Chapter III
Flinn kicked open the door, his breath ragged. He had carried Johauna’s body through the icy woods, struggling to hold onto the girl during her sudden convulsions. But she was in the cabin now, and here they would be safe. Flinn gently placed the girl on the bed’s furs. She lay still and lifeless; her spasms of pain had stopped nearly fifty paces ago. At the time he’d been relieved because she was easier to carry, but now her stillness scared him. Jo’s skin, once the color of clear honey, was flushed crimson. She was sweating and fevered to the touch.
Flinn pulled off her shift and threw it on the fire, hoping the stench of the creature would be consumed with the fabric. He drew his softest fur over her. Then he turned to the mawed shoulder. The girl had lost a considerable amount of blood-more than he thought she would. Clearly some of the abelaat’s poison remained in her body. The fever was proof of that.
Carefully, Flinn cleaned the wound. A circle of eight fang marks ringed Jo’s shoulder, each still pulsing blood, albeit slowly. Flinn washed out what debris he could find, grimacing at the strange chunks of rusty crystal he removed. As he withdrew the last chunk from the eighth hole, he stopped to look at the granular substance more closely. The creature’s poisonous saliva must have solidified in Jo’s wounds, he thought. He put the chunks in a bowl, set them aside, and searched the flesh one last time for anything he may have missed.
The girl had turned deathly pale, but her sweating had stopped. Her shallow breathing filled the cabin with its irregular rhythm. For a moment, Flinn stroked the damp tendrils of hair on her brow. He knew he couldn’t take her to Bywater for a cleric’s ministrations-she wouldn’t survive a day’s ride.
He went to his cupboard and sifted through the few herbs he had. He pulled out a dried bouquet of yellow flowers. “Feverfew,” he murmured, gazing at the petals, “But her fever is down.” He set the bouquet beside a batch of bloodwort, which could have stanched the blood flow, but Jo’s punctures had stopped bleeding. The other herbs were useful in times of tainted water or spoiled food, bee sting, or nettle itch. None would help the girl now.
Shutting the cabinet door, Flinn spied movement outside the cabin. “The abelaat,” Flinn whispered. He drew his sword and, in one swift leap, positioned himself before the door. He yanked the door nearly off its wood-and- leather hinges, his sword arcing through the air at the same time. The wildboy stood in the doorway. Flinn grunted and twisted the whirling blade away from the ducking boy. The sword’s tip whistled past the wildboy’s ear and struck the doorjamb, biting deep.
The wildboy huddled on the step, paralyzed with fear. He looked up as Flinn yanked on his sword, struggling to free it from the wood. Seeing that he was safe, the boy turned his attention to the crudely made willow basket he held. His furtive hands darted in and out of the basket, arranging its contents. Then, standing, the boy gestured for the warrior to take it. Flinn stopped yanking on the sword and turned a dumbfounded gaze on the boy. He took the basket, slowly examining its contents.
“I saw the fight with the abelaat and brought these herbs to heal the pretty one. Use all but the narrow- leaved ones in a poultice,” the child’s voice was barely more than a whisper. Flinn looked sharply at the boy, surprised that he could speak at all, let alone in complete sentences. The boy continued, “Use the narrow-leaved ones in a tea. You may have to force her to drink it.” Before Flinn could speak, either in thanks or protest, the wildboy disappeared into the gloom surrounding the cabin.
Flinn shook his head, struggling to believe the incident even occurred. He stared, befuddled, at the basket in his hands and then back at the girl lying in the bed. He kicked at the side of his blade and knocked it loose from the wood, taking a sizable chunk from the doorjamb. This time he barred the door after closing it.
The warrior set two pots over the fire and added a few more pieces of wood. Sitting at the hearth, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He glanced once at the girl, who now lay strangely motionless, as if paralyzed. Listening closely, he heard Jo’s quick, irregular breath, and he thanked the Immortal Thor.
Flinn turned to watch the flames lick at the bottoms of the black iron pots, unaware that his lips had pulled into a grimace. The girl would likely die here in his cabin tonight, for he didn’t have the knowledge to heal her himself. “She is so young,” he murmured, shaking his head sadly. And the death of this innocent girl would be another stain on his honor as a former knight. It was he who had sent her off into the forest, he who had come too late to save her life, he whose lack of healing knowledge left her to die. But something else bothered him. The aging warrior rubbed his chin with one hand, then gazed past his fingers and thought about the girl. Her persistent questions about knighthood, her childlike trust in Flinn the Mighty-both had reminded him of what being a knight had meant to him. Her quest for knighthood reminded him of his own need to be a good and honorable man.
She couldn’t die now, he thought, not when she has awakened these feelings in me.
Flinn sighed and began crumbling the herbs into their appropriate pots, adding grain to the poultice pot to thicken it. He hesitated a moment, the crumpled leaves sticking to his hand. “What if this is poison?” he asked himself. Glancing at the lifeless Jo, he realized she would die if not treated, and any chance was better than none. Brushing off his hand, he leaned back and let the potions brew for a few minutes. Then he stirred the paste once more and removed the tea from the heat.
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
