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

by Jonathan French

  The farmers and herdsmen emerging from the corridor behind struck out in different directions, taking the various tracks and paths that crisscrossed the landscape. As he watched them, Flyn began to notice other dwarrow working in the fields, sowing, reaping, harvesting, working the land and receiving its bounty.

  “Well, now we know why the place is so named,” Flyn said, leaning towards Inkstain. “Magic, I presume?”

  The chronicler merely nodded, his eyes capturing the view.

  “It is ancient Magic, Sir Flyn,” Hengest told him. “A simple accomplishment for elf-kind, but we svartálfar have long been divested of such craft. Our ancestors, newly severed from the huldu, had the forethought to protect this resource. Now we can but preserve it, and protect it. It is the last such wonder in all of Middangeard. There will never be another of its ilk.”

  Ulfrun grunted. “Middangeard is Winter's thrall. Within our ever-frozen land, there are none who would not kill for this.”

  Flyn saw both Fafnir and Hengest struggle not to cast a distrusting look at the giantess. Only the younger runecaster succeeded.

  “That is why we so jealously guard it,” Fafnir told her, a shadow of threat in his voice.

  Ulfrun took no umbrage at the Chain Maker's tone, nor was she cowed. She continued to stare boldly across the Downward Fields, surveying the land with an appreciative eye.

  “Let us be on our way,” Hengest suggested.

  They set off across the fields, quickly embarking upon one of the trails. The cavern was colder than Hriedmar's Hall, yet nothing like the frigid land Flyn knew waited above. He wondered how long they could travel in this hidden tranquility before returning to the surface. His keen eyes could not see the cave's end, suggesting leagues. As they passed the borders of orchards and farms, Flyn had to keep reminding himself that he was underground, not simply walking at night. The illusion was easily banished by a glance skyward, where the shadows hid the stone ceiling, but did nothing to hide the feeling of its ancient weight hanging above. Flyn began to notice the tips of huge stalactites peeking through the inverted ocean of darkness. He shuddered and then did his best to avoid looking up.

  After some hours, Fafnir took a narrower spur in the trail and began leading them away from the farmland. The fields quickly gave way to pitted heaths, and the track was often overgrown with thorny shrubs. The way gradually turned uphill and the trail disappeared entirely. Fafnir struck cross-country without pause and soon brought them to an expanse of cheerless downs. The grass lost its inherent luster and the view ahead diminished to the next hill.

  “This reminds me of the lands just outside of Gipeswic,” Inkstain muttered so that only Flyn and Ulfrun could hear him. “These are barrows.”

  “A skull orchard,” Ulfrun agreed. “The dead are beneath our feet.”

  Ahead, Flyn saw the curve of a low stone wall encircling a small rise, upon which stood a lone tree.

  “Another Warden,” Inkstain said.

  Flyn frowned.

  They had only seen the despoiled remnants of the Warden Tree in the Fatwood, but even felled, the prodigious size of the trunk had been apparent. The tree before them appeared to be no larger than a common elm. Still, Flyn thought the chronicler was right. The tree possessed an undeniable and unsettling presence, the branches motionless and menacing. And unlike all the other trees in the Downward Fields, this solitary sentinel was devoid of inner light. It stood grimly upon its pedestal of earth, mutely discouraging any approach.

  Passing through an opening in the wall, the group walked to the base of the rise, where a carved stone lintel was set into the side of the slope. Beyond the lintel, stone steps led downward to a door, nearly lost in shadow.

  Fafnir dropped his pack and produced a runestone from his pouch which immediately began to glow with pale, blue light. Motioning for the group to follow, the wizard descended the stone stairs and uttered a word of command. The door swung open heavily, noiselessly, providing access to some sort of vault beneath the tree. Without a backward glance, Fafnir stepped beyond the door and was lost from sight. Flyn unburdened himself of his own bag and followed the dwarf down.

  After a short passage, the stonework ceased and Flyn entered a roughly circular chamber with a dirt floor. The walls were bolstered with thick roots, as was the crude dome of the ceiling. Deep, shadowy recesses lay between the gnarled and twisted tendrils. Fafnir stood in the center of the chamber before a small stone bench, his head bowed. The runestone was clutched in his folded hands, the light seeping between his thick fingers barely able to penetrate the deep darkness of the vault. Inkstain entered, followed by Ulfrun, hunched low in the confines of the chamber. Hengest came last, the scant blue light revealing his face full of trepidation. The younger runecaster's gaze fell upon a spot on the wall to the right of the entrance and he made his way slowly over, then knelt down. Flyn heard him exhale sharply, his breath shuddering.

  The room began to fill with whispers.

  At first, Flyn thought it merely air whistling through the passage behind, but then, words began to creep at the edge of his hearing. Soft, sharp hisses. It began as one voice, but soon he heard another emerge, as if born from the first. There was a rhythm to their speaking, though he could not make out the meaning. He recognized the language as dworgmál when the third voice rose. The rhythm began to break, intruded upon by a fourth voice. A fifth. Flyn looked at Inkstain and Ulfrun, and found their faces disturbed.

  “What are they saying?” he demanded.

  Inkstain shook his head slowly. “It is the augury.”

  And then Flyn could hear it too.

  “We march on blackened feet.”

  “Our dead rest not,”

  “a blade must be wrought”

  Flyn knew none of the dwarrow tongue, yet he understood.

  “One you must find,”

  “Among her lost children,”

  “Upon frosty bough,”

  “And rime ridden root”

  He lost count of the voices. They whispered over one another, rising and falling in a roiling din of hushed pronouncements.

  “We are food for one,

  “In death enslaved,”

  “Till the end of days,”

  “The fate of our race.”

  The voices grew desperate, the whispers strident, and the fragments of prophecy sliced out of the tumult. Inkstain began to flinch and even Ulfrun seemed to quail beneath the onslaught of ghostly ravings. Fafnir was utterly motionless, but Flyn could see the wizard's eyes clenched shut as he too weathered the whispers.

  “Heavy is the burden,”

  “She will glut upon us,”

  “A feast of corpses.”

  “Her bane to be forged,

  Tempered and cooled,

  Eight times in the hearts

  Of beloved issue.”

  A cry of anguish cut through the voices. It came from Fafnir. The wizard had fallen to his knees, his face a mask of misery, and the runestone fell from his hand. Free of the dwarf's clutches, the stone shone on, filling the chamber with light.

  Flyn recoiled.

  Eight wights hung from the walls of the chamber, suspended and imprisoned by the roots. It was they who spoke the augury, the words expelled from their yawning mouths. They leaned forward out of the shadows, pulled towards Fafnir by some invisible force, straining against their sinuous fetters. One, a female, was directly in front of Hengest and was reaching towards him with black-tipped fingers, trying to wrest free of the roots. Quickly, Flyn shrugged out of his harness and slid Coalspur free of its scabbard. As soon as the blade caught the light, the heads of all eight wights snapped up to look at him, their colorless eyes full of condemnation.

  “To see her slain,

  a blade must be wrought,

  three must be gathered

  And the eater sought.”

  The vættir now spoke in unison and Flyn realized that they were all she-dwarfs. Their hair was as white as their dead flesh, the dread energies no
w eddying through the chamber causing it to swirl in wisps around their stricken faces. The one to Flyn's immediate right was only a child, but she stared at him with the same malice as the rest.

  “Heavy is the burden,”

  “Sir Flyn!” Fafnir called from the floor. “Do not strike! Sheath your blade!”

  Keeping the naked steel in hand, Flyn hurried over to the Chain Maker and pulled him to his feet. Inkstain and Ulfrun rushed to their side.

  “Long shall be the search,”

  “What goes on here?” Flyn demanded over the continued wails of the wights.

  “Many paths unwoven,”

  With a shaking hand, Fafnir reached into his pouch, fumbling for his runestones. Two were in the dwarf's palm when his hand withdrew from the bag, but in a panic, he dropped them. The runecaster bent to retrieve them, but the wights' voices overwhelmed him and he could not rise.

  “Many lives undone.”

  “We must leave this place!” Inkstain shouted.

  Flyn nodded his agreement and signaled for Ulfrun to help Fafnir. Before the giantess could move, Hengest stepped into the center of the room and snatched up the fallen runestones. Holding one in each hand, the dwarf shouted with great authority and smashed the stones together. A concussive force erupted from the broken stones and the eight wights slammed back into the wall. Flyn saw the roots tighten their hold on the writhing she-dwarfs and slowly, one by one, their voices ceased. They hung limply and their milky eyes closed.

  Silence again reigned within the vault.

  “Turgur's balls,” Ulfrun swore. “What are these hags?”

  “They are the augurs,” Hengest answered, dropping the shards of the runestones and going to Fafnir's aid. “They were his daughters.”

  Together, Flyn and Hengest propped Fafnir up against the small stone bench. The wizard looked grave. As Hengest tended to his former master, Flyn noticed an object resting beneath the bench. It was a wide leather belt affixed with eight lengths of heavy chain. Each chain was graven with runes and ended in a large manacle. The sound of Fafnir's voice drew Flyn's attention away from the curious trapping.

  “I was blessed,” the wizard said, staring vacantly. “Eight lasses. Rare for we dwarrow. Eight beautiful heirs to the Downward Fields. I was to be the first King of Hriedmar's Hall learned in the mysteries of runes since Ivar Cinderteeth. We could have led the svartálfar to a new age. A glorious age.” Fafnir closed his eyes for a moment. When they snapped open, the old steel had returned and the runecaster rose. Hengest bent to help, but Fafnir avoided his hand. He walked slowly over to one of the now dormant wights, the one just to the left of the vault's entrance, and regarded it for a long moment.

  “Finna spoke the first verse of the prophecy while still a girl,” the Chain Maker said, not taking his eyes from the corpse of his daughter. “Her sisters were not yet born. We thought it some child-rhyme, something invented, but with each utterance we saw Finna become more distant. Often she did not know what she had spoken.” Fafnir walked down the wall to the second wight. “With Sefa it was the same, though new dooms fell from her young lips. The second verse.”

  The wizard stalked across the center of the chamber to approach the fifth body.

  “By the time Vérún arrived, I was beginning to see the interwoven fates of others. In my heart I was overjoyed. To couple a runecaster's craft with a Chain Maker's sight, surely I would be the most powerful dwarf since our split with the huldu.” Fafnir's teeth clenched and his next words were a wet growl. “Arrogance! Pride! Avarice! I was a fool. Three more children arrived and all were possessed with prophetic rantings. I came to understand their words, each part of a whole. My own daughters, the first eight links of the chain.

  “For centuries I ignored the augury. Denied the doom preached by my own girls. I could see the skein, knew their words to be true, but did nothing. The augury continued to plague my daughters, each becoming more and more eclipsed by fits of foretelling. Finna and Sefa had been driven mad by the time I decided to act.”

  With a steady hand, Fafnir reached up through the roots and tenderly placed a hand on Vérún's bare, corpse-black foot.

  Inkstain spoke, his voice hushed with dismay.

  “You killed them.”

  A cold writhing settled in Flyn's gut and he looked around the chamber at the eight suspended corpses, coming to the terrible conclusion an instant behind the chronicler's quick mind. He stared at the blade in his hand, at Coalspur, renowned weapon of a celebrated Grand Master of the Valiant Spur, a sword he had revered, coveted, fought to win and found pride in possessing. Opening his fingers, Flyn let it fall to the dirt.

  “Winter's teeth, Chain Maker,” Ulfrun hissed. “You did this?”

  “I did,” Fafnir replied, choking on the two words. “Belief in the augury requires acceptance of all its demands. To kill one as mighty as the Corpse Eater I had to forge a blade of dread purpose. Coalspur can never be dulled, can never be tarnished, its edge can shear through metal and stone. But for steel to contain such strength, it must be balanced with weakness. For all its potency, Coalspur can be unmade by one thing. The hearts-blood of the Corpse Eater. When the rune engraved upon the grip tastes that, the blade will shatter. To craft so fearsome a weapon required sacrifice. Sacrifice dictated by the augury. From my fourthborn's own lips I was told to kill my own children.” Fafnir's voice broke and he threw his head back, unable to look at his champions, at the sword he had made, at the dead lining the walls. Then his jaw hardened and the dwarf leveled his gaze. One tear slid into his beard, the last drop of a grief Flyn could not fathom. When Fafnir spoke again, his voice was dull, resigned. His hand fell away from his daughter's foot.

  “Eight times I tempered the blade and eight times I cooled the glowing steel by plunging it into the hearts of my sweet girls, quenching the heat with their blood. After Finna and Sefa, I vowed never to complete the sword. The price was too great. But Thrisa and Ingunn, having seen the descent of their sisters, pleaded with me to save them from their growing insanity. They begged to die. A century later, Vérún and Systa begged to live. I could not bear to give Gísla and Eilíf a choice.”

  Flyn looked at the last corpse, the one still in her girlhood. Horror and sorrow would not allow him to gaze at her long. Fafnir continued to speak and though Flyn could clench his lids shut against the damning sight of the tomb, he could not shut out the wizard's confession.

  “The sword complete, I renounced my claim to the throne and began to walk the Chain Maker's path, a path which will soon end, one way or another.”

  Bewildered and sickened, Flyn shook his head. “You had our pledge,” he said to the floor. “We all three agreed to this quest. Why bring us here?”

  “For you to kill the Corpse Eater, you must first find her,” Fafnir answered. “She dwells in the reaches of the unforgiving north within the bosom of a great storm. The vættir can hear her call, distracted only by the need to kill. As you have seen, they ignore coburn, unable to harm the Corpse Eater's progeny. We must release my daughters. They will know a way through the Mother's Gale and through the tunnels of the mountains encircled by the wind. Flyn, you alone will accompany them to the beast.”

  Flyn glanced at the belt under the bench. “You intend to chain them to me.”

  “The vættir do not rest. Until they reach the Corpse Eater, their steps will not falter. Neither can yours.”

  “The journey could take days,” Inkstain protested. “Weeks.”

  “Six days northward is the sea,” Hengest said. “If one does not stop. Flyn will reach the Mother's Gale before he reaches the shore.”

  “And how are we to help him do battle if he is alone?” Ulfrun asked.

  “We need only stay far enough removed to keep the vættir from turning on us,” Fafnir replied. “And I can sense Coalspur's presence even if Flyn is lost from sight.”

  Flyn raised his head to find Inkstain walking a slow circuit of the chamber, peering intently at the roots. “To release the w
ights, this Warden would have to be felled.”

  Fafnir nodded. “That is the reason only my daughters are buried beneath its protection, why the dead of the Downward Fields are unceremoniously beheaded and interred in the surrounding barrows. Upon my brother's sufferance and that of his people I have squandered this tree, knowing it too would one day be sacrificed to the quest.”

  “The Wardens are protected by elven spells,” Inkstain said. “Any who harm them are cursed. We know that Crow Shoulders has sent countless men to their deaths in order to destroy the other trees. Surely, this one is no different.”

  “Only one of indomitable will and great strength can topple the Warden and live,” Fafnir said. His eyes flicked to Ulfrun.

  The giantess betrayed no emotion. She seemed neither daunted nor stirred by the task. For one so vehement as Ulfrun, this display of indifference bothered Flyn. Inkstain looked even more concerned.

  “I told you all the journey would only become more perilous,” Fafnir said. “For the Breaker, that peril is nigh. But I trust in the augury's words. 'All foes to the ground.' Ulfrun will bring the Warden down. Flyn, once she succeeds, you will need all the stamina of your coburn blood to survive the coming days. We leave only when you are ready.”

  These words spoken, the Chain Maker left the vault.

  Flyn felt Ulfrun's hand upon his shoulder.

  “I will do what I must,” she told him. “This gallows-beam will fall. You must make your own choice.”

  Then she too departed. Issuing a vexed breath, Inkstain quickly followed her.

  Flyn sat upon the bench and stared at Coalspur, resting in the dirt. The sight of it disgusted him. All weapons were forged to kill, but this one was made from murder. All for a belief. Flyn had forced himself to share in that belief so he could find purpose and lend his sword-arm to a cause. It was the duty of a Knight Errant to bring justice to the maligned. How many of his sworn brothers had embarked on quests with origins of this much evil? He had been worried idleness would stall his charge into glory. He never expected to learn he bore a butcher's blade.