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

by Jonathan French

  Deglan let out his breath in a curse. The wreckers issued oaths of their own and began setting fresh arrows to their strings. They sent another volley at the longship, but Deglan did not watch their flight. This time he kept his eyes on the dwarf.

  Fafnir stood and waited, stooped, unmoving. At the last moment, as the arrows fell near, his head moved slightly, subtly, as if counting the coming missiles. As his eyes touched each one, they splintered or were cast aside to fall harmlessly into the water. The archers around Deglan stood dumbfounded, each looking slack-jawed to his mates for answers. Only the captain spoke, ordering the men to lower their bows.

  On the longship, Fafnir raised a hand and his men ceased rowing. The Jest quickly drew even and Deglan looked down into the vessel, noting the smirking face of the giant before settling his gaze on Fafnir. The dwarf looked haggard, sallow. His hair and beard were thin and wispy, blowing in the sea wind. The rust color had dulled, darkened to nearly black. However, despite his changed appearance, Fafnir's voice remained strong, calling up to the deck.

  “Master Loamtoes! You are unexpected. We thought perhaps you were pirates.”

  “You would not have fled pirates with as much vigor, dwarf!” Deglan shouted back.

  “I have no reason to flee from you, Master Loamtoes. It is not a foe behind that demands haste, but the destination before me, for I have no more time.”

  Deglan choked on a building rage. “No more riddles! Explain yourself!”

  “Not here,” the dwarf said placidly. “Follow me to Skagen and we may talk.”

  “No! I will not allow you to slither away again. Where are my companions?”

  “We are here, Staunch,” a familiar voice called out.

  Deglan's head whipped over to the prow of the longship. There, standing just outside the makeshift tent, were Flyn and Ingelbert. Deglan's breath caught in his throat. They were alive! The owl was perched on Crane's shoulder and Flyn was even armed, his sheathed greatsword cradled to his chest. Neither were as Tsura described them, appearing hale and healthy with no evidence of wounds or even bandages. As Ingelbert waved to him, Deglan noticed his arm was unencumbered by the plaster cast.

  “I am not your enemy, Deglan Loamtoes,” Fafnir said. “Though long have you thought so. Please, meet with me on Skagen and I will answer all questions.”

  FIFTEEN

  Flyn sat patiently while Deglan fussed over him. The gnome listened to his breathing, scrutinized his beak and felt along his body and limbs, kneading his stubby fingers deep into his feathers to feel the muscles and bone. Once, not long ago, Flyn would have made some jesting remark while Deglan poked and prodded at him, but he restrained himself. He knew from experience that Deglan was in no mood to be goaded. Besides, Flyn did not feel in the best of humor either. The herbalist finally stepped back, frowning, and rubbed a hand through his white hair and down his whiskered cheeks. Then, clearly unsatisfied, he stepped forward again and motioned for Flyn to lean down so he could pull down at the flesh under his eyes with his thumbs.

  “Well,” Deglan said, still peering at him, “your wattle will never be the same, otherwise...” the gnome removed his hands, “you are perfectly mended.”

  Flyn retrieved his sword and stood, allowing Inkstain to take his place on the low bench. Deglan did not spend near as long examining the chronicler.

  “As if it were never broken,” the gnome declared while rubbing at Inkstain's arm.

  Flyn caught the man's eye over Deglan's head and gave voice to what they were both thinking.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  Deglan cocked an eye at him over a shoulder. “Toad shit! I just don't like unfamiliar Magic doing my job for me. Now. What by Earth and Stone happened?”

  Flyn walked a pace back and considered leaning on the wall of the cramped mariner's hut, then thought better of it. The crude little building looked ready to fall in at any moment. Flyn was amazed it stood up to the wind, which whistled constantly through the driftwood slats. He wished there were another bench. Despite Deglan's proclamation of his recovery, Flyn still felt weak in the legs, though he dared not admit it to the gnome, so he leaned forward on Coalspur's cross-guard instead.

  “I remember little,” Flyn admitted. “Tsura and Milosh found me. After that...just pain. When I awoke, Master Crane was beside me, as was Fafnir. The pain was gone and we were at sea.”

  “Crane and the Tsigani told me you were dying,” Deglan groused. “Care to tell me how you got yourself into that condition?”

  Flyn tried to look his friend in the eye when he replied, but ended up speaking to the floor. “No, Staunch. No, I do not.”

  “Master Crane, do you know?”

  Flyn did not bother to look up to witness Inkstain's response. He had told him nothing. The chronicler must simply have shaken his head, for the next thing Flyn heard was an agitated expulsion of breath from Deglan.

  “Fine. But what does the damn dwarf want with you two? Clearly, he is more than a bloody blacksmith!”

  “He is a runecaster.”

  It was Ingelbert who had spoken. The man sat on the bench, his long face pale and drawn. He stared blankly at nothing for a moment, then looked up at Flyn and Deglan, his eyes quickly alternating between them.

  “I saw him when he healed Flyn,” the chronicler told them. “And more clearly when he mended my arm. He, um, has stones adorned with runes. I recognized some of the, uh, some of the symbols. But I do not know what he wants with us.”

  Deglan looked dubious. “He has not spoken anything of his plans to either of you?”

  “I was just coming around when you appeared,” Flyn said. He stole a glance at Inkstain, who had lapsed once more into a dull silence. The chronicler knew more than he was saying, Flyn was certain, but he left it alone. Crane did not look well. “I say we go hear what he has to say.”

  “You think you have a choice?” Deglan growled.

  “We could just sail away,” Inkstain mumbled, clearly disconcerted at the idea of meeting with Fafnir. He looked at Deglan, his eyes almost pleading. “You have a ship.”

  Flyn watched the gnome wrestle with the idea, his mouth wrinkling sourly. “Runecasting is old Magic, but damn potent in the right hands. The mastery of a single rune is lore hard-learned and Fafnir knows far more than that. He can obviously knit bone, close flesh. Probably purge infection and staunch bleeding, too. We have seen him turn arrows aside. And he may be capable of much more.” Deglan shook his head bitterly. “No, Master Crane. It blisters my kidneys to admit it, but it would be foolish to deny him. But! Agree to nothing. Make no bargains, swear no oaths. You do not want to find yourselves bound to this dwarf.”

  “As you are now bound to the Guild of Anglers?” Inkstain asked, a hint of regret in his voice.

  “Never you mind that,” Deglan barked.

  “No,” Flyn said, unwilling to be kept in the dark. “What does he mean? What did you do?”

  “What I had to!” the gnome snapped at him. “They had a want, I had a need. We came to an arrangement.”

  Across the little room, Flyn saw Ingelbert's face fall even farther. “How long?” the chronicler asked.

  “Fifty years,” Deglan declared, his face challenging them to pass judgment.

  Flyn let the tension ease for a moment. “That nasty little fellow outside. The one with the harpoon and terribly unfortunate face. He a part of the deal?”

  “Hakeswaith?” the herbalist snorted. “He's the guild masters' cur. They say he is my guard dog, but he is really a sheep dog meant to herd me back to them when this is done. But the bastard thinks himself a wolf, and means to have my wooly lambarse for a meal.”

  “A twisted sack of crossed purposes,” Inkstain proclaimed, almost to himself.

  Deglan was chuckling, but Flyn refused to be amused. “I will deal with him.”

  “You will do nothing!” Deglan's black humor vanished. “I have managed my life for thousands of years without your interference, you preening gamecock! And
I can damn well survive the meddling of a few fat fish merchants and one hideous whaler. While you, both of you, have attracted the attention of a damn dwarf wizard. Of the three of us, I would rather be Deglan Loamtoes than Ingelbert Crane or Sir Bantam Flyn!”

  Flyn kept his elbows on the quillons of his sword and raised his hands in surrender. There was no reasoning with the gnome when he was in a temper. Still, his face, even scowling, was a welcome one to behold.

  “Well then,” Flyn said, directing his words to Inkstain and trying to give the man an encouraging look. “Shall we go and see what we can discover about Master Fafnir?”

  “If only to get it over with,” Deglan muttered.

  Flyn kept his gaze fixed on Inkstain, who nodded reluctantly and finally stood. The rickety door of the hut had barely to be pushed before the wind caught hold, flinging it open to clatter against the outside wall. Flyn waited for his friends to exit, then stepped out into the buffeting winds, squinting against the sand grit and sea spit.

  Skagen was a remote stretch of land, all bleak, wet dunes and cold, wet winds. Whalers, smugglers and slavers all used it as a refuge when the Jutland Sea turned vicious with storms. A rough, makeshift community had sprung up on the peninsula to cater to the needs of the itinerant mariners. Stone cottages lay nestled in the sparse swaths of arable soil further inland, while a hive of ramshackle huts clung closer to the shoreline, poorly built and negligently maintained by generations of malingering sailors. Most of the wood used for construction was scavenged off the countless derelict vessels that had become beached on Skagen over the years. Indeed, the largest building in the settlement was known simply as the Wreck and made primarily from the remnant of a great, overturned cog. The Wreck sat up on the highest dune, its broken hull now serving as a curious, curving roof, beneath which was housed Skagen's only tavern and meeting hall.

  But that was not their destination. Fafnir had asked they meet him upon the shore when they were ready.

  As Flyn exited the hut, two signs of movement caught his eye. The first was the odious man Deglan called Hakeswaith detaching himself from the wall of a neighboring hut. The other was Inkstain's owl swooping silently down and landing on the chronicler's shoulder. Flyn fancied he saw Inkstain flinch as the bird came to rest, but once it settled he appeared to take no further notice. Deglan completely ignored Hakeswaith, but Flyn did not miss the stare of hatred that the short man bore into the back of the gnome's head.

  So. Both his companions had picked up unwelcome shadows. Flyn resolved to stay vigilant, but pushed both the whaler and the owl to the back of his mind. They were mysteries to be resolved later. Deglan was right. For now, Fafnir's designs for them were the most important matter.

  They made their way down to the shore and walked through the sands away from the settlement until they reached a remote stretch of beach. Ahead, they could see Fafnir waiting, his hood pulled low over his face against the relentless gusts coming off the sea. None of the men from the longship were present, but a trio of other dwarfs stood nearby, one held between the other two. Even from a distance Flyn could see this dwarf's hands were bound, his uncovered head bowed. The giant was there, too, standing removed from the dwarfs, watching Flyn and his group approach.

  “Tell me that lofty lout's name again,” Flyn inquired of his friends.

  “Hafr,” Deglan answered with scorn, “the Ever-Boastful.”

  “And why does he have a goat with him?”

  No one had the answer to that.

  Ingelbert drifted back a pace. “Be wary of him,” he told Flyn, his voice so low that it was nearly swallowed by the roar of the waves. Flyn considered asking if Inkstain meant the giant or the goat, but the look on the chronicler's face withered the jest before it could be uttered. He nodded at the man and gave him a companionable clap on the shoulder not burdened by the sizable owl. He hoped the gesture was convincing. In truth, Flyn was not certain he could defeat the giant if this meeting went ill. Once, but no longer. The doubt rankled him, but he could not dispel it from his mind.

  “Master Loamtoes,” Fafnir called as they drew near. “Are you satisfied your friends have come to no harm at my hands?”

  “Not yet anyway,” Deglan conceded sourly. “Now what do you want with them?”

  “First,” Fafnir said evenly, gesturing to Hakeswaith. “Let us rid ourselves of those not welcome at this meeting.”

  Flyn watched as Deglan glanced back at the whaler with a calculating look, the barest hint of a grin cracking his face. Hakeswaith stood where he was, frowning and obstinate, giving all present threatening looks, though he neglected to glare at the giant.

  Deglan turned back to Fafnir. “He stays.”

  Flyn stifled a chuckle. The old mushroom hated Hakeswaith, but he vouched for the man simply to get one over on the dwarf.

  “So be it,” Fafnir said, unconcerned. He removed his hood.

  Flyn was once again struck by how different the dwarf looked. Years ago, in Black Pool, Fafnir had been ruddy and vigorous, the red of his beard matching the healthy flush in his cheeks and bulbous nose. Now, his face was sunken and waxy, his hair a dingy black. Flyn had commented on the change to Crane when he first awoke on the longship, and the chronicler had informed him that Fafnir had not appeared so decrepit in Gipeswic. His deathly appearance had become more pronounced during the voyage, deteriorating visibly with each passing hour. Were it not for this assurance, Flyn would have been hard pressed to believe this was the same individual he had met in Airlann.

  Fafnir spoke a word Flyn did not understand and the other three dwarfs stepped forward. The one in the center was dressed in rags and heavily chained, dragged forward by the pair flanking him. These two were clad in shirts of darkened mail and stout steel helms. One bore a long-handled axe with a sweeping blade. All three possessed similar coloring to Fafnir, their beards coarse and black, contrasting sharply with the stark white of their flesh. The captive kept his shaggy head bowed, only looking up when Fafnir addressed him harshly in a strange, lilting language. There was malice in the bound dwarf's eyes, but also deeply rooted fear. The face of one condemned.

  After a brief exchange Fafnir turned away from the captive.

  “We dwarrow do not practice execution,” he said gravely. “Even for the vilest of criminals, the punishment of death is forbidden. Forbidden, not because we eschew bloodshed. And not because we are overly merciful.”

  With this, Fafnir signaled and one of the dwarf guards pulled a long, broad-bladed dagger from his belt and swiftly stabbed the captive, sinking the blade to the hilt. It was a sure, deft thrust to the heart, expertly done, and the doomed dwarf fell without a sound.

  “Buggery and shit,” Flyn heard Deglan hiss.

  Fafnir looked down at the still form, watching as the blood ran free, rejected by the sodden sand. “What I have just done is a crime. Even for one such as this. He stole human women, murdered their husbands so he could keep them for bed slaves. When confronted by his kin to answer for this dishonor, he slew them. Two of his own brothers. But even this does not give me the right to take his life, for the death of a dwarf is not just a punishment for the individual, but a curse for our entire people.”

  “Damn you, Fafnir,” Deglan cursed. “There is no need for this grisly display!”

  “Not for you, Master Loamtoes,” Fafnir returned. “But then you were not meant to be here. This I arranged for our young mortals here. It is important they understand.”

  Flyn was puzzled. He did not like the tone he heard in Deglan's voice, nor did he like the way the dwarf guards had stepped as far away from their executed captive as possible, yet retained their grip upon the heavy chains that were still shackled to the body.

  “What is it, Staunch?” Flyn asked, readying himself to pull Coalspur free of its scabbard.

  “S'bloody dwarrow dead,” Deglan answered, taking a step back. “They do not stay dead. Bugger all Fafnir, take the bloody head off!”

  “No,” Fafnir said firmly. “Th
ey must see.”

  Flyn heard the clink of chain. Looking down he saw the shoulder of the corpse begin to twitch, then its slack fingers dug into the sand and the arm began to straighten as the dead dwarf began pushing itself off the ground. Flyn drew Coalspur, stepping between the rising thing and his friends. A low, moaning began to issue from the corpse's slack jaws, a protracted sound uninterrupted by breath. The lips moved, shaping the moan into words of the dwarrow tongue, their meaning lost on Flyn. It was a song, resonant and melodious, oddly beautiful despite its birth in a dead throat. The corpse was on its feet now. Its eyes were open and unblinking, looking exactly as they had moments ago when the dwarf yet lived, but now housing no emotion, no vital spark.

  Behind him, Flyn heard the sound of feet running through wet sand, quickly receding. Hakeswaith must have fled, the craven. The animated corpse turned, its head revolving slowly to fixate on Fafnir. It took a step towards him, arms reaching. It continued to sing, its voice never wavering. The guards hauled back on the chains, preventing the shambling figure from reaching the runecaster, but Flyn noticed their feet digging furrows in the sand and the taut expressions of exertion on their faces. Dwarfs were robust by nature, but it took both of the guards to hold their prisoner back.

  “This is what we become,” Fafnir said, his voice full of numb sorrow. “Vættir. What you would call a wight. Like the Fae, we dwarrow do not suffer death from age or illness, but when one of us falls to violence or mishap, this is our end. From the oldest among us down to our children. This is what became of this murderer's brothers. What he made them. He fled, of course, moments after his foul deed was done, but his brothers killed three more before they could all be destroyed.

  “The vættir are stronger than living dwarfs and have only two desires. To go where they are called, and to end life whenever it crosses their ceaseless path. Fire will not touch them and their song can raise human dead. The only way to end them is to take off their heads.”