Cautiously Flinn slipped from beneath the covers and out of the shelter. Jo was sleeping soundly, and only once did she stir as he left the warmth of their bed.
Outside, Flinn’s eyes adjusted quickly. After the darkness in the tent, the moon seemed as bright as daylight. He located the hobbled mounts and then made a hissing noise to warn Ariac not to squeal his usual high-pitched greeting. Fortunately the other mounts were familiar enough with him that they didn’t whinny or bray.
Flinn loosely laid Ariac’s blanket and saddle across the bird-lion’s back. He strung Wyrmblight across the pommel. Then he picked up the bridle, which he carried separately, using his fingers to dampen the metal bit and chin strap. He would saddle the griffon only after he had put some distance between him and the camp.
After a suitable interval, Flinn halted Ariac to put on the griffon’s tackle; some of the knight’s muscles stretched a little too far and he flinched. His body bore testament to the fury of Verdilith’s first attack, and the scars across his chest sometimes troubled him. Ignoring the pain, he tightened the saddle’s girth strap and mounted up. Flinn had quite a distance to travel before he could meet up with Verdilith, and the knight was glad for the full moon and clear, windless sky. He would make good time.
The knight smiled grimly, the scar across his cheek tightening as had the others. It is fitting, he thought, that Verdilith returned to this region. He dismissed the vision of the dragon’s lair. He had no doubts that Verdilith was waiting for him in the glade where they first fought. With Wyrmblight I will face the dragon, Flinn thought, and we shall have our last battle. What was begun there shall end there. The knight ground his teeth, then deliberately stopped himself. “Only this time there will be a victor,” he said aloud.
Flinn dug his heels into Ariac’s flanks, and the griffon leaped forward. The bird-lion snapped at his bit, eager to be moving. Flinn headed north, choosing as easy and straight a trail as possible through the rocky Wulfholdes. Although he had slept little, Flinn was tensed and keyed for the fight to come.
Wyrmblight hung by his side, shiny and warm. Since the day the people’s faith in him had returned, the heat had not left the sword. It’s funny, Flinn mused, how when I first wielded Wyrmblight, the hilt grew warm so gradually that I never noticed it. After my fall, the sword grew cold, and I never noticed that change either. Now, however, Flinn was aware of the slightest fluctuation of warmth every time he touched Wyrmblight. The man smiled. The blade had only grown warmer with each passing day. It was a wonderful advantage in winter.
Flinn urged Ariac into a faster trot. The griffon responded admirably and soon settled into a ground-eating pace. Dawn found the knight and Ariac entering a small, dark forest in a secluded portion of the Wulfholdes. Flinn pulled the griffon to a halt and looked around, noting nothing suspicious in sight. These are the woods, he thought, the scene of what I hope will be Verdilith’s death. He dismounted and pulled free a bundle tied to Ariac’s saddle. Opening the wrapping, the knight began putting on the armor Sir Graybow had given him at the castle. The familiar weight of a breastplate settled on his shoulders. Flinn struggled to attach the remaining pieces of armor; he found himself wishing for his squire since many of the buckles and straps were in places difficult for him to reach. The frigid winter air stiffened his fingers. It took him twice as long to dress as it should have, but finally he was finished. Flinn pulled out the midnight-blue tunic of the Order of the Three Suns. Reverently he touched the silken threads entwined with the gold. He drew the shirt over his head.
Flinn tried to mount the griffon, but failed. “I’ve forgotten how to mount up in full armor,” he muttered to Ariac. The bird-lion squealed. After several clumsy attempts, the knight finally settled into the saddle. He urged Ariac forward in a slow walk through the deep snow. The conifers were as thick as he remembered them so many years ago, and he almost expected to hear two squires chatter away behind him. The dark forest closed about him.
Flinn continued deeper into the woods until, at last, he saw sunlight streaming into the forest ahead of him. He moved forward cautiously until he was at the edge of a small glade. He dismounted. The glade where he had first fought Verdilith fifteen years ago stretched before him. And there lay Verdilith himself, sunning the rippling expanse of emerald green skin.
The dragon had grown, Flinn noted. He was larger than Flinn remembered, and he took up nearly a fourth of the small glade. His green scales glistened in the sun, and the bright copper plates protecting his chest and neck also gleamed. His claws, of burnished ivory, looked recently sharpened. Scattered about the dragon’s body were rods, staves, and other probably magical devices. Some lay half buried in the snow. Flinn braced himself mentally and thought, I will not turn around. Not now. The knight loosely tied Ariac to a branch and then stepped through the treeline and into the open. The dragon turned his massive head and opened his jaws in something resembling a smile. Flinn could see row after row of sharp, pointed spikes.
“It is about time, old nemesis,” Verdilith rumbled loudly, then laughed. “I wait fifteen years, and you make me wait eight days more while you stumble about the hills.”
Flinn advanced slowly, his sword held cautiously before him. “It makes no difference how long the wait, Verdilith,” Flinn said strongly. “I am here, and today is the day you die.”
“Let us speak about that, Sir Flinn,” the dragon smiled toothily, and suddenly Flinn was reminded of Lord Maldrake. “You and I both know the prophecy the crazy woman Kunzay has foretold.”
“Yes,” answered Flinn briskly. “The prophecy says I will win.”
The dragon wasn’t disconcerted. “Perhaps that is what she told you. I heard a different prophecy.” Verdilith lowered his head to Flinn’s eye level. “Whoever wins doesn’t matter. What does matter is that one of us might die—and neither of us knows which. And so, I propose that we part company here and now, and that we never seek one another again. That way the old woman’s prophecy need never come to pass.”
Flinn took another step forward and shook his head. “No, Verdilith, I cannot. You destroyed my marriage and my name seven years ago. You slaughtered the town of Bywater, and you murdered my former wife at the council. For these and all your other atrocities, you must die.” The knight took yet another step toward the dragon.
The dragon sighed, a strange wheezing noise that sounded more like a cough. He picked up one of the rods in the snow, licked it appreciatively, and then said, “As you wish, Flinn. But I warn you: I’ve tired of baiting you, so your end is at hand. Your death will be over so quickly as to be ludicrous. Ready yourself; you’re about to die!” He aimed the rod at Flinn, who steeled himself and prepared to dodge the coming assault. One hand touched a furry tail dangling from his waist. The dragon, in a most bored tone, spoke the command word necessary to activate the magic in the rod.
Nothing happened.
Flinn heard no noise, saw no flash, felt no different. He spared a quick glance at himself and Wyrmblight. He looked exactly as he had a moment earlier. The dragon stared at Flinn, then repeated the procedure. Again nothing happened; Verdilith picked up a staff lying at his feet. He pointed the staff directly at Flinn and forcefully spoke the command word.
Still nothing happened. A tendril of fear curled through the dragon’s golden eyes. Flinn wondered suddenly whether Karleah Kunzay’s prophecy were false. The knight, wondering if this was all a trap on the dragon’s part, nevertheless began to slowly advance toward Verdilith. “Is something wrong?” he taunted the dragon. “Your fancy gadgets not working today? A shame, indeed. Perhaps you’ll care to fight me the old tooth-and-nail, sword-and-hand way? That might prove best for both concerned….” Flinn grew bolder as each item Verdilith tried failed.
The dragon threw one more wand into the snow and gnashed his teeth. Suddenly he cocked his head and looked eastward. “The box,” Verdilith mumbled. “That accursed box.” The dragon’s eyes grew feral in the winter light. He raised one clawed appendage and murmur
ed three words of an incantation. Flinn held Wyrmblight before him and tensed, one hand again on the blink dog’s tail at his waist. The ancient stream of words finished, clipped off by the dragon’s teeth. Silence. The dragon blinked, then smiled evilly. “You have me at a disadvantage, Sir Flinn, for I’ve been robbed of my magical powers—at least for now. However, it shall be as you wish—a duel of physical strength without aid of magicks. I shall win no matter what, Flinn the Fool.”
In answer, Flinn growled low and stroked the furry tail. He’d heard Jo use the blink dog’s tail often enough that he hoped he would get the tone and pitch right in one try. Suddenly, he blinked. Flinn stood a step away from the dragon’s right side; he swung Wyrmblight immediately. Using two hands, the blade came down in a shining arc and cut deeply into Verdilith’s side. The dragon’s scales would have prevented a lesser blow, but so sharp was the edge of Wyrmblight that the blade bit in by nearly a foot. Blood gushed from the wound.
The dragon shrieked in pain and anger. Flinn pushed the blade into the wound he had made and twisted, seeking a vital organ to rupture. From the corner of his eye, Flinn saw a giant, serpentine whip swing at him. The tail! He growled the command word and blinked away. For an instant he had the impression that the tail passed through him. Flinn reappeared in front of the dragon. He jumped forward, holding Wyrmblight like a lance, and stabbed the dragon’s chest. Deflected by the impenetrable copper scales, the sword bit into the trampled snow instead. Verdilith hissed, and a noxious cloud of chlorine gas enveloped Flinn. The knight only coughed a little and thanked Tarastia he had Wyrmblight to protect him.
Flinn swung his sword in a series of short, tightly controlled strokes, seeking a way past the dragon’s foreclaws. Verdilith raked back and tried to grab the blade from Flinn. But Wyrmblight’s edge was too sharp to grasp, and the dragon screamed in pain as the sword sliced into his sensitive palms. He reared back onto his haunches, rising to his full height, and then came back down, both foreclaws reaching for Flinn.
The knight didn’t flinch. Instead of retreating, he took a step closer and held Wyrmblight straight up as the claws came slashing down. Verdilith snagged his left claw on the sharp tip of Flinn’s sword, and the knight thrust upward, twisting as he did. Wyrmblight sliced through the dragon’s palm and into his forearm. Tendons snapped audibly.
Verdilith bellowed in pain. He clawed at Flinn with both front talons, despite the sword still thrust through one. Flinn fought to keep hold of Wyrmblight; the violent thrashing almost tore the sword from his hands. The moment Verdilith paused, Flinn twisted and yanked on the sword as he pulled it out. The knight smiled brutally at Verdilith’s ravaged claw.
The dragon screamed, and the sound buffeted the evergreens surrounding the glade. Verdilith raked Flinn again, and this time the claws caught hold of Flinn’s breastplate. The links holding the chest and back plates together snapped, and both pieces fell to the bloodied snow. The midnight-blue tunic floated to the ground. Flinn was virtually armorless above his waist. He pulled his sword up as a shield, thinking the dragon would attack with his claws again. Instead, Verdilith opened his mouth and snapped his jaws together suddenly. Flinn jumped back and reached for the blink dog’s tail, but Verdilith anticipated the knight’s move. With astounding speed, the dragon snapped his jaws a second time, and this time Flinn’s chest was caught between the pointed fangs. The growled command word emerged garbled and unintelligible. Flinn dropped the tail. The dragon lifted his head and shook his prey.
Flinn screamed. The ivory daggers lacing the behemoth’s jaws pierced Flinn’s undershirt and the arm cuffs he wore. Through a haze of pain, Flinn smelled the stench of chlorine and the dragon’s bile. The knight had a sudden vision of the animals he had hunted, writhing in his traps, and he knew exactly how they felt. Then the dragon ground his teeth together, and Flinn felt something inside him burst. A wave of blackness threatened to swallow him whole. “No!” he shouted. He fought for consciousness; he didn’t stand a chance if he blacked out now.
Below, something streaked into Flinn’s vision. A shrill squeal reached his ears. Ariac! He’d bit through his rein. The griffon attacked, his keen claws and beak scraping the gaping wound along the dragon’s right side. The bird-lion fluttered his stunted wings as his sharp beak buried deep in the ragged flesh. Suddenly Flinn felt the dragon’s jaws open. He fell heavily to the ground and lay in the snow, unable to move. His hand still curled around Wyrmblight, though how he’d managed to hold onto the sword he didn’t know.
Flinn lifted his head, and through glazed eyes he saw his griffon charge the dragon. It was a hopeless match from the start, made more so by Ariac’s inability to fly. The griffon screeched, his wicked beak piercing the dragon’s wounded side, but Verdilith caught Ariac between his good claw and his injured one. “I’ve killed your master, feeble creature, and it will be a pleasure to kill you!” Verdilith snarled. Gripping the bird-lion, he bit Ariac’s neck, tearing almost all of it away. The griffon gurgled one last scream and lay still. Flinn closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, somehow managing to stand. He stumbled toward Verdilith just as the dragon pitched Ariac’s broken body away from him.
Flinn lifted Wyrmblight above his head, his arms and chest protesting. His heart labored to pump blood, and he then felt one lung collapse. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. He gasped for air. “It is you who will die, Verdilith,” Flinn shouted hoarsely as the dragon turned back, “just as the prophecy foretold!” Flinn stepped forward suddenly and, with the last of his strength, brought Wyrmblight down upon the dragon. The blade bit deep into Verdilith’s left shoulder, almost to the hilt, and the dragon reared in pain and clawed the blade loose. Wyrmblight fell to the trampled snow. Verdilith shrieked again, and this time the sound of fear tainted the cry. The beast’s blood poured in steaming rivulets from his side, his shoulder, and his mangled claw. He backed away from the tottering man, then turned and crashed into the forest. The dragon’s leathery wings flapped as he ran, unable to lift the beast from the small clearing.
The knight feebly tried to wipe the blood from his eyes and then stumbled toward the shining silver blade lying in the red snow. Flinn paused by Ariac’s body—and fell to one knee. He stroked the silken feathers one last time in farewell. He tried to speak, but nothing emerged from the bruised lips except a bubble of blood. Flinn’s eyes clouded over, then turned toward his sword. By supreme effort, Flinn stood and haltingly limped over to the blade. Somehow he picked up Wyrmblight. Never had the sword felt heavier, and never had it felt warmer. Flinn welcomed the warmth, for he was suddenly cold, so cold.
Flinn lifted his glazed, bloodied eyes to the forest and then slowly, slowly began to walk in the direction the dragon had gone. “He is mortally wounded,” Flinn said dazedly. He coughed twice, his collapsed lung rattling, “but I must be sure he will die.”
He stepped heavily forward, jags of pain racing like lightning through his torso. Broken ribs stabbed into his failing lungs, and his heart beat frantically. A rushing noise grew in his ears. He walked twenty, thirty steps through the snow, leaving a crimson trail behind him.
He fell.
Flinn lay for a moment, fighting back the dizzy blackness that edged his vision. He closed his eyes. The image of Jo rose to his mind, and with it the image of Verdilith. Flinn gripped Wyrmblight in his hands, then opened his eyes and began dragging his beaten body through the brush, still following the trail left by Verdilith. Willpower had failed him. Now heart alone kept him moving.
“Karleah…” he gasped through broken teeth, “…damn your prophecy.”
* * *
Braddoc Briarblood, Karleah Kunzay, and Dayin Kine halted their mounts and began discussing the tracks before them.
Johauna Menhir heard none of the conversation. The words were drowned out by the litany that had filled her mind since morning: Flinn—where are you? Why didn’t I awake when you left? Why? I could have stopped you, or I could have gone with you! The words had echoed in her mind during the en
tire four-hour ride. Her three companions pointed toward a dark wood before them and turned their mounts to enter it. Jo followed mechanically.
The trail ahead of them stopped, and Jo and the others saw where Flinn must have dismounted—probably to don his armor. We must be close to the dragon, Jo thought, and close to Flinn. She only prayed that they had arrived in time to help him, but something in her heavy heart told her otherwise. Shaking the doubts from her mind, she drew her sword, jumped off Carsig, and raced into the woods. The dwarf, wizardess, and boy followed more slowly.
Giant pines and a few scattered spruces crowded the forest. The silence was palpable, and it frightened Jo. Woodlore stated that such absolute silence meant only one thing: a fight to the death had taken place. Only her fearful breaths disturbed the awful hush as she plunged forward.
Moments later, Jo broke through a line of trees and entered a small glade, a tiny meadow hidden in the woods. The snow-covered ground was trampled and stained. Blood and upturned earth marred the former whiteness. Shining bits of metal gleamed, half-buried in the snow. A tattered piece of midnight-blue cloth waved in the wind, snagged on a broken staff.
Jo halted. The huddled corpse of a griffon lay in the center of the glade. Ariac was sprawled on his back, his eagle’s head nearly severed from his body.
“Oh, Ariac,” Jo whispered, running toward the fallen beast. Her eyes were wide with grief and pain. She heard the others come up behind her, but she couldn’t bear that they see her grief—not yet. She fled forward, seeking Flinn, praying. Praying.
Jo ran for twenty, thirty, forty more paces, across the glade and into the forest again. She felt bile rise in her throat when she saw the bloody path Flinn had left behind. It was fully three feet wide—and crimson. Jo prayed some of the blood was the dragon’s. Twigs and chunks of soil had been churned up on the ground ahead, mixing foully with the snow and blood.
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