D. Heinrich: The Tainted Sword

“Flinn-” Jo pleaded in a voice as hoarse as before. She was beyond the ability to pray coherently to her Immortals, but she silently beseeched them for Flinn’s life.

His eyelids fluttered open. They closed once, then opened again, and Jo saw that they were filled with inexpressible pain. He blinked a second time, then a third, and she cradled his head to her breast. The tears she had tried not to shed were running silently down her cheeks, landing on Flinn’s chest and mingling with his blood.

“Jo,” Flinn’s voice wasn’t even a whisper, “I love you…”

Blood trickled from Flinn’s lips. His eyes glazed over completely and rolled upward. The faintest tremor went through his body, and then his neck stiffened.

Fain Flinn was dead.

Jo threw back her head, her hands clutching the body in her arms, a cry in her throat. But the cry wouldn’t emerge, and she doubled over in mute pain.

For four days and four nights Johauna Menhir stood alone before the funeral pyre of Flinn the Mighty. She had requested that her companions stay away during her time of grief, and they respected her wishes. For four days and nights Jo guarded Flinn’s body from the ravages of wolves, but no other creatures came to the glade that witnessed the warrior’s death. And for four days and nights, Johauna prayed hopelessly that Flinn would rise from his pallet.

He did not.

On the fourth day, three riders joined Jo: Braddoc, Karleah, and Dayin. They handed Jo a torch and moved to different sides of the pyre, each carrying his or her own torch. Jo stood at the front, unwilling to send Flinn’s spirit to rest but knowing she must. Her eyes were dark from sorrow and sleeplessness, and she nodded to Dayin to begin.

The boy intoned, “For Flinn the Mighty, there was the first point of the Quadrivial: Honor.” He threw his torch at the pile of wood before him. Dayin sat down in the snow, dazed. Ariac’s body rested within the pyre, for Jo had decreed that so faithful a mount should join his master in whatever Life awaited them after death.

Jo nodded to Karleah, who said in a voice more subdued than any had ever heard from her, “For Flinn the Mighty, there was the second point of the Quadrivial: Courage. None had greater than he.” The wizardess added her torch to the pile, and the flames began to lap at the dry wood.

Braddoc looked Jo’s way, and at her assent he began to speak. His voice was gruff, and tears ran unashamedly down his face, wetting his beard. “For Flinn the Mighty, there was the third point of the Quadrivial: Faith, for the people in all Penhaligon believed in him.” Braddoc’s voice broke on the last words. He tossed his torch onto the pile and turned away. Sobs shook the dwarf’s broad shoulders, and he buried his face in his hands.

Jo tried to see through the mist of tears in her eyes, but could not. The flames flickered before her, demanding her attention. Then a sudden gust of wind picked up a corner of Flinn’s tunic, and she focused on the midnight blue. Holding up her torch, she called out in a voice that rang with a strength laced with sorrow, “For Flinn the Mighty, there was the fourth and final point of the Quadrivial: Glory.”

She stopped, unable to speak. She swallowed once, twice, and continued, her voice raw with restraint. “Glory,” she repeated and gripped Wyrmblight so tightly her hands bled. “And the people in all lands, not just Penhaligon, will know of the Mighty Flinn, and the glory in which he died, and the glory in which he lived.” The words sank to a whisper, and then Jo threw the last torch onto Flinn’s funeral pyre.

The patch of midnight blue disappeared in the flames of death.