearing had worn her down into a pitiable wretch and she looked at Flyn vacantly, turning away quickly when comprehension dawned. Not comprehension of who he was, but the realization of who he was not.

  Disgust rising within him, Flyn let the hide fall back over the door and turned away from the birthing hut. No one moved about the clearing, likely driven to shelter by the earlier rain. Flyn could hear the distinct grunts and squeals of swine foraging nearby, unseen in the thick of the trees. He stepped up out of the pit and made for the central hut. Despite its size and circular shape, this building was no different from the others and Flyn was met with another hide door. He paused before entering, slinging Coalspur's harness off his shoulder before pushing past the curtain.

  Smoke filled the gloom despite the hole in the roof. A pig, spit over the central fire, was being turned by a young female not yet of breeding age. Another female of similar age scraped at a sheep's hide stretched over a tanning frame. A dozen more occupied themselves with various chores in the dingy living space. None of them wore more than a filthy woolen shift. Several had children clinging to their legs. Flyn's heart fell when he noticed two were male. They peered at him from behind their mother's legs, both years away from adolescence. All eyes were now upon him, but quickly looked away. The confused and frightened stares turned to the rear of the cavernous room where a creaking platform stood. Upon it, sitting on a hideous chair made of animal bones was the only other adult male coburn in the hut.