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

by Jonathan French

  The runecaster paled slightly, his face growing dubious, but he set his jaw and removed a runestone from his bag. “I will do what I can, but we should get her to Fafnir.”

  “Where is Flyn?” Deglan demanded, probing the skewered flesh around the blade.

  “Within the peaks beyond the Gale,” Hengest answered.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were on his trail,” Ulfrun put in, “but were forced to divert when we caught sight of Arngrim's forces.”

  With a practiced yank, Deglan pulled the blade free. A sharp intake of breath was the only sound the giantess made in response to the pain. Deglan stepped back and allowed Hengest to go to work with his Magic. The blood flow ebbed slightly, but only the wound made by the blade's exit at the back of Ulfrun's leg fully closed. After a time, Hengest stepped back.

  “That is all I can do,” he said, his expression contrite.

  “Much improved, Half-Rune,” Ulfrun said, standing slowly. “My thanks.”

  The giantess still bled from a dozen deep cuts and she seemed unsteady on her feet. Deglan stifled a growl in his throat. There was nothing for it. Without his medicines, he was powerless to help her.

  “We need to get to Fafnir,” he said

  “He goes to confront the husk sorcerer,” Hengest told him.

  “His name is Slouch Hat,” Deglan said. “And he has an army of dead men.”

  “We saw,” Ulfrun said, her voice shuddering as she put weight on her leg.

  “Does the Chain Maker have a way of fighting nearly a thousand draugr?” Deglan snapped.

  Hengest seemed to find the question amusing. “He has Ingelbert Crane.”

  THIRTY ONE

  Fafnir gave the signal to move as soon as Arngrim and his men left the plateau. Deglan and the captive coburn went with them.

  “The fjordmen have taken the bait,” the Chain Maker said.

  Ingelbert was relieved to see that none of the draugr went with them. Hengest and Ulfrun had a difficult enough task. Inwardly, Ingelbert had doubted the efficacy of this plan, but it appeared all was now proceeding as Fafnir predicted. With the jarl and his warriors drawn away, there was a chance to deal with the greater threat. Ingelbert followed the dwarf away from the ridge that had been their vantage, losing sight of the plateau as they hurried down the slope.

  “Make haste, Master Crane,” Fafnir insisted needlessly.

  Ingelbert allowed the slope to speed his descent, sliding more than stepping, keeping a hand on the steep grade behind to help steady and steer. The dwarrow wizard, despite his shorter stature, still out-paced him.

  The Chain Maker had burned with a fierce energy since finding two of his daughters beheaded on Flyn's trail. Their final demise, as well as their respectful arrangement, was clearly the work of the young knight. Fafnir had stared at their decapitated forms for a moment, then stooped to brush the fresh snowfall from their faces.

  “Finna. Eilíf. Go you to deserved rest, my loves.”

  The bodies were those of Fafnir's eldest daughter and his youngest. Eilíf still had the appearance of a girl. Ingelbert had looked away then, feeling he intruded on the dwarf's grief. His eyes met Ulfrun's and they shared a silent commiseration. What torture to bid farewell twice. Nearby, Hengest regarded the bodies with an odd mixture of sorrow and relief.

  After a time, Fafnir stood, keeping his back turned as he spoke.

  “It is strange that I should grieve for those that were already dead,” the Chain Maker said. “I know this. I ended their lives long ago, but the guilt of my deed never leaves me. The prophecy, however, demanded I find some peace or I would not have been able to continue, and so I resigned myself to my daughters' end centuries ago. Until I encountered you.”

  Fafnir turned and looked directly at Ingelbert. His eyes burned with anger, but his voice was full of a strange, morose wonder. Ignoring Hengest and Ulfrun completely, Fafnir continued.

  “Your first display of sorcery was returning an owl to life. Such power is unfathomable, especially in mortal man. And only days ago, I beheld your banishment of the Warden Tree, commanding an elven spell to relinquish its purpose. Unknowingly, you had done this before, with the elven ledger, but to come so far, so quickly, surpassed even the vast gift I saw within you.” Fafnir took a step forward. “There is huldu Magic within you, Master Crane! Since Skagen, a hope has been growing within me, though I resisted its kindling. I dared believe your place in the augury was my own redemption. That you were meant to restore my daughters to life, give them back what I had stolen. It was folly to have such a hope, but I could not resist. I admit, that hope still burns, but now, for Finna and Eilíf, it matters not. My fragile wish for them is forever beyond reach. And so I grieve anew.”

  Ingelbert had no words. He could barely meet the dwarf's eye. What could he say? Fafnir's hope was folly. The elven Magic came from the green book, Ingelbert was certain of that now. It channeled power through him, used him as a vessel, just as Gasten had done. And the owl had not returned, despite Ingelbert's certainty that he would. It was just as well, for Gasten's influence was prurient and corrupting. His presence was ever a herald of woe. Fafnir would find no resurrection for his lost children while Ingelbert was within that dread bird's sway. They were contrary forces, the book and the owl, and yet they came from the same source. It was as if Ingelbert sat before a blazing fire. The book was the warmth on his skin. Gasten was his flesh burning within the flames. Nurture and destruction. Comfort and calamity. Ingelbert had somehow found himself poised between the disparate dominions of two entities far greater than he. But Fafnir had given his life over entirely to the currents of greater powers, he was a creature of belief. How could he be made to understand?

  “I am not mad,” Fafnir said, seeing Ingelbert's hesitance. His steady gaze faltered, and he flicked looks at the others. “Fate will determine how this ends for us all. But there is a difference between what the Chain Maker knows and what the father wants.”

  Fafnir stalked off then, without another look at the forms of his daughters.

  Mere hours later, Ulfrun had spotted the draugr. They marched through a lower pass, the horde easily visible even through the eddying snow.

  “This stinks of a warlock,” Fafnir muttered, frowning down at the column of dead men. He shot looks at Ingelbert and Hengest. “Can you sense it?”

  Hengest nodded readily, his eyes not leaving the army below. Ingelbert gave no response. Other than a natural sense of foreboding at the sight of the draugr, he felt nothing. Reaching a hand into his satchel, he touched the elven tome. Nothing.

  Though his wizardry would not manifest, nothing prevented Ingelbert from conjuring his knowledge of the past. Warlock was the name given to the human sorcerers who would later become the Goblin Kings. It meant oathbreaker. Long before they ruled Airlann, that was all those wicked men were, traitors and deceivers. The elves were their patient teachers, never suspecting they tutored their own usurpers. At least, not until it was too late. Perhaps, if we had dealt with them as more than unruly pupils, we may have prevented the Usurpation.

  Ingelbert froze. We?

  Slowly, he moved his hand off the tome and out of the satchel. The thought had not been intrusive. On the contrary, it had come naturally. For a moment, history had become memory. Pangs of centuries-old regret still lingered in his heart. He could not sense the warlock, but for a single, connected moment, he had known him.

  “Yes,” Ingelbert said, confirming Fafnir's appraisal. “The sorcery of the Goblin Kings is at work here.”

  Fafnir squinted down at the column. Slowly, his arm came up and he pointed. “There.”

  Ingelbert followed the dwarf's finger to a thin figure at the head of the column. Unlike the throng behind, it bore no weapons or armor. Indeed, so unencumbered was the figure, that it appeared to walk atop the snow, gliding strangely over the drifts, barely needing to bend into the blustery wind.

  “There is a smaller group,” Ulfrun informed
them. “Not a mile ahead of this army. I think it is Crow Shoulders. I believe he has Deglan Loamtoes prisoner.”

  Fafnir turned away from the pass below. “Show me.”

  And so they had spent the day following, watching and planning. Fafnir was eager to vent his furor, but all thoughts of retribution against Arngrim Crow Shoulders seemed to have fled. He only had a mind for the warlock. Ulfrun, too, was overtaken with an obsession for their foes, though her brooding stares were directed down at Arngrim's dozen raiders.

  “What is it?” Ingelbert had asked her, coming to stand by her side. The giantess had barely been able to relax her vigilance while she spoke with him.

  “The hanged man in the Fatwood,” Ulfrun replied. “He spoke of Crow Shoulders' sons. Those twelve below are they. I must bring battle to them.”

  Ingelbert was disquieted by the finality in her voice, but said nothing. Ulfrun would not suffer his worries.

  “I wish you were accompanying me,” she said after a time. Breaking her gaze away from the men below, she turned and smiled at him. “To record the battle, praise my prowess and fury within one of your books.”

  Ingelbert returned the smile. “You shall be beautiful and terrible to behold.”

  “Aye,” Ulfrun breathed. “Luck to you, Inkstained Crane.”

  “And you.”

  Not long after, she had left with Hengest. Within an hour, Crow Shoulders pursued. Now, it was time.

  Ingelbert reached the relative flatness of the plateau a few steps behind Fafnir. The dwarf already had his sword in hand, a runestone clutched in the other fist. The massive whirlwind of the Mother's Gale dominated the sky, raging between the peaks. The plateau was an anvil, unceasingly smote by hammers of wind, kicking up frozen sparks. Squinting against the blizzard, Ingelbert pawed at the hilt of his dagger, but left it sheathed when he saw the assembled draugr, a dense smudge in the swirling white. What good would a dagger, even one of dwarf-make, do against hundreds of dead men?

  As they drew closer, the draugr regarded them with cold, impassive stares. Ingelbert wondered if it was Fafnir's Magic keeping them from attacking, or simply that the sorcerer controlling the army had not yet noticed their approach. His question was answered when the draugr suddenly parted, opening a lane between their ranks and causing Fafnir to pause. That momentary reluctance told Ingelbert that this was not of the runecaster's doing. So, they were expected. The Chain Maker strode boldly through, leaving Ingelbert no choice but to follow. The dead did not try to deter them, but merely turned their heads and bodies to mark their passing. As they emerged from the ranks, the wind abated, as if they had crossed an unseen threshold into a bubble of calm.

  A few dozen paces away, closer to the Gale, stood a pair of figures. The warlock was tall and unnervingly thin, wearing a broad-brimmed hat. Next to him stood a shorter figure, well-bundled against the cold, but Ingelbert could still see a woman's shape beneath her layers of clothing.

  “So, this is what tries to thwart prophecy?” Fafnir snarled, still moving forward. “A straw-stuffed man!”

  Ingelbert saw that it was true. The warlock was a husk, his face a sack with hollow pits for eyes. Ingelbert had only ever seen one other. When he was boy, a troupe of minstrels tarried for a time near the orphanage and their harpist had been a husk of unequivocal skill. The scarecrow now before him was far more sinister than that musician of childhood.

  “I am called Slouch Hat,” the warlock said with a dip of his chin. “We have met before, Fafnir Rune-Wise, though I am sure you do not recall. You wore the guise of a steel-peddler and came to the village of Hog's Wallow, whose elder I served.”

  Fafnir took another step towards the husk. “It was believed you slew the man.”

  Slouch Hat shook his head. “Of that I was guiltless. I have never taken a life.”

  “No,” Fafnir said, his voice dropping low and deadly. “You only throw a pebble and watch the avalanche. My people have suffered and died because of you, hollow man. Crow Shoulders despoiled our barrows at your advice. That much is now plain.”

  “The vættir are dead, dwarf,” Slouch Hat declared briskly. “I have no care for your offended sense of honor.”

  “Our dead slay our living!” Fafnir roared. “They are a threat to all life!”

  “Only until they have been devoured,” Slouch Hat returned without emotion.

  It was Ingelbert's turn to surge forward, offended by the husk's twisted logic.

  “And what of those who stand here?” he demanded, throwing an arm wide at the surrounding draugr. “They are walking corpses where once they were breathing men. Cursed now to living death because they were forced to take axe to the Warden Trees.”

  The husk's abyssal stare regarded Ingelbert from beneath the brim of his hat. “Who are you?”

  The question was unexpected. “I, uh, I am, Ing-Ingelbert Crane.”

  “And what is your purpose, Ingelbert Crane?”

  Recovering his composure, Ingelbert met the husk's calculating gaze. “I am the chronicler to the Knights of the Valiant Spur.”

  Slouch Hat turned slightly towards the woman at his left. “Indeed?”

  “He is far more than that,” Fafnir proclaimed.

  Slouch Hat ignored the dwarf. “The life of a thrall is over the moment they enter bondage, Ingelbert Crane. The fjordmen have a terrible custom of slaying a jarl's servants upon his death. There is no freedom from thralldom, save the end of life. Arngrim Crow Shoulders condemned his slaves to die in the felling of the Wardens. I merely told him the trees must be toppled.”

  “To draw me out?” Fafnir demanded. “It was a clever lie. It may not have worked.”

  “True. But it furthered my aim.”

  Fafnir's glower deepened. “And what is that?”

  “To feed the Corpse Eater,” Slouch Hat replied.

  Fafnir's patience snapped and he nearly charged the husk.

  “Why?” Ingelbert asked quickly, his question stalling the dwarf's anger.

  “In the hopes that she will shed her savagery,” Slouch Hat said, his tone suggesting the answer was obvious. “That she will regain some of her intellect and majesty. At the very least, to elevate her from the dumb beast she has become.”

  Ingelbert's mind worked quickly. He was beginning to find this husk intriguing. “You seek an ally.”

  “That would be useful,” Slouch Hat conceded. “But I will settle for a witness. A voice to tell me the tale of the last of the first Elementals. An account from a being who saw the beginnings of the world and the end of Magic's favor in these lands. A witness to events that must not repeat.”

  Ingelbert's intrigue turned to awe. “You want to prevent Airlann from succumbing to an Age of Winter.”

  The folds of Slouch Hat's face twisted into a disquieting smile. “For a start. I only tell you this in hopes that you will understand my goal as greater than your foretold quest. Abandon your intent to slay the Mother of Gales. I have no wish to harm you.”

  Fafnir chuckled darkly. “It is not our quest to abandon. The foretold slayer of the Corpse Eater is already within her lair.”

  “Poor, deluded prophet,” Slouch Hat scolded. “You have the wrong champion.”

  Ingelbert saw a wrinkle of doubt appear at the corner of Fafnir's eye.

  “My allies hold the true slayer in chains,” the husk continued. “I am sorry, Chain Maker. You have failed. Leave here with your companions and your life. If I can save the poor fool you convinced to march to his death, I will.”

  Waves of heat began to distort the frigid air around Fafnir's fist. Without taking his eyes off Slouch Hat, the dwarf slid the smoldering runestone across the edge of his sword. Steel and stone scraped with a sharp sibilance and the blade burst into flame.

  Fafnir pointed the burning sword at Slouch Hat. “You claim there is no blood on your hands. I say, there will be none on mine when I scatter your dry carcass into the Gale.”

  “The Magic of a runecaster,” Slouch Hat scoffed, addressing t
he woman at his side, his voice instructional. “Such feeble artifice.”

  The husk extended an arm, thin fingers splayed. The flames licking up from Fafnir's sword died as quickly as they ignited. Slouch Hat closed his fingers, seeming to snatch at the air. The blade shattered with such force that Fafnir was thrown to the ground. Ingelbert flung his arms up to protect himself from the flying steel. He was unharmed, but the dwarf was bleeding from scores of small wounds caused by the fragments of his sundered sword. Fafnir's eyes blazed with pain and fury. He stood, a bestial noise rumbling in his throat.

  “Do not,” Slouch Hat warned.

  Fafnir reached into his pouch, drawing forth a pair of stones. He gripped one in each hand, his jaw set with concentration. The ground began to rumble, layers of snow parting as a fissure opened at the runecaster's feet. Ingelbert flung himself backward as hulking shards of ice erupted from the crack, spearing upwards in frightening succession as the fissure snaked towards Slouch Hat.

  The husk watched the ice charge him, his only motion to calmly push the woman away from his side. The shards came within a hands-breadth of the warlock before violently reversing course, surging back across the trench which birthed them, back to towards their conjurer. Ingelbert shouted a wordless warning at Fafnir, but the dwarf did not budge. Arms flung back, the runecaster leaned forward, bellowing defiantly as he tried to halt his own spell. The ice slammed into him, unchecked, shattering with the impact. Fafnir was flung into the air and landed amongst the draugr.

  “Enough!” Ingelbert yelled at the husk.

  “He dooms himself with his stubbornness,” Slouch Hat replied.

  Heedless of the dead men, Ingelbert ran to the fallen dwarf. He still lived, but his breath was ragged, his eyes unfocused.

  “Destroy him,” Fafnir wheezed.

  Ingelbert shook his head uselessly. “I cannot.”

  The Chain Maker groaned, struggling to rise. Ingelbert heard the husk's voice drift through the press of draugr.

  “Yield, Fafnir Rune-Wise. I cannot allow you to delay me further. Yield, or I must leave you to the dead.”