Deglan saw Flyn's face contort with hatred and he surged forward. He held nothing back now, swinging the heavy staff in lightning arcs, forcing the Gaunt Prince to give ground. Yet even on the defensive, the man was smiling, savoring the sport. Deglan glowered as he watched them duel, uncertain Flyn could prevail and unable to help him, unable to help anyone.
His attention was dragged back to Hengest. The dwarf clutched at him with clumsy fingers. Looking down, Deglan saw Hengest's other hand struggling to reach into his pouch. Quickly, Deglan released the clasp and stuck his own hand in, finding a single stone.
“Clever bastard,” he whispered. “You did keep one.”
Hengest took the runestone from him, his eyes closing tightly at its touch. The blood streaming from his eyes began to ebb.
“The husk,” the dwarf wheezed, pushing Deglan feebly. “Go.”
Nodding, Deglan rose. Taking the tome with him, he scurried over to Slouch Hat and dropped to his knees on the other side of Beladore. She was barely breathing, her eyes half closed and rolled to white. The husk's sack face was creased with concentration, his hands pressed into Beladore's chest and abdomen. Just when Deglan thought the woman would succumb, she lurched upward, her back bending as a tortured wail escaped from behind her locked jaws.
“Earth and Stone, Slouch, do something!”
“I cannot,” the husk hissed. “I cannot break through.”
Deglan snatched a glance at Flyn and the Gaunt Prince, battling a few dozen strides away. The coburn was tiring, but the man remained full of sinister vitality.
“We need you,” Deglan said, turning back to Slouch Hat. “We need that cursed crown to stop him.”
“Quiet!” Slouch Hat hissed. “If I leave her side she will die. She must not. She is the key to everything.”
Deglan pulled his lips back in a silent, helpless snarl, looking around desperately. Flyn fought on, but it was clear he was flagging. Soon, the Gaunt Prince would tire of the contest and end him. A few paces away, Hengest still lay on his back, clutching his stone, alive, but barely. At Deglan's knees, Beladore continued to choke on her own screams and fluids. He could not help, he could not heal! A woman lay in agony, afflicted and suffering, and there was nothing he could do for her. Nothing, except...
“Let her die.”
The husk ignored his words, continuing his unseen struggle with the forces which racked Beladore's body.
“Slouch Hat!” Deglan cried. “Let her die!”
“No!”
“It is the only way. Do you not see? You said it yourself, she is the key to everything. Look at her, she hangs on the brink of death, but does not die. The Gaunt Prince needs her too! He is only doing this to keep you distracted. He is not as powerful as he claims. It is a damn bluff, Slouch! Let her go!”
The black pits of the husk's eyes left Beladore, and bored into Deglan. Then, slowly, his hands came away. Beladore shuddered and retched, violently convulsing, her limbs pounding the logs beneath her. Quickly, she descended into small, pitiful twitches and her breathing grew shallow.
Flyn grunted as the Gaunt Prince's dagger sliced into his forearm. He had never known a foe to move so swiftly. Bleeding from a half dozen wounds, Flyn had not so much as touched the man.
“Do you grow weary, coburn?” the warlock gloated. “Shall I make an end?”
“For one who called me a poet,” Flyn returned, “you delight in your own voice.”
The Gaunt Price smiled and Flyn saw the anticipation of the killing stroke. He would not be able to prevent it, the man was too fast. Then, the smile withered and the man's eyes widened, leaving Flyn to glare at a point over his shoulder.
“You impudent husk!” the Gaunt Prince exclaimed.
Flyn sprung, using the opening, but before his strike could land, the Gaunt Prince snarled and outstretched his arm. Flyn's forward rush was instantly arrested as he was catapulted away, borne aloft by a wave of fell energy. His entire body felt afire from within and he screamed, feeling the runestones beneath his armor shatter. He hit the rough surface of the nest and tumbled over himself, the staff flying from his hand. The smell of his own singed feathers filled his nostrils.
Rising onto his elbows, Flyn turned his head to see the husk standing away from Beladore and Deglan, facing the Gaunt Prince. Both had their arms flung wide, leaning toward one another as the air between them crackled. Flyn knew nothing of Magic, but he knew a battle when he saw one. Slouch Hat now fought the Gaunt Prince as fervently as Flyn had moments before, though the blows could not be seen.
All sound seemed to have been sucked from the world, and then the Gaunt Prince screamed, snatching at his skull with one hand.
“Return to your prison, warlock!” Slouch Hat cried out.
Falling to his knees, the Gaunt Prince flung his free hand out in a furious motion, sending a wave of pale fire scything towards the husk. It caught Slouch Hat clean in the midriff, slicing him in half and continuing directly at Deglan. Flyn screamed, but had no time to even gain his feet before the wave struck the gnome, exploding with a blinding flash as it impacted. A blackened, smoldering lump was flung into the air, vanishing in the fog.
Flyn shot to his feet and whirled to face the Gaunt Prince.
Ingelbert Crane stared back at him.
The chronicler was on his knees, slack-jawed and bewildered. A shadowy motion above the man caught Flyn's eye.
It was Gasten, swooping down, claws opening.
Flyn sprinted forward, covering the distance swiftly and leaped, snatching the owl out of the air before it's talons could sink into Crane.
Flyn used his fall to force the owl to the ground. Its wings buffeted his face, its beak and claws tearing at his eyes and the soft flesh of his comb. Through the physical pain, Flyn could feel a greater agony, one which lanced him to the core. His mind was flooded with tormented visions. Burning cities and orgies of bloodshed, battlefields strewn with hacked corpses. A man stood amongst the dead, tall and terrible, naked to the waist. Crimson droplets of the slain shone upon his pale, sinewy torso and shaved pate. He beckoned for Flyn to approach as a heavy rain began to fall, rinsing the gore from the man and causing his flesh to glisten. The figure smiled and the rainfall ran down his teeth, pooling in his lower lip before dripping from his angular chin. Promises of power were ensconced in that smile, promises of dominance in combat and ever-lasting life.
Flyn refused them all.
Surging through the boiling in his brain, he cried out in defiance, returning to himself just as the owl escaped his grasp. He dove for it again, but the creature flapped beyond his reach and was gone.
Breathing heavily, Flyn picked himself up and looked around.
Hengest and Beladore still lay upon the ground, but the vapors geysering from their lips showed they yet lived. Slouch Hat was sprawled near the woman, in two halves. The upper half still moved. Flyn stared as the husk raised his head and rolled to what was left of his stomach, using his arms to drag himself towards Beladore. Movement in the mist beyond caused Flyn to start. Deglan appeared with the charred remnants of the tome in his arms. Flyn nearly fell to his knees as he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Where is Crane?” the gnome asked, hobbling forward.
Flyn cast about, but found no sign of him.
“That way,” Hengest croaked, raising enough to point.
With Deglan at his heels, Flyn hurried off in the direction the dwarf indicated.
They found Ingelbert looking out across the swirling sky, standing at the end of a narrow bough which struck out well past the edge of the nest. Flyn was troubled at the chronicler's precarious position, but relieved to see that Gasten was not with him. He and Deglan walked to the border of the nest.
“Look,” Ingelbert said, his voice once again recognizable. “The Gale is abating.”
Flyn focused beyond the man and saw he was right. The maelstrom was weakening.
“Earth and Stone,” Deglan breathed.
“They have done it,�
� Flyn said, shaking his head in wonder. “The Corpse Eater is dead.”
Ingelbert turned around slowly. He regarded Flyn and Deglan for a moment, all the usual hesitancy returned to his face. The slackening winds tugged at his clothes and hair.
“I, uh, I am glad to see you both alive.”
Deglan snorted, lifting the burned book, “Thank your bloody ledger. Makes a damn fine shield.”
Flyn chuckled and Ingelbert smiled, but it did not spread beyond his mouth.
“He was in there all along,” the chronicler said. “The Gaunt Prince. I did not mean to, I did not mean to release him.” The man's voice broke and his chin fell, his narrow shoulders slumping beneath his frayed cloak. “He escaped to the owl's corpse and then, then to me.”
“He is gone now, Crane,” Flyn said gently, stepping forward.
Ingelbert recoiled, moving closer to the end of the branch. Flyn froze and shot a concerned look at Deglan. The perch was hardly wide enough for both the man's feet.
“Master Crane,” the gnome warned. “Be careful.”
Ingelbert stilled and looked at them, his mouth twisted with contrition. “He is not gone. He is, uh, a contagion, Deglan. You understand? A part of him lingers.”
“I understand, lad,” Deglan replied, a note of apprehension in his soothing words.
Ingelbert gave a small, embarrassed laugh and looked distantly at the ground. “Swear an oath, Bantam Flyn. Swear an oath for me.”
Flyn nodded. “Name it.”
Ingelbert's eyes came up and met his. “Do not try and save me.”
“Ingelbert...”
“I want your word, sir, that you will not try and save me,” the chronicler said firmly. He made a sheepish gesture to the cloudy expanse behind him. “This is not the tower in the Roost. No stairs to catch us. But I know your bravery, Flyn, and I know you would try. Please. Swear you will not.”
Flyn could not keep from looking at Ingelbert's rocking ankles. He suddenly recalled the man's pleading face as they hung from the Corpse Eater's claws. He had begged something, something Flyn could not hear.
“Do I have your oath?” the man pressed.
“Ingelbert,” Flyn tried to keep his voice steady, “I would not let you fall before and I will not now. There must be another way.”
“There is not. Your oath.”
“Dammit, man!” Deglan exclaimed. “Step to us!”
The chronicler's eyes welled, but his voice was calm. “He will return. The Gaunt Prince will return.”
“And you will resist him!” Flyn insisted. “You have before.”
Ingelbert gestured at the book. “I, I had aid. Aid you must also seek if you want to defeat him. Wake her. Save her. Call her from the dark. She is the only one who can oppose him.”
“Who?” Flyn asked.
“Give me your oath and I will tell you.”
The chronicler's face was implacable, waiting on an answer. Clenching his fist, Flyn looked down at Deglan. The gnome gave the barest shake of his head.
Flyn groaned with frustration. He paced fretfully, unable to step forward for fear he would goad Ingelbert off the bough. “No! You will not ransom your own life with riddles.”
“It is not a riddle, Bantam Flyn. It is history.”
“Which I know nothing of and you do, so step towards me and we will stand against what comes together!”
Flyn felt himself beginning to panic, his unease growing alongside Ingelbert's unnerving calm.
“You see friends everywhere, Bantam Flyn. But tell me truthfully, what do you see when you look at me now?”
Unbidden, an image of Ingelbert’s smile, twisted by the Gaunt Prince’s madness, swam in Flyn’s mind. He pushed it away, steeled himself against the thought as he looked into the chronicler’s long, sad, familiar face.
“I still see a friend,” he proclaimed. “A friend and a sworn member of the Valiant Spur. You remain my brother, Ingelbert Crane. Remember that and do not do this!”
“I shall remember,” the man said, his voice hushed with regret. “I am grateful that I will remain your friend. Your family. But I can no longer be your ally. Alive, I remain a path for the Gaunt Prince to return.”
“Crane!” Flyn shouted as Ingelbert took another half step backward.
Ingelbert held up a calming hand. “I cannot defeat him, Flyn. That is for you to do. The world needs selfless bravery such as yours.” For an instant, the chronicler’s gaze shifted to Deglan. “And level heads, to do what courageous hearts cannot.”
“Master Crane,” the gnome said, his voice grimly weighted. “Do not force me—”
“I cannot defeat him,” the chronicler repeated, looking at Flyn once more. “I can only deprive him.”
Ingelbert's face filled with fondness and he stepped back.
“NO!”
Flyn darted forward, but was tripped up as Deglan jumped into his path, grabbing his legs. Hitting the logs of the nest, Flyn craned his head up to look at the bough.
It was empty.
There was nothing but cold, remorseless sky. Frozen with disbelief, Flyn stared at that terrible void for a long time.
A shaking at his legs pulled him out of his stupor. Deglan still clung to him, his body rocking with sobs. Sitting up, Flyn gathered the gnome in his arms and hugged him tightly.
“What did you do, Staunch?” he whispered.
“My part,” Deglan replied, his voice thick with tears. “I needed to save you. Both of you.”
THIRTY FOUR
Flyn was eager to be down from the nest, but the going was slow. Hengest and Beladore were still weak, and she insisted on carrying Slouch Hat herself. The lower half of the husk's body had been reduced to little more than ash, and he now clung to Beladore's back, his body ending at the waist. Once they gained the caves, they moved cautiously, watchful for trolls.
“This is where we must part,” Slouch Hat said at a seemingly unremarkable junction. “Do not allow my physical plight to give you confidence. It would not be wise to attempt to stop us.”
“And you would be wise to flee Middangeard with all haste,” Hengest returned with cold menace. “The dwarrow will forever hunt you for your part in this.”
“There is no longer cause to stay,” Beladore said. Flyn thought the woman looked years older, the shadow of the Gaunt Prince's torments lurking in the lines of her face.
“And what did you hope to achieve?” Deglan growled.
“Not achieve, Master Loamtoes,” Slouch Hat replied. “Prevent. Middangeard is a glimpse of Airlann's future. The Age of Autumn will end and when it does, this same dead cold will encase the Source Isle. The elves have had their chance and twice the world has suffered under their stewardship. It is only a matter of time before they abandon Airlann as they did Middangeard. The Seelie Court is silent, Red Caps are on the rise, your own people in Toad Holm are corrupted. It is time for the Fae to relinquish control and allow the world to be governed by forces other than Magic.”
Flyn saw Deglan struggle with the husk's words, his jaw chewing bitterly upon a retort that never came.
“But the Mother of Gales has been vanquished,” Slouch Hat continued, “and, with her, our need to remain.”
“I heard you speaking with her,” Flyn said. “What did you hope to discover?”
“Perhaps one day, Sir, I can tell you,” the husk said. “One day, when our goals align.”
“Not bloody likely,” Deglan grumbled.
“You freed Ingelbert,” Flyn told the husk. “At the end, you severed the Gaunt Prince's hold over him. For that, I thank you.”
Slouch Hat gave the barest nod. “Let us go, Beladore.”
“My lady,” Flyn said as the woman turned to go, causing her to pause. “The protection of the Valiant Spur was once promised to your son. We failed in that duty.” A flicker of old pain settled with the new upon the woman's face. “But, I believe that protection extends to you. If you would trust our Order, just once more, we would welcome the chance to
make amends and, perhaps one day, assuage your grief.”
Beladore's countenance hardened. “You think you can replace what I have lost with chivalry and hospitable words?”
Flyn struggled in the wrath of the mother's stare, struggled not to look at Deglan, struggled not to say the four words this poor woman needed to hear.
“I am merely trying to offer you another choice,” he said at last.
“I have made my choice, knight,” Beladore replied.
Flyn bowed to her. “As you will. I would but beg one thing more. I told you I carried the grief of your son's loss with me. I spoke true.” Reaching into his belt pouch he pulled forth Pocket's little wooden horse. “This belonged to your little boy. He held it and played with it during his time at the Roost. Please, accept it.”
Beladore's eyes widened as he placed the toy into her hand. She stared at it for a long time, holding it as one would an injured bird. When she looked up again, there was a resentful gratitude on her face. Flyn bowed again, saving her from voicing any thanks. When he straightened, she was already disappearing into the shadows of the tunnel, the mutilated husk upon her back.
Flyn allowed Hengest to lead their own path, proceeding in silence for some time until they emerged from the caves.
Outside, dusk was descending quickly, but there was more than enough light to marvel at the vale. Hundreds of wights lay strewn about, spreading from the cliff-sides to the roots of the great tree. No longer walking, no longer singing, they were as they were meant to be, lifeless at last.
They found Fafnir lying amongst a heavy pile of dead, his eyes closed. His hands were clutched into blackened fists, still smoking from the power of the runestones lodged within. Flyn could see no visible wounds upon the wizard, yet he looked as lifeless as the corpses which cradled him. He had stood against an army of his risen kin and prevailed, but whatever crafts he had wielded against his foes appeared to have leeched all vitality from his body.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn (The Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 63