01 - The Tainted Sword

by D. J. Heinrich - (ebook by Undead)

  Dungeons & Dragons

  THE

  TAINTED SWORD

  Penhaligon - 01

  D.J. Heinrich

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  For Jim,

  without whom this book

  would never have been.

  Chapter I

  “Flinn the Fallen! Flinn the Fool!”

  The taunts ripped loudly through the cold winter air. Children raced about the man on the griffon and continued their chant, their words growing more bold and cruel when nearby adults did not chastise them. One man—a baker by the looks of his flour-covered apron—even cheered his son’s viciousness. He made a wicked gesture with his hands, then turned toward his companions and laughed. “Flinn the Fool! Flinn the Mighty is no more!” the baker shouted spitefully.

  A young woman edged closer, her tall, lanky frame moving gracefully through the onlookers. A gust of wind blew her braided hair into her face, and she tossed the reddish plait to her back. Her clean, calloused hands gripped her leather belt, which bound a shift to her thin waist. Johauna Menhir had yet to see her twentieth year, but her clear gray eyes held wisdom—wisdom gleaned from thirteen years spent as an orphan on the streets of Specularum. Jo had lived in the southern seaport city until recently, when she journeyed north and found herself in the tiny village of Bywater.

  Jo’s gaze slid from the baker to the man surrounded by the growing mob of children. She scanned his rough, leather and fur attire and noted that he wore no armor. He wore no hat, and iron-gray streaks filled his once-black hair. Wind and sun had deeply tanned his face, which was marked by scars and wrinkles. He looked neither right nor left, one hand casually gripping the griffon’s reins and the other holding the lead to a pack mule that followed close behind. His breath formed white puffs in the early winter air.

  The man’s griffon appeared to have abnormally short wings, but Jo thought that might be because they were tucked close to the beast’s body. She stared at the creature’s front legs. Why are his claws gripping those strange leather balls? she wondered. After the griffon paced forward she saw why: The bird-lion’s talons weren’t made for walking long distances, and the leather bags cushioned the impact between the beast’s claws and the ground.

  Johauna searched the rider’s face again. His stem, straight lips were partially hidden by a drooping moustache. His eyes betrayed no emotion. He seemed unaware of the taunting children, the stares from the adults, and the unease that spread from him in waves. Could this old man really be Flinn the Mighty?

  Bad fortune had tossed Jo off the path to the Castle of the Three Suns, the home of Baroness Arteris Penhaligon, whom Jo hoped to petition for knighthood. Now she was stranded in the little village of Bywater, some sixty miles southeast of the castle, or so the village blacksmith had told her. Jo had never expected to come across Fain Flinn, the knight who had fallen from grace seven years ago. Like most everyone back in far-off Specularum, Jo assumed he had died shortly after his disgrace.

  Yet if Flinn the Mighty still lives, surely he would be treated with respect and reverence and not this… this insolence, Jo thought. She sidled her way through the crowd to get closer to the warrior. For nineteen years she had listened to tales of Flinn the Mighty and had developed a fascination for the man of legend. He, if anyone, could advise her on petitioning Baroness Arteris.

  Intently, Jo watched the man called Flinn pull his griffon to a halt and dismount before Bywater’s only supply store. The white walls and brass sconces of Baildon’s Mercantile gleamed in the morning sun. A large, ornately painted sign swung overhead, proclaiming the establishment’s name. Double doors with a window to either side marked the center of the building. Haifa dozen hitching posts, each with two brass rings, fronted the shop. A single wooden bench, painted bright red, stood to the left of the door. The shop’s air of tidy prosperity contrasted sharply with the disrepair of an abandoned winery to its left and the ramshackle look of Garaman’s Pottery to its right.

  The griffon screeched a shrill, eaglelike scream and reared. Jo’s attention turned toward the mount. His golden eyes were swirling in terror. The crowd’s jeers clearly made the animal skittish. His claws released the balls as he reared again, and the pads dangled from thin chains attached to the creature’s ankles. The rider stroked the silky feathers of the griffon’s neck and calmly urged him back to the ground.

  Jo watched Flinn tie his mount and pack mule to a hitching ring. His jaw clenched as he shouldered the crowd out of his way. The griffon snapped at the children, sending them scurrying back. A slight smile formed on Flinn’s lips. The warrior then muzzled the skittish griffon, which nipped once or twice before submitting.

  The children, seeing the griffon’s muzzle, grew bolder. Their chants rang louder, and more joined in. One or two of them even poked the griffon’s haunches with sticks, but backed away after being struck by his thick, lionlike tail. Flinn resolutely ignored the children and began unloading the mule.

  Why isn’t he putting the brats in their place? Jo wondered. The children reminded her of the gangs infesting Specularum. They lay in wait and attacked passersby. Rich victims were robbed; poor victims were tormented. Jo had witnessed enough gangs to know that the one centered on Flinn verged on violence.

  From the corner of her eye, Jo saw a boy pick up a rock from the muddy, partially frozen road. He was a big youth, easily as tall as Jo. His eyes were puffy slits, and he wore a deeply lined pout. Just the sort of boy to spark a riot, Jo thought.

  She touched a brown, furry tail hanging from her belt and spoke a magical phrase that sounded like a growl. She blinked out of existence and reappeared before the boy, who had been at least twenty paces away. Jo struck the youth’s hand, knocking the rock from it. The boy gasped as she knelt, emitted her low growl again, and touched the tail at her belt. She reappeared in the thick of the crowd and slowly rose from her crouch. In the bustle of the street, her sudden appearance went unnoticed.

  Cautiously Jo looked toward the youth, taking care to keep a person or two between her and the boy. He was looking around, befuddled, trying to find his attacker. At last he shook his head and faded into the crowd. Jo turned back to the man with the griffon, a smirk crossing her lips.

  She froze. Flinn’s dark eyes were on her. Had he seen her use her blink dog’s tail? His cold gaze remained inscrutable. Turning, he continued unloading the mule. Jo rubbed her hands, then stepped forward boldly, leaving the crowd of adults and breaking the line of children circling Flinn.

  “You’ve trained your griffon well, Sir Flinn,” Jo said, nodding toward the mule and horse tied together. “Either him or your mule. Not many griffons would pass up a meal of horseflesh.”

  The man looked down at Johauna. He was very tall, a head taller than Jo. A fiercely curving scar sliced along his left jawline and just nicked his throat; a second scar cut through his left eyebrow. His eyes were deep brown, nearly black. Jo caught the briefest twitch of his moustache, and she wondered whether he were amused or angered… or both.

  “I’m no longer a knight, so don’t address me as such,” he said coldly. He gestured toward the animals and added, grudgingly, “They’re both well-trained. Ariac—the griffon—hasn’t had horseflesh in years.”

  “What does he eat if not horseflesh?” Jo asked, interested. “When I worked for a hostler, the griffons almost always attacked the horses.”

  The warrior paused at the knot he was unraveling and flicked his gaze at Johauna, then turned back to the mule. “He’s happy enough with fox or bear—whatever I trap. It helps that he’s crippled and can’t fly,” Flinn replied, hefting the last bundle off the mule. He turned toward the shop. “You might pack that fly swatter of yours a
way. It’ll get you in trouble.”

  Surprised, Jo touched the blink dog’s tail and stroked the thin, bristly fur. So he had noticed! Johauna grimaced, then hurriedly tucked the tail inside her bag. Glancing at the shop, she followed Flinn.

  “Enough!” someone roared. “Enough of this badgering, you pups!” A burly man burst through the shop’s double doors, throwing both open at once. “I’ll not have you pestering my customers! Now get along, all of you, or I’ll—” The merchant cuffed one child on the ears when she didn’t flee fast enough to please him. Jo glanced at the sign above the man’s head. This must be Baildon, she thought.

  “Ah, Flinn!” the merchant said, beaming. His tanned, shiny face was framed by huge sideburns that covered much of his cheeks, perhaps to compensate for the lack of hair above. One or two extra chins graced the shopkeeper’s neck. His bloodied butcher’s apron draped over a sleeveless, dirty gray tunic and a pair of even dirtier brown breeches. He wore sandals despite the cold, and Jo saw bright spots of blood spattered on them. The merchant stepped forward, and he and Flinn clasped each other’s wrists.

  “Come in, Flinn! Have you anything worth my money this year?” Baildon laughed and returned to his shop, Flinn following with his load of furs. Discreetly Jo followed, too, bent on discovering more about the man who had always been legend to her. She eagerly passed through the doors of the mercantile.

  Bywater’s only supply store was a two-story building crammed to the rafters with all things imaginable. Fantastic wares such as magical daggers and rings lay casually beside such common items as bits and bridles.

  Jo halted just inside the door. The fragrant smell of fresh baked goods filled her nose. She drew a deep breath, watching Flinn and Baildon meander through the cluttered store to the counter at the back. Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten in more than a day. Although she had no money, the smell of the bread was irresistible. She drifted into the mercantile, hoping to find the foodstuffs and feast her eyes, if not her stomach. As she passed among crates and stacks of merchandise, the flash of metal caught her eye.

  Shiny armor stood near the windows, glowing with light from lanterns both magical and mundane. Beside the armor ran a counter that held new and used weapons, some with elaborate runes. One well-crafted morning star rested behind glass. Its spikes were formed of a black metal Jo hadn’t seen before. At the end of the counter lay a pile of battered armor, scarred with much use. Ordinarily Jo would have been intrigued, but the smell of bread grew stronger. Sniffing, she turned toward a table laden with bolts of cloth. As she followed the scent, her fingers glided over burlap, fine silk, and even an exotic weave that faintly glowed. Beyond the table lay bags of oats, clustered about a ceiling post. A pair of boots dangled from the post by their bootstraps. On a peg above the boots hung a cloak that blended so well with its surroundings that Jo nearly missed it. New tools, spare harness parts, and saddles cluttered one corner as she walked on, still following the teasing aroma of bread.

  Jo moved to the center of the store, her gaze drifting upward. From the tall rafters dangled lengths of rope and chains and drying herbs. Beside the ropes, two ripening deer carcasses hung. As she passed beneath them, their smell masked the scent she had been following. Spying a glass case, she moved forward, hoping it would hold the bread. Instead, she found gems and stones, some bathed in colorful auras of magic, some chased in metal, and others loose.

  In an adjacent case lay elvish candy—spun sugar creations of breathtaking beauty and taste. A sheet of glass guarded the confections. Jo licked her lips. Across the top of the case lay slices of spiced beef, aging and drying, nearly obscuring the treasures below.

  Johauna stopped—she had found the baked goods, in a nearby cupboard. She stood in awe. Shelf after shelf brimmed with golden loaves. Jo saw currant buns, loaves made of brown wheat, and delicate pastries. Briefly she toyed with the idea of stealing a popover since the merchant was clearly busy with Flinn, but she drove the thought from her mind.

  Knights are not bread stealers, she decided. After a heady breath, she realized that her resolution would not endure for long, and she wandered to the back of the store.

  Flinn and the merchant stood at the rear counter. As Jo approached, Baildon used a cleaver to sweep the remains of the goose he had been quartering onto the floor. With the heavy blade, he gestured for Flinn to put down his bundle.

  “The furs are fine ones, Flinn, fine indeed,” the merchant was saying. “But fox and owlbear just aren’t fetching the price they once did, not with the rich cloths coming from the South. No one wants fur when they can have silk. The best I can give you is thirty gold.” The merchant smiled apologetically and crossed his arms.

  “I need forty, Baildon, no less.” Flinn, too, crossed his arms. His mouth formed a mulish frown.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” Jo interrupted as she moved closer to the counter. The merchant spat tobacco juice onto the dirt floor. Jo ignored the gesture. “I worked for Tauntom, master of the Tanner’s Guild in Specularum.”

  “Yes, yes, girl, that’s all well and good,” the merchant snapped, “but what has that to do with us?”

  Jo’s gray eyes flashed in anger, but she glanced away immediately. She had learned the art of negotiation and did not want to rile Baildon. If she could get Flinn his forty coins—his beautiful pelts would be worth twice that in Specularum—Flinn might give her a moment of his time.

  “It has everything to do with you,” Jo said smoothly. “You see, Tauntom recently received an order for all the furs he can provide. It seems a lord of Specularum has planned a gala for his son’s wedding next spring.” Johauna leaned toward the merchant with a conspiratorial air, aware of the suspicion in Flinn’s keen eyes. The merchant leaned forward. “Tauntom is panicked—he can’t supply all the pelts. The lands around Specularum have been hunted to exhaustion,” Jo paused for effect. “Tauntom will pay you eighty gold for these furs.”

  She backed off and shrugged. “If you can’t meet Master Flinn’s asking price, then I’d suggest he take them to someone else. Someone who would benefit from your shy purse.” She smiled politely at the round-bellied man before her but averted her eyes from Flinn’s. The tall warrior still regarded her with suspicion.

  The merchant stroked the stubble of his beard. His beady brown eyes dimmed a little, then he turned to Flinn and jerked his thumb to ward Jo. “Do you trust her, Flinn? Seems like she’s trying to hoodwink me.”

  Flinn looked down at his splayed hands. “I’ve no reason not to believe her, Baildon. The decision is yours.” Flinn looked at Jo. “She did, however, do me a good turn earlier.” Baildon nodded toward Flinn. “That’s good enough for me. A friend of yours is a friend of mine,” the merchant said briskly. Baildon tied the furs back into a bundle and put them on the crowded floor behind the counter. “I’ll have that list of supplies in two shakes of a wyvern’s tail.” The merchant grabbed some burlap sacks and headed down a crowded walkway.

  Flinn crossed his arms again and looked at Jo. She consciously returned the gesture, and the two of them stared at each other. Finally Flinn broke the silence.

  “You were lying, weren’t you?”

  “I was not,” Jo countered coolly.

  Flinn’s eyebrows rose. “Earlier you said you were a stablehand. Now you’re a tanner’s helper?”

  “I’ve been both. I’ve also worked at an armory and for a weaponsmith, fletching arrows,” she said proudly. She hoped Flinn was impressed with her credentials, all of which would prove useful to a potential knight.

  He wasn’t. One brow arched higher, and he said, “Being unable to hold a job is nothing to be smug about.”

  “Nevertheless, the tale is true,” Johauna interjected sharply, stung by Flinn’s derision. “Tauntom the tanner will be needing extra furs by spring. I didn’t he.” Jo put her hands on her hips.

  Before Flinn could respond, Baildon returned with several large bundles. “Here you be, Flinn, all the supplies you asked for and the remainder of you
r gold.” The merchant’s eyes fairly gleamed at the prospect Flinn’s furs presented to him. Feeling benevolent, he nodded to Jo and said, “There’s a loaf of pumpkin bread that’s two days’ old over in the cupboard, to the left. You’re welcome to it if you want. I appreciate the tip.”

  Jo murmured thanks and hurried to the nearby cabinet. After a moment of searching, she found the small, dark orange loaf Baildon had mentioned. She picked up the bread and sniffed the aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and exotic spices. Hungrily she began eating it there in the store. Bits of conversation between Flinn and the merchant floated toward her, and she turned to watch the two men.

  “…Verdilith. That wyrm is back in the territory, Flinn! You’ve got to do something,” the merchant pleaded. “Won’t you—”

  “You know I can’t do that, Baildon. Don’t hope—”

  “I can hope all I want!”

  “Well, hope away then. I won’t go after Verdilith, and that’s final.”

  “Is it because of the prophecy? Is that it? Karleah Kunzay’s crazy, Flinn! She—”

  “Enough!” Flinn shouted, his fist hammering the shopkeeper’s counter. “It is not the prophecy! It’s because I’m no longer a knight! I’m not—!” The words were strangled short. “Baildon, you should know that!”

  Jo’s curiosity was piqued. She edged nearer only to have Flinn abruptly brush past her, his supplies draped over his shoulder. The warrior stomped out of the shop, his face grim. He didn’t glance at Jo, though she watched him go. She wondered if she had the time to pry information from the merchant but decided she didn’t. Holding up the loaf, she mumbled her thanks to Baildon and followed Flinn.

  She stopped outside the shop’s doors and eyed the warrior. He was trying to goad the griffon into a standing position so he could mount. The recalcitrant beast merely pecked at Flinn with his muzzled beak. Jo sauntered over.

  “Try cupping your hands around his eyes,” she said when Flinn’s latest efforts proved futile. “It’s a trick I learned from the hostler. The griffon’ll stand up and try to fly because he’s scared. Try it.”