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

by Jonathan French

  A rock, hidden beneath the snow, caught Ingelbert's foot, tripping him up. The tumble was not painful, his fall broken by cold, giving powder. As he clambered to his feet, Ingelbert glanced back to see if he could gain any sense of their progress and it was then that he spotted Hakeswaith far behind. The whaler was doing his best to travel in the furrows left by the sleds, but the short man's legs were failing him. Using his harpoon as a walking staff, Hakeswaith made tortuous progress. Ingelbert had forgotten all about him.

  “I told him to stay behind.”

  Ingelbert turned and found Flyn had also stopped to look back. The coburn's feathers were crusted with frost.

  “It will do no good to wait on him,” the knight went on. “Compassion means nothing to a man such as that.”

  Taking a deep breath, Ingelbert turned and continued to march, suddenly grateful for his long legs. Ulfrun had been right. His Middangearder blood was serving him well. Flyn waited for him to catch up before moving on. They traveled side by side for some time, neither speaking, saving their breath for the next high drift.

  “I was lamenting my loss of armor,” Flyn said at last, his laugh sounding more like a tired exhalation. “Now, I find its absence a blessing.”

  “It is a balm to know you, too, find this a tribulation,” Ingelbert admitted.

  “I am woefully mortal,” Flyn chuckled, unhooking one arm from his sword long enough to dust some of the white flakes from his chest. “You know that better than most.”

  Ingelbert pondered this for a moment. “In truth, I do not, do not know you at all, Sir Flyn.”

  The coburn looked over at him, squinting against the wind. The gusts caused what was left of his wattle to shake.

  “You have the right of it, of course,” Flyn said after a brief consideration. He faced forward again before continuing. “I have heard that old warriors see enemies everywhere. I am not yet old, and often behold friends where perhaps I should not.”

  “It was not my intent to imply that we, that we are enemies.”

  Flyn waved that off with good spirits. “No, no. Clearly, not enemies. But not yet trusted friends. I understand. However, we both serve the Valiant Spur. I have saved your life and you, in turn, saved mine. You discovered Pocket’s secret and chose to help protect it, same as I. And we both have bloodthirsty barbarians for fathers. So, we may not be friends, Ingelbert Crane, but I think you would be hard-pressed to deny we are brothers.”

  The young knight had said all of this casually, his tone never wavering from the carefree way he so often used to express himself. And yet, Ingelbert felt the weight of the words. Flyn’s whimsy contained an earnest fidelity, his admitted ease with forming kinships no longer a flippancy, but a well-wrought strength.

  Ingelbert discovered he was grinning in a bemused, and possibly gormless, manner.

  “Brothers?” he said.

  Flyn shrugged beneath the weight of his sword. “Perhaps not. I was raised by gypsies. I see family everywhere, too.”

  They both released tired chuckles and spent a long time talking, no longer concerned with the travails of the march. Ingelbert pressed Flyn further regarding his time with the Tsigani. The knight spoke fondly of Milosh and his bear, and especially of the girl, Tsura. For his part, Ingelbert told of his time at the Dried Tear and of his mentor, Parlan Sloane. The crunch of snow beneath their feet mixed with their palaver of the past, and Ingelbert forgot about his numb toes.

  During a lull in the conversation, Flyn paused for a moment and scanned the surrounding land.

  “Wherever the wizard leads us, it is passing strange we have encountered no settlements.”

  “Upon my maps,” Ingelbert breathed, “Middangeard is many times the size of Sasana, Kymbru and Albain put together. And I suspect Fafnir is purposefully, ah, avoiding others.”

  “You think he has enemies?”

  “It is only logical,” Ingelbert replied.

  Flyn frowned, but did not appear overly troubled. “We have taken up his quest, which means we have also inherited his foes, and I do not relish being kept ignorant of those I may need to fight. Pardon me, Master Crane, while I go speak with our self-appointed guide.”

  Flyn quickened his pace and outdistanced Ingelbert with ease. Armor or no, the young knight's vitality was impressive. He soon caught up with Fafnir, and Ingelbert could see they began to converse, but could not make out the words. He was too tired to send Gasten over to listen in, and it would be a near impossible task with them on the move. For now, Ingelbert placed all his focus on his feet, one before the other, and hoped that soon his steps would lead him to warmth and respite.

  Fafnir signaled a halt when the sky began to darken. They made camp within a cluster of pines, though the porters were careful to lay the fire under open sky, lest a sudden snowfall from the laden branches douse the flames. The dwarrow muttered to each other intermittently in their lilting language as they made preparations, and soon a stew was simmering in a pot over the fire.

  Ingelbert lowered himself down on stiff legs next to the fire, reveling in its heat. It was some time before he was brave enough to remove his boots. He had only read about frostbite, but the descriptions had been clear. He found the affliction much easier to read about than to look upon, squeezing his eyes shut at the sight of his blue-black toes, and against the awful pain that made itself known the instant he beheld his stricken flesh.

  “Buggery and spit,” Deglan hissed as he waddled over to sit down. “I have something for that. Give me a moment to boil it up.”

  “No need,” came a voice from behind them.

  Ingelbert turned to find Fafnir approaching. The dwarf stepped around and knelt in front of him, drawing forth two small, irregular shaped stones from his pouch. Keeping the stones in the palm of one broad hand, Fafnir scooped up a handful of snow and clenched his fist tight. Ingelbert saw steam escape from between the wizard's fingers, and when he opened his fist only the stones lay within, fiery sigils now glowing fiercely upon them. Ingelbert had seen one of the runes when Fafnir had knit his broken arm. The other was unfamiliar, though it was certainly akin to those in the green elf tome. Ingelbert fought the urge to recoil as Fafnir reached for one of his agonizing feet, pressing the stones into the sole. The pain fled, replaced by a pleasant warmth and within moments, Fafnir removed his hands. The frostbite had fled, leaving only pink, healthy skin behind.

  “This is Help,” Fafnir said, holding up one of the stones, then the other. “And this Protection. Tomorrow you shall not suffer so.” He quickly treated the other foot, then stood, placing the runestones back into his pouch.

  “My thanks,” Ingelbert said, rubbing his mended toes.

  The runecaster nodded, and without another word, walked away from the fire. Ingelbert spent several moments in sublime relief. He felt Deglan's eyes on him and looked over to see the gnome scowling at his feet.

  “It doesn't stink,” the herbalist complained. “Real healing should stink. Poultices. Salves. Ointments. Unguents. Teas. They smell, that's how you know they are working.” The gnome became more agitated with every word and cast a baleful eye at the two dwarrow tending the stewpot. “Hoary bastards. Even their food has no aroma.” He leaned forward to address the porters. “When. You. Cook. Food. It. Should. Smell.”

  The dwarrow looked at Deglan with a mixture of annoyance and confusion, then went back to their work.

  “You can put something pungent on my feet, if it will keep you from grousing,” Flyn said amiably as he sat down.

  Deglan cast a critical eye at Flyn's talons. “Your damn chicken feet are just fine.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Fafnir says we are bound for a place called the Fatwood,” Flyn said, ignoring the gnome's sour mood. “We will reach it tomorrow.”

  “And then?” Ingelbert asked.

  Flyn shrugged. “That was all I could get out of him.”

  When the sun did finally set, their bellies were full and their bodies warm. The dwarrow stew had been almost a
s tasteless as it was odorless, containing mostly turnips, carrots and the fat of some animal, but it was hot and plentiful, serving well enough to stave off hunger and chill. There was mead also, which the dwarrow doled out from a sizable jug. Ulfrun did not seem satisfied with her ration, so Ingelbert offered her his horn. She accepted it with relish, easing herself down next to him.

  “Be warned,” she said with a wink. “It takes more than two horns of poet's draught to herd me into bed.”

  “No, um, no,” Ingelbert tried to protest. “That is not, uh, not why I, um, not why I offered it to you.”

  The giantess smiled as she pressed the horn to her lips, delighted by his discomfort. After a deep pull, which must have nearly drained the vessel, she exhaled with great satisfaction, looking up through the branches into the night sky.

  This close, it was impossible to deny she was the most impressive being Ingelbert had ever beheld, the savage menace of her race diffused over every part of her form. The size and strength of Hafr had been threatening, but with Ulfrun it was captivating. Ingelbert was struck by how at ease she seemed, so comfortable out in the cold night, far from anything resembling safety or community. She had donned no additional garments since leaving Skagen, and as the bare skin exposed at her shoulders, stomach and legs seemed unaffected by the frost, so too did her demeanor seem invulnerable to despair. Untouchable.

  Glancing about, Ingelbert saw that his friends were already slumbering, Deglan on one of the sleds, cocooned in furs, and Flyn on the other side of the fire. Fafnir had long retired into the small pavilion erected by Skrauti. Only Hakeswaith and two of the porters remained awake, the whaler having found enough common speech to enter into some dice game with the dwarfs at their own smaller fire on the far side of the camp.

  “Ulfrun?” Ingelbert ventured. “What, um, what can you tell me of this place we are bound?”

  “The Fatwood,” Ulfrun replied, sucking at her teeth, “is an old forest. Much diminished now, it once covered a large stretch of these lands. This,” she indicated the surrounding trees with a rolling finger, “was once a part of it. The svartálfar hid one of their barrows in the deepness of the forest, long ago.” The giantess laughed darkly. “A hill housing hundreds of headless dead.”

  Ingelbert shuddered. “And what of the, uh, the lower meadows?”

  Ulfrun cast a quizzical eye at him.

  “It is, um, something I overheard the Chain Maker say,” Ingelbert clarified.

  “The lower meadows?” Ulfrun ran a hand through her knife-cut hair, then her confused expression slackened. “Ah! Your dworgmál is good, but not yet flawless. The Downward Fields is surely what you heard.”

  “The Downward Fields,” Ingelbert repeated, nodding as he realized the error in his translation. “Yes, certainly that was it.”

  “It is a place sacred to the svartálfar,” Ulfrun told him casually. “To my ken, none but their own kind has ever set foot there.”

  “I think Fafnir intends to take us.”

  “Perhaps,” Ulfrun shrugged carelessly. “That one is known throughout Middangeard for wildness of thought.”

  “You think he is mad?”

  Ulfrun found the question amusing, and fixed Ingelbert with a brilliant smile. “All who hold fast to belief are mad.”

  “Then why do you follow him?”

  “For good or ill,” the giantess replied, “conviction shapes the world. Protecting whores does not, though I loved them. I grew weary of sitting upon my rump.” She winked at him again. “Finely shaped as it is.”

  Ingelbert quickly grew uncomfortable with her bold gaze.

  “I should, uh, I should seek repose,” he told her.

  “You,” Ulfrun replied, cocking her head toward him, but returning her gaze to the sky, “should tell me a story.”

  “Um, a story?”

  Ulfrun nodded grandly. “Singing would not be welcome amongst this slumbering lot. And...what do you call the svartálfar? Dwarrow? They are a dour bunch, besides. And methinks it is an ill thing to have honeyed drink without honeyed words. They call you Inkstain. The blood of books. And heavy do you encumber yourself with lore-traps. Surely you know a worthy lay to delight me this night.”

  “What, uh, what kind of story?”

  “Great deeds of blood and battle delight me most,” Ulfrun replied. “Noble sacrifice upon the fields of war. The din of spears breaking upon shields. Honor and glory and the passing of great chieftains.” She flicked her large, laughing eyes at him. “And if you do not know such a tale, Inkstained Crane, then a debauched one will suffice. Filled with the lusts of strong men and the coaxed sighs of supple maidens.”

  Ingelbert swallowed hard.

  “Um...”

  EIGHTEEN

  They reached the Fatwood before the following morning was old. If Fafnir had not announced their arrival, Flyn would have taken the place for just another woodland, albeit larger than any hitherto discovered.

  “It's nothing but a grove of firs,” Deglan griped from his sled.

  “Bloody big grove, Staunch,” Flyn said, staring across the white field separating them from the forest, taking in the march of the trees into the distant upcountry beyond.

  The dwarrow porters dropped the guide ropes to the sleds when Fafnir called a halt, quickly retrieving broad-bladed spears from the baggage. They were nothing like the weapons Flyn had trained with as a squire. He doubted they were meant to be thrown, so heavy was their construction.

  Skrauti directed his fellows to take up positions around the sleds, which they did with practiced efficiency. Fafnir approached his minion and they exchanged some quick words in the dwarf tongue, then he turned and addressed the group.

  “I will venture in with the foretold three,” Fafnir told them. “The rest will remain here.”

  “Bugger that,” Deglan proclaimed, hopping down from his sled. “I am going, too.”

  “Master Loamtoes,” the runecaster said wearily, “this need not concern you.”

  Deglan tossed his hand around, pointing. “This beast my friends are supposed to kill? This Corpse Eater? She within that forest?”

  “No,” Fafnir said curtly.

  Deglan seemed satisfied by that answer. “Well then, it concerns them no more than me. I'm going.”

  The Chain Maker remained resolute. “You will only slow us down.”

  “If I do, you can leave me behind,” Deglan challenged.

  Fafnir looked the gnome over, then turned away and began walking into the wood without another word wasted.

  Flyn caught Deglan's eye. “Happy?”

  “Not since the Age of Summer,” the gnome replied bitterly, then turned to cast a sardonic grin at Hakeswaith. “Heel!”

  The whaler spat between his teeth, but otherwise did not budge. “You either coming out of there with the rest, stunty, or you're not coming out at all. Either way, I've a mind to stay right here.”

  “Sit,” Deglan told him and began waddling towards the forest.

  The expanse of snowy field leading to the Fatwood's edge was barely a bowshot in length, but soon Fafnir's words came true and Flyn noticed Deglan was struggling. Ulfrun and Inkstain had no such difficulty, the long legs of the man and the even longer legs of the giantess bearing them steadily across the drifts. Flyn was certain they too were aware of the gnome's difficulty, but both knew better than to coddle him, so they continued on without slowing. Flyn adopted a careless pace to stay even with Deglan, hoping his little ruse would not earn him a berating. Thankfully, the herbalist allowed the gesture to go unchallenged and, slowly, the two of them reached the tree line.

  A sudden wave of disquiet passed through Flyn's veins as soon as they crossed the forest's boundaries, a chill in his veins that was divorced from the wind. He had felt similar apprehension when he returned to Gallus' clutch, but that was born from within, pawing at him from his guts. This present sensation seemed to lick at him from the very air. Looking down, he detected a ripple of nervousness on the gnome's face
as well.

  “Nothing but a grove of firs?” Flyn asked.

  “Shut up and draw that big damn sword,” Deglan replied.

  Flyn did as the gnome suggested, freeing Coalspur from its scabbard and slinging the harness back over his shoulder. The smoky metal of the blade defied the foreboding closeness of the trees, and Flyn was comforted by the weight of the weapon in his hands. Still, there remained a sinister hush to the wood, an unnatural stillness to the branches above, as if the trees cowered away from something lurking in their midst.

  Ulfrun and Inkstain were already well into the wood by the time Flyn and Deglan caught up to them. The pair stood looking down at broad footprints in the snow, leading deeper into the heart of the forest. The only sign of Fafnir.

  “Bastard really does want to leave me behind,” Deglan snorted.

  “If there is any peril ahead,” Ulfrun said, “I believe the Chain Maker wishes to meet it first.”

  “Ahead?” the gnome exclaimed. “There is peril all around. Can't you feel it?”

  Ulfrun nodded. “The Fatwood is old. Long has it hosted a throng of the dead against the very nature of a forest, which is life itself.” There was no fear upon her face as she spoke, but Flyn noticed her usually relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced with a calm alertness.

  “Well then let's bloody well get on, so we can get out,” Deglan barked.

  “I will lead,” Flyn said, then looked up at the giantess. “Ulfrun. Rear guard?”

  “Aye.”

  Flyn followed Fafnir's tracks, the phantoms of the dwarf's steps leading directly through the snow-covered bracken without care for finding an easier route. Clearly, the wizard was driven by a single-minded purpose. Soon, the branches grew thick overhead and the snow underfoot sparse. The ground dipped downward in a long, meandering crease across the forest floor. Flyn dug his talons into the frost-hardened turf as he descended, reaching back to steady Deglan, who skidded along behind him. The gnome offered no protest, gripping Flyn's forearm with one hand, the other raised behind for balance. Flyn paused halfway down the slope to allow the herbalist a chance to rest, and to glance back uphill at Inkstain and Ulfrun. Neither were having much difficulty, so Flyn pressed on. They came to the bottom of the slope to find a near frozen brook nestled in the gully. Here, Fafnir's tracks vanished entirely. Flyn searched the banks and the facing of the opposite slope, but could find no evidence of the dwarf.