The Tainted Sword p-1

by D. J. Heinrich

  ***

  Flinn had breathed a sigh of relief when Jo and the boy left to pick redberries. He had found himself tongue-tied around the two of them, growing more taciturn than even his usual wont. But Johauna, too, had been strangely silent the past few days. Dayin, surprisingly, had not. He had talked about the nearly two years he had spent alone in the woods, telling of his animal friends, his daily forages for food, and his many brushes with death.

  But now the talkative child was gone, and Jo with him. Flinn sighed again, planting his feet in the center of the corral and leaning back upon the lunge rein. At the other end of the rein, Ariac trotted, the scars on his chest rippling as he did. Flinn turned slowly, letting Ariac move in a large circle around him. The griffon’s muscles seemed to be healing well, and his old fighting spirit had returned.

  Ah, Ariac! he thought, a little wistfully. How sad it is that you have never flown, and how sad that I haven’t either. He remembered finding the ungainly little fledgling at the bottom of a cliff. It was half-starved and its wings broken beyond repair. Even the griffon’s parents had given Ariac up for dead, an atypical act for griffons. Flinn had carried the feebly squawking creature home strapped to the back of Fernlover.

  Flinn smiled, remembering when Ariac, then a little older, had tried to attack Fernlover. The old mule soundly kicked him. To Flinn’s knowledge, Ariac had never tried to attack Fernlover again. Flinn was pleased with the griffon’s restraint, but he still muzzled the bird-lion when approaching horses or their kin.

  Flinn whistled to the winged creature, and Ariac pranced toward his master eagerly. The leather balls beneath the griffon’s front claws produced puffing sounds against the packed snow. Ariac squealed and nibbled at the warrior’s pockets, seeking a tidbit of dried meat. Flinn fished it out for him and then left the corral for the barn, where he had left his sword and whetstone. He intended to spend some time now sharpening the blade. He also grabbed a piece of elk-hide to rewrap the blade’s hilt-the grip was beginning to fray. Flinn retrieved the items, then started walking back across the yard toward the cabin. Idly he rubbed the stone against the edge of his blade, whistling some half-forgotten court tune. Ariac screeched and Flinn looked up.

  A fully armored knight leading a stout warhorse barred Flinn’s way. The man wore a midnight-blue tunic emblazoned with three golden suns. Instantly Flinn was certain it was the same man he had seen watching the battle with the abelaat. He dropped the whetstone and elkhide and readied his sword.

  The knight removed the covered helmet from his head, and looped it over the pommel of his saddle.

  “Brisbois!” Flinn gasped.

  “One and the same, Flinn, old man,” Brisbois rejoined, an insincere smile gracing his thin lips.

  “What are you doing here?” Flinn raised his sword slightly, determined to keep up his guard. As well as instigating the treachery that brought Flinn’s downfall, Brisbois had equalled Flinn at swordplay. Flinn had no doubt that the man could defeat him now, for Brisbois doubtless practiced daily against the other knights. Flinn’s only challenge recently had been Jo.

  Brisbois spread his hands expansively, as if making a friendly gesture, but Flinn noted that the knight’s scabbard tab was undone. His sword could be drawn in an instant. “Now, Flinn, is that any way to treat an old-” Brisbois smiled, his pointed canines gleaming “- comrade? I was in the region and thought I’d drop in.”

  “Have your say, Brisbois, and let’s be done with it,” Flinn shot back.

  Brisbois bowed stiffly. “If that’s the way you feel about it, Flinn, so be it. I bid you good day.” The knight casually put his helmet back on, moved to the left side of his roan horse, and climbed into the saddle.

  Flinn looked past Brisbois and stiffened. His cabin door stood open. Flinn hadn’t left the cabin door opened, and Jo and Dayin left before him. Then Flinn saw a wisp of smoke come through the open doorway, followed by a lick of flame.

  “You bastard,” Flinn said through clenched teeth. He leaped toward Brisbois just as the knight applied his spurs to the horse. Flinn reached up, curled his fingers around the armor’s neck opening, and pulled savagely.

  Flinn and Brisbois fell to the ground heavily, the horse cantering off toward the barn. Flinn rolled lightly to his feet. Holding his sword before him, he waited for Brisbois to stand. A snarl spread across Flinn’s lips, and his heart pounded angrily. Twice his hunger for revenge drove him forward to attack before Brisbois had risen, and twice he backed away.

  The knight rose to his feet, limping and holding his back. “You barbaric imbecile-pulling me from my horse! What has come over you?” The knight hobbled slowly toward the horse, casting a fleeting glance toward Flinn.

  “Trying to see if the audience is watching, eh?” Flinn asked, sliding sideways until he was between Brisbois and his mount. Flinn’s eyes narrowed and the humor left his gravelly voice, “You’ll pay for burning my home-you and whoever sent you.”

  Warily the knight drew his own sword. “Why, so there is a fire! So quick to blame, are we? Perhaps a log rolled from the hearth.” The two men began circling each other slowly, some ten feet apart.

  “Who sent you?” Flinn growled. He leaped forward and swung his sword in a warning gesture. Brisbois flinched and raised his sword to block the move. Flinn smiled wickedly.

  Brisbois circled slowly, his limp conspicuously diminished. “I’m here on behalf of Lady Yvaughan. She’s asked me to invite you to the christening of her child. A son.”

  Flinn studied the knight’s eyes. Brisbois stared unblinkingly at him, as though daring him to disbelieve the story. The warrior smiled cynically, then raised his sword and charged. The blade met solid metal and not the flesh its wielder had sought. Flinn whirled, swinging his sword behind him in a wide cutting arc. Again Brisbois met the blow. Flinn would have to increase his speed to gain any advantage that way.

  Brisbois lifted his own sword and struck for Flinn. The warrior easily avoided the blade. He and Brisbois went into a crouch and began moving in a steadily decreasing circle. Flinn edged away from the corral and bam, careful not to be run up against the wall. He shifted his sword higher, waiting for Brisbois’ next move.

  Brisbois smiled evilly. “My dear Flinn,” he said sarcastically, “I’m going to enjoy this so much. I’ve wanted to give you your comeuppance for a long, long time.”

  “Go ahead and try, Brisbois,” Flinn rejoined. “Your treachery was never a match for my skill.”

  Brisbois leaped at Flinn, his sword singing as it whirled. Flinn blocked the blade, holding his own sword barlike before him. The force of the knight’s blow drove Flinn to one knee, his arms and shoulders aching. But Flinn rose instantly and delivered his own blow.

  The two began to parry, each delivering a sword stroke and blocking the other’s in return. Occasionally a stroke would slip past an opponent’s guard. Flinn couldn’t see any harm done yet to Brisbois, for his strikes were only denting the man’s armor. Some of Brisbois’ hits, however, were finding flesh. So far they had only been glancing ones, but Flinn was bloodied in a number of places.

  A sudden blast of smoke surrounded the two men as the wind shifted. Flinn coughed and saw that the cabin was now engulfed in flames. The fire had lapped through the log walls and was rapidly licking away at the outside. Ariac screeched in alarm, and even Fernlover brayed at the smell of smoke.

  Flinn jumped forward, his anger fueled by the destruction of his home. He swung his blade with reckless fury, battering Brisbois as though his sword were a club. Brisbois deflected the blows, turning each with the flat of his blade, but the volley of steel did not stop. Flinn pressed forward, the rip of his sword striking ever nearer the man’s neck. Flinn’s eyes shone with rage and a strange, savage joy. His wild, reckless onslaught forced Brisbois back.

  “My cabin will be your pyre, Brisbois!” Flinn shouted.

  The knight’s hands shook as he turned his sword, blocking Flinn’s strokes. Beneath the dark helmet, his eyes showed fear.
Flinn growled, slashing in a mighty arc that battered back the knight’s blade. Flinn’s sword sliced through the gap between the breastplate and shoulder-guard. A spray of blood spotted the knight’s armor. The sight spurred Flinn’s anger. His strokes forced Brisbois back against the side of the barn, but there the knight let his armor take the force of some of Flinn’s blows. Flinn smirked in disdain.

  Abruptly, Brisbois leaped forward with his own savage blow. With a resounding clang, the knight’s blade bit into Flinn’s, notching it. Flinn wrenched his sword, pulling Brisbois’ weapon from his hand. The knight leaped upon Flinn, toppling him to the ground. Flinn’s sword tumbled loose. The armored weight of Brisbois knocked Flinn’s breath away, but Flinn pushed against Brisbois and twisted out from beneath the knight. Brisbois’ mailed hands seized Flinn’s unprotected throat and clamped tight. Flinn pried at the cold gauntlets, but could not pull them loose. He grew dizzy, and the strength left his hands.

  Suddenly, water and hard pellets rained down on them. Flinn and Brisbois sprang apart, shocked by the cold dousing. Flinn lunged for his sword, coughing as he did. He rolled to his feet and turned in time to see Jo swing the ash yoke and bash the knight’s helmeted head. Brisbois staggered backward, one hand pulling an amulet from around his throat. Then the knight leaped for his blade lying in the snow.

  Jo swung again, but Brisbois dodged the yoke and dissolved into a thin, wispy mist. The vapor disappeared even as Flinn swung at it with his sword.

  “Coward! Coward!” he roared, his dark eyes searching the air above them. “Return and face me, Brisbois!” Rage had revived Flinn’s energy. He stomped about the yard looking for any sign of the knight. The warrior shouted curses for a few minutes more, then drew a deep breath. He turned his attention toward the blazing cabin, now an inferno.

  Jo came and stood by him. She put her hand on his arm. “Your home, Flinn, your home. I wish Dayin and I had come back earlier. We might have been able to stop it, or at least salvage something.”

  Flinn shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Jo,” he said quietly. “I have the crystals in my belt pouch, so they’re not lost. My breastplate’s in the barn, where I was going to fix it, so that’s at least a little armor. And as to food… well, there’s a bag of oats in the bam and some dried meat I had intended to feed Ariac-and all the berries you and Dayin picked.” Flinn’s eyes grew brighter, for he was very fond of the tart fruit.

  “The, ah, redberries were part of our attack, Flinn,” Jo said apologetically and pointed to the smashed red fruit at their feet. “Dayin threw the berries while I splashed the water.” She shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Flinn laughed, albeit ruefully. “It was, Jo, it was.” He gave her a quick hug and turned to the barn. “Now, let’s see what we can do about making this place habitable for the night. We need to salvage what we can because tomorrow we have to go into Bywater. We need supplies, first and foremost. We won’t make it to the castle otherwise.” Flinn cocked an eyebrow. “It’s a good thing I hid my gold in the bam and not the cabin. I haven’t got much, but it’ll get us some things.” “And then, we go to the castle?” Jo asked, her voice and eyes expectant.

  “And then we go to the Castle of the Three Suns-” he paused for wry effect “-and beat Sir Brisbois into smithereens before we become knight and squire. There are rules against knights fighting each other, you know.”

  Jo laughed, a happy sound in an otherwise dark moment. Fernlover brayed then, and Brisbois’ horse nickered in response. Jo looked toward the corral. “It looks like we won’t have to ride double on Ariac.”

  Chapter VII

  Yvaughan pulled back the blanket and bit her Up. Her brutally deformed infant son lay there in the white-and-gold crib. Four nights ago, after a long and difficult delivery, Yvaughan had given birth to the child. She had screamed upon first seeing her son-one half of his head missing along with one eye, the hands twisted and corrupted with lesions, and the stump of a third leg forming out of his back, almost as if it were a tail. His bluish skin indicated he had stopped breathing, and for one hope-filled moment she thought the baby was stillborn. But Maldrake roared, pushed through the healers, and grabbed his infant boy. He shook the baby, screaming that he must live. The infant gasped and drew his first breath, and Yvaughan sank into a miasma of pain and horror.

  Still recovering from her ordeal, Yvaughan stood now before the crib, clutching the rail for support. Her eyes fastened on the thing before her, the thing called her son. Even after four days he hadn’t died, though Teryl and the castle’s clerics had all sworn the child wouldn’t live, that he would die and be at peace.

  These predictions brought curses from Lord Maldrake, who insisted that they give the infant the best care and magical healing possible. For three days and nights he haunted the nursery, making certain no one spoke of his son in any way that displeased him. Yvaughan meanwhile kept to her bed, unable and unwilling to see the creature called her son. Maldrake cursed her, too, and called in a wet nurse to feed the child. Only the direst threats to her family kept the woman with them after seeing the infant. But when Brisbois had returned earlier today, Maldrake had left immediately on an urgent matter. He’d commanded his son’s nurse to keep the boy alive.

  Tonight, in the darkest hour, Yvaughan slipped from her bed, secure in the knowledge that Maldrake wasn’t at the castle. She faltered coming into the room, but then her resolve hardened, and she made her way to the beribboned bassinet.

  It still hasn’t died, Yvaughan thought as she looked down on the baby, refusing to think of it as her son. It must die. I must kill it, for I gave it life. Weakly she picked up a tiny white pillow, one she had lovingly embroidered herself, and looked again at the hideously contorted mouth of her son. Give me strength, she prayed as a wave of wracking pain flowed through her. She steadied herself against the crib. Give me the strength to kill this monster. He’s evil, he’s evil. I know he’s evil. With one hand she held out the pillow and placed it on her son’s mouth. She pressed down. A tear formed on her cheek.

  “My lady!” Teryl stood in the nursery’s doorway. “You are awake at this hour!” He advanced into the room, his eyes on Yvaughan, her hand holding the pillow over the child’s mouth. “Is there something wrong?”

  Yvaughan stared uneasily at the aged mage. His withered form looked dark in the moonlight, like a living shadow. Suddenly she felt unsure of Teryl Auroch, the man whom she called friend. “Teryl,” she whispered, taking the pillow away from the baby. She covered her eyes with her hands, for she couldn’t bear to look at the infant anymore. “The child-he’s dead…”

  “Let me check, lady. Sometimes infants breathe irregularly,” Teryl soothed. The mage came to the crib and looked down at the deformed baby.

  Yvaughan could bear it no more, and she took a few faltering steps away, clutching at the little pillow. Teryl reached down into the crib with his right hand and said, “Poor, poor little baby.” His left hand fluttered convulsively, and he murmured words she didn’t understand. She thought she heard the child gasp and her own breath faltered. Fervently she hoped the mage wouldn’t cast a spell to keep the child alive.

  The mage walked over to Yvaughan’s side and put his hand on her arm. The hand did not shake. Teryl looked at Yvaughan, his face swathed in dark shadows. His teeth flashed coldly, though his voice was warm with concern. “Lady, we knew it would happen sooner or later. Do not grieve. The child’s death was all for the better; he’s at peace now.” He put an arm around Yvaughan. “Come. Let me return you to your chamber.”

  Stumbling out of the nursery, Yvaughan allowed herself to be led back to her room. She was numb with emotion. “How… how will I tell Maldrake?” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and unblinking.

  “Leave that to me, my lady,” soothed Teryl. “When Lord Maldrake returns in the morning, I will tell him the tragic news. Now, he down and rest, lady. I will send someone to tend you.”

  Yvaughan’s blue eyes were glazed. �
��Thank you, Teryl. A cup of warm tea would be delightful.” The white and green bird hopped to her pillow, rested its bill next to Yvaughan’s ear, and cooed.

  ***

  As night settled on the little village of Bywater, a dark, menacing shape glided in broad circles above its single street. The creature’s wings of leather whispered on the evening breeze. He watched as townsfolk closed their shops and walked quietly to their houses. Not one of them looked to the sky. Even the lamplighters did not look beyond the glow of their lanterns.

  But then a horse neighed shrilly, and others took up the cry. They tugged at their hitching rings. A few lucky ones pulled free. They raced toward the forest east of Bywater, leaving their mates behind. The remaining horses pulled fearfully against the reins, rearing to break free.

  The dragon descended. He hovered above the struggling horses, his golden eyes malevolently studying their fear. Lower the dragon came, its massive talons sinking into view from the lamplight. One claw-tipped hand seized a piebald pony as a child might grasp a toy. The pony bucked and kicked to keep the fearsome claws at bay, but to no avail. The talon wrenched the pony from the ground, snapping its haltered neck. The dragon flung the limp body across the road, where it smashed through the window of the abandoned winery. The remaining horses screamed. Lunging into the pack, the great wyrm set both claws to the slaughter. In moments seven horses lay dying, their death rattles rising into the air as their blood sank to the ground.

  Townspeople rushed out, a few with swords in hand, but most with bows or axes. Baildon threw open his mercantile, arming the farmers with his most powerful weapons and giving the bowyers all the arrows he possessed. The people had known the dragon was back in the Wulfholdes, but they never dreamed the wyrm would come so far south to their little village. They were not cowards, however, and they would defend what was rightly theirs.