01 - The Tainted Sword

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

  Flinn pulled a few of the lighter furs over Jo, then wet the rag and wrung it out one more time. He draped it across Johauna’s throat in an attempt to cool her. Standing, he stretched his weary muscles, feeling the bones along his spine shift into place. Then he moved to the chair before the fire and began his lonely night’s vigil. He prayed to the Immortal Diulanna that the girl would live until morning.

  * * *

  The next day, Flinn stoked the fire in the cabin and looked at the girl lying in his bed. She still breathed, and in time her eyes opened.

  “Flinn,” Jo said, her voice frail and labored, “tell me about the Quadrivial. …”

  Flinn hesitated; the Quadrivial was a code he had failed, a way of life to which he was exiled. Still, he couldn’t refuse her request, not when he had—however indirectly—caused her pain. He didn’t know how much she knew of his fall from grace and his banishment from the Order of the Three Suns, but perhaps he could tell her about the Quadrivial without going into either of those. He fervently hoped so.

  Flinn settled himself on the side of the bed and looked down at the pale face before him. Jo’s gray eyes were luminous in the light, and dark shadows of pain circled them.

  “As I told you,” Flinn began wearily, “the Quadrivial is the path to righteousness. All knights who are true and noble, good and virtuous, follow the Quadrivial. The path of the Quadrivial leads to four comers—four points of truth. The path is never-ending, and not all knights reach every corner. But these are the goals all true knights strive for. The first point is honor; without honor a knight can never attain the other three points of truth.”

  “You fell from honor, didn’t you? The ‘Fall of Flinn’ says you did.” The quiet words cut into Flinn’s heart.

  His voice was husky and hesitant. “Aye, I fell from honor, Jo. But the story as you know it is wrong.”

  Jo’s breath caught short. “I never believed it. Not for one moment. You wouldn’t deny mercy on the battlefield, not even to an ogre! Surely the baron’s court was wrong, and the people, too!” She gasped for breath and her eyes clenched tight.

  Flinn’s heart contracted in pain. For the first time in seven years, he opened his mouth in his own defense.

  “The ogre never sought mercy, and I killed him as a matter of course. But a knight who wanted to tarnish my reputation accused me upon our return to the castle, claiming I had denied mercy. Unfortunately, some people chose to believe him—” most notably Yvaughan, Flinn thought bitterly “—and I left the order in disgrace.”

  “Why didn’t they believe you when you told them the truth?”

  “I—” Flinn swallowed his words. I don’t need to tell her anything, he thought suddenly. But some impulse drove him on. “I didn’t argue my case strongly enough for two reasons. The first, I’ll admit, was pride. I didn’t think the court would believe the other knight over my reputation—I was near to attaining the fourth point of righteousness. The council wouldn’t have believed the knight, either, if it hadn’t been for someone else’s testimony.”

  “Whose?”

  Flinn paused, gall sharp and bitter on his tongue. “My wife’s.” He swallowed hard. “The second reason why I didn’t tell the truth was because Yvaughan, my wife, sided with the other knight. My telling the truth would have harmed the people’s respect in her, for she is niece to old Baron Arturus Penhaligon. I… I didn’t want that on my conscience.” Flinn shifted his gaze to the floor, then turned back to the girl. Jo doesn’t need to know I held my tongue out of love for Yvaughan, he thought.

  The girl’s eyes regarded him thoughtfully, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. At last she spoke, her words hushed, “I believe you, Flinn.”

  “Yes. Well,” Flinn faltered, gratitude a long-forgotten emotion to him. “The . . . ah… second point of righteousness that a knight must attain is courage. Without courage, a knight can’t battle evil in the world. Without courage, he can’t prove himself worthy of the other two points of the Quadrivial.”

  “Have you always had courage, Flinn?” The girl struggled to keep her eyes open. Flinn planned to stop talking the moment they closed.

  “Always, except for once,” Flinn responded, then grimaced at his immodesty. All his life he had been courageous, knowing what needed to be done and doing it. Until the day of your fall, his inner voice mocked him. You couldn’t face Yvaughan. He quelled the voice. “Only once did I fear a beast so much as to flinch from challenging it. But I did confront Verdilith.”

  “Verdilith?” The name caught the girl’s attention. “The great green dragon who’s back in the territory? The same one from the tale?”

  “Yes, the same,” Flinn said wryly. “I was much younger when I faced Verdilith, and I was scared. But following the path to courage doesn’t mean a knight can’t be afraid—only that he must overcome that fear, as I did.” Flinn touched the scars on his face. “This is my badge of courage, the result of confronting my fears and facing Verdilith.”

  Jo said slowly, “The merchant in Bywater spoke of a prophecy…”

  Flinn looked away for a moment and closed his eyes. He blinked, breathing deeply. “There’s a mad wizardess who lives in the hills near the Castle of the Three Suns. Karleah Kunzay, the wizardess, says she dreamed of the fight between Verdilith and me. She prophesied that the next time we meet, one of us will die.”

  “Is that why you never fought Verdilith again?” Jo asked slowly, her voice trembling. Flinn studied her face, knowing she feared his response. His answer could shatter her image of him. He felt strangely humbled.

  “No. To be quite honest, no,” Flinn answered. “I don’t believe the prophecy. I never have. Verdilith was badly injured in our fight, and he flew off. I thought he was mortally wounded, but he’s returned to Penhaligon in the last year. Green dragons are notoriously slow to heal.” Flinn smiled at Jo, unconsciously seeking her belief in him again. “No, Jo, I fought Verdilith only once, and only once it will be, but not because of the prophecy.”

  “Why don’t you go after the green? Like Baildon asked you to?”

  Flinn shook his head. “Hunting dragons is a job for knights, not hermits. It’s the order’s duty to protect Bywater—not mine.”

  “But the prophecy implies that the two of you will meet again—”

  “I told you, I don’t believe the prophecy. I won’t hunt Verdilith again,” he said bitterly. “They’ve stripped me of my knighthood, they’ve spit on me and reviled me, they’ve set my name with villains and traitors, yet still they expect me to slay the dragon. That’s their job, not mine,” Flinn finished, pacing stiffly toward the fireplace.

  The girl stared at him, her eyes shining once more. “I understand, Flinn, I really do. When I’m better and I become a squire at the castle, I’ll tell the knights what you’ve said—I’ll get them to hunt that dragon and kill it like they should. Maybe I’ll hunt Verdilith, just as you did.” Wishful longing showed on her face as her words trailed off.

  For one moment, Flinn envisioned himself as a knight in her company. He thought of long, tiring days in the saddle and the easy camaraderie of the shared campfire. His heart ached. Flinn braced himself against the mantle. Abruptly, he realized he was lonely. His self-imposed exile seemed suddenly pointless and childish. He wanted to whirl around and propose an expedition to slay the dragon with Jo by his side. Then his eyes shifted to the mantle, where his calloused and scarred hands lay. You are a hermit, not a knight, he thought.

  “The… third point of the Quadrivial,” he said slowly, trying to remember the injunctions he had learned in the past, “is that of faith. A knight must have faith in himself and must deserve the faith of the people. The true measure of a knight’s worth is the faith placed in him by his fellow knights and the world around.

  “Without faith,” Flinn continued, “a knight can never achieve glory—the fourth and final corner on the path to righteousness. The first baron of Penhaligon, who established the Order of the Three Suns, decreed that a
knight of renown is equal to his deeds. Acts of righteousness should be sung as a testimony to all folk everywhere.”

  Jo was silent for several heartbeats before she spoke. “Did it… did it hurt much when the people at the castle lost their faith in you, Flinn?”

  Flinn flinched and released a long sigh. “Yes,” he said raggedly, “yes.” Anger rose like a sudden flame around his heart. He turned from the fireplace, averting his eyes. In two quick strides, he reached the door and stalked out into the gathering dusk.

  He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Part of him longed to return to the cabin and rage at the girl, to take out his bitterness on her. He stomped toward the stable, muttering imprecations about Jo. But he knew that he couldn’t blame her, that he had brought about his own hurt. He should have defended himself against the accusations of Yvaughan and Sir Brisbois. His fall was his own doing, and no one could ever change that. Not he, not Johauna Menhir.

  * * *

  Three days later Jo had recovered enough to leave the stuffy cabin and walk about outside, exercising her cramped muscles. She paused in the knee-deep snow, pulling the fur tighter about her shoulders. Even the new leather shift Flinn had made for her didn’t stop the cold. Slush trickled into her worn shoes. She sighed heavily, watching the breath whirl away like a ghost before her. Turning, she trudged tiredly back toward the cabin door.

  Some instinct made her stop in the act of opening the door, and she looked into the surrounding woods. The barren trees formed a black lace against the overcast sky.

  Movement along the cabin wall caught Jo’s eye. She peered closer at the bushes near the cabin, then realized with a start that she was staring directly at the wildboy. His scraggly blond hair, smudged face, and ragged clothing blended well with the surroundings. Jo waved at the child.

  The boy gave a shy nod in return and said, “My name’s Dayin. What’s yours?” Despite his rough clothes, the boy’s voice was surprisingly sweet and clear.

  “It’s Jo. My name is Jo,” Johauna smiled reassuringly. The boy nodded and then vanished. Jo scanned the wall of the cabin and the woods that lay beyond. She saw no trace of him. Shrugging, she entered the cabin.

  Flinn was kneeling by the fire, stirring gruel. Jo stomped her feet at the door, trying to shake off the snow. As she removed her shoes, she noticed that Flinn was watching her. He shifted away from the pot of gruel and began to rise.

  “I can take off my shoes, Flinn,” she said a little breathlessly. “I made it all the way to the privy, and I can remove—” her struggles got the better of her, and she stopped talking. Flinn turned back to the porridge, taking it off the fire and ladling it into the bowls. He pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard and filled the tankard with water. By the time he had put all the food on the table, Jo had donned the warm fur slippers Flinn had fashioned for her yesterday. She sat on her log beside the table.

  “I saw the wildboy just now,” Jo said, between alternating bites of gruel and bread. “He says his name is Dayin. I wonder if he knows about the attack.”

  “He does,” Flinn answered brusquely. “Dayin, huh? That scamp saved your life. He concocted the herbs that drew out the poison.”

  “What do you know about him, Flinn?” Jo asked, chewing a piece of the flat bread. Her appetite was slowly returning, and this was the first regular meal Flinn had fed her since the attack.

  Flinn shrugged, disinterested. “He doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother him. What more can I say?”

  “But why’s he all alone in these woods?” Jo persisted. Flinn looked up from his bowl, his left eyebrow arching deeply. “Why are you all alone out here in the woods? Why am I?”

  “But that’s different, Flinn, and you know it. I’m here because I wanted to find you—”

  Flinn interrupted, his voice mocking and bitter, “You wanted to find Flinn the Mighty, not me.”

  Johauna ignored him. “And you’re here because this is where you want to be. But that doesn’t explain why…” Her voice trailed off as a scowl deepened across Flinn’s face and his cheek pulsed.

  “Sometimes you have no idea what you babble about,” he spat out, standing up. He strode about the cabin, collecting gear and cooking supplies. Jo watched him in shock as he packed the items into a backpack. “I have trap lines to tend, and this—” he waved his hand about the room “—is only keeping me from them. You’re well enough to fend for yourself here in the cabin.”

  “You’re leaving, Flinn?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly small and pained. For a moment Flinn’s eyes caught hers, and she thought she saw some emotion flicker there, but he averted his gaze.

  “I’ll be gone a week, maybe ten days, to check the trap lines. I’m a trapper, remember. The griffon and mule will be with me, so you won’t need to worry about tending either of them.” He was backing out the door, finally turning his stony face toward her. He pivoted and began walking toward the bam, leaving Jo at the doorway.

  “What will I do while you’re gone?”

  Flinn stopped in the yard, then turned about slowly. “If—” he stressed the word “—you’re still here when I return, we will see.” His eyes caught hers again. “We will see.”

  He turned and left.

  * * *

  A week passed, then a fortnight before Flinn finished his trapping and returned to the cabin in the woods. Snow had fallen recently, and in some parts of the woods it reached his waist; he had had to dismount from Ariac and lead the animals through snow-blocked passages. Now Flinn peered down at his cabin, studying the few tracks surrounding the buildings. He wondered if Johauna had indeed left. Then he saw smoke curling lazily away toward the blue, afternoon sky. He sighed.

  The girl is still here, he thought. She is still here. Praise the Immortals.

  Giving Ariac’s flanks a light tap, Flinn pressed onward. Fernlover brayed in anticipation of the comforts the bam promised. Flinn wasn’t surprised to see the barn door swing open and the girl emerge. He nodded at her but said nothing, not even after she broke into a wide smile.

  “Flinn!” she shouted and raced to meet him. “You’re back!”

  “Obviously.”

  “I expected you a week ago.”

  “I told you I might be longer than a week.”

  “You said ten days, outside. It’s been two weeks.” She took Fernlover’s lead from him and led the pack animal into his own stall. “I was beginning to worry.”

  Flinn halted his dismount in midstep to look at her, his eyebrow arching in amusement. “I find it unlikely you’d ever worry, girl, save perhaps when your next meal is postponed.” He finished swinging off the griffon. “Besides, I left plenty of food, and you obviously didn’t starve.”

  She faced him squarely. “No, I didn’t starve.”

  He eyed her slowly, noting that she had fashioned herself some breeches from the damaged hides he couldn’t take to market. She was wearing the shift he had made her, and she also had a new fur vest. Her damaged shoes, he noticed, had been repaired with some leather.

  “You also didn’t leave.”

  The words hung in the air between them. She moved her hand and pursed her lips, as if words threatened to spill forth that she couldn’t give voice to. At last she said, “I didn’t want to leave, Flinn.”

  Without taking his eyes off Jo, Flinn opened the saddlebag next to him. He pulled out the blink dog’s tail and threw it at her. “Good. I’m glad.”

  Jo caught the tail and cried, “Flinn! You found my tail! How? When? I thought too much snow had fallen! I thought I was never going to see this again.”

  “I brought Ariac over to the scene of the fight. He’s got a keen nose—he found the tail without much trouble.” The warrior turned to the griffon and began undoing Ariac’s tack.

  Jo stepped into the stall’s doorway. “Flinn,” she said tentatively.

  “Yes?” he drawled, his back to her.

  “Flinn,” she repeated, “why were you glad I hadn’t left?” The warrior paused
, then continued undoing the buckles of the griffon’s girth strap. Still, he wouldn’t turn to her, but said instead, “How’s your shoulder? Any pain?”

  “A little—not much. It itches,” Jo replied.

  “Good. That means you’re healing.”

  “Flinn? You were saying…”

  “Saying what?”

  Jo sighed in exasperation. “Unless my ears tricked me, you were saying you were glad I hadn’t left. Why?”

  Flinn ground his teeth, then shook his head. He turned around, his expression serious. I can’t tease her anymore, he thought. I must tell her what’s on my mind. “I’ve decided to teach you a few things you’ll need to know to petition as squire.”

  “Flinn!” the girl cried, her voice breaking an octave. She looked positively stunned. Jo took a step forward, her hands out to embrace him, but she stopped short. Flinn felt a wave of both relief and disappointment wash over him.

  “Oh, Flinn!” Jo said again. Suddenly she looked out the bam door. “I’ve got something on the fire that needs watching, Flinn. I hope you like it! Hurry in!” The girl whirled out the stable and raced toward the cabin.

  Flinn shook his head ruefully as she ran off. “What have I done,” he muttered to himself. Turning, he stabled the animals, tending to their ice-crusted hooves and pads. Then Flinn walked to the cabin. A savory smell wafted from the pot Jo was stirring.

  “That smells good,” he said, putting some of his belongings in the cupboard by the door. “What is it?”

  “Rabbit stew.” Delicately she blew on the ladle and tentatively tasted the sauce.

  “Rabbit?” Flinn asked over his shoulder. “I know I had some stored vegetables, but where’d you get rabbit?”