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

by Jonathan French

  Ulfrun came to stand at the chronicler's other side. “Are you well, book master?”

  Crane gave them both a reassuring, if tremulous smile. “I, uh, yes. I believe I am, um, fine.”

  Flyn gave the man’s narrow chest a companionable rub. “How do you feel?”

  “Warm,” Inkstain proclaimed, sniffing deeply.

  “I wager even you had nearly forgotten how that feels,” Flyn jibed.

  With a nod of gratitude, Inkstain removed himself from Flyn's support and stood under his power.

  Fafnir returned from his discussion with the warriors. “My friends. Welcome to Hriedmar's Hall. Soon you shall have much needed food and rest, but first, please follow me.”

  Without waiting for a response, Fafnir turned on his heel and began swiftly walking down the vast hall. Flyn gave his companions an encouraging look and they all set off after the Chain Maker. The ten dwarrow warriors fell into step around them, their faces impassive beneath heavy steel helms. As they walked the length of the great hall, Flyn continued to survey the place with awe. Next to him, Inkstain was absolutely gawking.

  Clearly they were beneath the mountains, in a cavern too magnificent to fathom, yet nowhere could rough stone be seen. The floor was paved in a flawless parquetry of polished granite. From the light of the braziers, Flyn could see himself reflected in the flagstones. An endless gallery of smooth columns rose to form stalwart arches which buttressed a ceiling of ribbed vaulting almost too high to be seen. And everywhere were the patterns of gold, flowing through the carefully crafted rock, pulsing with firelight, arteries of artistry. The time it would have taken to fashion this impressive hall made Flyn's mind roil. Even the imposing towers and keeps of the Roost seemed as cottages compared to this display of dwarrow stonework.

  So enthralled was he by the architecture, Flyn nearly failed to notice the population of dwarrow traversing the massive space, individuals and small groups going about their lives. Miners and masons pushed carts loaded with ore, while farmers coaxed shaggy mules to pull wains full of root vegetables. A band of drovers swatted at a herd of muskox, expertly guiding the lumbering beasts through the resplendent hall. Seeing such rustic pursuits housed beneath such grandeur was strange, yet Flyn felt he witnessed the last vestiges of a lost age, an age before the world was host to the brevity of mortal life. The egregious barbarity of the coburn, the boorish scrabble of human existence, these were born from a practical haste, a need to survive before the ineluctable end of life. Elves and dwarfs had no such concern. The perfection of gold-smithing and masonry was pursued in concert with agriculture and husbandry, without disparity. A painstakingly crafted statue was valued the same as a well-bred animal. With near limitless time, all were artisans.

  Still, there was an obvious paucity to the inhabitants when compared to the size of the hall. Flyn saw dozens of dwarrow, but thousands would not have filled the area in which he now walked. The glory of the construction was undimmed, yet the ancestors of the builders were not thriving beneath the roofs of their forebears. Fafnir had often said his people were suffering under the weight of a curse, one that could not be endured much longer. Flyn now saw the truth of those words. This subterranean haven was built to be a lasting legacy of prosperity, yet the waning dwarrow that walked through its gullet seemed lost within the majesty, erstwhile inheritors now reduced to nomads within their own bastion.

  After a long walk, Fafnir turned and began making for one of the many yawning portals set into the side walls of the great hall. It was not until they were nearer the archway that Flyn noticed a stout stone bridge leading to it, spanning a frothing canal. As they marched over the bridge, Flyn looked down to see sturdy boats navigating the waterway, bearing crews of dwarrow anglers and various cargo. Once over the bridge, Fafnir's entourage passed under the archway, which was thrice the height of Ulfrun, and entered a passage much smaller than the hall, though no less adorned.

  Various chambers entered onto the corridor from either side. Most were barracks and storerooms, though Flyn did spy at least one room that had the look of a bakery. Fafnir passed them all swiftly, heading directly for the opposite end of the corridor where another contingent of dwarrow warriors stood guard next to a set of double doors taller than Flyn. Solid steel and sparsely decorated, the doors appeared out of place within the intricate carvings of the wall. Fafnir did not slow his stride as he approached, motioning for the guards to admit him. They obeyed with ready haste and the doors were pushed wide. Fafnir walked straight through and Flyn followed without waiting for permission. Inkstain came through next and then Ulfrun, stooping a little to get past the threshold. Fortunately the ceiling of the chamber beyond was high enough for her to stand upright.

  The room was sizable, though modest compared to the scale they had seen. Great hearths stood blazing to left and right, each containing a spit being tended by a pair of she-dwarfs. From the smell of the meat, Flyn guessed it was boar and his stomach announced its interest. Rugs of animal hide covered the floor and guards lined the walls. At the far wall stood a dais of stone overlooking the center of the room. Upon this dais an aged dwarf reclined on a chair made of shields. He was corpulent, yet not slovenly, his raiment of fine wool dyed blue-grey beneath a mantle of white fox fur. Draped across his legs was a great bearskin coverlet. His head was bald save for a circlet of gold upon his brow. The black cascade of his beard fell past his sizable gut and heavy rings set with precious stones gleamed on several fingers. Hengest stood before this magnanimous dwarf, but stepped demurely aside as they all came into the room. At that same moment, a dwarven herald standing at the foot of the dais tossed his voice across the room.

  “All hail Lord Reginn War-Loft, the Shieldborne, King of Hriedmar's Hall and Guardian of the Downward Fields!”

  Fafnir went to one knee and Flyn followed suit, along with Inkstain and Ulfrun.

  “Hail Chain Maker!” Lord Reginn bellowed, as they all rose. He spoke the tongue of the Tin Isles, but his voice was laden with a heavy accent. “Hail, my brother.” With a wave of his hand the fat dwarf beckoned for a servant, who quickly brought him a large drinking horn. This the king offered to Fafnir, leaning his bulk forward with great difficulty.

  “Accept heat from my hearth and mead from my hand and be welcome here, for you are well returned home.”

  Fafnir approached the edge of the dais and took the horn, bowing his head respectfully. He took a deep drink, then gestured to where Flyn and his companions waited at the back of the room, motioning them forward. Flyn stepped forward as Fafnir introduced him by name. He now noticed that the king was crippled, the outline of his misshapen legs evident even beneath the heavy fur. Indeed, Reginn had all the look of a great warrior laid low by grievous injury, his muscle melted to suet. The chair of shields had two spears attached to the base, long and stout enough for the chair to be carried.

  “You are all welcome here,” the king tolled once the introductions were complete.

  Drinking vessels were given to all and Flyn forced himself not to down his in one pull. Ulfrun had no such qualms and quickly asked for her horn to be refilled. Even Inkstain, normally so abstemious, seemed to relish the sweet warmth of the mead.

  “So,” Reginn said, his voice and face hardening now that all displays of hospitality were dispensed, “you have found your chosen three, brother.”

  Fafnir merely nodded.

  Reginn's gaze rested on Flyn's face for a moment, then flicked up to Coalspur's pommel sticking up over his shoulder. “The sword at last returns to the place of its forging, carried by the one who shall slay the Corpse Eater. Tell me, Sir, are you prepared to do this?”

  Flyn gave a sturdy nod. “I am, my lord.”

  The king extended a finger and waved it from Ulfrun to Crane. “And these two? Has your poetry yet revealed their fate in this geis, my brother?”

  “Their very presence here is enough,” Fafnir declared. “They have survived much, both before linking themselves to this quest and since. Middange
ard would have claimed the lives of any but the Foretold.”

  Reginn's brow darkened. “As I hear it has claimed the life of one I once called daughter.”

  Fafnir shot Hengest a quick scowl before turning back to the king. “I would have preferred you heard such tidings from me.”

  “Why?” Reginn demanded. “Did you slay her? Or do you simply believe your right as Hengest's former master is greater than his as husband?”

  “I grieve for Thorsa's end, brother. That is the start and the end of it.”

  Reginn waved off Fafnir's sympathy. “My only sorrow is that you did not bring me the head of Kàlfr the Roundhouse. But my troth-son tells me he has no want for vengeance. So be it. The choice is his.”

  Hengest produced a humble bow. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Reginn,” Fafnir said. “Have you had report from the Ironwood?”

  The king quaffed deeply from his own horn before answering. “The giants still protect the Warden Tree entrusted to their care. No attempt has been made to despoil it. Whoever is behind the felling of the Wardens, they do not wish to risk the wrath of Turgur Summit King.”

  “That is wise,” Ulfrun proclaimed.

  “It is Arngrim Crow Shoulders, brother,” Fafnir said. “It is he who strikes at us.”

  Flyn thought he saw the king suppress a smile. Reginn took another drink and when the horn left his lips there was a noticeable sparkle of mirth in his eyes.

  “No warrior outlives all the enemies he makes in life, Chain Maker, be they mortal or immortal.”

  Fafnir weathered the jab well. “His vengeance has cost us much. Only two Warden Trees remain, but as you say, Crow Shoulders will not start a war with the giants and he will never find his way here. I need but a little time to allow my champions to rest and then we shall take our leave.”

  “I have watched over your family for centuries, Fafnir,” the king said darkly. “A few days more will not undo my resolve.”

  “You have my gratitude. Now, with your leave, I will provide my champions with sustenance and rest.”

  “Go,” the king allowed. “Seek your ease. Though I would have Sir Flyn tarry a moment. My armorers must take his measure if he is to be well-girded for battle. If you intend to stay only days, then no time must be wasted.”

  The reluctance in Fafnir's face made Flyn a bit uneasy. Clearly, he did not want him to be alone with the king, but seemed to have no choice. After a moment's pause, the Chain Maker merely inclined his head and led the others from the room. Immediately, a group of dwarrow approached Flyn and bade him remove his coat and harness. He complied and they set to work with lengths of knotted rope, measuring the length and girth of his limbs.

  “You have my thanks, my lord,” Flyn said as the armorers went about their task. “To equip me from your own forges is most generous.”

  “I will not send you to battle that bitch-beast in naught but feathers and a threadbare coat,” Reginn grumbled. Flyn smiled. The king's voice had fled, replaced with the bark of an old fighter. It was a tone Flyn had heard often from the raw throats of the Knights Sergeant.

  “Have you faced her, my lord?” Flyn asked.

  King Reginn shook his head with a small grimace. “No, though I made the attempt in my younger days before I wore a crown. Fafnir already pursued his own ends to see us free of the vættir, so I could do no less. My skill was not with runes or Magic, but in the wielding of arms. Alone I ventured north with spear and shield and axe, intent on becoming a great champion, the savior of my people, the slayer of the Corpse Eater.”

  Flyn heard the king's voice become momentarily plangent, the barest hint of a longing grin forming behind his beard.

  “I never reached her. She dwells far to the north in the cradle of four great peaks. The mountains themselves are forever encircled by a tireless maelstrom, which we call the Mother's Gale. The winds nearly flayed the flesh from my bones, but I won through to shelter in the caverns beneath the mountains, hoping to find my way through the maze of tunnels and reach the vale between the peaks where she is said to live in a great tree beneath the eye of the whirlwind.” The dwarf lord gestured half-heartedly at his covered legs. “But before I found the vale, this was done to me by a mourning troll, one of the crazed beasts without a mate. The caves at the borders of the Corpse Eater's abode are rife with them. It crushed my spine, my pelvis, and my legs before my blade pierced his brain. For days, I crawled in darkness before my father's retainers finally found me. Only one healer in all of Middangeard could have helped...and he was away, chasing auguries. By the time my brother returned, my injuries were too far gone for his Magic to help.” The king let out a bitter chuckle. “So you see, Sir Flyn, I was made to sit a throne.”

  “You are no less a warrior, Reginn War-Loft,” Flyn declared.

  “You flatter, coburn, but you do it well! If you return from this slaying, you shall have to tell me all of your battle with the Corpse Eater. Such a tale would do well for my powdered bones.”

  The armorers had finished their measuring and Flyn retrieved his sword harness from them with a nod of gratitude. He slung the weapon across his back and looked up to the king once more.

  “Is there any more you can tell me of my foe, my lord?”

  Reginn pondered a moment, then motioned for his guards. “Not I. But maybe your own eyes.”

  Eight dwarrow, four to each side, lifted the king's chair. They hoisted the thick spears onto their shoulders and descended the dais.

  “Come,” the king commanded as the throne passed Flyn. He fell into step behind, along with half a dozen dwarrow guards. Once out in the wider corridor Reginn called for him to walk alongside. They went once more into the intimidating vastness of Hriedmar's Hall.

  “Ages ago, my ancestors founded this bastion,” Lord Reginn intoned as they crossed the expansive width of the hall. “Over the slow march of time, it has been used for many purposes. As a haven. As a vault. A prison. The fjordmen believe it to be a myth and the giants think none but our own kind are allowed admittance, but this is false. The huldu have been brought here on a few occasions, both as guests and captives. It was here that we dwarrow hosted Irial Elf-king when he returned to Middangeard following the defeat of the Goblin Kings. And there have been older, more puissant guests.”

  The king's bearers entered another corridor off the great hall, this one descending at a noticeable angle. There were no side-passages or junctions, no doors or chambers. This corridor was simply an avenue to greater depths. The king grew grimly silent and Flyn held his questions. The sloping passage went on for a great length, but the king's bearers never halted to rest nor slowed their pace, despite the immense burden of their substantial sovereign and his weighty throne. The wall sconces became less numerous and long stretches of deep shadow intruded upon the corridor between the pools of torchlight. Already weary, Flyn was not looking forward to the return journey uphill and did not envy the throne-bearers.

  At last, the corridor leveled off and ran for a goodly stretch before terminating in a lofty chamber. Three sets of massive doors were housed within this chamber, one on each wall. Easily four times the size of a castle gate, these doors defied reason, their size made all the more incredible by the fact that each appeared to be a single slab of stone. No chisel had touched their faces, leaving them free of decoration. Flyn could not even see a means to open them.

  Reginn commanded his throne be brought to the center doors, directly opposite the corridor. He craned his neck upwards, looking at the forbidding doors with a face full of eminence. Reginn spoke a single word in dworgmál.

  To Flyn's amazement, the doors began to swing inward. Eerily, they made no sound as they moved. Only a brief, barely discernible sigh issued from the blackness beyond as ancient air fled captivity. The doors were still widening in a slow pilgrimage when one of the king's entourage handed Flyn a dancing torch.

  “Enter, Sir Flyn,” Lord Reginn said, his voice an intruder in the depths.

  Grasping the
torch, Flyn approached the tenebrous maw of the portal. His steps were carefully paced, not the reluctant plod of a craven nor the overzealous swagger of a buffoon. No, he enacted the pace of Sir Corc, the measured stride of a knight.

  His torchlight glinted upon something above his head, an orange glow upon a curved shape. Then he saw another, lower down, and then a third far to the left of the first two. As his eyes quickly adjusted he saw dozens more. The curved shapes became large, metal links which quickly revealed great lengths of chain. They came in from all directions, hanging in ponderous curves from high upon the walls, converging towards the center of the great chamber. Flyn walked on, torch leading. The edge of his feeble flicker of light timidly revealed a shape sprawled in the darkness.

  Bones. Bones bound in chains.

  As he drew closer, the form became more clear. It was an entire skeleton, though so large Flyn's torch could only shine upon sections at a time. Despite their size, the bones appeared brittle, calcified with untold age. The rib cage had mostly collapsed, crushed beneath the shoulder plates, large as wagons. Extending out from those were long thin bones, doubling back on themselves, the remains of massive wings. Flyn followed the length of the curved neck and found the heavy steel collar still surrounding one of the spinal bones. He worked his way through the web of chains until he reached the head. The hollow of the eye socket seemed to be both begging and accusing, the circumference of the cavity larger than a shield. It took Flyn a dozen steps to reach the hooked end of the beak. It was harder than the rest of the bones, still shining with a predatory luster. Had the jaws of this creature been open wide, Flyn could have walked down its throat without the need to stoop.

  “The legends differ,” said a familiar voice in the darkness.

  Flyn turned, his torchlight falling upon Fafnir, standing alone.

  “Some say that the first Hriedmar, for whom both the great hall and my father were named, lured the beast here with treachery and imprisoned him. Others tell that the monster came here of his own will, nearly mad with grief and asked my ancestor to secure him lest he join his mate in bringing ruin to the world.”