The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  Flyn looked about. The main body of riders was gone. With a frustrated jerk, Flyn pulled Coalspur free from the wreckage of the man's ribcage and immediately stalked over to the horse he had felled with the thrown harpoon. The animal lay still now, its limp body pinning the leg of its rider to the blood-darkened snow. The warrior struggled to free himself, gritting his teeth with effort and pain. His eyes widened as Flyn stood over him, then hardened with brave resolve.

  “Where are your fellows taking the gnome?” Flyn demanded.

  The warrior said nothing.

  “Tell me and I will free you,” Flyn said. “You have my word.”

  The man began to mutter through lips taut with pain, but he spoke incomprehensibly in the tongue of the fjordmen. The words were unfathomable to Flyn, but the look on the man's face was unmistakable. Disdainful. Mocking. Resolute.

  “It is against the codes of chivalry to slay a helpless foe,” Flyn told the man, knowing his words would be but gibberish. “But I have not the time to free you. Luck to you this night.”

  To the warrior's credit, he did not fall to whimpering or begging as Flyn walked away.

  The surviving horse had fled, leaving no chance of catching Deglan's captors. The snowfall had grown heavier. It was only a matter of time before the tracks were covered.

  Lost.

  Flyn needed speed and the ability to follow the horsemen once the trail was buried. He needed the storulvir.

  Ingelbert awoke just before dawn, his mind astir. Cold and hungry. Such as it was every morn since he arrived in Middangeard. But there was something else too. Another presence beneath his shivering flesh, the only contents of his grumbling gut.

  Fear.

  Even when warm and well-fed as a boy in the orphanage, Ingelbert often woke instilled with a creeping dread. So too in the Roost, later in life. It was a permanent, woefully familiar feeling that greeted him with each new day. Only with its renewed presence did Ingelbert realize that it had been absent since embarking on this frozen quest. He found the reunion unwelcome.

  Though Ulfrun slept nearby, as well as Fafnir and his dwarrow, Ingelbert felt miserably alone, yet the thought of rousing one of his comrades was equally undesirable. He no longer wished to be here, in this hoary wasteland with these folk. He wished to be away, but the memory of the countless miles they had traveled over unfamiliar country nearly squeezed a sob from his throat. There was no escape lest he attempted to traverse the distance they had come alone. He could not do that, he would starve or succumb to the cold. Perhaps Ulfrun would take him? No, she would laugh in his face and know him for the pusillanimous weakling he was. Ingelbert cast about with rising panic. He did not know what to do.

  His eyes fell upon his satchel, lying upon the palette. He had used it for a pillow, the scrolls and reams of parchment housed within cradling his head. Ingelbert grinned to himself in the bleakness of the morning. Dusty pages were ever a comfort. He had hauled the satchel over the entire journey and grown used to its weight, but had not the time nor inclination to study the contents since leaving Skagen.

  Fighting down another wave of panic, Ingelbert picked up the satchel and placed it in his lap, gently pulling the flap back. The snow was still coming down, and though the trees offered some shelter, Ingelbert did not want to risk any of the loose pages. Only one bound book lay within the satchel. The great green tome. The elven war ledger. Reaching in, Ingelbert removed the book, then set it atop the satchel, raising his knees and making a lectern with his legs. He hunkered over the book, adjusting his cloak so that it fell protectively over the ancient, leather cover.

  Reverently, Ingelbert opened the book, choosing a page towards the exact middle to better distribute the weight across his legs. The elvish runes warmly welcomed his eyes, no longer the ephemeral, shifting mystery they once were. Ironically, he had turned to a list of foodstuffs and he tortured himself reading accounts of field rations. The Pig Iron Rebellion had been a time of great hardship and the armies of the displaced Seelie Court had not eaten well, but even dried fruit and something described as “imperishable loaf” sounded a sumptuous feast to Ingelbert. He imagined the Fae resistance fighters, a thousand years ago, waking in rough camps such as this to face another day of battle and loss. They were dubbed rebels by the Goblin Kings, but in truth, they were fighting to reclaim what was stolen from them. Their island, their lives. It gave Ingelbert a small amount of renewed mettle to know that many throughout history had found themselves opening their eyes to days frightful and foreign. Of course, Airlann had never known Winter, so no elven soldier ever awoke to a morning as cold as this. Still, Ingelbert was warmer now. The presence of the book had calmed his thoughts and his shivering had ceased. Beneath his gaze the runes were a balm, nestled in a reassuring blanket of old pages.

  As he continued to read, he noticed with dismay that one of the symbols was distorted. He had been so careful to keep the snow from falling upon the book, but a stray flake must have drifted past his cloak, settling on the page to melt and sully the ancient ink. Carefully, Ingelbert went to blot the offending spot with the cuff of his shirt, but when the wool touched the page, nothing changed. There was no moisture. Even now, the rune was continuing to change, the distortion spreading to the surrounding runes. Was the protection spell reasserting itself, returning the contents of the book to the cipher that foiled Ingelbert for so long? No, the opposing page remained unchanged. The change was isolated, contained, a few runes coalescing into new shapes, but the language remained discernible. Ingelbert could still read what formed before his eyes, which widened as the runes settled.

  Wake me.

  Beneath these words, the existent letters again began to shift. The runes reformed, the same as before, but there was a slight difference in the movement. A strain. A struggle. Ingelbert could see and feel a great effort as the contents of the book reworked themselves.

  Save me.

  From the edge of camp came a rapid succession of soft thuds, snatching Ingelbert's attention away from the tome. Clutching his cloak tight under his chin, Ingelbert rose slowly, peering in the direction of the sounds. They had ceased almost immediately.

  Three. Ingelbert thought there had been three.

  He waited, standing in a half crouch on his pine mattress, keeping his eyes fixed on the dell's borders as he returned the book to his satchel. In the gloom, he spied movement in the trees and let out a relieved breath when he recognized Skrauti coming back from watch. Ingelbert almost called to him to ask about the noise, but then, mindful of those still slumbering, decided against it. Looping the satchel across his body, Ingelbert hobbled past the fire to meet the approaching dwarf.

  He was only paces away when he saw the arrow buried in Skrauti's throat. Two more shafts were lodged in his chest. The dwarf shambled forward, eyes staring vacantly, his mouth slack, the dirge emerging as a choked mangle from his ruined windpipe. Ingelbert almost cried out, but something punched hard into his shoulder. He heard that same strange thud and was knocked backward onto the earth, forcing the wind out of him in a nauseating rush. Looking over with watering eyes, Ingelbert saw an arrow shaft protruding from his right shoulder, just below the collar bone. Then the pain came. Ingelbert screamed, his cries cut short as another wave of agony forced his jaw to clench.

  Skrauti's corpse was upon him now, grasping at him with horrifying strength, trying to seize his throat. A scything blade struck and the wight's head tumbled from its shoulders. Fafnir appeared and hauled Ingelbert to his feet.

  “Move!” the Chain Maker yelled, pushing Ingelbert towards the deepness of the trees.

  Arrows were raining down upon the camp, arcing over the trees, hissing as they fell. One of the dwarrow porters had been slain before he could rise, his body afoul with shafts. Next to Ingelbert, another fell with an arrow in his leg. Before the poor dwarf could rise, a second took him in the eye. Ingelbert tried to run, but the arrowhead tore into his shoulder as he moved, the pain causing his knees to buckle. A powerful ha
nd grabbed him under his uninjured arm, helped steady him. It was Ulfrun. She too was bleeding and Ingelbert saw arrows sticking out of her upper arm and thigh. Together they made for the shelter of the forest. Ingelbert leaned against a tree and turned back to the dell.

  Near the center, Fafnir stood firm, head and eyes raised skyward, his sword gripped in one hand, a runestone in the other. Arrows began to fly off course, deflected by the wizard's will. Dozens of shafts spun away, but the lightening sky was awash with arrows. Another volley crested the tops of the trees, a swarm loosed from a hundred bows. Ingelbert's heart sank. Too many to ward. Fafnir watched them come and as they began their dreadful descent, the runecaster let forth a wrathful cry, flinging his arms to the side in a gesture of scorn. The tide of arrows parted down the middle, thrown aside with such celerity that they scattered into the upper branches of the trees.

  The porter with the arrow through the eye began to rise as a wight. Fafnir quickly stepped forward and beheaded him with a clean stroke. The remaining three had retrieved their shields and held them aloft against the onslaught of falling missiles, two gathering around Fafnir, the other protecting the recumbent form of Hengest.

  “Remain here,” Ulfrun said.

  The giantess sprinted back into the dell, making straight for Hengest. Fafnir took notice and focused his powers on the arrows falling near her. Ulfrun scooped Hengest off the ground and ran back for the safety of the trees, but another arrow caught her in the shoulder blade as she fled, causing her to grunt, but not to slow her steps. The dwarrow were not far behind. Ingelbert joined them as they fled, leaving the dell behind to dash between the trees. The exertion made him woozy, and he kept a hand pressed to his wound as he ran, trying to staunch the blood flow. The forest was not vast. Soon, a break in the trees appeared ahead, the bright white of a field bathed in snow and morning sun shining between the trunks. As they emerged from the tree line, Ingelbert came to a halt along with his companions.

  The sun was not all that awaited them.

  Warriors were arrayed in the field, draped in cloaks and mail, festooned with weapons. Helms adorned their heads and beards covered their faces, heavy with frost. Ingelbert calculated at least three score were gathered, waiting.

  A trap.

  A low growl issued from Fafnir's throat and he stepped forward, boldly approaching the assembled fjordmen.

  “You are bonded to Arngrim Crow Shoulders?” the Chain Maker demanded harshly, stopping halfway between the tree line and the line of warriors.

  One in the group answered. “Aye. He is our jarl.”

  Fafnir chuckled bitterly at this and Ingelbert was surprised to see him sheath his sword. “Likely he has offered up much treasure to the man who takes my head.”

  “To the man who slays Fafnir Rune-Wise,” the same warrior confirmed, “his weight in hoard.”

  “Much treasure,” Fafnir repeated. “Yet you bring sixty to do a deed that will be rewarded only to one. And twice as many men in the woods behind, coming up on us even now. Many men for the weight of but one to receive as payment. Mayhaps, Crow Shoulders warned many of you would die in this pursuit? A noble jarl, to speak so true.”

  “We do not fear death,” the warrior proclaimed.

  Ingelbert did not doubt it. This was Middangeard. The fjordmen left all their possessions to the firstborn son, leaving the younger issue to seek wealth by the sword. The Tin Isles had long been plagued by the raids of lesser sons seeking their fortune. So it had been for centuries, leaving the fjordmen inured to peril. The chance of one receiving a chest of rings and jewels was enough to inspire a hundred.

  “You fear not death as an end,” Fafnir said. “But what if it is not your end?” The wizard gestured back to the trees with a sweep of his arm. “Even now, one of my kindred lies dying. My own apprentice. Should he breathe his last while any of you lay slain, he will rise and call you from death with his song. Three of my loyal dwarrow yet live! Each of us that falls will become vættir and you, dead men, will not be deaf to our dirge. You too will rise. You fear not death, but to become draugr, is that a curse you dare court?”

  Ingelbert watched a ripple of uncertainty pass through the warriors. Draugr was the name given to the walking dead of mortal man, a tragic offshoot of the vættir. They did not heed the Corpse Eater's call, but despised life as much as the dead dwarrow which spawned them.

  The spokesman for Arngrim's men stepped forward, brandishing his axe. “Dwarrow do not rise if they have no head. We will just be sure to cut yours off before you die.”

  “Severing heads will be difficult with blades so dull,” Fafnir said, raising a fist. A crumbling substance fell from the runecaster's clenched fist, staining the snow beneath a dingy orange. Ingelbert detected the distinct odor of rust upon the air. A rapid crepitation emitted from the warriors' weapons, causing several to let sword and axe fall from their hands in alarm as the blades were suddenly, violently, blunted. Fafnir opened his hand, allowing the wind to snatch the pile of powdery rust from his fingers, leaving only a glowing runestone behind.

  “Now,” the wizard intoned, drawing his sword once more. “Who will be the first to come try and take my head?”

  The dwarrow porters rushed out to stand beside their lord, spears leveled. Ulfrun lay Hengest upon the ground, leaving him in Ingelbert's care with a nod, then strode out to join the dwarrow. She bristled with arrows and bled as she walked, but her steps did not falter. Flexing her fingers, the giantess took position behind the dwarrow.

  The fjordmen faltered, the loquacious one stepping back amongst his comrades.

  “You!” Fafnir cried, singling the man out with a point of his sword. “Tell Arngrim Crow Shoulders that his pernicious deeds will not be forgotten. He dares to assault my people, raze our Warden Trees, to despoil our hallowed ground, to make war on me! I will remember! I will remember the pitiful, mewling mortal suckling that dared to so slight the dwarrow. And before his short life ends, I will exact the measure of these injuries upon him and his line.” The wizard gestured dismissively with his outstretched blade. “Leave here and take you that message to your jarl. Or stand firm and I will merrily seed this frozen ground with your skulls.”

  Ingelbert swallowed hard, waiting for the men to make their choice. The tension drew on for what seemed an endless string of pounding heartbeats, then one of the fjordmen bent and snatched his fallen sword aggressively from the snow.

  “Fucking dwarrow,” he cursed, then cuffed the man next to him hard with an elbow, encouraging him to pick up his own dropped weapon. He did so, and then they all began to rearm themselves, their fury growing with each hand filled with iron.

  So. It would be blood.

  The fjordmen charged, screaming as they churned the snow. Above the howling, Ingelbert heard a clatter as the dwarrow porters locked their shields. Ulfrun widened her stance, her sinewy legs bending to receive the charge. The giantess and the runecaster were formidable, but they were still outnumbered more than ten to one.

  The fjordmen covered the distance and Ingelbert heard their weapons strike the dwarrow shields. The group enveloped Fafnir's band and soon all were lost from sight, save Ulfrun, who had turned to face the men attacking at the rear. With a vicious backhand she sent a man careening over his fellows, his feet leaving the ground. He fell hard to the snow and did not rise. The weapons of the warriors rose and fell about her and Ulfrun's face became a fixed grimace as the blows rained down, but Fafnir's spell was potent and the blunted blades drew no blood. Yet Ingelbert despaired. How long could Ulfrun hold out before she succumbed to the relentless bludgeoning?

  A snapping sound came from behind Ingelbert. He froze, holding his breath. More sounds of movement came through the woods. Many footsteps, moving without concern for furtiveness. The archers, come to join their fellows. Sinking to his knees beside the still form of Hengest, Ingelbert squeezed his eyes shut and waited for a final arrow in the back.

  A low panting settled around him and Ingelbert opened his eye
s to find himself surrounded by storulvir. The great wolves stared attentively at the battle in the field ahead.

  “The Chain Maker's gone and found himself another fight.”

  Ingelbert turned towards the rough voice and found Kàlfr the Roundhouse standing behind him, the greataxe propped on his shoulder covered with gore. Thorsa stood next to her lover, her own blade bloody. Blood was also in her flaxen hair and splattered across her flushed face. The Bone Chewers each had a crazed look in their eyes, a suffusion of violent passions, barely contained. Kàlfr's corded muscles were swollen with power, his bare torso steaming in the cold. An arrow was lodged in Thorsa's brigandine, just below the breast, but the she-dwarf took no notice of it. The maws of the surrounding wolves were stained a grisly pink. Ingelbert surmised he had no more to fear from the archers who ambushed their camp.

  He shot a glance back to the battle. Ulfrun still stood, swatting her foes aside with a purloined shield.

  “Help them,” Ingelbert pleaded, casting a look at the Bone Chewers.

  “Not why we are here,” Kàlfr said simply.

  He and Thorsa approached, setting their weapons down and picking Hengest up off the ground. Together they draped him across the back of one of the storulvir, Thorsa keeping a steadying hand on her unconscious husband. She looked out across the field, her eyes blazing with intoxicated triumph.

  “Come,” she said. “Let us go.”

  Kàlfr grunted an assent and retrieved their weapons.

  Ingelbert snatched at his arm. “You cannot leave them to die!”

  The Roundhouse smiled through his fiery beard, relishing the moment. “Fafnir believes in a fated end. Let him discover if this is his.”

  The bald dwarf broke free of Ingelbert's grasp without effort and began to walk away, Thorsa and his wolves following.

  Ingelbert clutched his wounded shoulder and, with a groan of pain, lurched to his feet.

  Ulfrun still battled on. Men lay broken around her, but far fewer than those that still stood. With great effort, Ingelbert turned his back on her and went after the Bone Chewers.