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

by Jonathan French

  “What did you do?” Ingelbert ventured. “To deserve such scorn.”

  “He wished to wed one of my own daughters,” the dwarf responded, his voice weighted with regret. “I denied him the chance.” Fafnir became very still for a moment, frozen by some bitter memory. He issued a grunt that was half snarl, half sob and tossed the smoldering contents of his pipe into the wind. “Now, forgive me, but I must rest. Sir Flyn is to take my place. You too should seek repose.”

  Ingelbert could hardly disagree. He was weary to the bone. As he turned to go back to camp, Fafnir placed a hand on his arm, halting him gently.

  “One more matter,” the dwarf said. “Hengest's failure today was not of his making. His runes were disrupted by another. It felt as if something leeched the power from him, used it to fuel a craft set against us. Did you feel it?”

  Ingelbert shook his head. “No.”

  The runecaster eyed him for a moment, then released his grip.

  Ingelbert left the dwarf alone. He had told the truth. No, when Hengest's Magic was stolen he had not felt it. He had done it.

  Deglan had not yet slept. He kept his eyes closed, but remained awake, listening to Fafnir and Ingelbert converse. He was unable to catch every word, but his keen gnomish ears picked up enough to worry him. Or further worry him. He continued to feign slumber as Ingelbert returned to the fireside. Fafnir remained at watch a while longer, then roused Flyn to spell him as they had arranged. This was what Deglan had been waiting for.

  True sleep began to tempt him as he waited for the dwarf to settle in, but Deglan fought it off, not wanting to miss his chance. When he was satisfied that the Chain Maker and the chronicler slept, Deglan opened his eyes and rose cautiously, using Ulfrun's heavy breathing to mask his footfalls. He moved so quietly that he accidentally startled Flyn when he came up beside him. Thankfully, the coburn only jumped slightly and made no utterance of surprise.

  “Buggery and spit, Staunch!” Flyn breathed, using Deglan's own parlance. “You should have been a cutpurse instead of an herbalist, you sneaking mushroom.”

  “Pardons,” Deglan whispered. “I did not want to wake the others.” Remembering that he had been able to hear Crane and Fafnir, Deglan took Flyn by the elbow and steered him further out into the field that approached the tree line.

  “How fare you?” Deglan asked when they were well removed. “Any hurts I should look at?”

  “None,” Flyn replied, almost regretfully.

  Deglan took a deep breath, girding himself for what he needed to say and the response it would undoubtedly receive.

  “Flyn,” he said quietly with a backward glance at the camp. “We must leave.”

  “What?” the coburn asked.

  “Stop it!” Deglan chastised him. “You are not that thick and you damn well heard me. We need to leave. You and I. Now. Get clear of this quest and out of Middangeard.”

  “We have come too far for that, Deglan.”

  “It is only too far when it is too late. And it is not too late. Not yet.”

  Flyn laughed, but Deglan heard the frustration hidden within. “Need I remind you, Master Loamtoes, that you were the one who said I needed to go on this journey?”

  “Yes,” Deglan returned. “Because I feared you had lost your damn resolve. Today proved you have not.”

  “Today proved nothing!” Flyn said, leaning down close. “I fought an enemy that did not fight back.”

  “Damn all coburn pride,” Deglan growled. “You did not know that when you charged their lines, Bantam Flyn! Do not play the fool!”

  “You seem intent on making me dance like one, Staunch. I was determined not to come here!”

  “I have made many mistakes in my long life, Flyn. And I tell you the only ones I have ever regretted are those which I did not try and remedy. We can remedy this, this damn instant. Walk away from here with me.”

  “And leave Inkstain behind?”

  Deglan could not help but groan at the mention of the chronicler. “He can damn well look after himself, mark me!”

  “And you curse my pride?” Flyn scoffed. “Crane kept you from a battle that would have been your end and now you hate the man.”

  “That is not the way of it. The man is dangerous!”

  “You have said the same about Fafnir.”

  “You think he is not?” Deglan asked, struggling to keep his voice low. “Crane is not the same bashful scribbler we knew at the Roost and the only one whispering in his ear is that damn wizard! Think about what you're doing! Who you are following! This is a cursed land and has been for longer than even I can fathom. There is nothing that can be done. Believe me, I know when a life goes beyond the reach of all healing. Flyn, there is nothing here to save.”

  “There are the dwarrow,” Flyn returned.

  Deglan blinked hard, unable to believe the blind valor he heard in the coburn's voice. “The dwarrow? Outcasts? Exiles? They began their existence in betrayal. Magic stunted them so that they could easily be recognized for the deceivers that they are. Their dead do not rest, rising to kill the living.”

  “And once I slay the Corpse Eater that ends,” Flyn proclaimed.

  “Why?” Deglan demanded. “Because some cozening kidnapper told you so! Some charlatan who believes in auguries and talks to dead men and allies himself with cannibals! Fafnir will—”

  “Dammit Staunch, I do not hate him as you do!” Flyn hissed.

  Deglan thrust a warning finger up at him. “That is not—”

  “Yes it is!” Flyn exclaimed, riding right over his protestations. “You hate them and you want to see them continue to suffer. You cannot let it go, Deglan! Goblins. Dwarves. The wars. The past. Your own people! And now Crane. You hate them all because you cannot forget and refuse to forgive. You think the dwarrow deserve this fate and you want to abandon them to it. I cannot do that. I will not do that! It is my duty as a knight to try and set this right. And perhaps it is my penance as a coburn to undo the evil which has been wrought upon the dwarrow by the mother of my race.”

  It was Deglan's turn to laugh and he did it without a hint of mirth. “The Corpse Eater? Your ancestral matron? You truly believe that?”

  “Yes. I do. After today, I have no more reason to doubt.”

  “So,” Deglan said with derision, “she is your mother. And now you seek to slay her. Tell me, Flyn, how well did you account yourself when you sought a similar end for your father?”

  Flyn was silent for a long time. When he did finally speak, his voice was flat and cold.

  “You should leave, Deglan. You have no place here and I am at the end of my tolerance for you. You are as changeable as the wind and I am weary from listening to you bluster. You slow us down. You cause us to doubt. You are useless in battle and your skills as a healer are not needed. You are not needed. Go home. Go back to Airlann, or to whatever land you have not yet foresworn. In this errantry, you are nothing but a hindrance and I no longer want you by my side.”

  These words spoken, Flyn turned his back and walked away.

  Deglan stood alone, rooted by grief. Anger tore at his head, pain pulsed in his heart, but neither won over to goad him to action. The cold settled into his bones, yet still he did not move. He suffered with the knowledge that Flyn was right. He had forced the young strut to take up this madness. And he was useless. There was nothing he could do here. He fancied himself the voice of reason, but all were deaf to him now.

  So lost was Deglan in thought that he did not hear the steps in the snow behind him until it was too late. He was grabbed roughly from behind, his spine wrenched backwards and the feel of cold metal pressed into his neck. Cold which began to burn. The touch of iron.

  “Just you and me now, stunty,” Hakeswaith's voice rasped into his ear.

  Deglan grit his teeth against the rising pain of the harpoon. “You going to kill me or help me get home? Make a damn choice.”

  The question gave the whaler pause. Deglan could not see him, but he felt his body tense,
his breath hold. He was thinking. Deglan used the moment to scan the distant tree line. Flyn was nowhere in sight. The cocky swain really had abandoned him. Deglan's ears were beginning to fill with blood and he fought the bile rising in his throat. In another minute, it would not matter what Hakeswaith decided, Deglan would be dead, though he might go blind first.

  “Difficult for either of us to make it out of Middangeard alone,” Deglan wheezed. “What's it to be? Gipeswic? Or death?”

  The harpoon came away and Deglan was shoved roughly forward. He spilled over onto the ground, retching and spitting, but the snow was a blissful relief against his blistered neck. Briefly, Deglan considered calling for help, but even without his iron-ravaged throat it would be useless. Hakeswaith would skewer him through the back if he tried to raise alarm. Rolling over slowly, Deglan found the whaler standing over him.

  “Up,” the man rasped.

  Deglan did as he was told and Hakeswaith immediately grabbed him about the collar, hauling him away from the direction of the camp. The whaler walked backward, keeping an eye on the trees, watchful for any sign of someone coming to Deglan's aid.

  “No need for such caution,” Deglan told him. “I am as welcome back there as you are.”

  “Shut it!” Hakeswaith snarled.

  Deglan's ear burst into pain as the man cuffed him solidly to punctuate his warning. Compared to the excruciation of iron, the blow was nothing.

  “You bent-jawed fuck!” Deglan barked, undeterred. “Listen to me. You are getting your wish. We are going back to the Tin Isles. I will not fight you. Kicking me like a stray mongrel the entire way will only slow us down.”

  Hakeswaith halted, forcing Deglan to do the same.

  “I'll not fall for your Fae chicanery,” the whaler said, leaning in close.

  “There are no tricks here, Hakeswaith,” Deglan told him. “And you have no choice but to trust me. Think on it. It is a long way to the coast and we do not know this country. You will have to sleep and it's tiring work for one man to keep watch on a prisoner. Far easier to take me at my word and believe that I want away as much as you.”

  “Away?” Hakeswaith mocked. “Away from your friends? Expect I will believe that?”

  Deglan leaned away from the man's foul breath. “My friends are blind fools. They are being led to slaughter and refuse to see it. Such is the stupidity of mortals. Fail to see sense when it's standing right in front of them. So tell me, Hakeswaith. Are you also that bloody daft?”

  The whaler gave him a hard stare. Deglan could see every feature of his misshapen face, but doubted the man could make out much of his face in the darkness. It was a lucky thing, for Deglan was not sure his countenance would have given proof to his words. Flyn was a fool, that was true enough, but was Deglan ready to leave him alone with this quest? It mattered little now. He was in Hakeswaith's power. There may come a chance to slip away, but how far would the rest of the group have traveled by the time such an opportunity came? Deglan would have no hope of catching them, even if he could track them. No, there was nothing for it. Unless his friends discovered what had happened and came for him soon, Deglan was on his own.

  “If I catch wind of one trick,” Hakeswaith threatened.

  “I die?” Deglan finished for him. “Well, that may be both our fates before long unless we find some supplies.”

  Hakeswaith said nothing, sullen and mistrustful. He was a seaman and useless in the frozen wilderness of Middangeard.

  Deglan took a moment to think, quickly determining that their only hope was to backtrack to the abandoned sleds, which had been left behind in the gorge. He could only trust that bald dwarf barbarian had been correct and the wights had moved on, but it remained a risky venture. There were more dangers in Middangeard than the dwarrow dead. The storulvir, for one. Deglan did not fancy an encounter with those monstrous wolves without the Roundhouse nearby, much as he found the dwarf loathsome. And then of course there were trolls. Deglan had to fight back a burst of bitter laughter. He was an herbalist in a land of perpetual freeze, accompanied by a cowardly fisherman. Middangeard was going to make a meal of them both.

  He need not have worried about the wights, the giant wolves or the trolls.

  The horsemen found them first.

  TWENTY TWO

  Despite the aching weariness in his body, Flyn found sleep elusive. He had reclined before the fire eagerly after Skrauti took his place on watch, nearly collapsing upon one of the palettes of fir branches prepared by the porters. Hugging Coalspur to his chest, Flyn allowed exhaustion to claim him, but guilt kept pulling his eyelids open. His temper had gotten the better of him. Deglan's jibe about Gallus had rankled Flyn deeply and he spat forth feelings that he swore never to give voice, feelings made all the more vitriolic by the mention of his defeat. By the Hallowed, would his father never cease to sour his judgment?

  Fortunately, Deglan Loamtoes was the most obstinate being drawing breath and would never allow words spoken in anger to drive him off. Flyn would seek his pardon and the old stoat would grudgingly give it. This thought only comforted for a short time, however. Flyn's restlessness only increased as the stars arced across the sky and Deglan still had not returned to camp. The gnome was stubborn, but the cold of the night air could not long be endured.

  Inwardly cursing his hot headed nature and all cantankerous gnomes, Flyn rose. He walked to the edge of camp and paused next to Skrauti, standing vigilant with his spear.

  “Any sign of Master Loamtoes?” Flyn asked the dwarf quietly.

  Skrauti gave only the barest shake of his head, clearly unconcerned. Deglan had done little to foster any fellowship with the dwarrow.

  “I must go find him,” Flyn said.

  “Better to wait for sunrise,” Skrauti suggested.

  It was Flyn's turn to shake his head. “I cannot wait that long.”

  He struck out into the field without wasting another moment. Fresh snow was beginning to fall, but it was just a light flurry. Flyn was easily able to follow the tracks he and Deglan had made when the gnome pulled him away to talk, leading to the patch they had trampled as they argued. Flyn was no tracker, but snow was a poor keeper of secrets. Someone had approached Deglan from behind and knocked him to the ground. There was no blood and the gnome had clearly risen, then left with his attacker.

  Flyn broke into a run, keeping his feet in the tracks and his eyes on the path of footprints ahead. They had not gone far, Deglan and his captor, only moving to a stand of spruce a mile distant from the camp. Here, Flyn found the remnants of a meager, half-built fire. And a discarded harpoon. Flyn snatched it up.

  Hakeswaith.

  Flyn fumed, nearly crying out with impotent rage. They had distrusted the whaler for good reason, and maligned him, avoided him, ignored and neglected him. Flyn had all but forgotten him. He may as well have handed Deglan over to the man bound and gagged.

  The fire had nearly burned out, but the moon was bright this night, illuminating the broad swath of horse tracks leading to, and then away from the trees.

  Following the horses' path at a sprint, Flyn tried to determine the number of riders, but he had not the skill. The Roundhouse had said he saw mounted men on both ridges of the valley. Likely these were the same, but who were they? Flyn could not imagine Hakeswaith capable of winning allies to his aid unless the man possessed some riches he had kept hidden. And his harpoon had been left behind. Flyn still held the weapon in his fists as he ran, leaving Coalspur slung.

  A smear of flickering orange appeared in the darkness ahead, just above the snow. Heat, radiating from the bodies of animal and man, surrounded by floating blobs of angry white. Torches.

  The sight drove Flyn on and he surged forward. He counted ten horses. No doubt the men upon them were armed. Only fools would travel through Middangeard at night without something sharp close to hand. They kept a steady pace through the snow, but were not pushing their mounts, giving Flyn a chance to close the gap.

  One of the riders must have be
en keeping an eye on their back trail, for Flyn was within a stone's throw of the group when two of them turned their mounts and charged. Flyn saw moonlight glint off mail, shield boss and spear tip. So, armed and armored, and bearing down upon him.

  Flyn cocked his arm back, flung the harpoon, then immediately dove to the side. The pained screaming of a horse split the night as he rolled to his feet, slinging the harness off his shoulder and freeing Coalspur from its scabbard. A horse lay kicking in the snow not far from where he stood. The other was wheeling around for another charge. Flyn ran to meet it. The animal thundered toward him, snow bursting up from beneath its hooves. The rider's spear was lowered and trained, but Flyn did not break stride. He leapt at a full run, directly at the horse's head, issuing his war cry. The animal spooked, wanting to rear, but could not halt its own momentum. It turned just enough, and Flyn barreled into the rider, striking the man's shield with the full weight of his body, knocking him from the saddle. They spilled into the snow together, a tangle of weapons and limbs. Flyn felt the man beat at him with fist and shield, kicking at him as they both scrambled to rise. Flyn gained his feet first, but his foe was nearly as fast. He had retained his shield, but lost his spear, quickly filling his hand with a short-hafted axe from his belt. Flyn still held Coalspur.

  The man was big and bearded, clad to the knee in mail. He had the look of a seasoned warrior. Flyn took one step forward and swung his greatsword in a massive cross-cut. The warrior had just enough time to get his shield up, but the dwarf-forged blade cleaved through the metal rim, shattering the wood beyond, then cut the man's arm off below the elbow before smashing into his side, shearing through mail and bone. A gurgle brought a gob of blood past the man's lips to splash into his beard before he dropped lifelessly to the ground.