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

by Jonathan French

  “Lucky me,” Deglan said lightly before allowing his voice to go quietly severe. “Heed this, dwarf. You may believe you have the aid of those young mortals, but you do not have their loyalty. I do. If you are playing us false, or if I catch one sniff of skulduggery, I will see to it they abandon your damn venture. Augury or no, your people can continue to kill each other as they rot.”

  Fafnir smiled darkly. “You really do hate we dwarrow.”

  “Do not take it to heart,” Deglan shrugged. “I hate gruagach just as much and goblins more. And my own people too, most of the time.”

  “Such bigotry could be your undoing.”

  “Or yours.”

  “I do not fear you, herbalist.”

  Deglan could see that the dwarf meant it, so he smiled. “Yes. I am just a lowly herbalist and not counted as one of the greatest among the gnomes. Not like you, who must be revered amongst your kind. A runecaster. A Chain Maker. A wielder of powerful Magic and a seer of shattering omens. Impressive. I have no such spellcraft. But be warned, wizard, if you risk matching wits with me, I swear by Earth and Stone you will find your better.”

  Flyn and Crane returned then, passing out horns of fragrant ale.

  “It shan't make for a very good song,” Flyn said with a deprecating chuckle. “What foretold quest begins in a tavern?”

  Before anyone could respond, there came a great tumult from the depths of the Wreck. Cries of alarm and shouted curses accompanied the resounding crash of a wooden table flung with great force to splinter against the sloping wall. The press of bodies condensed as people scrambled to get away from the center of the disturbance. Many went directly for the door, fleeing the Wreck with a few cautious glances backward. Standing in the space made by the clearing crowd was Hafr, breathing heavily, his massive hand keeping a weeping woman pressed close against his leg. The giant was clearly angry, his gaze burning at the figure standing across from him, a fiery-haired giantess. She was certainly imposing, though Hafr was a head taller and far brawnier. Still, Deglan noticed the giantess did not lack for muscle, though she did lack any form of weapon.

  “Unhand the girl,” she ordered, her voice as powerful and captivating as her body.

  Hafr barked laughter. “The whore is Hafr's for the night. She and as many others as it takes to satisfy him.”

  “She forsook your limp entreaties for love-play, Ever-Boastful,” the giantess replied mildly. “Now unhand her.”

  “Hafr need make no entreaties when he has treasure to give,” the brute returned. “The price is paid.”

  The giantess ran a leather-wrapped hand through her, messy, short cropped hair. “No amount of hoard-shine can bury her denial. She is not for you.”

  Hafr looked down at the trembling form of the whore he held fast and shook her, chuckling as she whimpered. Deglan noticed the giantess' fingers flex slightly at this provocation. All eyes remaining in the now silent Wreck were fixed on the two towering figures. Deglan shot a glance at Fafnir, but the dwarf seemed unconcerned and made no move to intervene.

  “Should you not muzzle your animal,” Deglan suggested, but he received no reply.

  “Perhaps we should, um, we should leave,” Ingelbert said.

  Deglan looked to Flyn, but the coburn seemed detached, staring pensively in the direction of the giantess' feet. A squeal of fright forced Deglan's attention back to the confrontation before him. Hafr had pushed the woman away roughly and retrieved his massive sword. Faabar's sword. Deglan felt his stomach sour.

  “Come then,” Hafr taunted the giantess. “If you would deny me sport, than you must provide my entertainment. Long have I wished to make battle with you, Ulfrun. Almost as long as I have wished to ravish you.”

  Ulfrun, the giantess, smirked. “Never will the sky-candle light a morn that sees me beneath you, Ever-Boastful.” She nodded at the giant's sword. “Now put up that blood-worm lest I shatter your wolf's-joint.”

  Hafr's face grew grim at the threat and the onlooking crowd shrunk further into itself. Deglan found himself wondering if he should not have taken Crane's suggestion and left the tavern. A fight between these two could bring the Wreck down on their heads.

  “You would challenge Hafr?” Hafr mocked. “You, Ulfrun Whore-Shield? You have won no glory, no renown. You know not your Doom Name. Unlike I.” The giant spread his arms wide, just as Deglan had seen him do in the hallmote before the guild masters, though this time, holding aloft the dwarf-forged sword, the effect was much more intimidating. “I am Hafr! Champion of Utgard! I am called Ring-Breaker! Troll-killer! The Wyrm Wrangler! I know my Doom and seek it without fear. I am the Foretold! Dwarf-friend, the runecaster's Chosen! I am Hafr the Ever-Boastful!”

  The giant charged, fast despite his false leg. The sword punished the air as he swung. Ulfrun sprang to meet him, her long legs bringing her swiftly under Hafr's arms, then bracing wide for the impact. The giantess crossed her wrists and caught Hafr's descending forearms, halting his stroke. Her right elbow struck hard into the giant's ribs while her left arm encircled his wrist. Hafr bellowed as bones crunched beneath the hammering heel of Ulfrun's hand. She placed a foot on Hafr's thigh and used it to vault herself high, wrapping the back of her knee around the giant's head. She twisted as she fell, allowing her weight to bring the brute down, locked between her calf and thigh. Hafr landed heavily on his back and Ulfrun released his head just in time to shatter his jaw with her fist. The giant lay senseless upon the ground in seconds. The giantess rose and stared down at her fallen foe. As an afterthought, she brought her foot down on Hafr's wooden leg, snapping it in two.

  “I am Ulfrun,” she said. “The Breaker.”

  Deglan found he was staring slack-jawed, but that quickly turned into a hearty guffaw.

  “Looks to me that you are down one great champion,” he jabbed at Fafnir, laughing fully in the dwarf's face.

  “I do not believe he is,” Ingelbert said in hushed awe.

  To Deglan's surprise the giantess approached their table. Heedless of them, Ulfrun reached over and took Ingelbert's horn out of his hand, draining it in one long pull. Then she did the same with Flyn's. She handed the empty horns back with a grateful nod.

  “Turgur's Balls, but that gives one a thirst,” she said in way of explanation.

  “Though strong of limb,” Ingelbert recited. “A mile-tamer gone, deep in the horns,” the chronicler looked to the prone form of Hafr, “All foes to the ground.”

  “Careful, thin man,” Ulfrun told Ingelbert with good humor. “Honeyed word-play could lead to sticky love-play.”

  Deglan blinked hard then scowled at Crane. “A mile-tamer gone? She's not missing a leg.”

  Flyn laughed. “Yes she is.”

  Deglan shot him a quizzical look.

  “You need more bawdy songs in your life, Staunch,” the coburn told him, smiling.

  “What?”

  “He means I don't have a cock between my legs,” Ulfrun said cheerily, then looked at Ingelbert and winked. “Leastways, not yet.” The chronicler blushed fiercely and tried to stammer a reply, but what came out was incomprehensible. Flyn laughed merrily and the giantess joined him.

  Deglan looked grudgingly over to Fafnir. “Well?”

  The dwarf looked Ulfrun over for a moment. “It must be.”

  Upon hearing him speak, the giantess looked down at where the wizard sat, seeming to notice him for the first time. Her smile slackened only by a fraction.

  “Turgur's Balls,” she swore halfheartedly, then looked everyone over. “I've fallen in with a Chain Maker haven't I?”

  “Yes,” Fafnir replied simply.

  The giantess breathed heavily, put out. “I best go tell the mistresses I will be gone for a span.” She proceeded to leave.

  Deglan was flummoxed. “Simple as that?”

  Ulfrun turned around, barely halting. “Why? What did you lot do, get together in pairs and talk it through?”

  SEVENTEEN

  Middangeard.

  For days
it was nothing but a cold, uninviting coast viewed from the deck of Fafnir's longship. Flyn felt useless, staring at the distant skerries and occasional stands of dark trees as the men pulled at the oars, hauling the ship swiftly through the water, though the landscape drifted by at a crawl. Their crossing of the Jutland Sea had taken less than a day once the ship left the tide-pools of Skagen behind, but Fafnir changed their course when the first sea cliffs came into view, ordering the ship to skirt the rugged shoreline. They sailed endlessly, never out of sight of land, nor ever drawing nearer to it.

  “Does he never mean to make port?” Flyn complained into the wind as yet another mist-laden fjord passed sluggishly across his impatient gaze.

  “Not in Götland,” Ulfrun replied without missing a stroke of her oars. “The Raider Kings upon that soil are many and strong. Gladly would they feed the eagles with this lot of sail-kissers. Nay, best we travel the whale's way for a while longer.”

  “You fear humans?” Flyn jibed, knowing Ulfrun would take no offense.

  The giantess' easy smile played across her face, untouched by flush despite the harsh wind and her labor at the oars. “A wolf is smaller than you, is it not? And yet, you fear the pack.”

  “Be a fool not to,” Flyn replied agreeably.

  “Aye,” Ulfrun snorted. “Be a fool not to.”

  Flyn smiled and nodded. He liked Ulfrun. Quick with a jest and slow to anger, she lacked the prickly pride of Hafr. Flyn wondered how much of that pride the lumbering braggart would have left, once he recovered from the injuries he sustained at Ulfrun's hands. Just her hands.

  During the tedious hours on the ship, Flyn often replayed the giants' combat in his head. It had been obvious to him who would emerge the victor. It was written in Ulfrun's stance. The subtle, sure shifting of weight, the calculated bounce just before she sprung. Flyn had predicted the outcome, yet the feat still caused his memory to marvel. Hafr was still unconscious when they set sail and Inkstain had voiced concern that he would seek vengeance on the women of the Wreck once he awoke. Ulfrun merely shrugged.

  “His marrow-sheaths will be a long time knitting,” she said. “And with that wooden mile-tamer shattered, he will be hard-pressed to catch the girls. Leastways, without that wound-wand in hand he is no danger.”

  “What?” Deglan had asked, his face crinkled in confusion.

  Inkstain had to serve as translator for the first few days. “Hafr's bones are, are broken. And his wooden leg. Plus, he no longer has a, a sword.”

  “That last part I knew,” Deglan said with a satisfied smirk.

  For reasons unknown, the giantess eschewed all weapons and had no interest in claiming Hafr's blade for her own. She was set to gift it to the whores when Deglan boldly pulled her aside, into a far corner of the Wreck. He talked for a long time and Ulfrun listened intently. Flyn could not hear his words, but stood by with Inkstain and Fafnir, watching. When the gnome was finished, the giantess thumped a hand on her knee and approached.

  “The gnome spills a moving lip-stream,” she said, her words directed at Fafnir. “Chain-Maker, it is my wish the war-limb be returned to the worm-bed of this Faabar Brindleback. Mighty was he in life, and he should remain so in death.”

  “As you wish,” was all the dwarf had said in reply.

  From that moment on Ulfrun had the unwavering friendship of the most irascible Fae in the known world. Flyn had never seen Deglan take to anyone so swiftly. He doubted the old mushroom liked him half so well. Deglan had not wasted the gift. He gave the sword over to the captain of the ship that brought him to Skagen with instructions to carry it back to Gipeswic. The blade was to be turned over to the guild masters as an assurance that Deglan would return to collect it and fulfill his bargain. The captain had agreed readily.

  With one condition.

  Flyn glanced towards the bow of the longship. Hakeswaith crouched just outside the canvas that served as Fafnir's cabin, clutching his harpoon and staring sourly at the sea.

  “Reckon he still means to kill me?” Deglan asked from beneath his nest of furs. When Ulfrun had taken it upon herself to man the oars furthest to the rear, shooing the four sailors manning them off the benches, Flyn and his companions had taken up a place near her in the stern. Deglan had huddled down between the benches, out of the wind, and only emerged when nature forced his hand.

  “He dooms himself if he tries,” Flyn said. “Bloody foolish of the captain to send him along.”

  “He had no choice,” Deglan's muffled voice replied. “Hakeswaith is the guild masters' pet. If he did not stay, the captain risked the guild's wrath.”

  “We will watch him,” Flyn declared.

  “Oh, don't think I am not. Between him and this damn, chill wind, a gnome cannot get a wink.”

  Flyn looked down. “You look like an ugly bear cub.”

  Ulfrun laughed.

  “Quiet you,” Deglan told her playfully. “It gets any colder and I will be crawling into the nearest cave to hibernate.”

  The giantess took one hand off an oar long enough to slap the inside of her bare thigh. “Best wriggle in then, ugly cub. I need not wager, it will get colder.”

  “Bloody grand,” Deglan grumbled.

  Flyn looked back across the stretch of sea separating them from Middangeard, recalling his voyage from Albain to Airlann and how the climate had changed the closer they drew to the Source Isle. He and Pocket had laughed as the air grew chill and gawked at the fire-hued leaves crowning the trees of Black Pool's gardens. Autumn held eternal sway in Airlann, brisk and bright, but across the choppy waves before him lay a land claimed by Winter. Even from a distance, Flyn could feel the bite of Middangeard through his feathers. He could endure the wind, the cold, and Ulfrun appeared to take no notice of either, but Flyn worried for Deglan, and for Inkstain most of all.

  The chronicler stood but a few paces away. He too, had eyes for the shoreline, and a sunken, sick expression was fixed to his angular face. The wind tore at his shaggy, straw-colored head, and his long fingers clutched his cloak tight beneath his chin. Though separated only by a low rowing bench, the man may well have been a hundred leagues away. Ingelbert must have felt Flyn's eyes upon him, for he turned and gave the slightest shake of his head.

  “Götland,” he said, nodding at the passing stretch of land. “Gautland, as we say in the Tin Isles. Where they sow only cabbages.”

  Flyn frowned at this, hoping the thin man had not caught a fever. He glanced down at Deglan, but the herbalist did not seem concerned. From the depths of his furs, the gnome's eyes gave Flyn a reassuring look then cocked up to look at Inkstain.

  “Thinking of your father?” he asked the morose chronicler.

  “Ridiculous, I know,” the man replied. “To wonder if he might still be alive, somewhere in that blasted countryside. Or perhaps out raiding? Making more, more bastards.”

  “If those are the choices,” Deglan scoffed, “it is likely he is dead, Master Crane.”

  “Aye,” Ulfrun agreed, between strokes. “And you might be grateful to him 'ere long. The blood of a fjordman can only serve you well here.”

  “And what else was inherited through that blood?”

  Inkstain said these words so softly that Flyn was certain none of the others heard them. He maneuvered closer to the chronicler and leaned on the side of the longship. Flyn stood silently next to Crane for a long time, joining him in his silent study of the water.

  “I regret that you are now entangled in this,” Flyn said at last, keeping his voice low and directed out to sea. “It is my doing. And I am sorry for it.”

  There was no immediate reply. Flyn tarried until the silence became uncomfortable.

  “I will leave you to your thoughts, then.”

  “You do not need to,” Inkstain said, stopping his departure. “My thoughts are constant, often unwelcome, companions. They can wait awhile.”

  Flyn settled his forearms back on the ship. After another long silence he cocked his head to look up at the brooding
chronicler.

  “You are still thinking, Master Crane,” Flyn chided.

  Inkstain shook his head and issued a small laugh into the ocean wind. “My head contains stubborn guests.”

  “The secret to avoiding undo thinking,” Flyn said, “is rash action. I recommend challenging Ulfrun to elvish leg-wrestling.”

  A grin cracked Inkstain’s long face and he half turned to look at the giantess. “Perhaps I should, I should start smaller.”

  “True,” Flyn said, nodding with grave seriousness. “Flip Deglan into the sea a few times, bolster your confidence.”

  Inkstain quickly turned back to the water, his jaw clenched against an outburst of laughter.

  “What are you two braying about up there?” Deglan’s voice demanded from his cocoon of furs.

  “Nothing, Staunch,” Flyn responded quickly, keeping his voice perfectly even.

  Next to him, Inkstain chewed on a few chuckles. He checked to make sure the gnome was no longer listening then leaned closer to Flyn.

  “Perhaps a, a swearing contest would be more sporting.”

  Flyn recoiled with overwrought horror. “Do you want to die? I said rash action, not headlong destruction!”

  “Indeed,” the chronicler agreed with a sagely nod. “I have it. I will challenge Fafnir to a beard growing contest.”

  Flyn’s laughter burst from his beak without any hope of repression. He felt every eye on the longship turn on him, but he did not care, for Inkstain joined him, expelling his own mirth. They stood together, shaking their heads at their own buffoonery.

  “They are all impossible feats, I fear,” Inkstain said, when he caught his breath. “I am made for study and poltroonery.”

  Flyn clicked his tongue at this. “I would not be so quick with that estimation. Here I now discover you are a pillager’s son, the blood of the reaver hiding beneath the ink stains.”

  He said it jestingly, but must have misjudged the depth of Crane’s momentary levity. The man’s face fell somber once more.