The Tainted Sword

Chapter X

The storm broke by morning. The trio left the ravine, heading once more for higher ground. Ariac had recovered from the grueling pace they had maintained yesterday, though Flinn had to fashion new leather pads to cushion the griffon’s claws. The additional snow from last night’s storm made travel slow and tiresome, even in the windswept, rocky barrens they now traversed. All the while, they scanned the western hills, neither seeing nor hearing any orcs.

The weather turned cold and clear. The sun, glittering brightly off the snow, did little to warm the travelers. The wind had stopped howling and the chill air was sharp and silent. Flinn found no trace of the orcs’ passing in the deep snow. Flinn, Jo, and Dayin struck northward, glad the Castellan was still in sight and that the orcs were not.

“We travel north,” Flinn said when they stopped at the top of a large hill, “until we see the Broken Arch. It’s a rock formation near the Castellan. There we head west to find Braddoc’s home.”

“If we head west, Flinn, do you think we’ll run into any of the Rooster’s tribe returning home?” Jo asked.

Flinn shrugged. “That’s a chance we’ll have to take, but I think it’s an unlikely one. I think they’re all still in Bywater. Verdilith probably had to threaten them severely to get them down to the village so quickly. They’ll take their time coming back, I’m sure.”

Jo was puzzled. “Just why didn’t they attack us at the ford?”

“My guess is Verdilith told them to move—and move fast. I think he told the orcs not to bother attacking anything north of the river because that would slow them down. Rooster only sent the patrol after his tribe was south of us,” Flinn said, then squinted up at the sun. “Time to move out. If we’re lucky, we’ll be to Braddoc’s by evening.” He gave Ariac a light tap, and they continued down the hill. Both Flinn and Jo kept the western hills under surveillance.

The hours yielded no sign of orcs. Jo felt her guard relax a little, then chided herself. A squire is always on guard to protect her master, she told herself sternly.

The three of them kept up the fastest pace Flinn dared set for Ariac. They reached the Broken Arch at midmorning, and Flinn turned the group west. He led them through the rough countryside, trying to find the easiest path between the twisted hills. At midday, they halted for a brief respite. Jo brought out the dry trail rations and passed them out.

“How much farther, Flinn?” Jo asked. She stood behind him as he checked Ariac’s front claws.

“Another three, maybe four hours,” Flinn grunted, then stood up, rubbing his hands.

“Is Ariac going to make it?” She stroked the griffon’s feathered neck.

Flinn nodded. “Yes, I think so. He’ll have to.” His eyes restlessly roamed the hillsides. “It’s time to go.”

Once again the trio mounted up and continued through the silent, barren Wulfholdes. Johauna realized she hadn’t seen anything moving the entire day. The lack of birds and animals began to worry her, and she wondered if she was the only one who felt that way. Dayin was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Flinn seemed unconcerned. Jo stilled the feelings inside her. The trio continued to ride, halting only once for a brief stop when Jo’s horse Carsig picked up a rock in his hoof.

Just as twilight fell, they found a stone house sheltered at the base of a craggy cliff. Beside it stood a number of huge red pines, embracing the house with their branches. The pattern of the bark was still visible in the fading light. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and a cheery light glowed from the windows. Jo thought she had never seen a more welcoming sight, for she was frozen to her very bones. Her legs were stiff and saddle-sore.

Carsig neighed abruptly at the sight of the corral and the familiar odor of a barn. Two shaggy shapes in the corral looked up with interest and whinnied in response. Jo saw they were large ponies. Ariac squealed, and the ponies nervously shifted to one side of their large corral.

The top half of the door to the stone house swung open. Jo heard the faint click of a trigger mechanism. In the faint light of dusk, she could just barely discern the forward curve of a crossbow.

“Halt!” bellowed someone from the house. “Who or what goes there?”

Flinn pulled Ariac to a stop, and Jo reined in Carsig. Dayin also halted.

“An eye for a brain, a tooth for a mole, and a dwarf for a friend!” Flinn shouted cryptically in return. Flinn dismounted, and Jo and Dayin followed suit.

The person inside the house paused. Then came a huge roar of laughter, which Jo found almost more alarming than the crossbow.

“Flinn!” The bottom half of the door swung inward and a dwarf emerged, his man-sized body swaying above the stocky legs that carried him sturdily up the path.

“Fain Flinn! Flinn the Fallen! By Kagyar, it’s the Fool Flinn!” the dwarf shouted. Jo felt her ire rise at the taunts she was hearing, but Flinn’s laugh set her at ease. He grabbed the dwarf in his arms and then swung him about.

“Braddoc!” Flinn was shouting. “Braddoc of the Cloven Eye! Braddoc, you sorry dwarf!” Flinn laughed again, and Jo and Dayin looked at each other. Neither had ever seen this side of Flinn before.

The man and dwarf continued to chuckle, clasping hands in greeting. Jo studied Braddoc Briarblood, the mercenary who had cajoled Flinn into joining his less-than-honorable lifestyle. Specularum had seen its share of dwarves, and so had Jo. They were far less colorful than elves and, on the whole, a surly lot in Johauna’s opinion. But Braddoc was different: colorful, friendly, and boisterous. A thick scar cut across one eye from the dwarf’s forehead to his smiling cheek—apparently the mark that won him the name “cloven eye”. The eye was milky with the fog of blindness. Much of the rest of his face was hidden by his beard, which was neatly styled into a single braid tucked into the dwarf’s belt. His long hair was braided, too, though in two plaits. He wore a softened leather jerkin belted at the waist with wide, studded leather. Hammered copper cuffs ringed his wrists, making his hands look extraordinarily large. He wore sturdy bear-hide boots, which covered half of his short legs. Jo smiled; she was determined to like this dwarf.

Flinn gestured toward Johauna, and she stepped forward. The dwarf’s intense, almost avaricious scrutiny fell on her, and she was suddenly aware of the dirt and blood on her clothes and the tangled mess her hair had become. How interesting that Braddoc has that effect on me and Flinn doesn’t, she thought quickly.

“This is Johauna Menhir, my squire,” Flinn was saying with surprising warmth. “Jo, this is my old friend, Braddoc Briarblood.” Flinn smiled broadly.

“Salutations, Braddoc Briarblood.” Jo nodded stiffly. She met the dwarf’s eyes, but he stared silently back. Feeling compelled to fill the silence, she added, “Are you any relation to the dwarven King Aedelfed Briarblood? I heard stories of him while I lived in Specularum.”

The dwarf’s intense expression didn’t fade, though he did lose eye contact when he bowed rigidly. “I’m a poor relation of sorts, but, then, so are many,” he answered. He added formally, “And greetings to you, Johauna Menhir.”

Flinn’s eyebrow rose. “You never told me you were related to the king.”

“You never asked,” Braddoc retorted.

Flinn, glancing at the animals and the darkening sky, hastily pointed out the boy. Braddoc led the three riders into the snug barn, where he lit a lantern.

“You’re looking as fit as ever, Flinn,” the dwarf said, gazing intently at his guest, “though a bit grayer than when I last saw you!” Flinn only snorted as he led Ariac into a stall. He began removing the griffon’s tack.

The dwarf turned to Dayin, and this time Braddoc snorted. “You smell of magic, boy,” he said, suspicion edging his voice. He jerked a large thumb toward a second stall. “Take the mule in there and care for him. We’ll be eating soon.” Dayin did as he was bid, his shy blue eyes wide with curiosity.

Braddoc turned to Jo then, the light swinging and shining fully on his face as he held up the lantern. The dwarf’s blind eye added to the intensity his stare. He scrutinized her from the top of her disheveled hair to the bottom of her muddied boots. Then, nodding, he gestured for her to put the gelding into the third stall.

Keeping his gaze still on Johauna, the dwarf called out to Flinn, “I’ve finished with my washing ritual for the day, Flinn. The girl wishes to bathe now. Do you and the boy want to go before her?”

Flinn turned toward the dwarf. “You know I’m not bound by the old customs, Braddoc. Quit trying to unsettle Jo; she has a perfect right to bathe where men do. Show her the lodge. Dayin and I will bathe after we’ve seen to the animals.” He turned back to the griffon.

The dwarf hung the lantern on a peg, lit another one, and silently led Jo out of the barn. She wondered how such a seemingly friendly person could become so taciturn. She wondered, too, just what taboo she was breaking by bathing before Flinn. They walked past the corral, behind the house, and out to a small building about the size Flinn’s cabin had been.

Braddoc entered the lodge and gestured for Jo to follow. She did so reluctantly, stooping under the short doorway. The unexpectedly warm room inside centered around a large pool glazed over with ice. Benches lined the walls, and a huge brazier stood in one corner. Braddoc hung his lantern on the wall, picked up the wood axe standing near the door, and chopped at the pool. He threw the chunks of ice onto some stones contained in the brazier.

Jo was startled by the sudden hiss of steam rising from the stones. Smoke and steam mixed and swirled throughout the room. The odor was strangely appealing, and Jo guessed Braddoc used a sweet-smelling wood for the fire. She sat down on a low bench in the room and waited for the dwarf to finish.

Braddoc threw one last piece of ice on the hot stones and then walked to the door, obviously intending to leave. Jo called out nervously.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered, “but I’ve never been in a sweat lodge before….” Her words trailed off as the dwarf turned to stare at her.

“That’s like as not,” he said gruffly. “It’s usually a rite reserved for men, but you are Flinn’s squire—” the dwarf’s stare grew more piercing “—and as such you’ve a right to the ritual.”

Jo crossed her arms and forced herself to say, “Will you show me the ritual?”

Braddoc gestured to the pool of water, a bar of soap, and a nearby brush. “You bathe in the spring there, but be careful. The water has magical properties—”

“Magic? But you distrust magic—”

“Aye,” the dwarf interjected, his good eye sharp in the lantern light. “But the magic here is a natural thing, not crafted by humans. It is a magic of the earth, of the waters that lace the rocks beneath your feet, Johauna Menhir. Only those who are pure of heart may bathe in this water—all others are rejected by the spirit of the spring. You will know immediately if you are worthy of her gifts, for if you can’t stand the cold, then your heart isn’t pure enough to receive the sending.”

“The sending?” queried Jo.

“Aye, the sending—the vision the waters may grant you. They grant a vision only once per day, and the waters denied me earlier. That’s why you should’ve waited until after Flinn had bathed. The knight deserves the vision and not the squire,” he said. “But perhaps the waters will deny you, too, and wait for Flinn.” He crossed his arms.

Jo caught herself mimicking the dwarf.

“After you have bathed,” Braddoc continued sternly, “lie on the bench and cleanse your mind and body of all thoughts, all desires, all hopes.” He pointed to the bucket. “Pour water on the stones when you are ready to be purified, and the steam will prepare your soul. If the spirit of the pool so grants it, you will see a vision of the future in the steam.”

Braddoc paused, as if he were about to say something but then shook his head. He muttered, “When you’re through, come into the house. You can help me prepare the meal while the men have their turn in the lodge.”

Johauna was glad to see the strange dwarf turn and leave. She gazed at the pool. “Superstition,” she muttered. The lodge appeared to be nothing more than a purification sauna, something she had heard about in Specularum. “Sweating cleans the skin, not the soul.”

Jo discarded her clothes and frowned at the thought of putting them on again after she bathed. Perhaps when she reached the Castle of the Three Suns, Flinn could outfit her in better clothes, as befitted a squire. Naked, she looked at the water. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the pool.

The water was breathtakingly cold. For a moment she wondered if she could bear it. But she wanted to prove to Braddoc that she was “pure of heart.” She gritted her teeth and washed as quickly as she could. The thought of plunging underwater to wash her hair made her heart skip a beat, but she longed to be rid of the tangles. Strangely, she felt her skin grow warmer each time she ducked under water. By the time she had finished washing her hair, she felt as though she could stay in the pool forever. But she knew she should finish the ritual so that Flinn and Dayin could bathe. Languorously, she left the pool and poured a bucket of water on the hot stones. She sat down on the bench.

The tension began to leave her body, and Jo felt wonderful. Her eyes began to flutter, and her head fell to her chest. She jerked upright, afraid of falling asleep in the lodge. There, in the swirling steam before her, she saw a faint image of herself. Jo blinked. The image remained, the vapors inside the lodge still swirling around and through the vision. She was standing before a forge, waiting for a smith to pull something from the fire. Her stance was strangely expectant, and Jo felt that same emotion course through her now. What was she so eagerly awaiting? Oddly enough, Braddoc stood beside her. Flinn was nowhere in sight. Then, as abruptly as the image had appeared, it vanished. The steam in the lodge was nothing but steam again. Jo waited for the vision to return, her eyes searching the swirling mists. But the vision was gone.

She dressed again in her now-damp clothing and tied a thong around her hair to hold it out of the way. Jo left the lodge, closing the door behind her. Flinn and Dayin were coming up the path.

The tall warrior stopped in front of her and asked teasingly, “Any visions?”

“Visions?” Jo repeated tentatively. She felt uncertain about telling Flinn about her sending because it hadn’t included him.

“Yes,” Flinn laughed. “Braddoc claims the pool grants visions. None of Braddoc’s mercenary cohorts ever had a vision there. They thought Braddoc touched in the head.”

“Perhaps they weren’t pure of heart,” Jo responded lightly.

Flinn looked at her with a strange expression. “No, perhaps they weren’t,” he said slowly. “Are you going in to help Braddoc?”

Johauna nodded, blushing as she thought of her own vision. I probably just imagined it, she told herself unconvincingly.

“Braddoc can be a… difficult sort to know,” Flinn was saying, “but he’s a good dwarf. Forgive him, if only for my sake.” Flinn touched her arm, and then he and Dayin entered the sweat lodge.

Jo walked down the path to Braddoc’s house. She stooped through the back entry and found she was in the kitchen. The house was substantially larger than Flinn’s cabin had been. Through the short hall straight ahead of her lay the front door and the main room. To her right, two doors opened, one to a supply room and the other to the dwarf’s bedroom. To her left lay the kitchen, which she now entered.

Braddoc was stirring something in a large pot hanging over the fire in the kitchen’s hearth. He looked up as Jo entered, then silently gestured for her to sit at the large wooden table at the center of the room. Two benches flanked either side. She considered sitting on the bench farthest from the dwarf, but decided against it. Like as not, he would think she was being impolite—which she would have been. Besides, the warm fire is inviting, she thought as she sat down on the sturdy wooden bench. It had been sanded smooth and painted a pale green, though the paint was old and wearing thin.

The dwarf turned toward her, his eyes level with hers. In the ample light of the kitchen his hair looked richly russet, a shade redder than her own. The few strands of gray indicated that he was fairly young in dwarf years, but Jo couldn’t guess his age. He had rebraided his beard and hair, for golden threads now intertwined with the plaits. The braids began and ended in elaborate clasps. Braddoc wore a golden yellow tunic of finely woven cloth; the edges were embroidered in a colorful, repeating pattern of graceful curves. A copper torque circled his neck, fashioned in the same style as the cuffs on his wrists.

All in all, the dwarf was a splendid sight. Jo, accustomed only to squalor and poverty for most of her life, felt awed. She had seen such finery only from a distance in Specularum, and then only rarely. She didn’t immediately notice that the tunic was nearly threadbare, or that the clasps and the torque had been stripped of gems.

The dwarf wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air. “Flinn told me about the fire,” Braddoc said at last. “You truly have no other clothes?”

Jo crossed her arms irritably and shook her head. “I only had the ones I wore on the day I met Flinn. They were ruined by a creature Flinn calls an abelaat. Flinn made me these, and what I am wearing is all I possess.” Jo rested her hand on the pommel of her sword, deriving some confidence from the weapon she had learned to carry always at her side. The dwarf’s refined ways left her feeling boorish, which annoyed her.

Braddoc wrinkled his nose again. “They will have to do, then.” He looked at her clumsily bound hair. “We can do something about your hair, however.”

“My hair?” Jo repeated.

The dwarf left the room without responding. He returned almost immediately. “Turn around,” Braddoc said.

Jo looked at him, still unsure of what he wanted.

“Turn around,” Braddoc repeated, “and I will braid your hair. Long hair such as yours should be properly bound, as is mine.”

Johauna saw that he held a comb in one hand and a silver clasp in the other. Slowly she pulled off the leather thong that had gathered her hair.

Braddoc came and stood behind her. He paused for a moment, as if to gather his bearings, and then he began combing out Johauna’s still-wet hair. His strokes were gentle, and he worked out every tangle without unduly pulling at her scalp. Jo found herself relaxing in the silence that followed. The careful actions of Braddoc’s fingers felt almost pleasurable.

“You had a sending?” Braddoc asked quietly.

“Y-yes, I did,” Jo answered. “How did—?”

“Tell me about it,” the dwarf interjected.

Something about the tone in his voice and the gentleness in his hands inspired Jo to trust him. “I was standing near a forge,” she said, seeking to find the words. “You were beside me, and we were waiting for the smith to pull something from the fire.”

“Could you see what it was?” Braddoc asked.

“No. It was in the fire—I saw nothing of it. But you and I, and even the smith… we were all filled with expectation,” Jo said suddenly, her mind whirling with the emotion she was trying to describe. “It is the strangest feeling. The image of the vision is leaving me, but the feeling isn’t.”

The dwarf finished Jo’s long braid and attached the silver clasp. He turned Jo around and pulled the plait to her front, letting it fall to the hollow of her arm. Jo watched his brown eye travel from her rough boots, linger at the calloused hand on her sword, and then continue to her eyes. Then Braddoc smiled, a smile of genuine warmth.

“Your vision was a true one—you didn’t make it up. I would have known if you had, and it’s good that you didn’t he to me,” he said. “I see now why Flinn chose you to be his squire.”

Jo stared back at him, glad that the dwarf had warmed to her. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“Wait here and close your eyes,” Braddoc said suddenly. “I have something to show you.” Without waiting for her response, the dwarf left the kitchen.

Obediently Jo shut her eyes, keeping them closed even when she heard Braddoc return. He placed something on the table before her, and then she heard a little click, as if a catch was sprung. She felt the faintest touch on her arm and opened her eyes.

Flinn opened the door. Dayin followed close behind. It feels good to be clean again, Flinn thought, and he looked forward to the meal his friend was preparing. Braddoc had always been a stickler for the finer things in life, like good food and cleanliness. Flinn had benefited from the dwarf’s predilections more than once.

Flinn entered the kitchen and was unprepared for the tableau that met him. Jo’s face was flushed, and her eyes were bright. Braddoc was standing beside her, and they both turned at Flinn’s entrance.

Jo stood up. “Flinn!” she cried. “Look!” She pointed to a case resting on the table.

Flinn saw a case crafted of hammered gold, the comers reinforced with chased silver. Gems of brilliant color and clarity encrusted the case’s open top. The case was more than six feet long, and only two hands’ width wide. A case like that could hold—

“Wyrmblight,” Flinn breathed. The warrior moved to the other side of the table and looked inside the case. There, on a bed of midnight-blue velvet, lay his sword, its gray-black blade shining dully in the lantern light. Tentatively Flinn touched the cloth, unable to touch the blade just yet.

How long has it been? he thought, suddenly humbled. And why, oh why, did my friend keep you even when I told him you were evil? But Flinn knew the answer to that question even as he asked it: because Braddoc Briarblood was his friend. The dwarf had known, somehow, that Flinn would return for the sword someday. Flinn’s fingers lightly stroked the shining edge of the blade. The blackness still clung to it, though Flinn fancied the taint had faded with the years. Perhaps he had misremembered how much of the sword had been stained.

“Aye, Flinn, the blackness is leaving it,” Braddoc broke the silence that had fallen on the kitchen. Flinn looked at his friend, wondering how the dwarf had read his thoughts.

Braddoc withdrew the sword from the golden case and handed it to Flinn, the dwarf’s good eye glinting in the light. “I saved it for you, Flinn, for its rightful owner. It’ll rest no more in that case,” the dwarf said respectfully. Jo and Dayin crowded around on either side of Flinn as he held the blade in his hands.

“How—why—” Flinn fumbled for the words “—what is happening to the blackness? Have you done something to Wyrmblight? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t clean it….”

The dwarf frowned. “I’ve done nothing but store it in the case, Flinn. It’s been brightening all on its own this past winter, particularly during the last week.” Braddoc’s good eye caught and held Flinn’s. “I had a pretty good idea you might be stopping in. And I think you know why the sword is brightening.”

Jo reached out and touched the flat of the blade, her fingers lingering over the runes marking the Quadrivial. Flinn had taught her the images of the Four Paths to Righteousness, and she touched them now one by one. Two of the runes shone with silvern clarity. “You’ve regained your honor and your courage, Flinn,” she said slowly, her gray eyes watching him intently. “And so has Wyrmblight.”

Flinn’s eyebrow rose, but he said nothing. He gazed at the sword, his eyes clearing. The sword was overcoming its taint, its evil. To Flinn it appeared to grow even brighter as he held it. With Wyrmblight once more in his hands, he stood a chance. With Wyrmblight he could defeat Verdilith, avenge the town of Bywater, and regain his good name. He could regain his knighthood and his pride.

“Thank you, Braddoc,” he said humbly. “You are a true friend indeed. I… I am astounded.” He shook his head, looking down at the dwarf. Then Flinn turned his attention back to the beautiful blade. Memories crowded into his mind.

Wyrmblight had been wrought many years ago, when Flinn first became a knight of the Three Suns. It was given to Flinn by old Baron Arturus Penhaligon. Though many folk marveled at the man’s generosity, all knew that Flinn was beloved by the baron. And the gift matched Flinn’s goodness and nobility.

The sword was a greatsword, nearly as long as Flinn was tall, and Flinn stood over six feet. A goodly portion of its length was given over to the hilt and pommel, its grip designed for two-handed use. Although Flinn could let loose an arcing stroke with but one hand on the blade, the sword was simply too heavy to maneuver without using both hands.

The metal used in the forging of the weapon had been the finest silver Penhaligon’s armorer could find, for he, too, had a soft heart for the young and valiant Flinn. In fact, the metal was dwarven steel chased with elven silver, and the combination had lent the sword a particular strength, grace, and hue. The blade was extraordinarily attuned to Flinn’s movements, seeming to respond to the very will of its wielder.

The old baron had said a knight as valiant as Flinn needed no magic to help him in his quests, and Arturus asked that no enchantments be placed upon the blade. Instead, he had taken the partially forged weapon to the church one day. There the baron himself had stood at the altar with the sword and sought the blessings and good wishes of all who would honor Flinn the Mighty. Many folk entered the church that day to give the blade the honor its bearer deserved, and not one befouled the blade with unkind words. The old baron was well pleased with his people, and with a glad heart he returned the half-forged sword to his master armorer and weaponsmith.

The smith labored tirelessly for a fortnight before the blade was perfect. When finished, its edges gleamed with a sharpness that seemed to never dull. The flat of the blade was ornamented with ancient runes depicting honor, courage, faith, and glory—the Quadrivial of Knighthood. Although gracefully wrought, the quillons were solid and functional and would stop an opponent’s blow. The pommel, too, was fully functional, and would provide a nasty blow of its own if so used. Finally, the grip had been wrapped in steel chain of the finest size.

The old baron presented the sword the day Flinn was formally initiated into the Order of the Three Suns. From that day forward, Flinn and the silver-white blade were inseparable. Together they purged the countryside of vile monsters and the foes of the land Flinn swore to protect. They banished strife from the estates of Penhaligon. No matter what evil they fought, the sword retained its gleaming whiteness, as if it were newly pulled from the forge. Nothing tarnished that sword—nothing until the day Flinn left the Castle of the Three Suns in shame.

Flinn joined Braddoc’s mercenaries, his sword for hire. He was no longer Flinn the Mighty, but Flinn the Fallen, Flinn the Fool. Flinn’s fall from grace was bitterly reflected in Wyrmblight, too. No matter how hard he tried to polish the blade, a taint of blackness clung to it and grew greater day by day. Flinn believed that somehow the sword had turned against him and become evil. He despaired at the blackening of his sword, not realizing that his very despair deepened its taint. He believed that when the sword became utterly black, he would die. With fearful deliberation, he gambled the blade away.

Braddoc Briarblood won the prize. Flinn tried to warn his friend of its evil, but Braddoc would not listen. The warrior’s shame was complete. He left Braddoc’s band that night and became a hermit and a trapper.

Now Flinn stood in Braddoc’s kitchen, holding Wyrmblight in his hands. He blinked, his eyes suddenly moist. The sword wasn’t evil as he had supposed, only a reflection of his own soul. Flinn’s heart pumped unevenly. He would overcome his fears and the ghosts that dogged his every step. He would regain the rest of the Four Comers of Righteousness and become again the knight he had once been.

And Wyrmblight, too, would return to its former glory.