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

by Jonathan French

  The sisters' continued their march and their dirge. With a smile, Flyn raised his voice in song.

  “The juggler dropped and the rooster crowed and that's how a cock got balls!”

  The sun was just beyond its apogee when Flyn and the wights reached the top of the peak. The thin air sliced through his coat and feathers, refusing to properly fill his lungs. The summit was a bleak, level stretch of rock, blasted bald by the roaring wind. As they marched across, Flyn was afforded a grand vantage of the range. The mountains seemed to cover the earth, drifting slowly in a sea of clouds. Grey and blue ridges cut through the white, leading to impossibly high snowcapped promontories. Frozen lakes lay imprisoned in the deep vales. To every horizon the mountains reigned, towering in governance over an ancient land, carved from ice and formed by the brutal hands of time. But for all the majesty, Flyn's eyes were drawn to the furthest north, where a threatening mass of storm swirled, nearly solid with snow and frozen air.

  It was a great maelstrom, its very size challenging Flyn's sanity. Barely perceptible behind the terrible funnel, in the eye of the storm, four peaks stood. The churning vortex that crowned the whirlwind hovered directly over the deepness formed between the mountains. Flyn was reminded of a castle, one of impossible proportions, its curtain wall constructed of deadly gales, blowing impregnably between the mountain towers.

  Frightening as the storm appeared, Flyn saw desperation within its fury. The raging winds were the wildly swinging sword of a cornered warrior, the vicious snapping of an old, blind hound. The Corpse Eater dwelt within the center of that storm, using the last vestiges of the Element which was stripped from her to keep the world at bay. Remembering King Reginn's tale, Flyn found further respect for the dwarrow lord. He had entered that storm alone and, more impressively, had crawled out of it again. It was a defeat, but one which Reginn had survived, though it had robbed him the use of his legs. Seeing the Mother's Gale with his own eyes, Flyn wondered if he could endure its onslaught. Each step brought him closer to finding out, but there was still a great distance to travel.

  Hours later, Flyn found his trepidation growing as another night descended. The sisters had led him down from the mountain and then over another. They now marched along a saddle gap and Flyn saw a cluster of rime-covered trees nestled in the shadow of the next peak. It appeared they were heading directly for it and Flyn quickly began unbuckling the girdle which fettered him to the wights. If he could help it, he was not going to spend another night crashing and tumbling along the trail. Once the belt was free from his waist, he held it before him in both hands. He chuckled to himself, knowing he resembled some strange farmer with the ghastliest team of plough horses. Unable to resist, he clicked his tongue at the sisters as they entered the frozen copse.

  Eyes darting to the left and right, Flyn quickly searched for a tree of suitable girth. He saw one just ahead and ran forward, right up on the heels of the sisters, giving himself as much time as possible. Looping the belt around the trunk, he tried to get the buckles fastened, but his fingers were cold and clumsy. The slack he had gained in the chains began to recede as the wights pressed on. Flyn only had one of the straps threaded, but not buckled, and the belt began to pull away from the frost-slick bark. With a snarl of frustration, Flyn let the belt slip loose, but immediately began looking for another tree. They were almost through the copse when he found one, thinner than the last, but it was his only remaining chance. This time his hands were more nimble and he managed to affix the belt.

  Fafnir's daughters were brought up short, but they continued to strain forward, the chains snapping. Flyn watched for a breathless moment, his eyes shifting from the wights to the belt. The leather, like the chains, was dwarf-make and likely crafted by Fafnir himself. It showed no signs of stress, the steel rings which affixed the chains holding firm, not even stretching the leather.

  Yet, the sisters' feet scrambled forward, digging trenches in the snow. The tree began to bend and the belt slid up the trunk, catching on a branch. The frozen wood began to groan, the icicles adorning the branches creating a sharp music as they shuddered and broke. The tree was not going to hold.

  Expelling a breath, Flyn sank to his knees, intent on capturing whatever rest he could, even if only for a few moments. He watched forlornly as the belt bent the bough, ice and bark snapping under the stress. Flyn looked numbly around for a means to further secure the wights, but his weary brain could come up with nothing. After an agonizingly brief time, he rose and unbuckled the belt before the tree snapped in half. The wights continued on and he was left with no choice but to tether himself to them once more and follow.

  The long hours of the night passed in currents of delirium. He plodded along, lost in torpidity, his senses either plagued by unwanted sensation or usurped entirely by cold and darkness. Dead lasses sang in his ears, accompanied by the howling wind and the sound of his own ragged breathing. His feet became insensate. He felt as if he ended halfway down his legs, the pain chased by a hungering numbness that would eventually swallow him entirely. Yet still his instincts were to live, and he reeled away from false assailants and imagined pitfalls, the only visions capable of breaking through his blindness.

  Laughter stabbed through the sisters' dirge. Flyn was only dimly aware that it was his own. He mumbled inanely between laughs, feeble expressions of his wants.

  “Must stop.”

  “Just need sleep.”

  “Only a moment.”

  His hand drifted down to the buckles at his middle, languidly caressing the metal. It would be a simple matter to unhook himself from the wights. Surely they could not get far while he slept. He would be able to follow their trail come the dawn.

  “Lies.”

  “Lies!”

  “LIAR!”

  He laughed again, shattering the night with encroaching hysteria.

  “Lazy. Lying. Lout!”

  “Wailing. Wight. Women. White women!”

  Opening his beak wide, Flyn allowed the mirth to pour out his throat. He gave in to the madness, surrendered to its release. Quickening his pace, he began to run, throwing all caution aside. Shoving past the middle two wights, he pulled ahead of his guides, the chains tight against his flanks as they grew taut behind him.

  “Keep up my fair maidens! Onward! Come, South! That's the way, East! Northwest, no slacking! Forward!”

  He could not go on much longer. But neither could he relinquish the quest to save himself. He had sworn an oath and if he was to fail in the execution of that oath, then best to do it on his feet, giving every last spark of vitality. He knew his mind was unraveling and that his body would soon follow. It was inevitable. Nothing was unbreakable.

  Inspiration burned through Flyn's crazed exhaustion. He stopped, barely able to keep his feet as the sisters overtook him once more, then passed him up. Snatching the hand axe from his belt, Flyn rushed forward on failing legs, approaching the rightmost sister.

  “Forgive me, Fafnir.”

  Gathering the she-dwarf's hair in his free hand, Flyn pulled it up and away, exposing her neck. Careful not to strike the collar, Flyn swung the axe. In three strokes, the head was severed and the body dropped. Flyn went to the leftmost wight and repeated the grisly task. The two chains were now free and trailed behind, dragging narrow furrows in the snow. Flyn dropped the handaxe, then shrugged out of his pack and let it fall too, freeing his sword harness. He drew Coalspur.

  The dwarrow steel caught the moonlight. Holding the great blade in one hand, Flyn pulled the two empty collars towards him by the chains, managing to gather them up and keep pace with the six remaining sisters. Dangling the collars from his wrist, he unclasped the belt. Allowing the heavy girdle to fall, Flyn held fast to the two steel collars, looping them over Coalspur's blade, letting them slide down until they rested upon the sword's cross-guard. With a furious cry and the last of his strength, Flyn reversed his hands on the grip and slammed Coalspur point down. Four feet of dwarf-forged steel sunk into the ground, pin
ning the collars to the earth.

  The movement forced Flyn to his knees. Through bleary eyes he saw the steps of the sisters stall. They pulled, but the sword held fast. Collapsing to the snow, Flyn fell into oblivion.

  Morning was old when he awoke. His mattress of snow was cold, but he lay a moment as his wits returned, basking in the bliss of stillness. As his eyes regained focus, they fixed upon Coalspur's hilt, the transfixed collars clinking against the quillons. At the end of the two tight chains the belt was suspended off the ground, pulled upward by the six wights still trying to follow a call only they could hear.

  Flyn sat up, but did not immediately rise. Inwardly, he gloated. It had been a close thing, but he now had rest and a means of halting the sisters. Now all he needed was food. Flyn stood and walked back down the trail, finding his pack. He partook of more cheese and meat, also finding a skin within the provisions that proved to contain a strong wine, well-spiced with invigorating herbs. Sated and mildly warm, he dug around in the snow near his pack until he found the handaxe, returning it to his belt. Shouldering the pack, Flyn continued backtracking.

  The sight of the first corpse filled him with shame. He had only done what was necessary, but seeing the headless body sprawled pitifully in the snow, bare feet sticking from beneath the simple woolen dress, dispelled the loathing Flyn had developed for the she-dwarfs. He no longer looked upon a creature of living death, a cruel mockery of life. No, this was now the remains of a maiden, twice-slain, lying in the cold wilderness.

  Flyn gently lifted her body and walked until he found her sister. He laid them side by side and retrieved their heads, arranging them with as much dignity as he could devise. These two had been North and Southwest, but Flyn did not utter those names aloud. Their father would be along and use their true names to bid farewell.

  Flyn spent the rest of the morning resting, waiting to see if his companions would catch up. By noon there was still no sign of them. There was no use worrying. Three wizards and a giant made formidable company. The only course for Flyn was to carry on. The noonday sun saw him belted once more to his guides.

  It began to snow, the flurry increasing with each hour he traveled. By dusk, the fall was so thick Flyn often had a difficult time making out the sisters, only a dozen strides ahead. He had looped the two free chains across his torso and used them to again halt the wights for the night. Flyn tried to build a fire, but the snow and lack of dry fuel defeated his efforts. Hunkering down, he passed the night shivering into his puffed out feathers and taking tiny pulls off the wineskin, grateful to not be walking through the darkness. He managed some sleep and rose before the sun.

  The snow had not abated and the trail the sisters followed was nearly covered. They strove on, oblivious to the growing drifts. The snow clouds held sway in the sky and did not allow the sun to show its face. Only a thin gruel of light soaked through, barely enough to see through the storm. Flyn's world quickly shrunk to the path the sisters cut through the snow. It was a realm of white and wind.

  Soon, he could no longer hear the song of the wights over the screaming wind, its breath thick with frozen spittle. A great gust charged brutally from the side and knocked Flyn off his feet. He felt the pull of the chains as the wights walked on without a care. Flyn tried to stand, but his feet could find no purchase, his talons scrabbling at nothing. His legs were dangling over the edge of a cliff! Flyn used his arms to try and haul himself away from the drop, but all he managed was to send arm loads of snow cascading over the ridge. It was the wights who pulled him to safety, dragging him clear of the edge as they walked the precarious path without fear.

  Once on his feet, Flyn squinted through the blizzard, using his hand to shield his eyes. He could just make out the path, the side of the mountain towering to the right and a sheer drop to the left. Snow-blind, he had not even realized it was there and his ignorance almost caused his end. He wanted to go more carefully, choose his steps, but the unshakable pace of the wights would not allow him the comfort of caution. Now that he knew of its presence, the chasm to his left seemed to call out to him, a great, hollow sucking of air as the wind raged through the abyss. Placing his right hand on the wall of the ridge gave him some sense of stability, but often the piles of rock and deep drifts kept him from reaching the stone.

  The trail continued to ascend, further committing their journey to the high passes. Flyn hoped night would not fall while they still trod these narrow paths, trapping them at the edge of the perilous ravines.

  Gaining the top of another peak, he was again knocked down as the wind barreled into him unchecked. Exposed atop the mountain, he was impacted by the full force of the gust. It felt as if he struggled through water, so difficult was it to move forward. Even the sisters were slowed in the face of the blasts. Slowly, they made their away across the summit. Flyn could not tell where the snow beneath him ended and the sky began. The horizon was a motley of swirling white and grey.

  A break in the wind eased the curtain of punishing flakes and Flyn's heart lodged in his throat. The wights were making directly for a sheer drop. Flyn could see the edge, a terrifying line of rock standing out starkly in front of nothing but dizzying sky. He dug his talons in, but they scraped feebly, unable to penetrate the thick snow. The sisters reached the edge and turned, briefly giving Flyn a glimpse of their faces before they lowered themselves over the edge and vanished.

  Grabbing the chains in both hands, Flyn hauled on the links, trying drag the wights back. It was hopeless. Feet dragging, he was pulled to the brink. Flyn released the chains and spun, dropping to his belly. His knees went over the edge and he fought to find hand holds before the sisters pulled him to his death. One hand found a jut of frozen rock, his feet digging into creases in the stone. He tried to look down, to find his next purchase, but the blizzard blinded him. The chains at his waist tightened and he was pulled off the mountainside.

  He plummeted through the laughing gales, terror choking his screams. He saw the edge of the cliff rushing away, then his vision was eclipsed by a horrible, rushing, white void. Falling, he felt the great height beneath him, his death waiting eagerly somewhere far below.

  A hard jerk snapped at his waist, wrenching his spine. He seemed to float for a moment, then felt something slam painfully into him from above. One of the sisters. She tangled with him briefly as she fell, then plummeted past. Another followed, missing Flyn by a hairsbreadth. A jarring pain in his midriff signaled the abrupt end of their fall as the chains snapped. Spinning, Flyn slammed into the side of the cliff, knocking his scant breath sickeningly from his lungs. He dangled, and when the nausea evaporated, he was able to look about.

  Above, four of the wights clung to the cliff face, the chains about their necks holding him aloft. Below, their fallen sisters hung from their own collars. Only one was moving. Flyn swung until he could grab at the rocks, finding a suitable grip and footing. He climbed down, trying to keep pace with the wights above. Their chains were in his face, constantly getting in the way, but he managed not to fall. One of the wights below also found purchase on the cliff, alleviating the weight that pulled down on him.

  It was a long, arduous descent. The wights above had drawn even with Flyn by the time he spied the bottom of the gorge. He focused on increasing his speed. If he allowed too much of a lead, they would force another fall. Thankfully, only the wight below completed the climb ahead. It continued on its way, but Flyn had been prepared. He jumped free of the cliff before he was pulled off, directing his fall towards a deep drift. There were boulders beneath the snow and he took a bit of a battering, but otherwise reached the end of the climb unhurt and alive.

  The wights near him had also been tugged off the cliff, but picked themselves up and joined their sister, continuing their mindless pilgrimage. The other wight who had fallen never rose, her head twisted grotesquely beneath her collar. Flyn quickly drew Coalspur and severed her chain on the move, leaving her behind.

  Fafnir's remaining five daughters led him through
the ravine, their singing echoing off the walls. Sheltered from the wind and most of the snow, Flyn was able to recover his senses. The defile through which they walked began quite wide, but quickly narrowed, the frost-covered rocks giving way to pure ice. As the walls drew closer in, Flyn was left with only a sliver of sky above. The snow barely drifted down, but the cold pressed in, emanating from the surrounding ice.

  Soon, a toneless roar began to fill the ravine, reverberating from ahead. It grew in intensity, a nearly deafening, pressurized resonance. Looking skyward through the slit of the gorge, Flyn saw the wind slashing violently, churning and turbulent. Ice and snow were caught in the vicious eddies, granting the maelstrom substance. Flyn frowned up at the bottom edge of the storm and was, for the first time, grateful for the guidance of Fafnir's daughters. They had led him beneath the Mother's Gale.

  Ahead, the ravine terminated in the mouth of a cave, gaping out of the ice face. Flyn winced as he passed beneath the whirlwind, but was quickly within the shelter of the cave and soon, the din became nothing but a dull echo, humming through the ice.

  The wights led him through a maze of frozen tunnels. At times he stumbled along in corridors black as pitch, while others seemed to glow, the ice imbued with sunlight, reflected and channeled into the depths of the caves. The tunnels twisted and turned, some ascending, while others sloped sharply downward. More than once, Flyn lost his footing on the slick floor. Many of the passages were barely dwarf-height, forcing him to stoop and crawl. Others gave way to immense caverns, beams of light, infested with falling snow, spearing down from holes in the distant ceilings.