D. Heinrich - The Tainted Sword

“I told myself I had always led a life that was true to my principles-even when I lived as a mercenary. I even told myself that although I had fallen in the eyes of my wife and fellow knights, I still remained true to my ideals.” Flinn paused and gripped Jo’s hand more firmly. His voice was low and firm when he continued. “For a while, at least, I was wrong. You see, I lied to myself. The old ideals were simply that: old ideals-not something needed by me. I never thought of them, and I certainly didn’t follow them. That was a wrong I committed, and I have righted that one. But… there is another wrong I have made that I have yet to right.” Flinn released her hand and put his face in his hands.

Jo touched the crook of his arm and leaned against him. “Go on,” she whispered.

“Oh, Jo,” Flinn cried suddenly and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t you see? I hid my heart from you. That was the second wrong I committed.” For long moments Flinn was silent, and Jo could hear the pounding of his heart beneath the heavy clothing he wore. “You scared me, Jo. You awoke all those old impulses of goodness and nobility-impulses that showed what a lie I had been living the last seven years. You tore through my life like a summer storm through a forest. You invaded my thoughts and challenged my very existence, the very meaning of my life.

“Jo, I lived a life of mindless rote, and I was happy. At least I thought I was happy. I tended my trap lines, I skinned my pelts, I brought them to town twice a year. I was content; I was safe from prying eyes, and I was safe from emotions. But you showed me there was still goodness within me if I would only acknowledge it, if I would only let myself hope. With you I could no longer be the man I had become. With you I was forced to see that my flame of honor still burned. You showed me I was still a good man.” Flinn stopped again and swallowed hard, then continued.

“Jo, you also made me see how far I had fallen from the ideals and beliefs of a knight of Penhaligon.” Flinn stopped again abruptly, and Jo caught the sheen of tears in his eyes. He said huskily, “You will never know how much your image of me meant to me. I cursed you for that image-and sometimes I still do.” Flinn turned his head away, and Jo felt as though someone had stolen her breath.

“Oh, Flinn,” the words escaped her lips. Her voice caught short as she spoke his name.

Flinn wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at the young woman. “You see, I care for you, Johauna Menhir, and deeply. But I shouldn’t and I can’t because of what I am to you: a hero.”

“Oh, Flinn,” Jo repeated softly. “Don’t you understand? I didn’t just worship you. I loved you, too. And I still do.” The knight’s lips moved, but he said nothing. Jo did the only thing she could. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. “I love you,” she said slowly, “but don’t ask me to stop worshiping you, for that came first and will always be there.”

Closing his eyes, Flinn took her in his arms.

Fain Flinn awoke at midnight inside Jo’s tent, his eyes opening and his senses instantly alert. He was supposed to be out on watch, and by rights Jo should be taking over. But this was the night for him to leave, and he wouldn’t awaken Jo. Carefully he rolled onto his side, glad that sometime in the night she had moved from his arms.

The moon lit up Jo’s outline quite well under the tarpaulin. She was sleeping on her side, her back to him, huddled beneath the furs. He wanted to reach out and touch the silken hair that had come unbound earlier in their passion, but he knew he didn’t dare. If he did, he might never leave.

Flinn sighed. Oh, Jo, he thought, I do love you. I wish I could give you more than this one night of love, but I can’t. You have put me on the path to honor and integrity. It’s time I fulfill my destiny. I know where Verdilith is now, and if I don’t go and kill him soon, he will attack us-and you will die, my love. So far the dragon’s held off because he’s afraid of attacking all five of us. But now, now the time has come for me to leave you. I only hope that Karleah is wrong in her prophecy.

Cautiously Flinn slipped from beneath the covers and out of the shelter. Jo was sleeping soundly, and only once did she stir as he left the warmth of their bed.

Outside, Flinn’s eyes adjusted quickly. After the darkness in the tent, the moon seemed as bright as daylight. He located the hobbled mounts and then made a hissing noise to warn Ariac not to squeal his usual high-pitched greeting. Fortunately the other mounts were familiar enough with him that they didn’t whinny or bray.

Flinn loosely laid Ariac’s blanket and saddle across the bird-lion’s back. He strung Wyrmblight across the pommel. Then he picked up the bridle, which he carried separately, using his fingers to dampen the metal bit and chin strap. He would saddle the griffon only after he had put some distance between him and the camp.

After a suitable interval, Flinn halted Ariac to put on the griffon’s tackle; some of the knight’s muscles stretched a little too far and he flinched. His body bore testament to the fury of Verdilith’s first attack, and the scars across his chest sometimes troubled him. Ignoring the pain, he tightened the saddle’s girth strap and mounted up. Flinn had quite a distance to travel before he could meet up with Verdilith, and the knight was glad for the full moon and clear, windless sky. He would make good time.

The knight smiled grimly, the scar across his cheek tightening as had the others. It is fitting, he thought, that Verdilith returned to this region. He dismissed the vision of the dragon’s lair. He had no doubts that Verdilith was waiting for him in the glade where they first fought. With Wyrmblight I will face the dragon, Flinn thought, and we shall have our last battle. What was begun there shall end there. The knight ground his teeth, then deliberately stopped himself. “Only this time there will be a victor,” he said aloud.

Flinn dug his heels into Ariac’s flanks, and the griffon leaped forward. The bird-lion snapped at his bit, eager to be moving. Flinn headed north, choosing as easy and straight a trail as possible through the rocky Wulfholdes. Although he had slept little, Flinn was tensed and keyed for the fight to come.

Wyrmblight hung by his side, shiny and warm. Since the day the people’s faith in him had returned, the heat had not left the sword. It’s funny, Flinn mused, how when I first wielded Wyrmblight, the hilt grew warm so gradually that I never noticed it. After my fall, the sword grew cold, and I never noticed that change either. Now, however, Flinn was aware of the slightest fluctuation of warmth every time he touched Wyrmblight. The man smiled. The blade had only grown warmer with each passing day. It was a wonderful advantage in winter.

Flinn urged Ariac into a faster trot. The griffon responded admirably and soon settled into a ground-eating pace. Dawn found the knight and Ariac entering a small, dark forest in a secluded portion of the Wulfholdes. Flinn pulled the griffon to a halt and looked around, noting nothing suspicious in sight. These are the woods, he thought, the scene of what I hope will be Verdilith’s death. He dismounted and pulled free a bundle tied to Ariac’s saddle. Opening the wrapping, the knight began putting on the armor Sir Graybow had given him at the castle. The familiar weight of a breastplate settled on his shoulders. Flinn struggled to attach the remaining pieces of armor; he found himself wishing for his squire since many of the buckles and straps were in places difficult for him to reach. The frigid winter air stiffened his fingers. It took him twice as long to dress as it should have, but finally he was finished. Flinn pulled out the midnight-blue tunic of the Order of the Three Suns. Reverently he touched the silken threads entwined with the gold. He drew the shirt over his head.