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

by Jonathan French

  Gallus.

  He glowered down at Flyn for a moment, then stood, taking up the massive club that rested against his knee. His grimy feathers were the color of rancid milk, encrusted with dirt and soot. About his waist hung a loincloth of uncured leather secured with a girdle of bronze discs. A coburn's comb and wattle grow with age and, it was said, with the amount of blood he sheds. Gallus' comb had long been torn away, the victim of countless battles. His wattle, however, hung to his belly, a ropey mass of red, blubbery flesh, adorned with swells of purple and blue. Age had done nothing to diminish him, his shoulders still broad and powerful. He was a scarred, knotted, hardened tree, grown stronger with the passing of long years and fed at the roots with the blood of foes.

  “You one a mine?” Gallus asked, his voice a harsh, wet grinding.

  “Yes,” Flyn told him. “Yes, father. I am.”

  ELEVEN

  Smoke drifted up out of the whale's blowhole. A bedraggled cluster of fishermen ambled into its gaping maw without an upward glance at the row of countless teeth in the beast's upper jaw high above. Deglan watched with a scowl as the men disappeared down the shadowy gullet, still talking wearily amongst themselves. He stood before the cavernous mouth wondering what possessed mortal man to construct something so damn hideous. Deglan hated whales when they were made of flesh and blubber, but this calamity of wood deserved its own disdain.

  “By Earth and Stone. This should be put to the torch.”

  The Guild Hall of the Anglers was the largest building in Gipeswic and home to the wealthy ruling body of the town. From end to end the hall was fashioned in the likeness of a whale, or as close as the craftsmen could come to it with timber and planking. Giant, cumbersome, sinister and revolting. Deglan reckoned they had captured the essence. The only way in or out of the place was through the mouth and it was said the upper jaw could close, sealing off the structure at nightfall. Deglan intended to be well away by then.

  “Alright,” he said, turning to face Ingelbert. “Shall we go into the belly of the beast? Get this done.”

  The gawky lad raised his long nose out of the ponderous volume he carried, but only long enough to stammer his reply.

  “Um. Yes. Please, go on. I will, I will await you here.”

  “Oh no!” Deglan strode over and took the chronicler by his bony elbow. “I will not have you slipping off again, Master Crane. Besides, I may need a translator in here.”

  He began pulling the man towards the whale's mouth.

  “Master Loamtoes,” Ingelbert protested. “You speak the same tongue as these men.”

  Deglan did not ease his pace. “You would be surprised how often a shared language seems not to help when I talk to people.”

  They passed between jaws that a dozen horses could walk through abreast and entered the expansive antechamber of the hall. The Guild Masters did not waste money on fanciful ornamentation or even much light, no doubt wanting the entrant to feel fully that they had been swallowed alive. Only a few fat lamps burned dimly on the support beams. The ceiling above was supported by an endless march of massive crucks, the timber framing conveniently akin to the bones of a great fish. Deglan found himself impressed. The dramatic facade aside, the interior was ingeniously done and must have required considerable time and skill to construct.

  Ahead, a group of heavily armed men stood before a wooden partition that was only half the height of the hall. The flickering glow of firelight and the sound of voices drifted up from over the top of the partition. The armed men stopped Deglan and Ingelbert when they approached. There were ten of them, all bearing spears in hand, swords at the waist and clad in dingy mail. Mercenaries by the look of them. Several racks and tables stood in the corner where the partition met the sloping side walls. Upon them various clubs, daggers and hatchets were haphazardly tossed. A bearded goat, tied to one of the table legs, stared at Deglan with a disinterested expression, its jaw chewing ceaselessly.

  “Weapons?” one of the men asked through a yawn.

  “Yes,” Deglan affirmed. “You have a lot of them.” He took a step toward the iron-studded door at the center of the partition.

  “No,” the man said, waking up enough to stoop and quickly place a hand on Deglan's chest, halting him. “Yer to hand over all weapons.”

  Deglan looked down at the mercenary's grubby paw with a sneer, then met his lazy gaze.

  “We cannot bloody well unscrew our heads now can we?” he barked.

  The mercenary smiled at this. “Think yer clever, do you?”

  “The lad is,” Deglan replied, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Ingelbert. “Damn genius. Not me. My head is just at an inconvenient height for most men. Be careful if I decide to lean forward right fast.”

  This drew several dim-witted chuckles from the other men. The man blocking Deglan's way smiled even broader, then slapped him companionably on the chest before removing his hand.

  “Right then,” he said, still grinning. “In you go.”

  Deglan returned the grin. He knew how to deal with men like these. Mercenaries fought for money, but they preferred to get the money without the fighting. Such a life created a contrary creature, constantly bored and looking for a fight, yet wanting nothing more than to avoid one. Provide some momentary distraction, some spark of entertainment and they became swiftly agreeable. These thugs would still be talking about the feisty old gnome over their drink and dice a week from now.

  The door was unbolted and opened, revealing a large chamber beyond. Deglan stepped through, Ingelbert at his heels, and the door swung shut behind them. They found themselves at the top tier of a circular gallery containing rows of benches. A shallow stair lay directly before them, leading down to the floor of the large chamber. One man stood down there, facing away from Deglan and responding to questions being posed to him by a group of imperious looking men sitting on a looming dais. At least two hundred people sat scattered amongst the benches watching the proceedings with various degrees of interest, but the gallery was far from full.

  “Name?”

  Startled, Deglan looked to his right to see a sour-faced man staring down at him expectantly over the top of a lectern.

  “Where did you come from, you creeping vulture?” Deglan demanded.

  “Um,” Ingelbert broke in hurriedly. “This is, um, Master Deglan Loamtoes, herbalist and healer.”

  The sour-faced scribe gave Deglan a withering look, before directing his attention to Ingelbert.

  “Business before the hallmote?”

  “Bugger if I know,” Deglan declared before Ingelbert could stammer an answer. “You bloody summoned me here!”

  The droning from the floor of the chamber lulled for a moment at Deglan's outburst, but quickly resumed when the interruption did not continue.

  “My business,” Deglan said through a deep breath, “is to discover why you summoned me, so I can quickly depart your bloody big fish. Good enough?”

  The scribe wrinkled his nose and scratched something into a ledger before making a show of speaking only to Ingelbert. “Sit anywhere. Quietly. Until his name is called.”

  Deglan found a spot on the benches in the upper row, knowing Ingelbert's legs were not quite up to stairs. The chronicler sat beside him, instantly returning his attention to his tome. That book had become an obsession ever since the man returned from his sudden and unannounced jaunt into the burial lands. A jaunt which set his recovery back at least a week. Deglan had not been pleased when Ingelbert returned to the fishwife's hut in a cotter's cart. The man who owned the cart said he found the lad a half mile from the city walls in a swoon, but was at least able to get a residence out of him before he collapsed entirely. The exertion had rendered Ingelbert bed-ridden for another two days.

  Deglan did not fault Ingelbert for wanting to move about. The confinement of infirmity often made people a bit anxious, but not informing him first was a foolishness Deglan did not expect from such a clever man. And something had happened to him while he was away
. Ingelbert was even more diffident than usual, engrossed in the translation of that particular book. It was an obsession, one fueled by an inner fury. Ingelbert hid it well, but Deglan saw it nonetheless. He did not pry. It was his duty to heal the man's body, not to lance whatever was festering in his mind.

  Down on the floor of the court, the same poor fool was still being questioned. The six men seated upon the dais all swam in an air of self-importance. Richly dressed and fat, each was a product of too much rich food and too little honest work.

  “We are in the belly of the whale,” Deglan whispered, nudging Ingelbert with his elbow and pointing to the corpulent guild masters. “And the big girl is pregnant.”

  Ingelbert merely hummed in response, not even glancing up from his work. Defeated, Deglan turned back to the doings of the court with a scowl, resigned to a lengthy span of boredom. This hallmote reminded him too much of the Wise Moot in Toad Holm. A lot of swollen bastards passing judgment as easily and frequently as they passed wind, with the same repellent result. They alleviated their own concerns to the discomfort of everyone else.

  Deglan had half a mind to get up and leave. He had broken no laws that he was aware of, unless tending to the sick was a crime in Gipeswic. If they wanted him out of town, well and good. He had no great love of the ocean and would happily put his back to it within the coming days. If Ingelbert had not overtaxed himself, they could have been long quit of this salt-smelling heap of driftwood. Bantam Flyn was not coming back to Gipeswic, the young strut had said so himself. He and Deglan had agreed to meet on the isle where Pocket was hidden in two years’ time. Until then, Deglan would do as he pleased.

  The fat men on the dais made some pronouncement on the poor sod below and he left the floor wringing his hands, head bowed, likely fined deeper into unyielding poverty.

  “Bugger this,” Deglan muttered as he stood, turning towards the way out. Let them seek him out. He was not about to sit through any more of this tedious tyranny.

  “The Guild Masters call to presence, Hafr the Ever-Boastful!”

  The already somber room grew even more still. Further along the back row of benches, someone stood. Ingelbert was one of the tallest men Deglan had ever known, but the individual making his way towards the nearest stairs was no man and at least half again the height of the chronicler. This Hafr was the first giant Deglan had seen in Gipeswic, and judging by the nervous expressions on the judges' faces, he was well-known here.

  His hair and beard were the color of old bones, both plaited into a single braid, one dangling from the nape of his neck, the other from his chin. Ringlets of silver and gold adorned his thick, knotted arms and about his neck was an intricate torque from which hung polished stones. His only clothing was a kilt of various animal hides and a sizable drinking horn swung from his belt. A heavy thumping sounded whenever he stepped with his left foot and Deglan noticed the telltale stride of an amputee. Several more mercenaries appeared in the upper gallery and around the dais as Hafr made his way down the stairs.

  Deglan returned to his seat. This hallmote might prove to be very entertaining after all.

  When the giant reached the floor, he moved assuredly despite the hitch in his step. From the mid-calf down his leg was replaced by a metal-banded wooden peg, the end shod with a studded, steel cap. The guild masters leaned into one another, conspiring behind their hands as the giant waited, reaching under his kilt to scratch at his fruits. At last, the judges came to some agreement and each settled back into his seat as one of them spoke.

  “Hafr,” he began, his voice pinched and high. “You have been—”

  “You leave out many titles,” the giant interrupted carelessly, his voice a rumbling mumble.

  The guild master's mouth hung open for a moment, then he rallied. “This council will not suffer—”

  “Hafr is more than Ever-Boastful,” the giant proclaimed. “I would hear them all.”

  “We will not humor such—”

  “If you will not, Hafr will speak his own glory.”

  The giant turned his back on the affronted faces of the guild masters and looked up into the gallery. Spreading his massive arms wide, he raised them above his head.

  “Before you stands Hafr!” he boomed, slowly circling as he spoke. “Champion of Utgard! At my name the legs of men run with piss and women become wet with desire! I am named Ring-Breaker and Troll-Killer! The Wyrm Wrangler! Slayer of thousands and kneeler to none! The storulvir name me brother and the Summit King names me friend! Behold Hafr the Ever-Boastful and know my words hold truth. Doubt them and my hands shall deal death!”

  Even Ingelbert looked up during this brash display. Deglan caught the chronicler's eyes and rolled his own.

  “Giants,” he scoffed. “I know a couple of plants that will turn the Ever-Boastful down there into the Never Ever Not Shitting.”

  Ingelbert wrinkled his mouth at the sight of the huge braggart. The rest of the assembly was no more impressed than the chronicler, but Hafr seemed satisfied, lowering his arms before turning back to face the guild masters.

  “You were not to return to Gipeswic,” the appointed speaker accused the giant hurriedly. “The fighting pits have been closed. There is no longer a place for you here.”

  “Hafr seeks no more glory in your pits,” the giant replied, waving a massive hand dismissively. “Bears and dogs and small, weak men. These are not worthy foes. Hafr is only passing through.”

  “Then take ship with all haste,” the guild master commanded, finding enough courage to lean forward slightly when he spoke. “Your ban includes the lands of Eorl Wehha as well. There is nowhere for you to go but back across the water.”

  The giant found the last statement amusing. Perhaps it was the way the man pointed ostentatiously, as if commanding a child to leave the kitchens.

  “Hafr will soon sail back to Middangeard,” Hafr said with a dangerous chuckle.

  “See that you do,” the speaker replied airily. “And make no trouble while you are here or it will go hard for you.”

  The giant considered this for a moment. “I make trouble and what? Hafr finds himself again standing here before the fat men? Then he demands trial by combat, maybe.”

  This last was not a question. Deglan watched the moist faces of the guild masters blanch. The brute had them there. Unless they had another giant or a fomori on hand for their judicial champion, these merchants had little hope of enforcing any threats made against one such as Hafr. Their coffers may be large enough to convince their mercenaries to face him, but that was not the sort of entertainment mercenaries found agreeable. They would take the money and flee, like as not. Best just to hope Hafr spoke the truth and was simply passing through. Hope, and stay out of his way.

  The guild masters came to the same conclusion. The speaker dismissed the giant with a tentative wave of his hand. Hafr snorted loudly, clearing his throat and turned to the stairs, the thudding of his false leg signaling his ascent. No one moved or spoke until the giant was gone from the chamber.

  “The Guild Masters call to presence, Master Deglan Loamtoes!”

  “Well,” Deglan whispered to Ingelbert as he stood. “I am a quarter of that giant bastard's size. See if I can manage to frighten these louts half as much.”

  As he made his way down the stairs to the court floor, Deglan could feel the eyes of the assembly following him. Prior to Hafr's boisterous interlude, half the men in the gallery had been dozing, but now everyone was attentive. Deglan was more annoyed than afraid, but still, if he had done something to earn the guild masters' ire, he doubted a demand of trial by combat would prove effective for him. He walked to the center of the floor and looked up at the judges on their dais, his neck craned back uncomfortably.

  “We thank you most sincerely for joining us today, Master Loamtoes,” the speaker oozed at him, looking around at his colleagues, who all gave fawning signs of agreement.

  So. They wanted something from him. This changed everything.

  “No g
ratitude necessary,” Deglan replied agreeably before going to take a seat in the front row of the gallery. He was not about to stand before this council of rotundity and tie his spine in knots if they were going to lick his boots. A few murmurs rose from the assembly behind him at this lack of respect, but the guild masters' faces remained masks of amity.

  “It has come to our attention that you are a healer of considerable skill,” the speaker said, all smiles.

  “You have gout,” Deglan replied, mirroring his expression.

  The speaker's smile drooped, but only slightly. “Sorry?”

  “Gout,” Deglan repeated with exuberance. “So do you, you and you.” Deglan indicated three more of the guild master's with a casual wave of his finger. “Likely the rest of you will get it ere long. Sumptuous feasting, excessive quaffing of fine spirits. That will do it. No real cure for you four, but I can provide some relief. A regular extract of naked lady will help your swelling go down.”

  The men looked flummoxed, staring at him slack-jawed.

  “Do not get too flushed,” Deglan told them. “Naked lady is a flower. The meadow saffron. The bulbs contain what you need, so you have to wait until they are in bloom. 'Course that is not until autumn. You have a long summer ahead, I am sorry to say. Unless you send a boat to Airlann. Always Autumn there. Naked lady aplenty! Not a trouble for men like you, boats to spare and all. In the meantime, I suggest bland food, less wine and some form of physical activity that does not involve a woman doing all the work. Oh, and cherries. If you have them.”

  Deglan stood, giving the transfixed guild masters a quick, sharp nod before making for the stairs.

  “Master Loamtoes,” one of the judges stammered. “A moment further, if you please.”