D. Heinrich - The Tainted Sword

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 bam 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.”

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 bam, 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 bam, 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 bam, 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 bam. 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 bam. 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 bam 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.