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

by Jonathan French

  The chair was empty.

  Half a dozen pullets occupied the platform, squatting behind the chair where Gallus' pile of sleeping furs lay. The females cast glances down at Wynchell, their faces full of a nervous curiosity. Approaching carefully, he mounted the stairs of the platform, keeping his hammer poised before him in both hands. He had never in his life set foot upon the platform. As his head drew even with the floor he saw the pullets clustered around the furs. They drew back when he reached the top and Wynchell froze.

  The thing upon the bed was bald and reeking. What feathers remained clung to the mottled flesh in greasy patches. A festering poultice covered the flaccid belly, saturated with gangrenous fluids.

  “Gallus,” Wynchell called at the emaciated wretch upon the furs.

  The once mighty tyrant gurgled and gagged, trying to look towards the sound of his name, but his eyes were burned blind by fever. Staring in morbid fascination, Wynchell tried to recall the last time he had seen the old bird. So obsessed was he with his plotting and preparation, he had not fully realized his tormentor's absence. He knew Gallus was recovering from the battle with Flyn, accepting it would only be a matter of time before he was once again hunting and rutting with the same vigor as always. In Wynchell's mind, Gallus was simply reclined in his hall, being nursed by his mates and taking his ease. Only it was not so.

  Gallus was not recovering. He was dying. The gut wound from Sir Flyn's blade had never healed and slowly ate the tyrant from within.

  Glancing about, Wynchell saw the females looking at him, some with fear, some with menace. One approached with a bronze skinning knife in hand.

  “This day was near,” she told Wynchell, gesturing down at Gallus with the blade. “Old as he is, it was coming soon, fight or no. We could not have that young strut claim us. Be years upon years afore he died, and us under his talons through all of them.”

  “Will you try and claim us?” another of the pullets asked boldly, standing to brandish a hide-scraper. “Suffer the same as the pretty one, if you do.”

  Wynchell looked back at Gallus, his head shaking slowly.

  “No,” he said at last. “No, I am leaving.”

  Turning away, Wynchell descended the stairs. A young beldam, lacking the grit of her elders, timidly grabbed at him. “What shall we do?” she asked, her voice hushed and fearful.

  “Stop waiting for him to die,” Wynchell replied, pointing with his beak to the platform above. “Cut his throat. Take the clutch. Rule yourselves.”

  With that he left the fetid hall.

  Now, the river was before him. Wynchell followed it for days, keeping a course roughly northward, wondering how long it would take to reach Albain. Could he even find the Roost? He hunted and fished when he could, eating better than he had under Gallus' niggardly ways. He slept beside campfires under the stars, and soon, the desire to look over his shoulder fled. No one would be pursuing him. Gallus was dead, and so was Wynchell's old life.

  On the fourth day, a boat appeared from behind a bend in the river at Wynchell's back. He stood upon the bank and watched it approach. Ignorant of the world and not knowing what else to do, he raised a hand in greeting, expecting the vessel to sail by, but he received two surprises. The second was that the boat pulled close to shore and dropped anchor, the smiling man aboard offering him passage. The first was the large animal sitting in the bow.

  Wynchell loosed a puzzled breath. “A bear on a boat.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost, I would like to thank every person who read The Exiled Heir. For those who went the extra mile and posted a review, you’re the best! If you, dear reader, continued on to this book, I am doubly thankful. Without readers, all of this is just a hobby. You guys make it a profession, which for me is a dream.

  Expressing gratitude to individuals has only one pitfall: the inevitable neglect of at least one person who rightly deserves mention, but fails to get it due to the weary and numb brain of an author at the end of a 2-year journey to publication. For those worthies who do not see their names here, forgive me.

  To the guys of my gaming group: Rich, Thomas, Jacob, Ryan and Vas. Thanks for helping me blow off steam. Hopefully, we will roll some dice again soon.

  Respectful mention to the late, great Pete Postlethwaite whose genius acting inspired a certain foul whaler.

  Much thanks to Christopher West, whose artwork continues to draw people towards the world of Autumn’s Fall.

  To those in my extended family who read The Exiled Heir unsolicited and reached out with kind words.

  To Ivan Zanchetta, who once again provided a stunning cover.

  Heartfelt appreciation to my test-readers; Matt Gale, James MacMurray, Chelsea Voulgares, Brad Starnes, and Rob Strickland. Their honest and keen critiques forced me to rethink, rewrite and (hopefully) improve this tale.

  An extra hat-tip must go out to Rob, my dear friend, whose creation of Hafr at the gaming table not only inspired the character in this book, but ultimately led to the inception of Ulfrun, for which I am very grateful.

  Of course, to Mom. Thanks for patiently reading the work in progress, chapter by chapter. Thank you for accepting me and these yarns of mine, and for loving us unconditionally, flaws and all.

  Unfathomable love to Wyatt, my little boy, for saving my life on the day he was born and many days since.

  And finally, I must express mountains of gratitude to my wife, Liza, for weathering this sophomore effort. I certainly manifested every aspect of the suffering writer while recording this errantry. True to all vows, she hung in there as I took up the pen for the second time, this time with the added burden of parenting. Liza, thank you for reading, for plotting, for questioning, for enduring. And thank you for insisting I keep Hengest in the story! Of the nearly 450,000 words I have written, you have read them all, but these three are the most important: I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Tennessee, Jonathan began reading comics at an early age. (Conan the Barbarian Annual #11 was his first.) His love of fiction, folklore and by-gone days was further fueled when his family relocated to the United Kingdom. At the age of nine, Jonathan found himself crawling over castle ramparts, visiting old churchyards and marveling at towering cathedrals. He returned to the U.S. as a teenager where he survived parochial school and a rebellious year in New York City (where he unknowingly met his future wife), before earning his degree from Brevard College in the captivating wilds of Western North Carolina. After developing the world of Autumn's Fall, Jonathan moved to Chicago where he began writing in earnest. His greatest literary influences are Robert E. Howard and Lloyd Alexander. He currently resides in Atlanta with his wife, son and two cats. More Autumn’s Fall is on the way!

  Visit him at www.exiledheir.com