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.
Flinn tried to mount the griffon, but failed. “I’ve forgotten how to mount up in full armor,” he muttered to Ariac. The bird-lion squealed. After several clumsy attempts, the knight finally settled into the saddle. He urged Ariac forward in a slow walk through the deep snow. The conifers were as thick as he remembered them so many years ago, and he almost expected to hear two squires chatter away behind him. The dark forest closed about him.
Flinn continued deeper into the woods until, at last, he saw sunlight streaming into the forest ahead of him. He moved forward cautiously until he was at the edge of a small glade. He dismounted. The glade where he had first fought Verdilith fifteen years ago stretched before him. And there lay Verdilith himself, sunning the rippling expanse of emerald green skin.
The dragon had grown, Flinn noted. He was larger than Flinn remembered, and he took up nearly a fourth of the small glade. His green scales glistened in the sun, and the bright copper plates protecting his chest and neck also gleamed. His claws, of burnished ivory, looked recently sharpened. Scattered about the dragon’s body were rods, staves, and other probably magical devices. Some lay half buried in the snow. Flinn braced himself mentally and thought, I will not turn around. Not now. The knight loosely tied Ariac to a branch and then stepped through the treeline and into the open. The dragon turned his massive head and opened his jaws in something resembling a smile. Flinn could see row after row of sharp, pointed spikes.
“It is about time, old nemesis,” Verdilith rumbled loudly, then laughed. “I wait fifteen years, and you make me wait eight days more while you stumble about the hills.”
Flinn advanced slowly, his sword held cautiously before him. “It makes no difference how long the wait, Verdilith,” Flinn said strongly. “I am here, and today is the day you die.”
“Let us speak about that, Sir Flinn,” the dragon smiled toothily, and suddenly Flinn was reminded of Lord Maldrake. “You and I both know the prophecy the crazy woman Kunzay has foretold.”
“Yes,” answered Flinn briskly. “The prophecy says I will win.”
The dragon wasn’t disconcerted. “Perhaps that is what she told you. I heard a different prophecy.” Verdilith lowered his head to Flinn’s eye level. “Whoever wins doesn’t matter. What does matter is that one of us might die- and neither of us knows which. And so, I propose that we part company here and now, and that we never seek one another again. That way the old woman’s prophecy need never come to pass.”
Flinn took another step forward and shook his head. “No, Verdilith, I cannot. You destroyed my marriage and my name seven years ago. You slaughtered the town of Bywater, and you murdered my former wife at the council. For these and all your other atrocities, you must die.” The knight took yet another step toward the dragon.
The dragon sighed, a strange wheezing noise that sounded more like a cough. He picked up one of the rods in the snow, licked it appreciatively, and then said, “As you wish, Flinn. But I warn you: I’ve tired of baiting you, so your end is at hand. Your death will be over so quickly as to be ludicrous. Ready yourself; you’re about to die!” He aimed the rod at Flinn, who steeled himself and prepared to dodge the coming assault. One hand touched a furry tail dangling from his waist. The dragon, in a most bored tone, spoke the command word necessary to activate the magic in the rod.
Nothing happened.
Flinn heard no noise, saw no flash, felt no different. He spared a quick glance at himself and Wyrmblight. He looked exactly as he had a moment earlier. The dragon stared at Flinn, then repeated the procedure. Again nothing happened; Verdilith picked up a staff lying at his feet. He pointed the staff directly at Flinn and forcefully spoke the command word.
Still nothing happened. A tendril of fear curled through the dragon’s golden eyes. Flinn wondered suddenly whether Karleah Kunzay’s prophecy were false. The knight, wondering if this was all a trap on the dragon’s part, nevertheless began to slowly advance toward Verdilith. “Is something wrong?” he taunted the dragon. “Your fancy gadgets not working today? A shame, indeed. Perhaps you’ll care to fight me the old tooth-and-nail, sword-and- hand way? That might prove best for both concerned…” Flinn grew bolder as each item Verdilith tried failed.
The dragon threw one more wand into the snow and gnashed his teeth. Suddenly he cocked his head and looked eastward. “The box,” Verdilith mumbled. “That accursed box.” The dragon’s eyes grew feral in the winter light. He raised one clawed appendage and murmured three words of an incantation. Flinn held Wyrmblight before him and tensed, one hand again on the blink dog’s tail at his waist. The ancient stream of words finished, clipped off by the dragon’s teeth. Silence. The dragon blinked, then smiled evilly. “You have me at a disadvantage, Sir Flinn, for I’ve been robbed of my magical powers-at least for now. However, it shall be as you wish-a duel of physical strength without aid of magicks. I shall win no matter what, Flinn the Fool.”
In answer, Flinn growled low and stroked the furry tail. He’d heard Jo use the blink dog’s tail often enough that he hoped he would get the tone and pitch right in one try. Suddenly, he blinked. Flinn stood a step away from the dragon’s right side; he swung Wyrmblight immediately. Using two hands, the blade came down in a shining arc and cut deeply into Verdilith’s side. The dragon’s scales would have prevented a lesser blow, but so sharp was the edge of Wyrmblight that the blade bit in by nearly a foot. Blood gushed from the wound.
The dragon shrieked in pain and anger. Flinn pushed the blade into the wound he had made and twisted, seeking a vital organ to rupture. From the corner of his eye, Flinn saw a giant, serpentine whip swing at him. The tail! He growled the command word and blinked away. For an instant he had the impression that the tail passed through him. Flinn reappeared in front of the dragon. He jumped forward, holding Wyrmblight like a lance, and stabbed the dragon’s chest. Deflected by the impenetrable copper scales, the sword bit into the trampled snow instead. Verdilith hissed, and a noxious cloud of chlorine gas enveloped Flinn. The knight only coughed a little and thanked Tarastia he had Wyrmblight to protect him.
Flinn swung his sword in a series of short, tightly controlled strokes, seeking a way past the dragon’s foreclaws. Verdilith raked back and tried to grab the blade from Flinn. But Wyrmblight’s edge was too sharp to grasp, and the dragon screamed in pain as the sword sliced into his sensitive palms. He reared back onto his haunches, rising to his full height, and then came back down, both foreclaws reaching for Flinn.
The knight didn’t flinch. Instead of retreating, he took a step closer and held Wyrmblight straight up as the claws came slashing down. Verdilith snagged his left claw on the sharp tip of Flinn’s sword, and the knight thrust
