01 - The Tainted Sword Read online

  “But I do take my responsibilities seriously!”

  “Perhaps, but not the responsibility you owe to a master! Think how the council is going to view you: a nineteen-year-old vagabond seeking her sixth master in probably as many years! Forget about this nonsense and go back to Specularum, perhaps back to one of your former masters. Or go back to Bywater and see what the village can offer.” Flinn settled back in his chair, hoping he had gotten through to the girl.

  Jo crossed her arms, a determined look settling about her mouth. “Flinn,” she hesitated, then proceeded boldly, “Flinn, it’s true I’m a… a ‘flibbertigibbet’, but I do have solid experience that will hold me in good stead as a knight. If you took me on as your squire and trained me, the council would be sure to accept—”

  Flinn jumped to his feet, his chair scraping across the rough pine board floor and crashing into the wall behind him. “You’ve got too much brass, girl, and I won’t stand for it! I’ve answered more than enough questions, now get!” The warrior strode to the door and tore it open, his eyes flashing and his mouth mulish.

  Jo coolly crossed her arms in return and sat back, her eyes focused upon a corner of the room. In battles, Flinn watched his opponents’ eyes, looking for clues to their next action. Flinn cocked an eyebrow as he studied her blank expression. She would make quite an opponent, he thought.

  Fully ten heartbeats passed before the girl spoke. “Did you really slay two giants with only one stroke?” she asked. Flinn was taken aback. “What?”

  “As my second question of you—” she looked at him sharply, as if daring him to take away the other questions he had promised her “—I’d like to know if you really killed two giants with a single stroke. It’s my favorite story,” the girl added.

  Flinn granted. “They were hill giants.” Noting the veil of snow forming on the floor, he closed the door.

  “What’s that got to do with it? Giants are giants.”

  “It has everything to do with it! Hill giants are stupid.”

  “Are they so stupid that they lined up, waiting for you to kill them with a single swipe of your sword?” Jo inquired.

  “Almost,” Flinn said with scorn. “Besides, they were father and son. Stupidity ran in their blood, even more so than with most hill giants.”

  The girl uncrossed her arms and leaned toward him, pushing the dirty dishes aside. “Well?” she asked eagerly. “Won’t you sit down and tell me what really happened?”

  “Tell me the tale as you know it,” Flinn countered, slowly returning to his chair. Despite his irritation with the girl, her refusal to flee the cabin had won his grudging respect. Flinn sat down at the table, feeling an awkward interest in what she had to say.

  Johauna leaned back, and for a moment he thought she might not speak, for her lips quivered and her eyes looked past him. “The tale begins with a time of woe,” she began, her voice husky and low.

  “The baron of Penhaligon—Arturus was his name—had died that very winter. His body lay upon the dried boughs of the pyre, his only comfort the wind and the rain and the snow. His mourners had all deserted him after the one day’s observance of grief, all save one—his niece’s husband, the Mighty Flinn.

  “Flinn deeply mourned the loss of his baron, the man who had believed in him, the man who had fostered all that was good and brave in him. And so Flinn waited by the pyre for ten days and ten nights—”

  “It was only four,” Flinn interrupted.

  The girl shushed him, as if he had disturbed an invisible audience. “—as was the old custom,” she continued. “Now the baron had admired the old customs and had oft lamented their passing. Flinn’s vigil was the last honor Arturus would receive.

  “And so for those four days and four nights Flinn kept vigil over the baron’s body until the day of burning. In all this time he stood straight and tall at his post, his sword shining bright in his hands. Never once did he lay upon the ground and rest. He stayed ever awake while the soul of the departed baron journeyed home.” Outside a gust of wind whistled mournfully.

  “Arturus was known throughout Penhaligon for the terrible battles he had waged against monsters of the land. Many of these monsters’ kin came to the pyre. They thought to pay their last respects by defiling the boughs of aspen and apple that made up the baron’s final bed. Worse yet, they sought to fling offal at the baron’s midnight raiment.”

  The girl paused, her eyes lingering on Flinn’s, perhaps seeking to appease him with her story. His lips pursed, but he said nothing.

  “It is said that when the monsters saw the Mighty Flinn standing vigil over the baron of Penhaligon, the sensible ones turned away and brooded on vengeance for another day. But the foolish ones—aye, the ones corrupted by anger and hatred for the noble baron—one by one came down from the hills. And one by one Flinn slew them all.

  “It is said that none have recorded how many monsters fell those ten—er, four—days. It is said that even Flinn himself knew not how many monsters came upon him, again and again.”

  “It was seven,” Flinn interrupted.

  “Seven?” Jo’s voice rose to nearly a shriek. “Is that all?”

  Flinn nodded. “Two hill giants, a trio of bugbears, one ogre, and one very foolish goblin.”

  “Oh,” the girl responded. Flinn smiled inwardly. He could see her struggle to reconcile fact with legend.

  Johauna continued after a moment, apparently chagrined at the flaws in her story. “But the tale that is to be told here, the tale of how Flinn slew two giants with a single blow, recounts the fourth and final day of Flinn’s vigil. The lords and ladies of Penhaligon rode out on that last day, carrying the torches with which they would light their beloved baron’s pyre. There, they beheld Flinn’s final battle for his baron.

  “Two fearsome giants from the northern Wulfholde Hills approached Flinn on foot. Flinn swayed a little in the cold wind that rose then, and in his fatigue he fell to one knee. His exhaustion was complete, but he did not yield to the temptation to sleep or flee, for soon his master’s body would be burned and his soul at rest. Flinn forced himself to stand once more as the giants approached.

  “One giant carried an oak tree whose girth was thrice that of a barrel-chested man. The club, for such was the tree to the giant, was twice as tall as its bearer. The giant used the tree with its trunk still whole and sound, its branches still green, and its roots still quivering with fresh loam. The second giant was even more fierce! In his brawny arms lay a mountain’s babe of a rock, a granite waiting to take root in the ground and grow. This giant was even taller and broader than the first. Surely Flinn, in his exhaustion, could not hope to defeat these two behemoths.

  “As the lords and ladies of Penhaligon drew near on their brightly liveried chargers, they saw a titanic struggle. The giants’ might proved a powerful match for Flinn’s skill with his blade, Wyrmblight. Although Wyrmblight was christened for shedding dragon’s blood, the blade sank deep and true that day into giant flesh, too.

  “The lords and ladies of Penhaligon, hearing the clang of steel, spurred on their steeds, desperate to help a loyal member of their court. But they arrived in time only to see Flinn draw back Wyrmblight with both hands. He swung that shining blade in a noble arc, an arc that sliced clear through one giant’s neck, and then through the other’s.

  “And in one blow—in but one blow—did Flinn the Mighty slay two giants.” Johauna sighed, her cheeks flushed.

  Flinn said nothing for several moments, contenting himself to watch the emotions flitter across the girl’s expressive face. Finally he forced himself to say, “You’re quite a storyteller, Jo.” It was feeble praise indeed—her telling had equalled any he had heard.

  Johauna only smiled in return.

  “Now,” said Flinn, leaning forward and locking his eyes on the girl, “ask your third question, and let’s be done with this.” He balled one hand into a fist and wrapped the other around it.

  She returned his look steadily. “I want to kn
ow about the Quadrivial. I’ve heard it mentioned in legends about the knights of the Order of the Three Suns, but I don’t know what it is. Tell me about it, then point the way to the castle and I will leave you.” Her lips tightened.

  Flinn’s face clouded, and he looked away. “The Quadrivial is the path to true knighthood, a path that turns Four Corners: honor, courage, faith, and glory. Knights who don’t attain—and then retain—the four points of the Quadrivial aren’t really true knights.” He looked at Jo. “There’s nothing more to say.”

  The girl looked down at her hands and then about the room. “You are out of water and wood. May I fetch you some?”

  “Why?” Flinn asked abruptly, disconcerted by the offer.

  Jo stared at him intently, chewing her lower lip. “Because I want more than anything to be a knight of the Order of the Three Suns. If I fetch the wood and the water, perhaps you’ll tell me what the Quadrivial is really about. Perhaps you’ll tell me how to get the council to accept my petition.”

  Flinn saw the girl’s cheek pulse, and he realized she was grinding her teeth—something he did every night in his sleep. He saw, too, that the bruise on her face had darkened. Again a pang of shame rose in him, and again he found himself relinquishing. He nodded slowly.

  “All right, girl. If that’s what you wish.” Standing, he grabbed the water pail and set it on the table. “You know where the stream is—wade out into it and fill the bucket at the deepest part. The water’s cleanest there. The wood pile’s beside the barn, but I’m out of small kindling. I think you’ll find some dead wood not too far west from here. I’m going to tether the animals in the high pasture.”

  Flinn’s long legs carried him the two short strides to his weapon cupboard, which stood beside the door. He strapped his sword to his wide belt. The blade certainly wasn’t the quality of the accursed Wyrmblight, which he’d deliberately lost in a dice game, but it was serviceable nonetheless. Opening the cupboard doors, he took out a ragged fur vest and threw it at the girl. “This’ll keep you a bit warmer.” With another stride he was out the door.

  * * *

  Jo waited for Flinn to leave the cabin before she let out the breath she’d been subconsciously holding. She was bemused. Today, more clearly than ever, she realized just how important her lifelong dream of knighthood was. True, she had enthusiastically pursued other positions, only to lose interest in them in time. Somehow, she felt sure her desire for knighthood was different. She really did want to be a knight—and not for only a year or two. Just thinking about it made her hands tremble as she put on the fur vest. She grabbed the bucket by its willow-wrapped handle and headed out the door.

  Outside, snow was falling in silent, fat flakes. Jo stopped just beyond the shelter of the buildings and looked around. Having lived in the bustling city of Specularum for the last thirteen years, she was unnerved by the strange silence of the wilderness. She turned to the path that led to the stream, taking care to keep the snow out of her tom shoes. The path was frozen and icy. As she made her way along, Jo grabbed at branches to keep from falling. Once the bucket fell from her hands and slid down the slope, but she quickly retrieved it.

  The bank of the stream was surrounded by scrubby bushes and water-loving birch and willow. A few twisted river oaks stood nearby, their leaves still clinging to the branches. The stream’s bank was wet with snow and water and Jo wrinkled her nose. She hated getting wet—the morning’s ablutions had been torture enough. Still, Flinn told her to draw water at the deepest part of the stream, and Jo saw no way to reach that point without wading.

  Toward the middle of the stream, she spied a large, flat rock standing about a foot above the waterline. Gingerly she fingered the blink dog’s tail dangling at her waist. She could easily blink that distance, but the landing could prove tricky. The flowing water that broke against the rock and splashed over it had coated it with ice. She looked again at the icy water of the river and made her choice.

  With a low growl and a shake of the tail, she blinked onto the rock. Jo struggled to retain her footing on the icy stone. Abruptly she slipped to her knees, her hands groping for the sides of the rock. She had the sense to hold on to the handle of the bucket so it wouldn’t be swept downstream. Her fingers tightened upon the rock’s edges and she stopped sliding. Ignoring the pain in her knees, she lowered her bucket into the waiting water.

  Jo looked back to shore. She didn’t dare try standing before she blinked back, for fear of slipping off the stone. She touched the tail and growled. A moment later she was back on the bank, kneeling in the sloppy, wet snow. Then, above the sound of rushing water, she heard the quick intake of breath. She jerked her head up and screamed.

  The round white face of a young boy peered back at her through the brush. One dirty hand held thin branches aside.

  His pale blue eyes flared in fear at her outcry, then shifted up the pathway.

  Something was crashing down the path.

  The boy turned back to Jo, gave a shy, sweet smile, and vanished. Jo stared dazedly at the spot where he had been. She could hardly believe what she had seen. The rumbling footfalls on the trail neared. Jo leaped to her feet, clutching a thick branch in her hand.

  It was Flinn. He leaped over a log and landed precariously on the icy ground. His wide eyes searched the woodlands around Jo, his sword drawn and ready.

  “I’m sorry I screamed,” she said, pointing the way she imagined the boy must have gone. “There was this child—”

  Flinn rolled his eyes and returned his sword to its scabbard. “I might have known,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Might have known what?” Jo asked. “He just appeared in front of me. I looked up and there he was. What’s a little boy doing out here? Do you know him?”

  Flinn shrugged. “I know of him. I first saw him about a year and a half ago. He never says anything, and I doubt he’d ever harm you.”

  “No, I doubt he’d harm me, either.” Jo shook her head. “He smiled at me.”

  Flinn cocked an eyebrow. “Usually he disappears the moment I make eye contact with him.”

  “Does he have kin around here?” Jo asked, her curiosity aroused.

  Flinn made for the path. “Not that I know of,” he said casually. Jo watched him go, shaking her head. Flinn showed little concern for the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten winters old. Frowning, she picked up the bucket and followed Flinn up the steep path.

  The path to the cabin was slippery, and Jo walked cautiously to keep the bucket from spilling. She left the water in the cabin by the hearth, then went back outside to gather firewood. Flinn came out of the bam, carrying a yoke dangling two more water buckets. He pointed off to the west and shouted, “Kindling,” then headed for the second time down the path to the stream. Jo smiled, grateful he hadn’t asked her to fetch the water for the animals, too.

  Walking through the silent woods of larch and beech, Johauna felt the weight of the winter day close in on her. The silence seemed almost palpable. Everywhere she looked, she saw only the still woods, bare trunks of strange and twisted trees. A dark red oak leaf or two waved feebly at her passing, as did one brave clutch of golden aspen leaves. Their colors were dimmed beneath the looming clouds. Jo cast her eyes toward the leaden sky: thankfully, the snow had stopped.

  The silence began to gnaw at her. The forest itself seemed to be watching, holding its breath. Where are the sparrows? she thought. Or the chipmunks or ground-squirrels? She chided herself and tried to ignore the eerie sensations. She began to whistle her favorite tune as she gathered small twigs. But the whistled notes sounded loud and conspicuous in the silence. The tune trailed off and stopped. She looked up. Aspens stood in a cautious ring around her, as though warning her not to disturb the hush. Alarmed, she stooped, picking up the branches as quickly and quietly as she could.

  Johauna tried to discriminate between dead wood and branches that had merely lost their leaves. The trees here were sparse, with little underbrush. Kindling was slim. Sh
e wandered from tree to tree, snapping twigs to see if they were brown or green inside. Little by little, her bundle grew.

  Jo’s exertions made her warm, so she took off the vest and piled her kindling inside it. A few paces ahead an oak tree towered, sporting a large lower branch that was clearly dead. Jo approached the branch and tugged at it. She heard the bark tear, but the branch still held. Jo pulled harder, straining her young muscles against the wiry might of the oak. She grunted in her effort, finally hanging on the branch. It gave way slowly, but she was sure with a little more work the branch would work loose. Then she could drag the whole thing back to the cabin and have all the kindling Flinn could need.

  A strange odor passed her nose. Jo paused, quieting her loud breaths. She sniffed the air. Where is that fetid odor coming from? “Smells like dead cats,” she muttered. She smelled her hands, red from the rough bark, thinking the wood sap might be causing the stench. Nothing but the clean smell of wood there, she thought. She dismissed the odor and gave one last tug. The branch pulled free, jerking past and behind her body.

  Something screeched in rage. Jo fell to the ground, touched her tail, and growled. But the creature was quicker than even the magical tail. Searing pain tore through her shoulder. Then came blackness, and she reappeared twenty paces away. Clutching her lacerated shoulder, she stumbled to her feet. Red wetness ran down her hand. Spinning about, she glimpsed her attacker: dark and twisted and humanlike in shape, it hurtled toward her. The creature’s long, brittle fingers raked at her, catching threads of cloth and strands of hair as she jumped backward. She blinked again, only narrowly escaping the darting jaws and tobacco-colored fangs that gleamed dully with spittle.

  Jo reappeared a heartbeat later, only fifteen paces away. She dropped to the ground and lay crouched very still. The creature’s ten-foot-tall body faced away from her. Its bony spine bristled as it slowly turned around. It had brittle-looking legs and arms, which ended in sharp talons. Jo gasped as the gaunt creature stretched to its full height, its long arms arching outward at its sides. It sniffed the air, the wiry hair on its dry skin prickling. Jo cautiously exhaled, then filled her lungs with much-needed air. Blinking continuously was hard work, and she was dizzy from both that and the wound to her shoulder.