The Tainted Sword

Chapter II

Morning dawned cold and gray. Flinn awoke early, as was his wont, and glanced out one of the two windows of his cabin. Snow loomed in the low clouds. With a muffled groan, he threw back the pile of blemished furs on the bed and swung his legs out. The leather thongs strung across the bed frame were stretched beyond the point of support. Flinn’s weight made him sink nearly to the floor. He needed to replace them before his back gave out.

He sighed, wondering if he should just make a proper mattress and be done with it. His hand idly smoothed the rough hair of an owlbear’s pelt on the bed. I am a warrior, Flinn thought, and by all that is holy, I don’t need a mattress. It’s sorry enough I don’t sleep on the floor.

Flinn threw back the furs and stood. He stretched his arms overhead and felt the old bones along his spine shift into place. Then he remembered the girl and his eyes narrowed. “Is she still here?” he wondered aloud. In two strides, Flinn reached the cupboard standing against the opposite wall. He pulled his breeches off a peg on the cupboard’s door and hurriedly dressed in the cold morning air. Then he glanced at the hearth; the fire was almost out. Three quick paces brought him to the fireplace, which stood between the bed and the shelves where he kept his foodstuffs. Flinn quickly coaxed the embers into flames.

“If she’s still here and has cleaned the barn, I’ll have to feed her,” Flinn muttered. He glanced at his fresh supplies from Bywater. Flinn detested cooking. He turned away from the cabinet and peered out the window. The girl’s probably gone, and with a good pelt or two, he thought caustically. The warrior pulled his warm, gray woolen tunic over his head, then opened the rough-hewn door and strode to the barn, twenty paces away.

At the stable door he halted, his hand stopping as it reached for the bar. Is she in there? he thought suddenly. Does it matter if she isn’t? his mind countered. He ignored the questions and opened the stable door. Ariac let out a shrill squeal at the sight of his master, and even Fernlover gave a little snort of recognition. Ariac’s red-and-black blanket was hung neatly on the rail by the griffon’s stall. The girl was nowhere in sight.

Flinn opened Ariac’s stall gate and led the creature out the side door to his half of the corral. The griffon nibbled his shirt, looking for dried meat treats. The warrior gave Ariac a gentle tap, then watched the animal pace once around the pen, settle onto his haunches, and fluff his wings. Flinn went back for Fernlover.

The girl was standing in the barn, her arms filled with dried bracken. Her gray eyes were wary in the wan morning light, and he could see the beginnings of a bruise marking her left cheek. When he didn’t speak, she gestured toward Fernlover’s stall. “The mule needed fresh bedding.”

Flinn merely nodded. “You missed supper last night, so breakfast will have to do.” He paused, fighting down the desire to make amends for bruising her. “Thank you, by the way, for staying to clean the barn. I thought you’d left.”

“I’m not in the habit of breaking my pacts,” the girl said, dropping the bracken to one side of the stall. She cocked her head and then added, “My name’s Johauna, Johauna Menhir. Or Jo for short—I answer to both.” She inhaled, glancing up at him. “I appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”

Flinn pulled up short. He fixed his eyes on hers, intent on putting her in her place. “Don’t think I’m going to any great lengths for you, girl. A few questions are all I’m answering.”

He took hold of Fernlover’s halter and led the mule through the side door. After letting him loose in his corral, Flinn returned to the barn. He grabbed the pitchfork and moved toward Jo, who was standing in the center of the barn. She ran the back of her hand over her bruised mouth and cheek. His eyes met hers, but he refused to acknowledge the hurt accusation there. “Look,” he said, holding the pitchfork out to the girl. “You clean the stalls, and I’ll get some breakfast ready. Come in when you’re finished.” He stalked out of the barn and into the open air.

Snow had begun falling. The early morning sunlight dwindled away to a blanket of gray. The air felt heavy, still, and silent. Flinn stopped abruptly near the door to his cabin. The quiet was palpable, unnatural. He could almost hear the snowflakes fall. He sucked in his breath and sank to a crouch, his knife in hand.

Something’s out there, Flinn thought. Warily, he scanned the black lengths of trees surrounding him. Nearly all of the foliage had fallen by now, and the utter white of the falling snow filled the air. Flinn couldn’t see beyond the perimeter of the camp. Nothing moved, nothing but the steadily falling flakes.

Slowly, carefully, he turned to eye the animals. Fernlover, as usual, was lying on the ground, resting. Ariac, however, was watching his master. The griffon’s ivory beak was pointed directly at Flinn. He saw one feathery ear-tuft, then the other, flick toward him. The bird-lion’s beak snapped once or twice, but otherwise the creature seemed at ease.

Flinn felt his muscles loosen. Ariac’s senses had always proved reliable in the past, and Flinn had no reason to doubt his mount now. Perhaps the wildboy’s out there, he thought to himself. Perhaps he knows the girl’s here and is spooked. Flinn entered the cabin, shrugging off the strangeness of the moment. He paused at the hearth to add some small pieces of wood, then the lone chair caught his attention. The girl would have to sit on an upended piece of firewood or else the floor. He set aside a likely looking log.

The warrior pulled the cookpot away from the flames and peered inside. He scraped the pot’s bottom with a thick wooden paddle. When only a little muck came away, he smiled. Clean enough, he thought.

He poured in a little water from the nearby bucket and added two handfuls of grain from one of the burlap bags beside the cupboard. He looked into the pot and then added half a handful more. Checking a small wooden canister for salt, he frowned. Not much left, he thought. It’s a shame I couldn’t afford any yesterday, and this certainly won’t last until spring. Shrugging, he added a pinch of the white grains to the gruel. The girl looks peaked, he rationalized. A little salt will help her back to Bywater.

The grain was boiling away by the time the girl came through the door. Flinn knelt at the hearth, stirring the mush. He watched her as she closed the door.

She had obviously found the stream nearby, for much of the grime was gone from her face and hands and legs. She’d also removed the brambles from her hair, combed it—apparently with her fingers—and rebraided it. The bits of hay had been brushed from the shapeless shift she wore. From her leather belt hung the blink dog’s tail. He nodded in approval. In the wilderness she was sensible to keep the magical item close at hand. Her shoes—what was left of them—had obviously once been quite finely crafted, and he wondered if she had stolen them. She had wrapped a shawl over her shoulders and across her chest, and tied it at her back—a shawl so old its pattern was indistinguishable.

“The barn’s cleaned, Flinn,” the girl said quietly, setting her knapsack beside the door. Her eyes were fixed hungrily on the pot before Flinn, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten.

He gestured silently to the table, and she sat down on the only chair. Grunting, he pointed to the piece of wood standing by the hearth, and she changed her seat. The warrior paddled porridge into his only two bowls—a large wooden mixing bowl and a small clay serving bowl. He pushed the second bowl toward the girl and gave her the only spoon he owned.

She ate greedily, apparently unconcerned by the heat of the food. Flinn ate more slowly, trying to get the thick gruel to pour from the bowl into his mouth. He was marginally successful, and what little fell to his cheek or beyond he smeared away with his hand. The girl was beginning to slow now as the first pangs of hunger were satisfied. Turning to the cupboard behind him, Flinn pulled out a small loaf of bread. He tore it in half and handed part to her.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “It’s flat and bland, but edible.” He used the bread to ladle up the gruel from his bowl.

She tried a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Did you make this?”

He nodded and dipped his only drinking mug into the bucket of water, placing it on the table between them. They finished their meal in companionable silence.

When they finished and she had drunk the last of the water, Flinn sat back and folded his arms. “All right, girl,” he said. “Your pilgrim’s right is up. You’ve cleaned my barn; I’ve sheltered and fed you. Because my hitting you was uncalled for, I’d like to make amends. Now ask your questions—I’ll give you only three—and then be off with you.”

The girl looked up, her eyes startled like a doe’s. She glanced down toward her lap, and then up again, obviously formulating her questions. “What’s it like to be a knight of the Order of the Three Suns at the castle? Is it as grand as I’ve heard? Is it?”

Flinn found himself smiling, albeit grudgingly. “Is that one or all three?”

She held out her hand. “Oh, only one! Only one. The other two I want to ask after you’ve answered the first.”

Flinn’s eyes met hers, and then he began. “To be a knight of the Three Suns is the greatest thing a man—” he nodded to Jo “—or woman—can be. First and foremost, it is a way of life. By the way, do you know why it’s called the Castle of the Three Suns?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll tell you. It’ll be a free question for you,” Flinn smiled with less hesitation this time. “The Castle of the Three Suns is so called because, for much of the year, the sun rises behind two peaks to the east of the castle. These peaks are the Craven Sisters, named after two witches whose spirits are said to inhabit them.

“Anyway, the rising sun is split by the hills into three parts, or three suns. That’s how the castle was named. The Order of the Three Suns was formed by the first baron of Penhaligon in honor of the three suns,” Flinn finished.

“How interesting!” Jo exclaimed, her voice enthused. “In all the tales I’d heard of you as a knight of Penhaligon, none ever mentioned how the castle got its name!”

Flinn felt a familiar dread wash over him at the mention of his past deeds. He averted his gaze. His mouth tightened, and for a moment he was lost in the memory of his past disgrace. But he felt the girl’s eyes still on him, and he turned back to her, an unsteady smile on his lips.

“You asked what it’s like to be a knight at the castle,” he said slowly, turning back to the matter at hand. “I’ll tell you. It’s hard work, daily drilling—regardless of the weather—constant tutelage, not only of you but by you. You see, you’re taught by those who are your betters, and in turn you teach those less skilled than you.”

“What could I teach anyone?” Jo interrupted. She added hastily, “That’s not my second question. I just want to know what you mean.”

Flinn nodded. “You wouldn’t be in a position to teach anyone for quite a while. You start out as a squire before you advance to knighthood, and squires aren’t expected to know too much—though you could probably teach the other squires about caring for their mounts!” He smiled at the girl again, then his expression sobered. “The point I was trying to make is this: It’s hard work to become a knight. The demands are strenuous, and only a few squires meet them well enough to actually become knights. I knew one boy who was a squire for six years before he was finally ready to be promoted. It isn’t all glory and pomp. No, the path to knighthood is fraught with difficulty and requires much dedication.”

“Dedication?” Jo repeated. “Do you mean like priests who take vows of silence or celibacy?”

“Not quite,” Flinn replied, “though knights do take certain vows. By dedication I mean that becoming a knight is not something to be considered lightly. The ruling council appoints only a limited number of squires every year, and it chooses only those who can prove themselves responsible, those who are dedicated to furthering good in Penhaligon.”

“I’m dedicated. I’m responsible,” Jo offered.

Flinn looked at her intently. “How old are you, Jo?”

Jo rubbed her calloused hands together nervously, then responded, “Nineteen. This will be my twentieth midwinter.”

“And you’ve held—what?—four jobs already?” Flinn queried.

Jo squirmed. “Er, five if you count my work at the shoemaker’s.” She held a foot out from underneath the table. “That’s how I got these.”

The warrior looked at the girl for a long, steady moment. “Jo,” he said at last, trying to gentle his gruff voice, “the council doesn’t want flibbertigibbets, people who can’t take their responsibilities seriously—”

“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 know 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 barn, 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. She 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.

Jo stiffened. The creature’s small, roundish ears flattened her way. Its tiny black eyes glinted. It whirled and leaped, a single, gigantic bound. One more such leap and it would be on her. Jo blinked again, hoping not to lose herself in travel.

Two heartbeats sounded before she reappeared. The thought fled through her mind that another use might trap her in the spatial dimension through which the blink dog’s tail transported her. She remembered her father giving her the tail on her sixth birthday, telling her not to abuse it. He had warned that too much use of it would shorten the distance traveled and lengthen the time in the void.

She reappeared now only ten paces from the creature, and directly in front of it. Daring not to blink again, she turned to run.

Jo’s experience at dodging authorities in Specularum and leaping carts in the marketplace now proved invaluable. She vaulted branches and fallen trees with a speed she had never shown in the city. But the branches didn’t hinder the beast behind her, either. She stumbled blindly on, her feet twisting on the icy roots. She had no idea how long she ran, knowing only that the monster still panted relentlessly behind her.

Her breathing came in ragged gasps—she had no breath to spare in shouting for Flinn. Jo could only pray that she was running toward the cabin and not farther away. The creature’s panting moans filled her ears. Twice, razor claws raked her hair, almost snagging her braid. Both times she ducked and scrambled out of the way. The beast followed close on her heels. Her heart felt near bursting.

The beast’s bone claws flew again. This time the nails sunk deep into Jo’s tattered shift. With a swift yank, the creature pulled Johauna off her feet and onto her back. The impact knocked the wind from her body, and a scream of terror escaped her lips. The creature tumbled onto her, its claws—both fore and rear—raking at her. They tore away her shift and ripped into the skin beneath.

Jo reached for her magical tail, determined to make one more blink despite where it might leave her. The tail was gone; it had dropped from her belt as she ran. She panicked. The heavy creature on her chest squeezed the breath out of her, pinning her arm. The monster’s maw opened wide, its eight stained fangs gaping and drooling rusty spittle.

She screamed. Pain ripped through her shoulder, a pain so great it drove all thoughts from her mind and thrust her into a brown void of noise. The creature was devouring her. Its saliva seared into her blood. Nausea washed over her, but still she pushed against the dry, papery skin of the brutal hulk covering her.

Jo screamed again, or so she thought. But the scream was deeper, yet strangely higher-pitched than her own. In the dark red haze that was falling across her vision, she saw Flinn the Mighty and the deadly creature circle one another, as if dancing.

Johauna was reminded of the tale of the two giants, and she wondered if they, too, had danced with Flinn. From somewhere far off she laughed, and the haze washed down in a wave over her. She was at the port at Specularum, waiting for her ship to come in because her parents were on board. They never came. She was only six years old.

The blood-red haze turned to black.

Flinn stood beside the stable, stretching a green hide across a frame, when he heard the scream. His gaze shot to the west, and his hand leaped to the sword at his side.

“Jo!” he shouted, unaware that he did. He jumped toward the woods and ran up the slight hill as fast as he could. Branches tore at him, but he gave them no heed.

Jo! his mind cried. What’s wrong? Has she run into the wildboy again? No—this is a scream of terror. Something’s attacked her. He thought of the mountain lion tracks he had recently seen and his pace quickened.

Flinn crested a slight rise and heard Jo scream again, a scream that cut Flinn to the quick. Before him, not more than three paces away, lay Jo, thrashing beneath some strange creature. Blood spotted the dirty, trampled snow. The monster was atop the girl, gnawing at her shoulder. With a cry, Flinn drew his blade in an upward arc and leaped forward. He brought the sword singing down upon the back of the beast.

The creature screamed and leaped aside. Clawing the icy branches, it rose to its full height, towering over the aging warrior. Flinn gritted his teeth and took a swing at the beast. It dodged the blade, lunging for Flinn’s open side. He battered it back, the sword’s edge biting into the bone claws. The beast drew back and they circled each other, warily gauging the other’s strength. Blood dripped from the creature’s knobby back, forming rivulets in the snow. It hissed once, and its eight-fanged jaw confirmed the warrior’s suspicions. The creature was an abelaat, a fiend from the blackest planes of creation. Abelaats were powerful servants, and Flinn wondered if more such beasts roamed the wood—or if the creature’s master was nearby. The warrior’s skin crawled.

The abelaat crouched, its bony claws clicking against its palms. Flinn readied himself, sure the creature would attack.

The creature sprang toward him, slashing out with its claws. Flinn leaped to the side, countering with a backhand arc of his sword. But the abelaat pulled back, its attack merely a feint. Turning, it sprinted off into the murky woods. Flinn took a single step after it, wondering why it had chosen to run. Then he heard the girl moan. He watched a moment longer, making sure the creature had truly fled, then dropped to his knee beside Johauna.

“Jo? Jo?” He gazed at the bloodied flesh of the girl’s left shoulder.

Sluggishly Jo opened her eyes and looked up at him, a tiny smile on her lips. “My Da’s coming home,” she whispered, then her eyes rolled up in their sockets and her eyelids flickered shut.

Flinn studied the wound apprehensively. The flow of blood hadn’t stopped. He thought to staunch it, but hesitated. “Abelaats are poisonous,” he muttered to himself, sighing deeply. Cautiously, the warrior lifted the girl and headed for the cabin. He had medications there that might help her. In the meantime, letting the wound bleed could drain away much of the poison.

“Hang on, Jo,” he murmured. “Hang on.”