were.”
“I hid the ponies in a cave nearby, hoping the orcs wouldn’t find them by accident. Thank Kagyar they didn’t,” Braddoc said in an aside to the ceiling. “Then I hurried home as fast as I could, trying like you to slip past them as they went on the march. Unlike you, I had the benefit of their never having seen me.”
“I take it the Rooster’s tribe dwells south of here, then?” Flinn asked.
“More or less.” Braddoc laughed grimly. “I, too, had to cut my way through their lines. The Rooster was missing a few orcs after passing me.” He grinned at Flinn. “When you rode up this evening, I was sure you were orcs sent back to check on missing patrols.”
They all laughed, and a companionable silence fell as the four of them finished their meal. Braddoc’s eye wandered to Dayin. The boy was too busy eating to notice the attention.
Flinn noted Braddoc’s interest. “There’s not a great deal to tell you about Dayin,” he said. “He spent the last two years haunting my woods, but I only really met him after Jo came along.”
“You said he knows magic, eh?” Braddoc murmured, taking another sip of ale.
“That’s right,” Jo answered. “He made rose petals appear out of nowhere at the cabin. And during the orcs’ attack, he distracted two of them with doves.” She smiled at Dayin, who smiled back. “They were beautiful.”
Flinn cocked an eyebrow, then turned to Braddoc. “The boy’s father was a mage, and he taught Dayin some spells before he died.”
“What was the mage’s name?” Braddoc asked off-handedly. “Maybe I knew him.”
“Maloch Kine,” Flinn answered, his attention drawn to the boy. Dayin listened closely.
“Maloch Kine, eh?” Braddoc rejoined. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Though the castle’s got a new mage-fellow named Auroch. Hmmm,” he said, stroking his braided beard. “In the old tongue, both Kine and Auroch mean cattle. Was your father some kind of magical herder?”
Dayin shook his head and said, “No, he was a mage.” The dwarf stood and gestured toward the hall. “Let’s adjourn to the great room. I’ve some dried apples the boy can heat in the fire.” He smiled at Jo. “Flinn says you’re quite a storyteller. I’d like to hear a tale tonight, unless someone has a lute in his pack and would care to sing?” He looked at the others and then shook his head. “I thought not. Well, I’m providing the food, so you’ll have to provide the entertainment. My singing would drive you all away. Jo, have you a tale for us?”
Jo laughed. “All I know are the tales of Flinn that my father used to tell me. Surely you’ve heard all those.” Braddoc nodded. “Yes, I have. And most of them are full of audacious lies about Flinn’s courage and skill,” the dwarf said with a wink. “Still, tell us the story where Flinn meets up with Verdilith. Perhaps we’ll learn some long- forgotten weakness of the wyrm.”
Shaking his head grimly, Flinn led the companions into the great room. Its walls were fashioned of rough- hewn granite and its ceiling supported by dark oak timbers. It was comfortably furnished with low upholstered benches, a few small tables, and a single human-sized chair. Braddoc went to the hearth and stoked the fire banked there. He gestured to the chair behind Flinn. “Sit, and let’s hear the tale Johauna has to tell. Then we’ll discuss plans for the morrow. Dayin, you can warm the apples on this poker.” Braddoc pulled a small barrel from a corner of the room and presented it to Dayin, who sat on a short stool before the hearth.
The dwarf sat on a bench opposite Flinn, and Jo took a place across from Dayin. Jo smiled shyly, then let her gaze rest on Flinn. As always, he felt uncomfortable being the center of attention, but he knew that Jo would tell no other tales.
“There is a tale,” Jo began, “a tale told in taverns near and far, in castles high and low, in hamlets humble and dear. This is the tale of the Mighty Flinn and the good blade Wyrmblight. This is the tale of Verdilith, the Great Green, scourge of Traladara, now Karameikos. Listen to the tale I tell you now, and listen you well.”
Johauna stopped and coughed. “I’m not a bard, but that’s how my father always started this story,” she said nervously.
“It had quite an effect on a six-year-old in front of a campfire.” Her eyes flicked from Flinn to Braddoc.
“Tell the tale, Johauna,” the dwarf said patiently, then smiled. “It’s the price of your dinner.”
Guessing the girl felt uneasy under Braddoc’s piercing gaze, Flinn gave her a reassuring smile. Dayin began quietly handing out the warmed rings of dried apple.
Jo continued, “A fierce and terrible dragon saw the lands of Penhaligon one day as he flew, and he coveted the lands beneath his wings. The hills and trees were bountiful, and water, too, was in plenty. Nearby, in the wild barren hills of the Wulfholdes, he could hide. Aye, he could hide from those whom he taunted… those whom he killed. He could bring his treasures from far and wide to secrete away. He could sleep on his bed of gold in peace.
“Or so the wyrm thought.
“Verdilith was the great green’s name, a name that means ‘green stone’ in the ancient tongue. Verdilith, in his debaucheries of blood, hadn’t reckoned on the knights of Penhaligon. Most noble of all these knights was Fain Flinn. He was not called ‘the Mighty’ for naught, and many was the monster that had fallen beneath his blade, the good sword Wyrmblight. The sword was well named, for it devoured dragon blood with glee. The Mighty Flinn learned the art of tracking dragon with the help of his wondrous blade, and he became legend.”
Flinn snickered. Immediately he was sorry he had, for three sets of eyes fastened accusingly on him. He held up his hands in appeasement and leaned farther back into the chair. He would interrupt the story no more.
With a warning look at Flinn, Jo continued. “The Mighty Flinn became legend, but Verdilith was filled with overweening pride. He did not believe the tales of Flinn, nor did he believe the power of Wyrmblight. Or, if he did fear Flinn and his blade, he coveted the lands of Penhaligon still more.
“Verdilith invaded the hills of Wulfholde, spreading terror in his wake. The good Baron Arturus of Penhaligon sent five of his finest knights to rid the land of the great wyrm. At their head rode Flinn, the bravest of all. His armor gleamed in the bright spring sun; the light glinted off his sword. His charger pranced sideways, eager for the hunt…”
Flinn found his mind drifting off in the memories Jo’s words stirred. The sound of her voice receded away. He remembered the day Baron Arturus had sent him after Verdilith: It was late winter, not early spring, and the weather was miserable. Rain and sleet pelted him and the two squires who accompanied him. Disputes with giants along the western borders of Penhaligon had escalated, and most of the knights and their squires were serving there. Flinn had just returned from a mission and was preparing to rejoin the fight to the west, but the old baron had other plans. As always, Flinn did as his lord commanded.
He and the two squires, who were both quite new and really little more than stablehands, headed northeast to the spot where the dragon had last appeared. There, Flinn drew Wyrmblight and held it before him; he concentrated on the image of the green dragon. The blade, forged to slay dragons, scented the dragon’s essence and turned toward it, leading Flinn through the forest. In time, he found tracks and broken branches that marked Verdilith’s occasional landings.
Flinn continued on, Wyrmblight ever before him. If he encountered Verdilith, the blade would prove his greatest weapon and his best defense. Earlier, the blade had turned the fiery breath of a young red dragon and the lightning strike of an older, white dragon. Wyrmblight faithfully led Flinn toward Verdilith. Flinn and his squires traversed the woods and rocky hills, then returned again to the forests before they discovered the creature in a tiny glade. Verdilith was sunning himself on a rock. He seemed sublimely confident of his powers and not the least bit afraid of the three humans who interrupted his rest. The dragon roared when Flinn approached, and the two squires fled in terror. They never returned to the Castle of the Three Suns.
“So you are the Flinn I have heard about,” the dragon rumbled. “And that is the sword I am supposed to fear.”
Disregarding Verdilith’s taunts, Flinn shouted in return, “By the order of good Baron Arturus Penhaligon, I charge you to leave these lands willingly and never return, wyrm, or I shall drive you from them!”
The dragon responded by stretching wide his fang-studded mouth and blasting Flinn with a choking green cloud. Although Flinn coughed a little at the noxious fumes, he suffered no ill effects. He strode forward and attacked. Through glade, through forest, and on into the Wulfholdes their battle raged. Twice more the dragon let loose his foul breath, but each time Wyrmblight drew the poison into itself, protecting its master.
Wielding Wyrmblight foremost, Flinn drove Verdilith toward a dark pine forest. Only there could he stand a chance of defeating the dragon single-handedly-by out-stepping the ungainly beast. But the dragon only smiled his toothy grin and retreated into the open. Flinn was forced to follow. There, in the rocky outcroppings of the Wulfholdes, Flinn at last met his match. Although he was a powerful knight, a man renowned for strength and
