The Tainted Sword

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 away. 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 lie.” 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 your 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.”

The man cast an indignant glance toward Jo. “That doesn’t work with Ariac,” he said in rebuke. Jo grimaced and bit her lip. Obviously Flinn knew the trick.

Flinn coaxed the bird-lion once more, this time pulling on the feathers surrounding one tender ear opening. Ariac stood immediately. The griffon’s lion feet nervously scratched the mud and ice of By water’s only road, and his front claws reluctantly closed upon the leather balls. Flinn leaped into the saddle. He reached forward, tore the muzzle off, and grabbed the mule’s lead rein all in one smooth motion.

He turned to Jo and nodded once, curtly. “My thanks, girl.”

“The name’s Jo—” The rest of her name went unspoken. The man of legend had turned his animals around without a second glance.

Dejected, Jo sat down on the bench outside Baildon’s Mercantile. Flinn’s tall form slowly disappeared down the street. Sighing, Jo nibbled a little more from her loaf, looked at the remaining half, and then prudently packed it away in her bag. She looked down the muddy road once more, listening to horses break pockets of ice to find the water below.

Well, Johauna, she thought, what’s it to be? You have one meal—maybe two if you stretch it. Is it back to Specularum? Her thoughts grew grim at that prospect, and she shook her head. No, no, that won’t do. You set out to do something, and it’s time you did it. And it’s no use to stay here and drum up work, either. No. On to the Castle of the Three Suns. Flinn the Mighty seems to be heading in that general direction. Perhaps he will answer some questions if you catch him.

Jo slung her bag across her shoulder and proceeded down Bywater’s only street. Opposite the mercantile stood a livery, with a narrow inn on one side and a blacksmith’s shop on the other. The smith looked up from the draft horse he was shoeing as Johauna went by. He nodded cordially, his hands holding a tong and a hammer. Not a bad little village, Jo thought, remembering the farrier’s kindness last night in letting her sleep inside his shop in return for a little cleaning.

Next she passed ten or so houses, each with identical thatched roofs and limed walls. Near the edge of the village stood a stone-walled church dedicated to the worship of any Immortal. Jo was tempted to stop and pray, but Odin would understand if she pressed on after Flinn. Odin would be the first to follow his dreams rather than pray about them.

Sharp rocks and jags of ice poked Johauna’s feet through the shoes she wore, and she slowed her pace a little. She came to a stop altogether at the outskirts of the village, where a red and purple tavern proclaimed itself the Will-o’-the-Wisp. In front of the tavern, a smartly armored elf maiden was cautiously approaching her hippogriff, trying to calm the steed.

Jo had handled such creatures before at the hostler’s. This particular hippogriff was of excellent conformation and unusual coloration. Jo stepped forward, her eyes locked on the creature. The feathers of its forequarters glistened whitely in the midmorning sun. Just behind the forelegs, the feathers slowly transformed into a thick coat of roan hair. The merging of feather and hair produced a wide, solid band of fiber, which served as a protective blanket under the saddle and rider.

Suddenly a hand clamped on Jo’s shoulder. Jo reached for the tail at her belt, a low growl instantly on her lips. But the tail was in her bag, and she landed flat on her back in the icy mud.

“It was you! You!” The surly, puffy-eyed youth straddled her, slapping her face hard. “What magic did you pull, coward? I’ll show you!”

Jo had learned a thing or two about brawling during her years in Specularum. She crossed one arm over her face to protect it, then punched the youth’s loins. The boy screamed and scrambled off Jo. He doubled over in pain and lay in the mud, tears in his eyes and curses on his breath. Jo stood up, brushing the cold mud off her clothes.

“That’s hardly fair fighting, miss,” came a lilting, melodic voice. Startled, Jo turned around to see the warrior elf astride her hippogriff Sunlight glinted off her silvery armor, pale white hair, and violet eyes. On her polished breastplate lay an amulet radiating a faint green aura. The maid saluted Jo with a mailed hand and smiled serenely.

Jo found it impossible not to smile in return. She had always loved the elven race, thinking it by far the loveliest to inhabit her world. Specularum catered primarily to humans, but a few elves had crossed her path before. She counted herself lucky anytime they actually spoke to her.

“No, it’s not fair, good warrior,” Jo said as graciously as she could. “But he deserved nothing less.” Jo glowered at the boy, who could only grimace in return.

The elf maid laughed. “You are quite right. I saw his churlish attack.” The maid saluted once more and said, “May the Immortals favor you with good fortune. Good day.”

“Go with joy,” Jo replied. She waved when the elf lightly tapped her steed and it leaped into the air.

Jo turned to the youth, who was on his knees. She pointed at him with two fingers. “You!” she barked. “If you follow me any more you’ll get more of the same! Got it?” She stomped past him, splashing icy water from a mud puddle onto him.

Jo shook her head and continued out of town, forgetting the youth completely. Her mind was intent on catching Flinn. She didn’t think he could travel fast with the griffon and the heavily laden mule, and she was confident she could catch up soon. When she did, she would find out from Flinn the Mighty himself just how to become a knight at the Castle of the Three Suns. She headed toward the foothills surrounding Bywater.

After almost an hour’s climb, Johauna began to doubt whether she could overtake Flinn. The mountainous terrain had become dry, hard, and rocky. Although the hostler had taught her the rudiments of tracking on the rare occasions when an animal escaped, the ground yielded not even the slightest clue to follow. Even the snow had thinned away to nothing. Jagged stones bit into the soles of her feet. Twice she had slipped and fallen on loose shale, scraping her hands and knees. The second time it happened, Jo contemplated using her blink dog’s tail to make multiple jumps and cover more ground. But continuous blinking tended to make her ill, and she wasn’t at all sure which direction to proceed.

The foothills grew steeper and harder to traverse, and the shale-strewn ground gave way to soft soil and snow. Jo soon found sign of Flinn’s passage, and she doggedly followed the trail. Ahead, thorny bushes covered the land in thick clumps. Jo lost time trying to walk around the copses rather than through them. At last, she resigned herself to following the animals’ trail, hoping they had broken through the growth so she wouldn’t have to. But the brush still clawed and bit at her.

High noon came and went without Flinn resting the animals or setting up a midday camp. She had hoped to overtake them at lunch so she could charm her way into a bit of food. She had already eaten the last of the flattened pumpkin loaf, and she was still famished. Her thoughts drifted off to the last real meal she had eaten.

Jo had stowed away on a river caravan heading north from Specularum. All had gone well until the day before yesterday, when the captain discovered her in the cargo hold-two hungry, cramped days into the journey. He tossed her overboard into the icy river. Cursing her ill fortune, Johauna swam to shore and hastily built a fire to dry her clothes and warm her blue skin. Afterward, she wandered into the wilderness, intent on reaching the Castle of the Three Suns, even on foot.

She spent two hungry days walking along the wooded banks of the Castellan River. Then she smelled what was surely the world’s most delicious cooking. She stopped to investigate.

One hundred paces from the river lay a deserted camp. In the center of the camp, a fire burned beneath a bubbling cookpot. Jo crept up behind a nearby lean-to and gazed into the pot. Pieces of chicken boiled merrily away in a thick, creamy sauce, along with vegetables and dumplings. A golden loaf of bread sat warming on a rock by the fire. Jo approached the camp warily. No one was in sight, but still she remained hidden.

Her lips wetted in anticipation. She had never stolen before, not even when the temptation had been strong and the moment opportune, like when the drunken lord had accosted her and she bit off his ear instead of taking his purse. But hunger softened her scruples. She couldn’t wait for the cook to return to beg a bite, so she used her blink dog’s tail to appear by the fire. She eagerly spooned the stew onto the waiting plate and tore a chunk from the loaf before blinking away.

The meal was delicious, though she was sure that hunger had flavored it well. Briefly she wondered why someone should leave a camp so unguarded, but she gave it no further thought. Jo wolfed down the food in moments and then debated whether to return the plate and spoon. She told herself she wasn’t a true thief, licked the plate and spoon as dean as she could, and blinked back to the campfire. With any luck, the owner might not even notice the missing stew. Of course, she thought, eyeing the missing chunk of bread, she could only get so lucky.

The next day, when she expected to reach the castle, she stumbled instead into Bywater. At the time, she considered the sidetrack to be ill fortune. Now, after meeting Fain Flinn, she believed it was fate.

Jo sighed, her thoughts returning to the present. Absently, she looked up. With a start she saw she was out of the brushy foothills and into true forest. Spruce and pine grew in tight stands, blocking out the gray winter sun. The dead branches of the trees clawed her even more viciously than had the thorny bushes of the foothills. The undergrowth was so dense that Jo could clearly see where Flinn and his mounts had passed. Wearily she realized darkness would soon fall on these woods; she would need to overtake Flinn soon to claim pilgrim’s rights from him. She thought forlornly, I wonder if he’ll even offer me food and lodging, no matter how hard I work. She gritted her teeth and pressed on, rethinking her decision to use the blink dog’s tail. Maybe, she thought, if I just use it to go ten paces at a time—

For the second time that day a hand came down on her shoulder. This time Jo dropped to the ground in a defensive move, prepared to roll away and onto her feet for flight. But the underbrush hemmed her in, preventing the roll. She fell in an undignified heap and stared up at her attacker—Flinn the Fallen.

Flinn put his hands on his hips and glared down at the girl. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he snapped. He was surprised by the anger in his own voice, but he had dodged and evaded this girl long enough. Besides, Baildon’s insistence about hunting the dragon still rang irritatingly in his head. He was no longer a knight, yet people still expected him to act like one. They heaped insults on him, then expected his protection!

The girl blinked her gray eyes and Flinn realized they matched the eyes of the Immortal Diulanna, as did the girl’s reddish hair. Flinn prayed to Diulanna often, for she inspired willpower and discipline. The Immortal had appeared to Flinn twice in the past, and he found the physical resemblance between Diulanna and this girl disconcerting. She blinked again, then said, “I want to talk to you, Master Flinn.” Flinn snorted. “Don’t stand on ceremony with me, girl. I am not your master.” Grudgingly he extended his hand to her lithe form and pulled her to her feet. “Stop following me and go back to where you came from.”

She tried vainly to brush a few of the pine needles out of her clothing. “My name’s—” she began.

“I don’t care what your name is or who you are,” Flinn interrupted brutally. “Just go back, or else I’ll tie you up here and leave you to the wolves. You’ve invaded my forest and now you want to invade my home?!” Flinn gestured to the woods surrounding them. “Leave me alone.”

The young woman’s expression became quizzical, then thoughtful. Flinn felt an inexplicable urge to turn away under the girl’s gaze, but instead he repeated angrily, “Leave me!” Still she stared at him. Then came words that would haunt Flinn, said simply and with trust, “But you’re Flinn the Mighty. My father told me all the tales of you when I was a child. I want to become a knight in the Order of the Three Suns at the castle. You can help me become a knight like you.”

Flinn half-turned away but kept his eyes locked on the girl’s. She had pried into his business affairs in town, followed him through the woods almost to his very doorstep, and was now idolizing him. Most damnable of all the transgressions was the last—a painful reminder of all that he had been. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. The longer he looked into the girl’s innocent gray eyes, the more he saw the worship there. He could almost hear the tales she had been told of him, hear the songs that had been sung of Flinn the Mighty. He could hear the story of his fight with Verdilith the great green, his single-handed defeat of two giants, his lonely sojourn to the Lost Valley of Hutaaka to recover his baron’s stolen scepter. He could see the depth of her adoration. And the more he glimpsed her absolute faith, the greater grew his anger and rage and pain.

He slapped her.

The blow knocked the girl off her feet. Flinn stepped over her. “Leave me be!” He strode off to where he had tethered the griffon and mule. He yanked once on Ariac’s lead rein, and the bird-lion screeched its disapproval. Flinn took no notice and began leading the mounts through the thick undergrowth.

His way was blocked suddenly by the girl, her hand holding the tail he had noticed earlier.

“What kind of knight are you? What right have you to hit me when all I want is to ask you a few questions?” she, shouted, her eyes flashing. She held one hand to her cheek, and he saw a faint trickle of blood at her lip. He quelled the feeling of remorse that tried to rise.

“I am no longer a knight, girl, and you have no right to question me! Leave me be!” With that he tried to brush her aside, but she was stronger than she looked and stood her ground. She had the effrontery to put her hands on his arms to stop him.

“But you’re a legend—you’re Flinn the Mighty!” she cried.

He grimaced and then savagely pushed her away. The undergrowth caught her fall this time. Through clenched teeth he spat, “The man you’re looking for is dead. Dead. There is no more ‘Flinn the Mighty’.” The words were bitter on his tongue.

Amazed, the girl stared at him. Flinn shook his head in disbelief and walked into the undergrowth, leading Ariac and Fernlover, his mule.

Deliberately, he closed his mind to what had just transpired.

He quelled the small voice that prompted him to turn around and ask for her forgiveness. The matter was settled. He wondered how the child could be so foolish as to search for Flinn the Mighty. His thoughts threatened to grow darker yet, and deftly he cut them off, dismissing the girl from his mind completely. The last seven years had taught him how to ward off painful thoughts.

Flinn pushed through the brush and hurried Ariac along. The home trail lay just ahead; if he could reach it in the next hour, he would be back to the lodge by true dark. He suddenly longed for the comfort and safety of his little home, a crudely built house of logs. “Some warrior,” he muttered to himself. “I didn’t used to need a haven.” All at once he felt weary and indescribably old.

Always before, Flinn had called a campfire his home. Whether he was on the trail of an orc troop as a knight or hunting bear as a trapper, Flinn had spent more than two decades by a fire. Now, he only wanted the safety and privacy that his own hearth could provide. That longing disturbed him. After thirty-seven winters, he was content with a lap-robe and a fire and a good pipe?

He glanced behind him to make sure the girl wasn’t following. Nothing but dark tree branches met his gaze.

His mind wandered back to the morning’s events. For some reason he had dreaded entering the village, even more so than usual. Flinn’s semiannual sojourns into Bywater—every spring and fall—accounted for all of his social contact. His long solitude made these contacts more painful over the years. He couldn’t help feeling a superstitious twinge at how this particular trip could have turned out, and he dreaded what the next might hold.

As always, the children of the village had come out to taunt him. He had grown inured to their words, though, and hadn’t given them any notice. The boy with the rock had been a different matter, however. Never before had one of the children threatened to stone him. Flinn wondered what would have happened had the girl not intervened. Then he wondered why she had. He thought about trading his furs elsewhere, but the nearest place was the castle he had once called home. Flinn snorted. He would never return to the Castle of the Three Suns again. No, Bywater had proved ideal: one day’s ride from his home, small, but with a large enough mercantile to supply most of his wants and a merchant whom Flinn trusted as much as he could. In a larger town, he might encounter someone from the order, and that he couldn’t abide.

The mule brayed eagerly, and Flinn saw the scraggy pine that marked the clearing where his cabin stood. His thoughts turned to the business at hand. As always after having been away, he approached his camp warily. On the little crest overlooking his place he stopped, his eyes straining in the dark.

Nothing seemed amiss. On the right stood the cabin, dark and undisturbed. On the left loomed the barn, home to Ariac and Fernlover. Along one side of the barn rested a stone cellar with heavy wooden doors, doubly barred. Flinn kept Ariac’s meat there. The smell often drew wolves at night, but the stone walls and stout wood had kept them at bay in the past. Thankfully, no wolves nosed about the camp now. A divided corral abutted the back of the stables. He sensed rather than saw that the top bar of the gate was down. “Perhaps it was the wind,” Flinn murmured.

Something appeared next to him. “What’s wrong?”

Flinn jumped violently, his hand reaching in reflex for his sword. He could just make out the girl’s form in the gloom. “What in Thor’s Thunder are you doing here?” he demanded angrily. He hadn’t thought of her during the last hour of the trip and was badly startled by her sudden appearance. My reflexes are rusty, he thought.

She pointed down the hill toward the camp. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said gruffly. “I always check out the camp before I go in.” He blinked, realizing he had volunteered information.

The girl shrugged. “It’s too dark for me to go back to Bywater tonight. I’ll clean your barn for a night’s lodging and supper.”

“You’re claiming pilgrim’s rights, I take it?”

The girl nodded. “You bet I am. It’s too cold to bed down under the trees.”

“One night’s worth—that’s it,” Flinn replied.

She nodded again, then took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the treetops. “Think you’d answer just a few questions about how to become a knight at the Castle of the Three Suns?” the girl ventured, one hand touching the cheek he had slapped. Her tone carried a faint suggestion of hurt.

Flinn stared at the girl. By Diulanna, he thought, I am guilty! I had no right to hit her! He pursed his lips and then said curtly, “Too late for questions tonight. In the morning, perhaps.” Then he led the griffon and mule down to the stable, resolutely ignoring the girl who followed him. Briefly Flinn checked out the fallen rail and decided the wind did indeed blow it over; he resolved to find a longer pole in the morning. Opening the shed doors, he let the animals loose while seeking the lantern that hung inside the doorway. With practiced ease, he grabbed the tinderbox next to it and sparked the light.

Ariac and Fernlover eagerly sought their respective stalls.

The griffon made mewling noises and clawed his bedding as he sniffed the warm and familiar odors of home. The mule grazed his head along a rough-hewn log, scratching an itch against a familiar burl in the post. Flinn carried the lantern over to the griffon’s stall and hung it on a nearby wooden peg.

“You can start by seeing to the mule,” Flinn said gruffly, then entered Ariac’s stall and began loosening the saddle on his back. He removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle, taking care to gently remove the bit from the griffon’s sensitive beak. He went outside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the lack of light, and retrieved a frozen rabbit carcass from the meat cellar. Ariac clicked his beak eagerly when the carcass landed in his food trough. Picking up a coarse brush, Flinn began to rub down the griffon’s lion hair.

The girl had entered the mule’s stall and was worrying at the knots that held the supplies to Fernlover’s back. But the knots were of Flinn’s own design—he was certain the girl couldn’t loose them.

“Best leave them to me,” he stated briskly, appearing at the front of the stall. He realized he had said more words today than he had spoken in the last year. “The knots are—”

A sudden whump announced that the pack had fallen to the stable floor. The girl was watching Flinn expectantly.

“Let me guess,” he said sarcastically, “you worked as a sailor’s mate.”

The girl grinned. “Close. I knew an old man who mended nets down by the wharfs of Specularum. He taught me a trick or two.”

Fernlover sniffed the pack delicately, then gave the bundle a tentative nibble.

“Ssst!” Flinn leaped across the barn floor and swatted the mule. The animal jerked his head and backed away. After pulling the pack out of the stall, the warrior returned to finish Ariac’s grooming. The girl began removing Fernlover’s tack and preparing him for the night.

Idly, Flinn rubbed Ariac’s skin, unconsciously checking the griffon’s eaglelike legs for strains. As usual there were none. The leather balls he had made for the griffon to clutch while walking were working perfectly. He didn’t mind that this was the third set he had made in the last year—Ariac had avoided a sprain the entire time. Flinn was relieved. A flightless griffon prone to sprains would have to be put down. But Ariac had twice journeyed to Bywater and back in one day without injury. He patted the bird-lion’s neck and turned to check on the girl’s progress with the mule.

On the ground outside Fernlover’s stall lay the girl. She was curled up between his bundle of supplies and the chest that held the animals’ tack. She was sound asleep. Lines of exhaustion traced her lips and dark patches shadowed her eyes. Flinn wondered if she suffered nightmares, like he did. Her reddish brown hair—once neatly plaited down her back—was disheveled and matted. Its very disarray lent a vulnerable look to her….

The child, for so she seemed to him in the feeble light of the lantern, was dirty, thin, and obviously poor. The thorn bushes had torn her clothing to tatters. The girl shifted in her exhaustion and whimpered, her hand clutching the blink dog’s tail. He wondered whether she ever blinked in and out during her sleep.

Quietly he entered Fernlover’s stall and checked over the mule. Every now and then he glanced down at the sleeping girl. The mule was perfectly tended; the girl mustn’t have been lying about having worked for a hostler. Even Fernlover’s hooves had been checked, for no mud encased the tender frogs.

Flinn wondered if he should wake her for the supper that was part of her recompense, but decided not to. “No need to encourage her,” he muttered. If in the morning the girl fulfilled her promise to clean the barn, then he would give her a meal. Not before.

That’s it, he said to himself. I’ll leave her here and hope she’s gone in the morning. Like as not she will be. Flinn’s lips tightened and grew bitter, the scar across his brow whitening. He looked down again at the girl. Without really thinking, he pulled Ariac’s blanket off the rail and covered her. He took the lantern and looked about the stable, taking in the familiar sound of Fernlover chomping his hay and Ariac whistling in his sleep. To those sounds was added the rhythmic breathing of the girl.

“By Tarastia and Thor and Diulanna,” Flinn said, calling on the Immortals he honored, “I don’t even know your name.”