D. Heinrich: The Tainted Sword

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 he.” 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.