upward, twisting as he did. Wyrmblight sliced through the dragon’s palm and into his forearm. Tendons snapped audibly.
Verdilith bellowed in pain. He clawed at Flinn with both front talons, despite the sword still thrust through one. Flinn fought to keep hold of Wyrmblight; the violent thrashing almost tore the sword from his hands. The moment Verdilith paused, Flinn twisted and yanked on the sword as he pulled it out. The knight smiled brutally at Verdilith’s ravaged claw.
The dragon screamed, and the sound buffeted the evergreens surrounding the glade. Verdilith raked Flinn again, and this time the claws caught hold of Flinn’s breastplate. The links holding the chest and back plates together snapped, and both pieces fell to the bloodied snow. The midnight-blue tunic floated to the ground. Flinn was virtually armorless above his waist. He pulled his sword up as a shield, thinking the dragon would attack with his claws again. Instead, Verdilith opened his mouth and snapped his jaws together suddenly. Flinn jumped back and reached for the blink dog’s tail, but Verdilith anticipated the knight’s move. With astounding speed, the dragon snapped his jaws a second time, and this time Flinn’s chest was caught between the pointed fangs. The growled command word emerged garbled and unintelligible. Flinn dropped the tail. The dragon lifted his head and shook his prey.
Flinn screamed. The ivory daggers lacing the behemoth’s jaws pierced Flinn’s undershirt and the arm cuffs he wore. Through a haze of pain, Flinn smelled the stench of chlorine and the dragon’s bile. The knight had a sudden vision of the animals he had hunted, writhing in his traps, and he knew exactly how they felt. Then the dragon ground his teeth together, and Flinn felt something inside him burst. A wave of blackness threatened to swallow him whole. “No!” he shouted. He fought for consciousness; he didn’t stand a chance if he blacked out now.
Below, something streaked into Flinn’s vision. A shrill squeal reached his ears. Ariac! He’d bit through his rein. The griffon attacked, his keen claws and beak scraping the gaping wound along the dragon’s right side. The bird-lion fluttered his stunted wings as his sharp beak buried deep in the ragged flesh. Suddenly Flinn felt the dragon’s jaws open. He fell heavily to the ground and lay in the snow, unable to move. His hand still curled around Wyrmblight, though how he’d managed to hold onto the sword he didn’t know.
Flinn lifted his head, and through glazed eyes he saw his griffon charge the dragon. It was a hopeless match from the start, made more so by Ariac’s inability to fly. The griffon screeched, his wicked beak piercing the dragon’s wounded side, but Verdilith caught Ariac between his good claw and his injured one. “I’ve killed your master, feeble creature, and it will be a pleasure to kill you!” Verdilith snarled. Gripping the bird-lion, he bit Ariac’s neck, tearing almost all of it away. The griffon gurgled one last scream and lay still. Flinn closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, somehow managing to stand. He stumbled toward Verdilith just as the dragon pitched Ariac’s broken body away from him.
Flinn lifted Wyrmblight above his head, his arms and chest protesting. His heart labored to pump blood, and he then felt one lung collapse. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. He gasped for air. “It is you who will die, Verdilith,” Flinn shouted hoarsely as the dragon turned back, “just as the prophecy foretold!” Flinn stepped forward suddenly and, with the last of his strength, brought Wyrmblight down upon the dragon. The blade bit deep into Verdilith’s left shoulder, almost to the hilt, and the dragon reared in pain and clawed the blade loose. Wyrmblight fell to the trampled snow. Verdilith shrieked again, and this time the sound of fear tainted the cry. The beast’s blood poured in steaming rivulets from his side, his shoulder, and his mangled claw. He backed away from the tottering man, then turned and crashed into the forest. The dragon’s leathery wings flapped as he ran, unable to lift the beast from the small clearing.
The knight feebly tried to wipe the blood from his eyes and then stumbled toward the shining silver blade lying in the red snow. Flinn paused by Ariac’s body-and fell to one knee. He stroked the silken feathers one last time in farewell. He tried to speak, but nothing emerged from the bruised lips except a bubble of blood. Flinn’s eyes clouded over, then turned toward his sword. By supreme effort, Flinn stood and haltingly limped over to the blade. Somehow he picked up Wyrmblight. Never had the sword felt heavier, and never had it felt warmer. Flinn welcomed the warmth, for he was suddenly cold, so cold.
Flinn lifted his glazed, bloodied eyes to the forest and then slowly, slowly began to walk in the direction the dragon had gone. “He is mortally wounded,” Flinn said dazedly. He coughed twice, his collapsed lung rattling, “but I must be sure he will die.”
He stepped heavily forward, jags of pain racing like lightning through his torso. Broken ribs stabbed into his failing lungs, and his heart beat frantically. A rushing noise grew in his ears. He walked twenty, thirty steps through the snow, leaving a crimson trail behind him.
He fell.
Flinn lay for a moment, fighting back the dizzy blackness that edged his vision. He closed his eyes. The image of Jo rose to his mind, and with it the image of Verdilith. Flinn gripped Wyrmblight in his hands, then opened his eyes and began dragging his beaten body through the brush, still following the trail left by Verdilith. Willpower had failed him. Now heart alone kept him moving.
“Karleah…” he gasped through broken teeth, “…damn your prophecy.”
Braddoc Briarblood, Karleah Kunzay, and Dayin Kine halted their mounts and began discussing the tracks before them.
Johauna Menhir heard none of the conversation. The words were drowned out by the litany that had filled her mind since morning: Flinn-where are you? Why didn’t I awake when you left? Why? I could have stopped you, or I could have gone with you! The words had echoed in her mind during the entire four-hour ride. Her three companions pointed toward a dark wood before them and turned their mounts to enter it. Jo followed mechanically.
The trail ahead of them stopped, and Jo and the others saw where Flinn must have dismounted-probably to don his armor. We must be close to the dragon, Jo thought, and close to Flinn. She only prayed that they had arrived in time to help him, but something in her heavy heart told her otherwise. Shaking the doubts from her mind, she drew her sword, jumped off Carsig, and raced into the woods. The dwarf, wizardess, and boy followed more slowly.
Giant pines and a few scattered spruces crowded the forest. The silence was palpable, and it frightened Jo. Woodlore stated that such absolute silence meant only one thing: a fight to the death had taken place. Only her fearful breaths disturbed the awful hush as she plunged forward.
Moments later, Jo broke through a line of trees and entered a small glade, a tiny meadow hidden in the woods. The snow-covered ground was trampled and stained. Blood and upturned earth marred the former whiteness. Shining bits of metal gleamed, half-buried in the snow. A tattered piece of midnight-blue cloth waved in the wind, snagged on a broken staff.
Jo halted. The huddled corpse of a griffon lay in the center of the glade. Ariac was sprawled on his back, his eagle’s head nearly severed from his body.
“Oh, Ariac,” Jo whispered, running toward the fallen beast. Her eyes were wide with grief and pain. She heard the others come up behind her, but she couldn’t bear that they see her grief-not yet. She fled forward, seeking Flinn, praying. Praying.
Jo ran for twenty, thirty, forty more paces, across the glade and into the forest again. She felt bile rise in her throat when she saw the bloody path Flinn had left behind. It was fully three feet wide-and crimson. Jo prayed some of the blood was the dragon’s. Twigs and chunks of soil had been churned up on the ground ahead, mixing foully with the snow and blood.
Finally, in a glade even smaller than the last, Jo found him. She stumbled toward the still form of Flinn lying on his side, one arm outstretched, his hand poised to claw at the trampled snow. As each step drew her closer, Jo’s legs grew leaden. She dropped her sword and one hand cradled her stomach, but somehow she stumbled forward. Reaching his body, Johauna Menhir fell to her knees in the snow by Flinn’s side. Wyrmblight lay next to him, the silver of its bright blade shining in the sun. She pushed the cold hilt into the outstretched hand, but there was no response. She clasped her own hand around his.
His face was turned away from her, and she saw only his iron-streaked black hair and blood. His chest and back plate were gone, and the gray woolen tunic he wore underneath was now red. Blood still ran from large puncture wounds that marked both his back and his chest. Jo choked on a sob, then gently rolled the knight onto his back so that she could see him.
