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

by Jonathan French

  The furrow left by the wights was once again before them, narrowed significantly due to the encroaching crags at this height. Surely a thousand wights would have been significantly slowed by the hemming of the rocks and cliffs. The dwarrow sleds would be hard-pressed to travel two abreast when they reached this spot on the morrow. Deglan found his soldier's mind waking, wishing they had caught up to the wights here, as the terrain made an excellent spot for an ambush against superior numbers. But Ulfrun gave him no more time to plan strategies than she did for him to piss, crossing the narrow track quickly, bending low as she ran. She made for the cliff face opposite the scrubby wood and they went right along after. Deglan sniggered into the wind at the thought of a mother goose leading her goslings back to water.

  Ulfrun motioned for them to stay put and silently scaled the cliff. It was not overly steep, but probably ten times the big lass' height and slick with ice. She climbed confidently, but it took her a few moments to reach the top. Deglan used those moments to thump Ingelbert on the leg and direct the chronicler's attention up to Ulfrun's rather splendid backside. Crane took the bait, then quickly turned away to shoot him a disapproving look. The man was blushing and that caused Deglan's smile to widen.

  Earth and Stone, he was enjoying this!

  Perhaps it was the break from the monotony of the sled. Or possibly just the distance from Fafnir and his underlings. More likely, it was the thrill of the hunt, a guilty surge of excitement when he was reminded of his service during the Rebellion. Those were terrible, death-filled days, but there were times when the danger had turned to delicious triumph and those memories settled fondly in the bones. He had helped ambush a group of Red Cap sappers on the slopes of Bwyneth Tor on ground much like this, though lacking the snow. The plan had gone perfectly and all seven of those goblin bastards lay dead with nary a hue. Deglan and every one of his comrades had come back from that maneuver alive. His mood sobered as he wondered if this night would prove equally fortunate.

  When Ulfrun reached the top she lowered the rope down to them. One by one, they each ascended the cliff. Deglan knew Ulfrun could easily have hauled him up, but he was not about to dangle on the end of a rope like some gaping trout. He made the climb himself, and faster than either Crane or Hakeswaith. The burning in his shoulders and arms when he reached the top was a warm reminder that he still possessed some gumption, Middangeard be damned!

  The sun was nearly down, but Deglan could see well enough thanks to his subterranean heritage, and he knew Flyn's eyes could detect variations in heat. Hakeswaith, however, would soon be limited by the brightness of the moon and stars, as would Crane. Then Deglan remembered the damn owl and quickly searched the sky and the surrounding cliffs. He failed to spot the bird, but knew he was likely around somewhere. Ingelbert's connection to that overgrown pigeon was yet another aspect of the chronicler that was mysteriously growing in potency. It was one of the reasons he had the man look at Ulfrun's rump, to keep him grounded, keep him human. As all Fae knew well, Magic had a nasty way of turning men to darkness.

  The top of the cliff was little more than a ledge, winding around a pile of huge boulders. Ulfrun splayed one hand and made a slow pushing motion towards the ground. She then lay belly down and began to crawl around the boulders. Deglan was the first to follow her lead. As he burrowed through the trench of snow made by the giantess, he made note of the precipice to his left and could feel the drop deepening. He rounded the bend and found Ulfrun lying upon a broad shelf. She had turned to face the drop and Deglan crawled up next to her, slowly rotating until he too looked out over the pass. Below, he could see the foothills they had traversed not an hour ago, the path of the vættir an ugly black mark besmirching the snow.

  Ingelbert crawled in next to him, followed by Flyn and finally Hakeswaith. They all lay in a row and, as soon as they were gathered, Ulfrun pointed to a spot in the pass directly below. Deglan peered down and found a single dark shape shambling in the white.

  The troll was big, and had they been on even footing would have over-topped Flyn by at least a head. Certainly not large enough to match Ulfrun in height, but its bulk was astounding. The creature slumped so greatly it appeared as if its head grew forth from its broad chest. Its protruding brow and strong jaw dominated its face, seeming to squeeze the beady eyes and flat nose between them. Long, twisted locks of dark, filthy hair were draped down its rounded back, dragging in the snow along with its knuckles. The arms were long and sinewy, thin-looking compared to the stout, bowed legs. Deglan could tell from the heavily swinging genitals it was a male, its naked flesh the color of old stones. The troll seemed to be wandering aimlessly, never still, though never going more than a few dozen lumbering paces before returning to where it began. Restless, even nervous.

  Deglan lightly touched Ulfrun's arm and, when she looked over, he held up one finger. The giantess gave the barest shake of her head and help up two fingers, then pointed back down. Deglan returned his attention to the troll. At first, he thought it was an illusion, a trick of the fading light, but as he peered down he grew more certain of what he saw. Footprints appearing in the snow. They drew towards the troll, who visibly relaxed as each new print came closer. Deglan noticed a faint distortion in the air above the troll's head and then, before his eyes, another creature appeared, seeming to wink into existence.

  Where the male troll was slow and brutish, the female was lithe and graceful, her proportions those of a tall, well-formed human woman. She sat upon the male's swayed back, one long leg dangling over his shoulder, the other tucked beneath her. The posture radiated comfort, familiarity. She too was naked, her skin a few shades lighter than her mate's. The same torrent of matted hair grew from her head, but it was the color of blood. Even in the poor light Deglan's gnome eyes could detect the deep, vibrant color. The female troll looked about for a moment, searching her surroundings, her comely face displaying all the keenness lacking in the male's. For one, heart-stopping instant, she looked up and met Deglan's eye. He froze, fearing to even blink. A low, agitated moan came from the throat of the male troll, but the female laid her hand gently upon his head as she turned away from the cliff, quieting him. Slowly, the troll began to walk away, down the slope, his broad back supporting the calming presence of the female. They were little more than a dwindling blotch on the snow when Ulfrun stood.

  “It is safe now.”

  Deglan rose with the others, brushing the snow from his front. “Buggery and shit. I swear that thing looked at me.”

  “Aye,” Ulfrun agreed. “The trollkona knew we were here. Thankfully, she also knew we sought no wound-tears.”

  “Are they so dangerous?” Flyn asked. “Only two?”

  “Trolls are jealous creatures,” Ulfrun replied. “The males are too territorial to allow them to congregate. Something you coburn share, is it not so?”

  Deglan saw the shame settle into Flyn's shoulders as he nodded.

  “So,” Ulfrun went on, “two is all you will ever see together, so long as the trollkona, the troll-wife, lives. It is enough. A troll pair which feels threatened is nigh impossible to kill. The males rival we giants in strength when they are angered. That battle-branch you carry would do little, Bantam Flyn, for so long as his mate is near, a troll's wounds knit themselves closed. But it is the trollkona which you must truly fear. She is a wife of charms and the blood of spells is in her veins. She makes herself invisible and will use all her cunning and crafts so that her mate may make a raven's banquet out of their foes.”

  “Stinking, evil beasts,” Hakeswaith muttered, spitting over the cliff.

  “So the men of Middangeard believe,” Ulfrun said. “They hunt them without mercy, the danger be damned. Few trolls there are now, though once they were many.”

  “I read they cannot survive without a mate,” Ingelbert said.

  Ulfrun gave the chronicler an approving look. “This is true of the trollkona. If her mate is slain, a female will quickly succumb to grief, dwindling away until she is no mo
re. The males only become more fierce, should their wife be taken from them. Without her they must hide from the sky-candle, lest their shame be revealed in day's light and turn their flesh to stone. They retreat to a mountain-womb, living ever in enraged grief. Only then will male trolls be found together, living in a community of mourning and madness. Beware the caves of Middangeard, my friends.”

  Deglan looked out at the darkening landscape, nodding at the distance, though he could no longer see the trolls. “Those two are headed the way we came. Back towards Fafnir. Is it too much to hope they'll stumble upon our dwarrow friends and rend them limb from limb?”

  Ulfrun threw a short laugh into the sky. “It shall be a day worthy of song if the Chain Maker is ever brought low by a pair of trolls, herb-cub. And trolls seek not to meet with any other. They are wanderers, ever in search of solitude and peace. Those two became trapped in the pass when the vættir came through, I ken. Now that the danger is gone, they travel on.”

  “If you are correct,” Flyn said. “Then the wights are close.”

  “Another day and we will catch them,” the giantess answered.

  Deglan glanced up at her. “You did not tell the Chain Maker.”

  Ulfrun shrugged. “When I lay eyes upon them, he will know.”

  “Let us go,” Hakeswaith growled. “I need food and a fire.”

  Deglan could hardly disagree, but as Flyn and the humans left the ledge he lingered with Ulfrun for a moment, staring out into the night.

  “You stalled,” Deglan said gently. “Had Fafnir known the wights were close, he would have commanded we press on. Likely run across the trolls. You feared they would be killed.”

  “Mayhaps I feared for us,” Ulfrun replied without looking his way.

  “Were that the truth you would not have brought us up here. You wanted to ensure they were spared.”

  Ulfrun took in a deep breath, blowing it out with great satisfaction into the frigid air. “Dwarves. Giants. Trolls. We are all of Middangeard. We are, all of us, children of Winter.”

  TWENTY

  Flyn heard the vættir long before he laid eyes upon them. Their song was borne on the wind, accompanying the flecks of snow that danced upon the air. A low, mournful sound impregnating the frozen hills with a haunting of life. It hummed in the earth, it carried on the breeze, and yet was banished from both, existing in exile, unwanted, unnatural and unceasing. The deep resonance of the dead.

  When at last he saw the teeming chorus which gave voice to the song, Flyn's breath caught in his throat. Ulfrun had chosen their vantage well, leading them to the edge of a canyon through which the vættir marched, an incessantly moving mass of rotting raiment, black hair and white skin. Flyn stood with the giantess, Inkstain and Deglan, watching the distant wights traverse the valley. He placed a hand above his eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun reflecting off the snow.

  “That is more than a thousand,” Inkstain said, echoing Flyn's own thoughts.

  “Six hundred more,” Deglan announced.

  Flyn removed his hand from his brow and looked down at the gnome. “You are certain?”

  “Spent a couple centuries fighting goblin hordes,” Deglan answered. “I got good at counting the enemy.”

  Flyn turned back to the valley. It was easy to forget that the old herbalist was a veteran of the bloodiest war in Airlann's history. That was all it was to Flyn, history, and murky history at that. Inkstain could no doubt conjure a clearer image of those days from all his reading, but Deglan remembered them from experience. Flyn thought upon his own battles, especially Coalspur's tourney and the fight against the Unwound at Castle Gaunt. Those fleeting confrontations had taught him much. He tried to imagine centuries of war and the insight it would provide.

  “How do you suggest we fight them?” Flyn asked.

  Deglan considered the question, scratching at his chops. “We can't. We don't have the numbers even for harrowing actions. I do not know how much cunning these dead bastards have, but twelve against nearly two thousand leaves nothing but desperate tactics. I would say try and bait them over a cliff, or bury them in an avalanche, but it won't bloody kill them.” The gnome cocked a glance to his right. “Of course, I am not leading this charge.”

  Flyn followed Deglan's gaze. Fafnir stood further down the canyon edge, alone. His hood was pulled low, his cloak fretting behind him at the whim of the wind. The runecaster studied the marching wights with a grim face.

  “Give me a moment,” Flyn told his companions.

  He walked over and stood beside the dwarf.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” Fafnir asked without removing his gaze from the wights. “The song.”

  Flyn hesitated before answering. “It is.”

  Fafnir chuckled. “You humor me, Bantam Flyn. You need not, truly. Hearken to the voices. From this distance the deep singing of the males dominates, but listen closely and upon the edges you can hear the high, clear voices of the women, beyond that, the true, untutored singing of our lost children.”

  Flyn did as he was bid, cocking his head down towards the valley. At first, there was nothing, but gradually he heard it, a keen harmony floating amongst the roiling hum, here and there punctuated with sharp, sad notes, flung through the assonance. Flyn found his eyes closing, to better concentrate, and without the disturbing sight of a herd of walking dead, he discovered the truth of the wizard's claim. The song was indeed pleasant to the ear. When Flyn opened his eyes, Fafnir was facing him.

  “The dirge of the dwarrow,” the runecaster said. “Once sung to comfort the living as we laid our loved ones to rest. It is all that the vættir give voice. A song of mourning corrupted into a herald of doom. And yet, cruelly, it remains beautiful.”

  “How do you intend to silence so many?” Flyn asked.

  “At my direction or not at all!” a voice from behind them shouted.

  Flyn turned, quickly drawing his sword when he laid eyes on the strange group approaching them from the trees bordering the valley.

  The dwarf in the lead was clad only in rough leggings under a kilt of animal hides. He was bare-chested despite the cold, displaying a sizable paunch, but his arms and shoulders bulged with hard muscle. The deathly pallor of the dwarrow was completely absent in this one, his skin healthily flushed and ruddy. His head was completely bald, but his beard fell past his waist, worked into three thick plaits and the color of a blazing bonfire. Indeed, he looked as Fafnir had when Flyn first met him in Black Pool, as the dwarrow do when in the Tin Isles, though far more savage. Shining bracelets adorned his wrists as well as the braids of his impressive beard. He held a long handled war axe propped upon his shoulder, its curving blade broad and brutal. But it was not this dwarf's fearsome appearance which caused Flyn to draw Coalspur. It was the half dozen massive creatures which loped around him. To Ulfrun they would have been wolves, compared to the animals Flyn had seen, they were monsters. Each was as tall at the shoulder as the head of the half-naked dwarf.

  Fafnir did not appear alarmed at their sudden presence. He had turned at the sound of the burly dwarf's voice and waited patiently as he and his huge companions drew near. It was no small wonder Flyn had not been warned of their approach, for dwarf and wolves alike moved with all the sound of candle smoke. With his back to the canyon, Flyn did not favor his chances if these bestial newcomers chose to attack. He glanced over at his companions and was relieved to find they too were approaching, Ulfrun in the lead. Beyond them, Hakeswaith, Skrauti and the dwarrow porters remained motionless. Flyn did not expect the whaler to volunteer any aid, but was surprised that the dwarrow took no action. They had been unflinchingly servile to the Chain Maker until now. Perhaps they knew their presence was not required.

  The bald dwarf reached Flyn and Fafnir just ahead of their companions. He stopped and shrugged the axe from his shoulder, resting the blade in the snow and his hands upon the end of the haft, leaning upon the weapon. Beneath his heavy brow, his eyes were keen, and he fixed Fafnir with a look full o
f mirth and challenge. The wolves fanned out around him, their panting breath pushing past their long pink tongues as hot vapor. Ulfrun strode past the nearest without a care, leading Deglan and Inkstain. The gnome looked at the beasts with his typical chariness, but the chronicler’s expression was unreadable.

  “My friends,” Fafnir said when they were all gathered. “Allow me to present Kàlfr the Roundhouse.” Though the words were courteous, Flyn did not fail to notice the iciness in Fafnir's tone. He spoke the language of the Tin Isles and the bald dwarf answered in kind, though his accent was thicker.

  “Friends, Chain Maker?” Kàlfr laughed. “Never known you to possess such. Just puppets and servants. Those you have tricked into believing your greatness.” The dwarf's mocking eyes left Fafnir, flicking around to take in Flyn and the others in turn. He laughed again. “Save the giant beauty, it looks to me like these here are babes to Middangeard. Pissing themselves at their first gander at storulvir.”

  The word was unfamiliar, but it was clear that Kàlfr referred to the monstrous wolves behind him. Their presence was unnerving. Flyn had seen a pack of barghests in Albain, but even those bloodthirsty hounds would be as pups to these storulvir. In the Tin Isles they were called vargulf and the only one Flyn had laid eyes on was stuffed in the Campaign Hall of the Roost, a trophy made of the beast that Sir Pyle Strummer had slain after months of it preying upon the livestock of the Dal Riata. Sir Pyle had always said it was the most dangerous foe he had ever fought and thought himself fortunate to have survived the encounter. It must have been the runt of a litter, for Flyn did not recall it being so large as the six standing before him.