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

by Jonathan French

  “Grand,” Deglan said, ignoring the knife. “I was just trying to discern if you could now understand me as well. Clearly you do. Off we go.”

  “Enough!” Crow Shoulders barked. “Tind, carry the gnome. I will not be slowed.”

  The jarl set off and his sons fell in around him. Two of them held the Dread Cockerel's chain, pulling him along behind them, while another pair prodded him from behind with their axe hafts. Deglan was lifted roughly and placed on Thumb Cock's back. The man's long hair smelled horribly, as did the skins he wore, but within moments the group stepped outside Slouch Hat's spell and the wind returned, ridding Deglan's nostrils of the stench. He gripped Tind's furs at the shoulder and clung to his waist with his legs, the man doing little to support him as he hurried through the drifts. To Deglan's relief, the berserkers did not go into the Mother's Gale, but skirted its edge. Soon, their steps turned away from the maelstrom and the ground sloped downward. The high country bordering the Gale was crisscrossed with crevasses and caves. It was astounding that Arngrim's sons had been able to track anything in this hoary waste, much less a wizard, but the six scouts soon led their father and brothers into an icy gulch.

  The path down was little more than a trench, but it quickly widened as the ground leveled off. The berserkers went more cautiously now, fanning out with swords and axes in hand. Tind shook Deglan off his back without warning, causing him to fall rump first onto hard stones just beneath the snow. Standing with a wince, Deglan followed the men through the expanding gully. They were hemmed in by walls of loose stones mortared with ice, but the depth of the gully was only twice the height of the fjordmen and they did not seem overly concerned with ambush. Their steps were slow, but it was the patient pace of the hunter, not the fearful uncertainty of the wary. The walls soon receded into the snowbanks, emptying into a mountain pass that intersected the gully. An escarpment stood across from the mouth of the gully, a stone sentinel, guarding the crossroads of the pass.

  At its base, Deglan could see a solitary figure.

  He watched the berserkers cast smiles at their father, seeking his approval. Crow Shoulders gave them no such satisfaction. His focus was entirely upon the figure. The warlord closed the distance, his cloak of feathers billowing in the wind. His sons followed in a pack, keeping both Deglan and the Dread Cockerel close.

  “Hail, Arngrim Crow Shoulders!” the figure exclaimed.

  The voice was not Fafnir's. It took Deglan a moment, but he recognized the figure as Hengest. His blue hair had been shaved off, but that beardless face was unmistakable. A heavy staff was in the dwarf's hand, a steel ram's head adorning the top. He stood calmly, as if waiting on the men, expecting their arrival.

  The last time Deglan had seen Hengest, he was unconscious and near death. Surreptitiously, Deglan looked about for signs of the dwarf's companions; his savage wife and that bald braggart, Kàlfr the Roundhouse. Were Crow Shoulders and his sons about to be set upon by a pack of those bloody big wolves? Deglan did not find that prospect entirely unwelcome, so long as he were not devoured along with the fjordmen.

  Crow Shoulders stared at the dwarf for a moment, then turned swiftly and seized Deglan, dragging him forward. The warlord pointed at Hengest.

  “Is this Fafnir Rune-Wise?” Arngrim demanded.

  Deglan hesitated. Hob's knuckles, had the man spent his life pursuing a dwarf he had never laid eyes upon? Was this some test?

  “There is no need to abuse the gnome,” Hengest called out. “I am the runemaster's apprentice, come to see justice delivered to you, mortal. Justice for the atrocities committed against the dwarrow.”

  Crow Shoulders growled and shoved Deglan away. “You svartálfar will continue to suffer until I have the head of your master. Too long has he eluded me, and no underling he sends in his stead to shield his cowardice will prevent my vengeance.”

  Hengest smiled thinly. “The Chain Maker does not avoid facing you out of cowardice, Arngrim Crow Shoulders. You are simply beneath his notice.”

  “Chain Maker!” the jarl scoffed. “This was what he named himself to my father. A forger of destiny. Bah! A charlatan! He seduces men with lies and false promises, his witchcraft leaving them to rot in delusion. He is nothing but a deceitful soothsayer.”

  “No, mortal,” Hengest replied, as if speaking to a child. “His gift is true. But every link in his great chain must be tested to ensure it does not break. Your sire was simply made of inferior metal.”

  Arngrim chuckled grimly. “You speak true. He was a weak man. Speaking to birds was his only skill. Perhaps that is why your master gifted him with your precious dwarf steel.” The warlord slowly drew his sword free of its scabbard. “To make him stronger. Well, I need no such steel to be strong, so I intend to return this sword to the wizard. Through his guts.”

  Hengest shook his head chidingly. “Fafnir has business within the Mother's Gale. Your search for vengeance ends here.”

  Arngrim tossed an amused look over each of his shoulders, encompassing his twelve sons. “You believe you have the power to oppose us, dwarf?”

  The runecaster grinned. “No. Not me.”

  A shadow appeared above the dwarf, quickly passing over him as something large leaped from the escarpment at his back.

  Ulfrun landed in the snow between Hengest and the berserkers, her knees bending to absorb the impact. The giantess straightened slowly, fists clenched. She was two heads taller than the fjordmen and she swept them all with eyes glinting deadly purpose.

  Deglan let out a sigh of relief. This was better than big wolves.

  Arngrim sniffed, unimpressed.

  “You think my sons have not slain your kind, giantess? They fear not immortals, for they are now more than men.”

  “Aye,” Ulfrun replied. “I know what they are. Skin-wearers and Bone Chewers. Killers glutted on the dead flesh of the risen. They no longer fear the bite of the shield-snake or the piercing of war-reeds, believing their skin proof against weapons. Yes, Crow Shoulders, I know what they are. But you know not me.

  “I am Ulfrun the Breaker. A daughter of Frost, the breath-stealer, the life-ender. I am called Whore-Shield, Boast-Ender, one of the Foretold. I am a fist of rage and hold quakes within my hands. You have incited a storm. The doom of your sons is my own and I face it without fear. I will put them in the ground and tear the roof from your hall. Look at me Arngrim Crow Shoulders and see the end of your murder.”

  The voice of the giantess was cold with confidence, hardened by certainty. Deglan saw doubt shadow the jarl's face. His sons, however, remained undaunted.

  The berserkers began to converge, their feet pawing at the snow. Each man's breath grew increasingly guttural, pulsing out in white vapor. All eagerly approached the giantess, save one, who held fast to Sir Wyncott's chain, urging his brothers forward with fierce shouts.

  Ulfrun did not wait for the men to surround her.

  She charged forward, bent low, and swept a wave of snow at one of the berserkers. The man was taken off guard and before he recovered, Ulfrun barreled into him, her knee coming up hard under his chin. The berserker was lifted off his feet by the impact, flattening out in the air before landing hard. Ulfrun skid to a halt and snatched the fallen man up, lifting him over her head and flinging him at two of his brothers. The trio went down in a tangle of sprawling limbs.

  Deglan laughed, but his glee died in his throat as all three quickly rose again. He had sworn the one Ulfrun struck would have suffered a snapped neck. Blood poured from the man's mouth, staining his flaxen beard, and he spat broken teeth, but was otherwise hale. His weapons had fallen from his hands when Ulfrun hit him, but one of his brothers tossed him an axe. The berserkers eschewed the use of shields, preferring to wield a weapon in each hand, so there was no shortage of sharp edges now closing around the giantess.

  Bellowing, the berserkers charged as one. Ulfrun ran to meet them. Just outside of the men's reach, she flung her legs to the side and dropped to the ground, twisting into a log roll. She k
nocked nearly half the berserkers off their feet, snatching one by the ankle as she sprang to her feet. With a vicious swipe of her arm she hammered the man's head into the side of the promontory, scattering his brains across the rocks.

  Deglan heard a curse choke from Arngrim's throat and the man stared wide-eyed with horror as the limp form of his son slid to the ground. The other berserkers stood stunned, proof of their own vulnerability made brutally evident. Ulfrun did not squander the opening. She darted to the side, catching the man at the end of the line in the crook of her arm. She spun and wrenched, and Deglan heard neck bones grind to pulp.

  Just then, Hengest, who had stood motionless, made a small gesture with his free hand. There was a sharp, metallic ring. Deglan whirled to see the chain tethering the Dread Cockerel snapped in twain, sundered by an unseen force. The man guarding him was fixated on his brothers' battle with the giantess and took no notice. The coburn wasted no time, hooking his arm about the man's throat and throwing his weight backward. The knight fell to the ground, dragging the choking man atop him. Deglan saw the coburn's legs shoot up and around, then his feet hammered down, driving his natural spurs into the berserker's gut.

  Arngrim spun, rushing to his fallen son's rescue. The warlord drew his sword back, readying to stab the Dread Cockerel, but the coburn kept the berserker between himself and the blade, denying Arngrim an opening to strike.

  Snatching up the length of broken chain, Deglan swung it in an arc over his head, chopping down on Crow Shoulders' wrist. The man grunted in pain, but kept hold of his sword. He whirled on Deglan, but as soon as the jarl's back was turned, the Dread Cockerel jumped to his feet, an axe now in his hand. Arngrim screamed as the coburn hamstrung him. He dropped heavily, the pumping wound in his leg steaming.

  Deglan looked back to Ulfrun and found the giantess fully engaged with the remaining nine berserkers. She moved quickly, landing blows with fists and kicks, but her skin was now crisscrossed with red wounds.

  “Help her!” Deglan cried, turning back to the Dread Cockerel.

  The grim knight regarded him for a moment, eyes blazing, clearly struggling with the desire for vengeance against the berserkers and the insistent call of Coalspur.

  The sword won.

  Sir Wyncott turned his back on Deglan, on Ulfrun and her fight. The berserker he had gored still writhed upon the ground. The coburn grabbed the stricken man by his hair and set off running, back towards the Gale, dragging the wretch behind, leaving a trail of vibrant red across the white.

  “Buggery and shit,” Deglan swore.

  Ulfrun had managed to seize one of the berserkers, using him as a shield against the rest, but the fjordmen were now taken by frenzy and hacked without heed, butchering their brother to get to the giantess. Ulfrun flung the bloody carcass at her assailants, then kicked forward, stomping a man in the chest, knocking him away. A cry of pain escaped her lips as a berserker sword slashed her upper arm and another opened a gash in her thigh.

  Deglan cast about and found Crow Shoulders struggling to stand on his lacerated leg. Deglan scanned the snow for the man's fallen sword and plucked it up. Its size made it unwieldy, but Deglan placed one hand around the grip and the other around the blade, trusting his heavily wrapped hands to provide protection from the keen steel. Trudging up behind Arngrim, Deglan straddled the man's back and wedged the blade up under his chin. The warlord hissed and grew still.

  “Call them off,” Deglan demanded. “Call your curs off!”

  Arngrim attempted to nod, but the blade bit into his flesh. Deglan eased the pressure enough for the man to speak.

  “Reifnir!” he shouted. “Hadding! Brami!”

  It was no use. The berserkers were deaf to their father's voice, lost in the throes of bloodlust.

  Six still stood against the giantess, but for each brother fallen, she bled from ten wounds. So covered was she in her own blood, Deglan did not know how she kept her feet. With a snarl, Deglan released Crow Shoulders, but kept hold of the sword. He hurried for the escarpment where Hengest stood watching the battle placidly.

  “Do something, damn you!” Deglan cried.

  Hengest shook his head. “I cannot. The Breaker has declared her Doom Name. My interference would be a grievous slight.”

  “Then give slight, you hairless cretin! She will have her bloody life.”

  “And she would take mine for the favor. I am afraid there is nothing either of us can do.”

  Scowling, Deglan turned back to watch the fight that was quickly coming to an end.

  Ulfrun had felled two more, but the last four sons waded in, two to the front and two to the flanks. Deglan recognized Tind among them, closing in from the right. The giantess bolted left, catching the berserker's swinging axe with her forearm, snapping the long haft. She slammed her fist into his face, staggering him, but was unable to deliver a killing blow, her momentum halted by pain as another man shoved his sword through her leg. Ulfrun spun, leading with a reaping swing of her arm, but the berserkers sprang away. The motion caused the giantess great pain and she lost her footing on her injured leg, falling to her good knee.

  The man she punched quickly recovered, his nose pouring blood, but with his axe broken, he was left with nothing but a seax. The sword was still in Ulfrun's thigh, stabbed completely through and the brother who left it there accepted an axe from his twin, leaving each man now with only one weapon. Their frenzies had faded, replaced by a killing calculation far more deadly. Deglan grimaced. Ulfrun may have stood a chance if the bastards had remained berserk. Now they were thinking, watching.

  So was Deglan.

  Bloody Nose was on the left flank with his long knife. He would need to get damn close to harm the giantess. Axes were held by the twins in the center, while Tind, at the right flank, grasped the last sword.

  “Well that is just poetic,” Deglan muttered and made his move.

  The berserkers charged together, going for the kill. Tind never saw Deglan coming. Using both hands to lift Arngrim’s sword, he swung low. Deglan was no warrior, but he was skilled at amputations. The dwarf steel sheered through bone with frightening ease, taking Tind's foot off at the ankle. The man tried to take another step on an appendage that was no longer there and fell face first into the snow.

  The twins swung their axes, but Ulfrun flung her torso backwards, flattening her back nearly to the ground. The berserkers' hews passed harmlessly over the giantess and she sprang back up, snatching the twins' heads in her hands and slamming them together, shattering their skulls. The last man came on, his dirk poised in a downward strike aimed for Ulfrun's eye. Catching his arm, the giantess rolled and before Deglan could blink she had the man pinned beneath her, his head caught behind her knee. Her jaw set firmly, Ulfrun gave a quick jerk of her hips and the muffled sound of a broken neck preceded the pinned man's final twitch.

  Through a face horribly streaked with blood, Ulfrun glared at Deglan. She rose slowly, keeping her transfixed leg stiff.

  “You,” she said, her voice hoarse with pain and exertion. “You deprived me of my Doom.”

  “Oh, come off it!” Deglan groused. “This way you still get to drink, fuck and sing! Besides, you said you were meant to kill them all.” He waved a hand at Tind, whimpering on the ground. “Well, this one still lives. So, you are bloody welcome!”

  “I do not kill helpless, footless men.”

  Deglan could not help himself. He started laughing. “By his own admission, he does not have much of a cock either.”

  A smile cracked Ulfrun's face. “Mayhaps killing him would be a mercy then.”

  The giantess too began to laugh, throwing her head back. Deglan's eyes squinted closed as he gave himself over to grim humor. A sudden, dull, squelching noise caused him to jump slightly, interrupting his laughter. Opening his eyes, Deglan found Hengest dragging his ram-headed staff out of the ruins of Tind's skull. Shards of sticky bones fell from the steel-wrought horns. Deglan gave the dwarf a disgusted look.

  “A poor dee
d,” Hengest admitted. “But necessary. This feud must end here.”

  The runecaster's head turned. Deglan followed his gaze.

  Arngrim Crow Shoulders had crawled to the carnage. He struggled to each of his sons, one by one, placing a hand on their still, broken forms. He was weeping.

  At last, he came to Tind and cradled his gory head.

  “End me,” the warlord pleaded, tears mixing with his son's blood.

  “As you wish,” Hengest said. “But it shall not be my hand. Your father had a gift, Arngrim. He was friend to the valrôka.”

  Deglan heard a caw from behind and turned. What he saw caused him to curse and take a step back.

  The escarpment was suddenly choked with scores of large crows. Their heads were cocked downward, staring at Arngrim with unsettling keen eyes. Deglan had not even heard them alight, but there they perched, nearly covering the stones, a mass of croaking, restless black.

  “We runecasters also know the language of the valrôka,” Hengest continued. “They were pleased to hear that the man who has hunted them ceaselessly, worn their feathers upon his back with disdainful pride, would be brought low.”

  Crow Shoulders looked up at the escarpment, his black beard full of frost and frozen tears. He stared at the birds dully for a moment, then bowed his head back to his dead son.

  “Come,” Hengest said, motioning to Deglan and Ulfrun.

  They all moved off, the giantess limping.

  Deglan flinched as the sound of fluttering wings filled the air behind him. Angry caws arose in a chorus, accompanied by the high shrieks of a man being torn apart by sharp beaks.

  At last, distance and the howling wind swallowed the terrible noise.

  Deglan stopped and thrust a finger up at Ulfrun. “Sit.”

  The giantess nearly collapsed as she tried to lower herself to the ground. With a deepening frown, Deglan inspected the sword through her leg. “This will need to come out.”

  Ulfrun nodded once, her jaw clenching. Deglan instinctively reached for an herb satchel that was not there. He turned to Hengest. “Have you the craft to stop bleeding?”