D. Heinrich - The Tainted Sword

Rifling through the cupboard where he kept his weapons and personal effects, Flinn searched for something suitable to bind the poultice in place. Grunting in annoyance, he discovered he had no clothes left except for those on his back and the ceremonial tunic he had worn in the knightly Order of the Three Suns. He pulled out the silky, midnight-blue cloth and held it up, looking at the brilliance of the three embroidered suns on the front. In the murky light of the cabin the tunic shimmered; the golden threads in the cloth were enchanted, radiating a faint, continual light. Even after all these years, the tunic’s three suns still glowed.

Flinn looked at the garment and then looked at the girl lying helpless on his bed of furs. Biting a notch in the hem, he ripped the tunic, pulling it into long, usable strands. The cloth was old and tore easily, the metallic strands of gold breaking away and falling into the cracks of the pine board floor.

Seeing that the poultice had thickened properly, the warrior pulled the kettle off the fire, and then scooped some into a bowl to let it cool. Flinn checked Jo’s punctures one more time, wiping away both fresh and dried blood. The wounds would receive the poultice best if they hadn’t closed over.

He gathered a tankard of the tea and the remaining things he would need and settled himself on the bed. He drew the girl into his arms. Applying the poultice to the injured shoulder, he gently pressed the skin surrounding the wounds, noting that red streaks of infection radiated from the fang marks. He hoped the poultice would draw out the pus. Jo gasped at the heat of the grain-herb paste but gave no other sign of wakefulness. Flinn bound the poultice in place with the strands he had torn from his knight’s tunic, wrapping the cloth around her neck and under both arms to anchor the paste to the torn shoulder.

Flinn pulled the furs around the girl to keep her warm and leaned her against him. He picked up the tea and tested it for warmth. “Just about right,” he murmured. He set the mug to her lips, holding her head, and tried to get her to drink a little. She did swallow some, but then convulsed and spat out the rest. Flinn held her nose shut and tilted her head back, pouring the tea as fast she could reflexively swallow. Once or twice she tried to turn her head, but Flinn’s grip was firm. He stroked her throat to force her to swallow the last of the liquid, and then he wrapped his arms about her.

“You’ll be all right,” he whispered, hoping the words would penetrate her haze of pain. “Hold on, Jo. Don’t die,” he added gruffly. His arms tightened briefly about her. Then he laid her back into the waiting furs. He loosened the hair still bound in her braid and covered her with yet another fur, then rose from the warm bed.

Her breathing had become deeper and more regular. Although her arms were still blanched and clammy, Flinn fancied he saw a little color returning to the girl’s cheeks. He tucked the skins more closely about her neck, noting the moist sheen of her lips.

“Better tend to Ariac and Fernlover, what with that abelaat around…” the words trailed off. He peered at Jo, thinking she should be safe alone for a few minutes. Flinn unbarred the cabin door and went outside, taking his sword with him. Warily he looked about, but the afternoon light had faded already and he could see little. He listened to the wind and was reassured by its quiet chatter. Flinn broke into a lope up the path behind the bam, heading toward the northern meadow where the beasts were hobbled.

The bird-lion and mule stood waiting for him when he crested the rise, for they had heard his approach. Flinn removed the hobbles and took hold of the braided leather halter he kept on Ariac whenever the griffon wasn’t wearing a bridle. He did not take hold of Fernlover-the mule would follow Ariac back to the stable readily enough. Together they retraced the trail to their home.

Flinn quickly settled the animals in for the night, foregoing care of the griffon to return and tend Jo. Before he left the bam, he retrieved some tanned hides from a chest to make her a new shift.

The girl had grown restless in his absence. She had thrown back the covers and curled into a tight ball, her good arm stretched over her furrowed brow. Flinn wondered if she were dreaming about the attack and trying to defend herself. Carefully he returned her to a more comfortable position.

Johauna moaned in protest and pulled her good arm closer across her face.

An hour or so later Flinn felt the poultice; it had grown cold and needed to be replaced. He sat before the fire and returned both pots to the flames. As Flinn waited for the concoction to heat, he wondered about the abelaat. Why is it here? Did it attack Jo deliberately? Or is it after me? Flinn’s thoughts whirled. Who had released it into these woods? Johauna’s wounds bore testimony to the strangeness of the creature; the abelaat’s bite yielded a puncture wound from each of its eight canine teeth.

The mixture had grown suitably hot as had the tea, and Flinn repeated his ministrations. This time the girl seemed nearer consciousness; she struggled as he applied the steaming poultice. Flinn set his jaw, restraining her clawing hands as he fixed the new poultice and administered another cup of the tea.

Jo fell into a deep slumber, exhaustion written across her pale face. Rubbing the scratches Jo had left on his arm, Flinn began pacing the narrow confines of the cabin.

What am I supposed to do with this girl? he thought suddenly. Because I gave her pilgrim’s right, I’m now responsible for her? Then he remembered that it was he who had sent her after kindling. He sighed, dropping into his chair. The girl was awakening in him the old honorable principles he had once championed. Those selfless impulses ran counter to the baser instincts he had developed during his seclusion.

The girl stirred and moaned in her sleep then, her eyes fluttering in an effort to open. At last they did open, and her gray irises struggled to focus on him. She whispered a word, but her voice was too frail to hear. Approaching the bed, he leaned over her and coaxed her to speak a second time.

“Water,” came the hoarse whisper.

Flinn poured water into the tankard he had used for tea. Returning to the bed, he pulled Johauna into a sitting position and set the tankard to her lips. She drank thirstily. Jo sighed and fell asleep in his arms. He laid her back on the fun and then touched her throat gently. The fever had returned. He fetched a bowl of water and a soft rag and began sponging her body, taking special care around the injured shoulder. In the flickering firelight, he saw that the angry red streaks had spread farther across her skin.

Flinn pulled a few of the lighter furs over Jo, then wet the rag and wrung it out one more time. He draped it across Johauna’s throat in an attempt to cool her. Standing, he stretched his weary muscles, feeling the bones along his spine shift into place. Then he moved to the chair before the fire and began his lonely night’s vigil. He prayed to the Immortal Diulanna that the girl would live until morning.

The next day, Flinn stoked the fire in the cabin and looked at the girl lying in his bed. She still breathed, and in time her eyes opened.

“Flinn,” Jo said, her voice frail and labored, “tell me about the Quadrivial…”

Flinn hesitated; the Quadrivial was a code he had failed, a way of life to which he was exiled. Still, he couldn’t refuse her request, not when he had-however indirectly-caused her pain. He didn’t know how much she knew of his fall from grace and his banishment from the Order of the Three Suns, but perhaps he could tell her about the Quadrivial without going into either of those. He fervently hoped so.