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

by Jonathan French

  Ingelbert took the most familiar path, not wanting to risk losing his way. As he passed the fishwife's hut, he noticed a lone goat tied to the rain barrel out front. His physical pace at last outran his mind. Too late did he remember where he last saw that exact goat.

  Hafr stepped out of the alley, not ten paces ahead.

  Ingelbert halted, noting there was room on either side of the giant to run past, but nothing outside his reach. His sword was still sheathed across his back, but that did nothing to diminish the menace that seemed to fill the air around his massive form. The giant smiled, toying with the long braid dangling from his thick chin.

  “At last you come. Hafr was growing restless waiting.”

  Ingelbert refused to be intimidated. “Where is Flyn?”

  “Come,” the giant beckoned him with a huge hand. “Hafr will take you to him.”

  Ingelbert needed to go. It was why Deglan sent him. Find Flyn. Find Tsura. Ensure they were safe. He knew the giant was involved from the start. Nothing here was a surprise. He should follow him. It was the logical choice. But it was all wrong. Too many unknowns.

  “Why, why have you taken him?” Ingelbert demanded, hearing his courage faltering.

  Hafr found the question amusing. “You think you have a choice, maybe. This would not be correct.”

  Ingelbert heard movement. He turned to find a pair of clavigers had stepped into the street behind him, brandishing their heavy maces. Another stood in the alley to Ingelbert's right. They were here to keep him from running, to take away the one advantage he had over the hobbled giant. There was nowhere to go.

  “Help me,” Ingelbert pleaded with the one in the alley, knowing it was useless. “They have taken, taken a friend of mine and, and, and a woman. They have them at the docks, I, I think. Please.”

  The claviger stared back at him remorselessly.

  “Feeble words,” Hafr chuckled, “are not as heavy as dwarf gold, I am thinking. Now. We go.”

  Ingelbert cast about, to left, right, ahead and behind. He was surrounded. Three men and a giant, all armed, all stronger than him, each looking at him with amusement. They did not bother to move, taking no step towards him, confident in his weakness. Why did Deglan send him? He was not the man for this. Fighting was for men thick of muscle, thick of head. Like the two louts behind him. He stared at them, their witless faces, leather jerkins and iron helms making them nearly indistinguishable. These were the sort to wage battle, to bellow and sweat, swinging heavy weapons and spilling blood. They were molded of sinew and violence. Meat meant to consume other meat and be devoured in kind. Ingelbert was not a threat, not a foe. These types of men were meant to kill each other and become food for burrowing creatures that dwelt in the mud.

  The claviger on the left began to tremble, a mere shiver quickly growing into a spasm. His limbs twitched erratically, stiff joints responding to the jerking compulsion of resistant muscles. Sweat poured from the man's flesh, his face a blank mask of helpless confusion. Air escaped from him in a constricted squeal, causing the man next to look over in alarm. The twitching claviger's arm jerked upward, his mace slamming into the face of his comrade with a wet squelch. Blood and pulpy bits of teeth spattered the street. The struck man fell, his head wobbling unnaturally atop a grotesquely pliant neck.

  Ingelbert recoiled from the dead man and his convulsing killer. He heard the claviger in the alley swear and turned to find him standing transfixed with horror. He had dropped his mace and now held his hands out before his goggling eyes. Beneath his skin, small mounds pulsated, thousands of them, rising and falling, pushing at the flesh. His hands, his face, his neck, all were beginning to ripple as something, some things, writhed beneath his skin, crawling to the surface. The man screamed as the mounds tore open, each birthing a glistening worm. Blood oozed from thousands of holes as the worms came forth, turning the wailing man's body into a disintegrating mass of wriggling, living tendrils.

  The first man had collapsed, his limbs seizing so violently that Ingelbert could hear his bones snapping. His hand still clutched his mace in a death grip, the weapon swinging on the end of his uncontrollable arm, battering his own body, his own face.

  Ingelbert's knees gave out, spilling him to the ground. The men died around him, their tortured screams joined by the one rising from his own throat. He gagged, his hollow stomach forcing its way upward. He rocked forward, choking, and smelled the contents of his bowels in his breeches, stinging against the back of his legs. Through eyes cloudy with feverish tears, he saw the giant limping towards him, the greatsword now in his hands, muttering in a guttural language Ingelbert could not comprehend. Coming to kill him.

  A weight pressed into Ingelbert's left shoulder, followed by piercing pain. He cried out, finding Gasten perched upon him, the owl's talons gripping powerfully into his flesh. He felt them puncture deep, could feel the agonizing pressure on his collarbone as the owl squeezed. Gasten flapped his wings, pulling upward. Ingelbert was forced to stand, lest the meat and bone of his shoulder be torn free.

  Hafr had paused at the sight of the owl, his face full of grim disgust. It was all Ingelbert could do to keep his feet. He swayed, his entire body brimming with nauseating pain, anchored by the relentless stabbing of Gasten's talons. He was no longer capable of running. Hafr took another step towards him, watching him intently. And another. A few more strides and Ingelbert would be within the reach of that terrible sword. Gasten dug into his shoulder, causing him to wince and whimper, tears smoldering on his cheeks. Curse the owl and curse Hafr's loathsome hide! He would stand here, unable to flee, unable to fight and be cut down.

  A wave of uncertainty spread across Hafr's face. He grimaced slightly, his stride faltering. Removing one hand from the grip of his sword, Hafr reached up under his arm, feeling tenderly at his side. A weeping boil stood up on the giant's flesh. Another appeared on his thigh, bubbling up black and angry. Then another near his throat. And another. Hafr growled as the affliction spread, his jaw muscles clenching against the pain. He took another step forward.

  Ingelbert's skull flooded with a wave of excruciating dizziness and he fell to one knee. Gasten's wings battered into his head, his face, the claws crunching into him, but he no longer had even the strength to scream. Hafr came on, raising the sword over his head.

  “Fated or not,” the giant growled, his face covered in seeping sores, “you die now, wizard.”

  The blade came down in a rush of air and Ingelbert watched its terrible descent. Numbly, he reached up to catch the blade, horrified at his own actions but unable to stop himself, he did not want to die.

  There was no pain, no blood. The heavy sword should have split his hand down the length of his arm, a cord of wood under a woodsman's axe. It would not have taken a giant's strength to accomplish that. There was a dense, metallic ring as the edge struck his palm, the massive blade stopping just above his head. The giant snarled and tore the sword back. Ingelbert slumped back onto his rump, his mind swimming in terror while his body succumbed to hopeless exhaustion. He watched as Hafr raised the blade once more. Ingelbert did not know how he stopped the first blow, but he was certain he could not do it again.

  “Enough!”

  Hafr, sword still poised to strike, turned.

  Fafnir stood alone in the dark street behind the giant. He approached slowly, his eyes never leaving Ingelbert. Even under the shadows of the hood he wore, it was clear he was smiling.

  “A man there shall be,” the dwarf said, his voice lowered with hushed reverence. “Though weak he seems, ever on his shoulder, winged and deathless, a watcher will sit.”

  FOURTEEN

  Deglan clutched the railing of the Wyvern's Jest, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the sky and away from the all-encompassing surface of the water. Before setting sail, he had choked down a bitter concoction he brewed to prevent seasickness, but the potion served only to keep him miserably hovering at the edge of vomiting. Closing his eyes only made the qualmish motion worse, and he refu
sed to go below decks. He felt trapped enough on the ship under an open sky. The damned thing had seemed huge docked in the harbor at Gipeswic, but now, floating on an endless expanse of choppy sea, it was a tiny, insignificant toy. Behind him, Deglan could hear the forty-man crew laboring on the deck, going about the inconceivable business of sailing. Shouts and curses were punctuated by the snap of sailcloth and the abrasive whistle of rope. Deglan stayed well out of the way. He hated boats and knew nothing about the mysteries of keeping one on course. So long as it continued swiftly and kept him out of the maw of some great, toothy fish, he was content to suffer the journey and hope for its quick conclusion.

  “A thousand dripping poxes on you, Fafnir,” Deglan muttered at the distant horizon, willing the dwarf's ship to appear ahead, but there remained only that queasy blur where the clouds met the ocean. Hakeswaith sidled up next to him. Deglan did not bother to look over, weary of the man's presence after near two days at sea. Besides, the odious whaler had a face best avoided, all pockmarked flesh, tanned and stretched over a cadaverous, bald skull. His jaw had been broken at some point earlier in life, leaving half his mouth set in a permanent snarl, displaying teeth brindled with rot.

  “Talking to yourself's a sign a madness, stunty,” Hakeswaith rasped, the hint of a laugh in his voice. He thought himself clever, using the insulting name, but he was not a big man himself, barely a head taller than Deglan. Still, his wiry limbs were knotted with cruel sinew. Small men were often dangerous, especially the ones who were beaten by those of larger stature until they learned to beat back. It was no wonder that Hakeswaith earned his coin by slaughtering whales.

  “Aye,” Deglan agreed, taking a step away. He could smell Hakeswaith over the sea. “The mad gnome's likely to slit the throat of a sleeping man. Good to remember, that.”

  He felt the man tense. Hakeswaith could not differentiate jape from threat, the prickly bastard. That was the other thing about short men, they saw slights everywhere. The whaler leaned down close, pressing his hideous face next to Deglan's ear and the vicious iron blade of his harpoon under his nose.

  “You listen here, stunty,” the whaler threatened, his voice shaking. “Try any of your Fae evil on me and I'll bugger you with this.”

  Deglan winced, more at the man's breath than the harpoon. He said nothing further, keeping his gaze fixed on the waves. Hakeswaith stayed close for a moment longer, seething, then slowly removed the harpoon and backed off a step once he believed Deglan properly cowed. Let the buffoon think him afraid, so long as he soon went away, as far away as he ever got on this abhorrent hulk.

  Every man on board was a wrecker, equal parts sailor and fighter, but Hakeswaith was the one tasked with keeping an eye on Deglan. He was a malodorous, quick-tempered and conniving shadow, always lurking about with a suspicious eye. The ship, the crew, all were being funded by the Guild of Anglers, but Hakeswaith was their creature.

  “To protect you, Master Loamtoes,” the corpulent merchants had said fawningly. “To personally see you come to no harm on your expedition and are returned safely to Gipeswic.”

  Deglan had no doubt they wished his safe return. He was now an investment. He had a ship, a crew of fighting men and a bodyguard. All were presented as gifts of good faith, of course, but the truth was plain, and none so happy about it as the guild masters. And why not? Deglan owed them now. Was owned by them now. The ship was his prison, the crew were his guards and Hakeswaith, his warden. All part of the bargain.

  He had been left with no choice.

  Milosh's daughter, the girl Tsura, had returned to her father's boat just after dawn. The gypsy man was making preparations to sail into town, bear and all. Deglan had decided to stay on board, just in case Milosh ran into any resistance at the River Gate. Tsura came rushing along the bank just as they set off, breathless but otherwise unharmed.

  “They have taken him, father,” she exclaimed as soon as she was on board. “They have taken Flyn!”

  “Where?” Deglan demanded, drawing a confused look from the girl.

  “Tsura,” Milosh explained, “this is Master Loamtoes.”

  Tsura accepted this with a quick nod and answered Deglan's question, but it was Milosh she addressed. “The dwarf and his men. I did not realize anything was wrong until we reached the harbor and they began loading Flyn onto a longship. By then it was too late! I tried to follow Flyn on board, but the men restrained me.”

  “Did they hurt you?” Milosh asked.

  The girl shook her head impatiently. “Father, we must find him. Free him!”

  “The dwarf,” Deglan urged. “Did he say anything? Do anything?”

  “He left,” Tsura replied. “As soon as Flyn was on the ship, he left. Alone. It was not long before he returned. There was a giant with him, carrying the thin man who said he would help us.”

  Deglan's mouth soured. “Crane?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said the giant was carrying him? Was he injured?”

  “Possibly,” Tsura said. “He looked poorly, but I could not see if he was even awake. They all boarded the longship. Two men stayed on the pier and kept me until the ship was out of sight, then they let me go.”

  Milosh reached out and embraced his daughter then, more for his own sake than hers. The girl was tired and angry, but the only fear on her face was clearly for Flyn. Deglan had just learned the cocky knight had a brother and now here was a sister, worried but resolute.

  “Any indication of where the ship was bound?” Deglan asked her.

  Tsura's response pained her. “No. All ships must first sail out of the inlet. Even during the day it would be difficult to see a ship's heading by the time they reach the ocean.”

  “Likely back to Middangeard,” Deglan muttered to himself. “But I would have to be sure.” He took a quick look over the gypsy boat. “Milosh? Is this thing seaworthy?”

  “Only within sight of the shore,” the gypsy said.

  “It would not matter if we could go into open water,” Tsura put in. “We would never catch them. That longship has a larger sail, plus thirty oars and the men to pull them.”

  “Damn,” Deglan swore. “What by Earth and Stone is happening?” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, finally looking up at Milosh. “I need to get to the harbor, can you take me in?”

  “Of course,” the gypsy replied and immediately began getting his boat underway. Tsura sprang to help her father.

  The gate guards did try to harass the Tsigani, but one look from Deglan and a warning that they interfered with the Guild of Anglers was enough to see them quickly through the River Gate and down to the harbor. Deglan had invoked the name of the guild out of anger, but the ruse quickly formed into a plan. However, he had one other deal to strike before he went and sold himself to the fish merchants.

  The sun had just fully cleared the edge of the ocean when Deglan hurried off Milosh's boat, now docked in the busy harbor. Instructing the Tsigani to stay put, he took his satchel with him and made for the end of a long, empty pier thrusting out into the bay. When he reached the edge he stared down at the briny water distastefully. Drawing a lancet from his satchel he pierced the meaty flesh on the heel of his hand and clenched his fist, allowing his blood to drop into the water lapping at the posts below. Then he sat down on the pier and waited.

  Soon, his call was answered.

  During his long life, Deglan had purposefully limited his contact with the Water Fae, finding them unsettling. Especially the suire. Naturally, it was one of those creepy bastards who emerged, rising up out of the dark water in the shadow of the pier. He was man-shaped from the waist up, possessing the arms, hands and torso of a human, albeit one slabbed with muscle, but there the similarity ended. His skin was a pale grey, slick and glossy, his eyes pits of lifeless black. Thick, matted locks, the color of kelp, fell heavily across his wide shoulders and hung from his face in a wild beard. Beneath the water, his lower half would be a long, powerful fish tail covered in scales and edged with sharp f
ins. Deglan shuddered.

  “What is it you want Earth-blooded?” the suire asked, his voice deep and resonant, but the tones were queer, following no familiar patterns of inflection that helped to indicate his mood. Deglan could not tell whether he was being addressed with courtesy or aggression.

  “I seek the aid of the undine,” Deglan answered, trying to keep his own voice neutral. “My name is Deglan Loamtoes. With whom do I speak?”

  “My name, sung above the waves, would be meaningless to your ears,” the suire said. “We are far from the shores of the Source Isle, but I serve the keepers of the Shaping Element and was the nearest to your plea. Present it to me, a messenger of the undine.”

  So, it seemed Deglan's fellow Elementals were too important to converse with a lone gnome spilling his blood in the Water. He would much rather have dealt directly with the undine, who at least had proper legs and spoke with some damn clarity. Still, there was nothing to do now but proceed.

  “I need to know the course of a ship recently departed from this shore. It contains a pair of mortals who have proven themselves friend to the Fae. A coburn and a man. They have been taken captive by two children of Middangeard, a dwarf and a giant. I mean to follow.”

  The suire smiled at this, showing a mouthful of pointed teeth. “You mean to swim? Be careful gnome, lest the waters dissolve you into nothing but silt.”

  Deglan snorted appreciatively. Dark, mocking humor he understood, strange voice or no. “I will procure a ship,” he told the suire. “But I ask for a guide.”

  The suire seemed to think for a moment, his black eyes covered briefly by pale membranes when he blinked. “Procure your craft,” it told him at last. “I will return to you before you set sail with word of the ship you seek.”

  Deglan bowed his head. “You have my deepest thanks.”