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

by Jonathan French

  Deglan was nearly asleep when Flyn entered the mariner's hut. The sun was not yet down, but the weariness of the past days had caught up with him. Now that he knew his companions were alive and unharmed, Deglan succumbed eagerly to his exhaustion, reclining on the framework of rope some industrious sailor had constructed to better tumble whores and sleep off nights of excessive imbibing. Just as he drifted into welcome repose, the door creaked open and he jerked awake to see the young strut peering in at him.

  “Hob's Teeth!” Deglan complained. “What?”

  Unfazed by this asperity, Flyn ducked into the hut and shut the door. Leaning his large sword against the wall, the coburn slumped onto the bench opposite Deglan's mattress and stretched his legs out. In the closeness of the hut Deglan did not fail to see Flyn's muscles trembling.

  “Rune Magic or no,” he grumbled, sitting up, “you are not fully recovered.”

  “I am fine,” Flyn whispered, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  “Toad shit,” Deglan said softly. It was a tone he rarely used, but one he learned while a Staunch of the Wart Shanks. Those war-torn years in the gnomish cavalry had taught him many things and one of the first was that warriors needed permission to admit weakness. “Tell me what happened, Flyn.”

  The coburn was so long in answering, Deglan thought he had fallen asleep. When Flyn spoke at last, he did not open his eyes, his words devoid of the laughter that usually dwelt at the edge of his voice.

  “They instruct you endlessly, the Knights Sergeant. Drills with quarterstaff. Drills with spear. With mace and shield. Then the falchion and broadsword. And the glaive. You train in armor and without. In the mud, the rain. Drills, drills, drills. In my first year I mastered skills that most do not in thrice that time.”

  Deglan watched Flyn's face contort in an almost pained expression, as if the very memory of his martial tutelage taxed his already beleaguered body.

  “What they do not teach,” Flyn went on after a long breath, “what is never told, is what to do once you have your spurs. It is a proud tradition that every Knight Errant be allowed to seek his own purpose, free from interference even from the Grand Master. The oaths of the Order must be upheld, its causes championed, but each knight must do so as he sees fit. I never understood what a burden that truly was. I once heaped scorn upon Sir Corc. I thought him a false knight, wasting his errantry with words, holding cowardly councils and hiding behind the countless letters he would write. Fool that I was. I know now that a questing life is only wasted if spent in pointless wandering, looking aimlessly for wrongs to right, which is all I could conceive of knighthood.” Flyn sat forward and shook his head ruefully, finally opening his eyes. “I am not learned, Deglan. I have no gift for tongues nor knowledge of history. I lack the patience to seek an audience with an elusive potentate, as Corc did for years with the Lord of the Pile. I am not a skilled mariner like Blood Yolk, captaining a fleet to stand against the Raider Kings. I fight. That is what I know. All I know.”

  “Buggery and shit,” Deglan swore. “You are looking for my damn blessing to go on this quest!”

  “No,” Flyn protested weakly.

  “Yes you are! And you do not bloody have it.”

  “Deglan, I am not going.”

  Flyn said it blandly. There was nothing further, no laugh, no jest. Deglan found himself caught off guard, staring dumbly into the knight's resigned face. It was the last thing he expected from the hot-headed cock. The critical berating of Flyn's unfailing stupidity that Deglan had been prepared to deliver was useless.

  “Does the dwarf know?” he managed, after a moment's slack-jawed puzzlement.

  “Not yet,” Flyn replied with a careless shrug.

  “He will not take kindly to such a decision.”

  Flyn finally smiled, but there was no joy in his expression, only self-mockery. “He cannot kill me, Deglan. Not if he believes he needs me.”

  “We bloody know what he cannot do,” Deglan argued. “It is what he can do that remains a mystery.”

  “You are getting what you wanted, Staunch,” Flyn said coolly. “Do not grouse now about unknown dangers.”

  “What I want,” Deglan countered, “is you and Crane still breathing.”

  Flyn gave a scoffing exhalation. “This is not about keeping us alive, Deglan. Not for you. This is about denying Fafnir whatever he wants.”

  Deglan felt his ears flush and he shot a hard stare at the coburn, fighting to keep his voice even.

  “If you were not so recently hard-used, Bantam Flyn,” he said, “I would rap my knuckles across your beak for those words.”

  The young knight's icy countenance held for a heartbeat then melted with genuine remorse. “Pardons, Master Loamtoes. It was unworthily said.”

  “Apologies are not necessary,” Deglan said, waving him off. “Explanations are.”

  Flyn nodded at this, thinking, clearly struggling. Deglan did not press further and waited, knowing the words would come.

  “Did you know the Valiant Spur trains its squires for six years?” Flyn asked at last, seeking no answer. “After only two years I could best every one of my brother squires. I proved it at the tourney, and went on to defeat spurred knights. When Bronze Wattle yielded I was not even surprised. The most famed of the Knights Errant and he was just another defeated foe. I knew then I was the greatest warrior the Order had seen since Mulrooster. I was unbeatable.” A flicker of pride played across Flyn's face, but quickly faded. “I went to Airlann and carried my arrogance with me, yearning to further test my prowess and resenting the knight who kept me chained. For months, I thought Corc a coward and openly impugned his honor time and again. It is a wonder we did not come to blows sooner, but as I said, Sir Corc is patient. When that patience finally shattered I learned the truth. I am not the most skilled fighter in the Valiant Spur. Neither was Bronze Wattle. No, it is a knight who did not enter the tourney at all. It is Sir Corc the Constant. He is the best of us. He is the one Fafnir truly needs.”

  “Bugger me,” Deglan groaned. “You do believe that blasted augury.”

  “I believe the dwarrow need help,” Flyn said defiantly.

  “Then bloody help them! Do not shuffle this off on Corc!”

  “He is who Fafnir wants, Deglan,” Flyn's voice was beginning to rise. “They have known each other for years. Fafnir told me when he sensed the sword had moved to Black Pool and he came with Rosheen, he suspected Corc had come into possession of the blade. The only reason he did not is because he did not compete in the tourney.”

  “Clever bird,” Deglan said with approval. “Likely he suspected the dwarf had some hidden designs and did not play into his scheming hands.”

  “But if it is his fate…”Flyn urged, nearly pleading.

  Deglan was out of patience. “Enough of this fate shit! Corc was not the one spirited away by a bloody wizard. His duty, his chosen duty, is to guard Pocket. And that is far more potent than any conjured fate.”

  “I know,” Flyn said, reaching into his belt pouch and retrieving a small object. He held it forth and Deglan found it to be a wooden horse. “This is Pocket's. I found it in his hiding place under the tower stairs. I intended to return it to him and I will. I shall take up Corc's sworn duty and defend Pocket's secret and his life. Corc will be free to return to the Order and resume his errantry.”

  Deglan stared at the toy horse in Flyn's outstretched hand and felt a wave of pity settle in his gut. This was not the impetuous, insufferable gallant he once knew. This was something broken. He looked up into the young coburn's face.

  “When did you become a coward, Flyn?”

  Had he been wrong, Deglan might have died in that mariner's hut and in some way that would have been better. Being right though, he had to watch the last desperate resolve of Bantam Flyn crumble, falling from his face as the horse fell from his hand. He slumped on the bench, staring blankly at the crude planking of the floor. Deglan scowled at the sight. He was unwilling to allow the knight to descen
d further into whatever self-piteous sinkhole was swallowing him whole.

  “What happened to you?” he pressed without sympathy. “Where is the strutting swordmaster? The insufferable bravado who leaps off of towers to save falling chroniclers? Who fights skin-changers and Painted Men without thought? Where is—?”

  “HE WAS DEFEATED!”

  Flyn erupted off the bench, shaking his clenched fist in Deglan's face. The coburn's comb and torn wattle turned a deep crimson, his eyes blazing, streaming tears.

  “Is that what you want to hear?” Flyn raged. “You sour, stunted little fuck!”

  The words cut, but Deglan kept his face neutral. This was what he meant to draw forth and now he needed to weather what he wrought. Flyn had grown threatening still. His fist remained thrust in Deglan's face, but it no longer quivered. Like his face, it was motionless.

  “My father,” Flyn intoned, “is a cruel, licentious savage. I tried to convince myself that I did not hunger for his death, but it was a lie. His was the evil I most wanted to purge from this world and I dreamed of the day I would slay him. I failed. He defeated me. An ignorant, rutting, unwashed animal defeated me. Gallus was, and because of my repeated failure, yet remains, the thing I most fear. When did I become a coward? The day I did not help my brother kill him.”

  Deglan listened intently as the young knight unburdened himself, his fury cooling to shame and regret. Suddenly exhausted, Flyn let his fist fall and took an unsteady step backwards. Deglan thought he might tumble back down onto the bench, but the coburn kept his feet. He stared at nothing.

  “I knew it too,” Flyn whispered. “I knew I would fail. As I did before. You were not there, Deglan, not with us within the walls of Castle Gaunt. Earth and Stone be glad you were not! The Unwound were everywhere, waking and slaying. Men and goblins were dying all around us, Muckle was gravely wounded and suddenly we lost Pocket. By the time we reached him that husk was holding the damn crown over his head. I have never seen Corc move so fast. But I was faster. ” A terrible, haunted expression darkened Flyn's sightless gaze and Deglan keenly felt the walls of the bleak hut surrounding them both. “Whatever had possession of the husk, whatever held Pocket entranced, it laughed. A girlish laugh, full of loathing. It called the coburn up-jumped animals, and something...I do not know, like a pair of powerful hands reached into my core and—” Flyn clenched his hands into trembling fists and jerked them downwards in a snapping motion. “I became a wild and unreasoning thing. So did Corc. No oaths existed, no honor, just feral hatred and a need for blood. We fought like beasts. No weapons save what we coburn are born with. It was hideous, bloody combat. Again he emerged the victor, but this time my lesson was not in humility. It was in death. I have never forgotten the feeling of his spur impaling my throat.”

  Deglan felt his spine crawl and fought a shudder. He had not been there, that was true, but he knew what damage Jerrod's crown had wrought while in the clutches of the possessed husk, Slouch Hat. Curdle had told him everything in the days following the defeat of Torcan Swinehelm and his Unwound.

  “Pocket restored our lives,” Flyn continued, “but the memory remains. I greatly respect Sir Corc, and during our time on the island I came to love him, but between those bonds there is a blackness, one which we have never spoke of for Pocket's sake, lest we remind the poor boy.”

  The boy had not forgotten, Deglan knew. He and Moragh had nursed the little gurg through many difficult nights during his recovery. Pocket often awoke screaming, weeping and begging pardons for the misery he had been forced to unleash. The memory remained for all who survived the vengeance of the iron crown's keeper, but Deglan said nothing, knowing it would do Flyn no good to hear such things now.

  “I am burdened by the brutishness of my race,” Flyn said mournfully, “but I can draw no strength from it. Not like Gallus. Even Corc, so controlled and noble, can use that savagery to his advantage. Both bested me. Both my fathers. And now I am meant to slay the ancient mother of my race. She who is responsible for the very base nature of the coburn which I cannot overcome. If what Fafnir says is true, Gallus will be as nothing compared to this monster, this Corpse Eater. I cannot face her.”

  Deglan swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the sour taste that flooded his tongue. “You must.”

  Flyn withered at the words, his face curdling with confused despair. “You would now push me towards the very quest you so sternly protested?”

  Deglan did not answer right away. He motioned patiently for Flyn to sit and to his relief the knight obeyed after brief consideration. The coburn had difficulty meeting his eyes, shamed at his harsh words and rueful admissions.

  “You have been running,” Deglan began bluntly. “Never from a battle, but certainly from greater purpose. You squired only two years and then you were allowed to leave. Were I the Grand Master, I never would have allowed you to go with Corc to Airlann. You should have been made to stay and complete the remaining years of training set by tradition, best of the squires or not. You were faced with that possibility again when Lackcomb withheld your spurs. And you ran. There was a nice speech you made in that tower, about saving Crane's life and how you were not meant for knighthood. Corc believed it and...so did I. But you were running. Running away from more years as a squire, running away from the Order while running towards a vengeance that you knew would not wear well with those spurs. That vengeance has failed and you are called to something greater, so you seek a means to escape. You would accept exile and take up a mantle that is not yours. Whatever their origins, the coburn are not immortal and one day you may well have to take up Corc's duty, but that time is not yet present. You left the Roost so Corc would not have to, so he could remain by Pocket's side. Or so you claimed. Would you now abandon that choice, make yourself a liar, just so you can run once more?”

  Deglan did not expect an answer, nor did he give Flyn time to voice one. “I do not trust Fafnir,” he went on. “And neither should you. Yes, I did not want you to be caught up in his moonbrained plots. I deemed his quest a poison, one that would ruin you. But there is already something destructive running rampant within you, Bantam Flyn, and it must be purged before you are lost. I wanted you away from this business because I thought the quest to be an ailment. Now I see, it's the bloody cure.”

  “You could be wrong,” Flyn whispered.

  “Perhaps,” Deglan said. “But between following your judgment or mine, which would you choose?”

  By way of response, the young knight stood and reached for the greatsword leaning against the wall. His hand hesitated for just a moment, then firmly took up the weapon. Flyn turned to Deglan and nodded.

  “Thank you, Staunch.”

  “Thank me if we come back alive.”

  Flyn barely blinked. “We, again? This time, I shall not attempt to dissuade you.”

  “Good,” Deglan grumbled, stooping to retrieve Pocket's fallen toy. He held it up to Flyn and the knight took it from him with a thin smile. “You may have some wisdom yet. Now, let's go and tell that bearded bastard the happy news.”

  They made their way across the twilit dunes and climbed the sliding sands leading up to the Wreck. They spotted Ingelbert sitting with Fafnir. Deglan shouldered his way through the crowd towards them, Flyn striding easily behind. The chronicler looked immensely vexed and Deglan fixed him with a concerned stare once he reached the table.

  “Master Crane?” he asked. “Is all well?”

  It was Fafnir who answered. “We were just discussing our plans to set sail on the morrow.”

  Deglan scowled, but said nothing. He had resolved to cease battling against this current. Still, he was inwardly crestfallen that the chronicler had agreed to join the dwarf's quest. He wondered what Fafnir had said to convince the man to come. From the look on Inkstain's stricken face, it was nothing encouraging.

  “Master Loamtoes and I will be joining you,” Flyn told the wizard. Deglan watched relief flutter across Ingelbert's face at this news. Fafnir was less pleased,
but he hid it well. It was a clever stroke for Flyn to announce Deglan's intentions of cooperation. Fafnir was unlikely to deny his destined coburn.

  “What, um, what about your bargain with the guild masters?” Ingelbert ventured.

  “I will honor it,” Deglan declared. “Once we are returned. The captain who brought me here is not a stupid man. He cannot take me back to Gipeswic by force. He is outnumbered by Fafnir's crew and will not risk a confrontation, especially not after what he saw our dwarf friend here do with the arrows. And if that is not enough deterrent, then a giant and a coburn knight make equally convincing arguments against courting a fight.” Deglan fixed Fafnir with a challenging stare after he spoke, daring him to deny any support. In truth, Deglan knew he could easily be taken back to Gipeswic if the captain chose to press the matter and Fafnir did not lend aid. Flyn would step in surely, but in the coburn's current state he would not be enough against the wreckers. Thankfully, Fafnir voiced no opposition, merely nodding gravely before encompassing Flyn and Ingelbert with a grandiose gesture of his hands.

  “You have my deepest gratitude,” he said somberly. “And the gratitude of my people. This day has been long in the coming.”

  “Cause for celebration,” Deglan said, his tone not matching his words. “We should drink to our success. Master Crane, would you be so kind as to fetch us a few tankards of the local brew?”

  “Oh, um, certainly,” the chronicler stammered, clambering out from behind the table.

  Deglan cast a pointed look at Flyn, and the knight followed the gawky man through the throng. Once they were gone, Deglan slid opposite the dwarf. He was a little small for the human-sized table, but he did not let that bother him as he smiled at Fafnir.

  “I take it there is not much welcome for me on your predestined path?” he asked with self-satisfaction.

  “Not much,” the runecaster agreed without rancor. “Indeed, there would be none at all, but Master Crane has opened my eyes to a few possibilities within the augury that make your presence tolerable.”