Flinn saw a case crafted of hammered gold, the comers reinforced with chased silver. Gems of brilliant color and clarity encrusted the case’s open top. The case was more than six feet long, and only two hands’ width wide. A case like that could hold-
“Wyrmblight,” Flinn breathed. The warrior moved to the other side of the table and looked inside the case. There, on a bed of midnight-blue velvet, lay his sword, its gray-black blade shining dully in the lantern light. Tentatively Flinn touched the cloth, unable to touch the blade just yet.
How long has it been? he thought, suddenly humbled. And why, oh why, did my friend keep you even when I told him you were evil? But Flinn knew the answer to that question even as he asked it: because Braddoc Briarblood was his friend. The dwarf had known, somehow, that Flinn would return for the sword someday. Flinn’s fingers lightly stroked the shining edge of the blade. The blackness still clung to it, though Flinn fancied the taint had faded with the years. Perhaps he had misremembered how much of the sword had been stained.
“Aye, Flinn, the blackness is leaving it,” Braddoc broke the silence that had fallen on the kitchen. Flinn looked at his friend, wondering how the dwarf had read his thoughts.
Braddoc withdrew the sword from the golden case and handed it to Flinn, the dwarf’s good eye glinting in the light. “I saved it for you, Flinn, for its rightful owner. It’ll rest no more in that case,” the dwarf said respectfully. Jo and Dayin crowded around on either side of Flinn as he held the blade in his hands.
“How-why-” Flinn fumbled for the words “-what is happening to the blackness? Have you done something to Wyrmblight? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t clean it…”
The dwarf frowned. “I’ve done nothing but store it in the case, Flinn. It’s been brightening all on its own this past winter, particularly during the last week.” Braddoc’s good eye caught and held Flinn’s. “I had a pretty good idea you might be stopping in. And I think you know why the sword is brightening.”
Jo reached out and touched the flat of the blade, her fingers lingering over the runes marking the Quadrivial. Flinn had taught her the images of the Four Paths to Righteousness, and she touched them now one by one. Two of the runes shone with silvern clarity. “You’ve regained your honor and your courage, Flinn,” she said slowly, her gray eyes watching him intently. “And so has Wyrmblight.”
Flinn’s eyebrow rose, but he said nothing. He gazed at the sword, his eyes clearing. The sword was overcoming its taint, its evil. To Flinn it appeared to grow even brighter as he held it. With Wyrmblight once more in his hands, he stood a chance. With Wyrmblight he could defeat Verdilith, avenge the town of Bywater, and regain his good name. He could regain his knighthood and his pride.
“Thank you, Braddoc,” he said humbly. “You are a true friend indeed. I… I am astounded.” He shook his head, looking down at the dwarf. Then Flinn turned his attention back to the beautiful blade. Memories crowded into his mind.
Wyrmblight had been wrought many years ago, when Flinn first became a knight of the Three Suns. It was given to Flinn by old Baron Arturus Penhaligon. Though many folk marveled at the man’s generosity, all knew that Flinn was beloved by the baron. And the gift matched Flinn’s goodness and nobility.
The sword was a greatsword, nearly as long as Flinn was tall, and Flinn stood over six feet. A goodly portion of its length was given over to the hilt and pommel, its grip designed for two-handed use. Although Flinn could let loose an arcing stroke with but one hand on the blade, the sword was simply too heavy to maneuver without using both hands.
The metal used in the forging of the weapon had been the finest silver Penhaligon’s armorer could find, for he, too, had a soft heart for the young and valiant Flinn. In fact, the metal was dwarven steel chased with elven silver, and the combination had lent the sword a particular strength, grace, and hue. The blade was extraordinarily attuned to Flinn’s movements, seeming to respond to the very will of its wielder.
The old baron had said a knight as valiant as Flinn needed no magic to help him in his quests, and Arturus asked that no enchantments be placed upon the blade. Instead, he had taken the partially forged weapon to the church one day. There the baron himself had stood at the altar with the sword and sought the blessings and good wishes of all who would honor Flinn the Mighty. Many folk entered the church that day to give the blade the honor its bearer deserved, and not one befouled the blade with unkind words. The old baron was well pleased with his people, and with a glad heart he returned the half-forged sword to his master armorer and weaponsmith.
The smith labored tirelessly for a fortnight before the blade was perfect. When finished, its edges gleamed with a sharpness that seemed to never dull. The flat of the blade was ornamented with ancient runes depicting honor, courage, faith, and glory-the Quadrivial of Knighthood. Although gracefully wrought, the quillons were solid and functional and would stop an opponent’s blow. The pommel, too, was fully functional, and would provide a nasty blow of its own if so used. Finally, the grip had been wrapped in steel chain of the finest size.
The old baron presented the sword the day Flinn was formally initiated into the Order of the Three Suns. From that day forward, Flinn and the silver-white blade were inseparable. Together they purged the countryside of vile monsters and the foes of the land Flinn swore to protect. They banished strife from the estates of Penhaligon. No matter what evil they fought, the sword retained its gleaming whiteness, as if it were newly pulled from the forge. Nothing tarnished that sword-nothing until the day Flinn left the Castle of the Three Suns in shame.
Flinn joined Braddoc’s mercenaries, his sword for hire. He was no longer Flinn the Mighty, but Flinn the Fallen, Flinn the Fool. Flinn’s fall from grace was bitterly reflected in Wyrmblight, too. No matter how hard he tried to polish the blade, a taint of blackness clung to it and grew greater day by day. Flinn believed that somehow the sword had turned against him and become evil. He despaired at the blackening of his sword, not realizing that his very despair deepened its taint. He believed that when the sword became utterly black, he would die. With fearful deliberation, he gambled the blade away.
Braddoc Briarblood won the prize. Flinn tried to warn his friend of its evil, but Braddoc would not listen. The warrior’s shame was complete. He left Braddoc’s band that night and became a hermit and a trapper.
Now Flinn stood in Braddoc’s kitchen, holding Wyrmblight in his hands. He blinked, his eyes suddenly moist. The sword wasn’t evil as he had supposed, only a reflection of his own soul. Flinn’s heart pumped unevenly. He would overcome his fears and the ghosts that dogged his every step. He would regain the rest of the Four Comers of Righteousness and become again the knight he had once been.
And Wyrmblight, too, would return to its former glory.
Chapter XI
“Sit and eat,” the dwarf said, breaking the silence that Wyrmblight had cast over the room. He pulled the kettle off the fire and quickly dished up four plates of steaming stew. Then he pulled out a small keg, unstopped it, and began to fill tankards for everyone. His good eye twinkled suddenly at Flinn. “Maybe I should draw you a second mug and a third, as long as I’m at it, old friend,” he said.
“Trying to get me to blather in my cups, eh, Braddoc?” Flinn rejoined. He took a sip of the ale the dwarf had poured and nodded his appreciation.
“That’s not hard to do, as you well know,” Braddoc retorted as he handed a cup to Jo.
“Hah!” Flinn shot back. “You’re the one who can’t hold your ale, Braddoc, not me!”
“Oh? And just who is it who’s always under the table by cock’s crow?” Braddoc hooted.
“I might be under the table, friend-” Flinn slapped Braddoc’s shoulder “-but there’s a dwarf under me!” Braddoc broke into laughter, and Flinn, Jo, and Dayin joined in. It is good to laugh again, Flinn thought, after the horrors of the last few days. And it is good to be warm and safe, with a hot meal and a decent cup of ale. His fingers stroked the blade resting beside him. And most of all, he added, it is good to have you back again.
“Tell me more of your travels,” Braddoc said as he passed around a small pot of honey to garnish the little loaves of bread he had given everyone.
Sighing and downing a large swig of ale, Flinn settled back to recount all that had happened to them that strange winter, omitting nothing-not even the creation of the crystals or what they had revealed. He ended his tale with the revelation of Bywater’s destruction and Verdilith’s orders to the orcs.
Braddoc shook his head. “I first heard the orc drums three nights ago, which must have been just after Verdilith attacked Bywater,” he said. “They were quite a distance away, but I could make out enough of the beat to learn they were going on the move immediately-straight south through the hills where I was hunting.”
“What did you do, Braddoc?” Jo asked. “It’s strange to think you were in the same situation as we
