“Not quite,” Flinn replied, “though knights do take certain vows. By dedication I mean that becoming a knight is not something to be considered lightly. The ruling council appoints only a limited number of squires every year, and it chooses only those who can prove themselves responsible, those who are dedicated to furthering good in Penhaligon.”
“I’m dedicated. I’m responsible,” Jo offered.
Flinn looked at her intently. “How old are you, Jo?”
Jo rubbed her calloused hands together nervously, then responded, “Nineteen. This will be my twentieth midwinter.”
“And you’ve held-what?-four jobs already?” Flinn queried.
Jo squirmed. “Er, five if you count my work at the shoemaker’s.” She held a foot out from underneath the table. “That’s how I got these.”
The warrior looked at the girl for a long, steady moment. “Jo,” he said at last, trying to gentle his gruff voice, “the council doesn’t want flibbertigibbets, people who can’t take their responsibilities seriously-”
“But I do take my responsibilities seriously!”
“Perhaps, but not the responsibility you owe to a master! Think how the council is going to view you: a nineteen-year-old vagabond seeking her sixth master in probably as many years! Forget about this nonsense and go back to Specularum, perhaps back to one of your former masters. Or go back to Bywater and see what the village can offer.” Flinn settled back in his chair, hoping he had gotten through to the girl.
Jo crossed her arms, a determined look settling about her mouth. “Flinn,” she hesitated, then proceeded boldly, “Flinn, it’s true I’m a… a ‘flibbertigibbet’, but I do have solid experience that will hold me in good stead as a knight. If you took me on as your squire and trained me, the council would be sure to accept-”
Flinn jumped to his feet, his chair scraping across the rough pine board floor and crashing into the wall behind him. “You’ve got too much brass, girl, and I won’t stand for it! I’ve answered more than enough questions, now get!” The warrior strode to the door and tore it open, his eyes flashing and his mouth mulish.
Jo coolly crossed her arms in return and sat back, her eyes focused upon a corner of the room. In battles, Flinn watched his opponents’ eyes, looking for clues to their next action. Flinn cocked an eyebrow as he studied her blank expression. She would make quite an opponent, he thought.
Fully ten heartbeats passed before the girl spoke. “Did you really slay two giants with only one stroke?” she asked. Flinn was taken aback. “What?”
“As my second question of you-” she looked at him sharply, as if daring him to take away the other questions he had promised her “-I’d like to know if you really killed two giants with a single stroke. It’s my favorite story,” the girl added.
Flinn granted. “They were hill giants.” Noting the veil of snow forming on the floor, he closed the door.
“What’s that got to do with it? Giants are giants.”
“It has everything to do with it! Hill giants are stupid.”
“Are they so stupid that they lined up, waiting for you to kill them with a single swipe of your sword?” Jo inquired.
“Almost,” Flinn said with scorn. “Besides, they were father and son. Stupidity ran in their blood, even more so than with most hill giants.”
The girl uncrossed her arms and leaned toward him, pushing the dirty dishes aside. “Well?” she asked eagerly. “Won’t you sit down and tell me what really happened?”
“Tell me the tale as you know it,” Flinn countered, slowly returning to his chair. Despite his irritation with the girl, her refusal to flee the cabin had won his grudging respect. Flinn sat down at the table, feeling an awkward interest in what she had to say.
Johauna leaned back, and for a moment he thought she might not speak, for her lips quivered and her eyes looked past him. “The tale begins with a time of woe,” she began, her voice husky and low.
“The baron of Penhaligon-Arturus was his name-had died that very winter. His body lay upon the dried boughs of the pyre, his only comfort the wind and the rain and the snow. His mourners had all deserted him after the one day’s observance of grief, all save one-his niece’s husband, the Mighty Flinn.
“Flinn deeply mourned the loss of his baron, the man who had believed in him, the man who had fostered all that was good and brave in him. And so Flinn waited by the pyre for ten days and ten nights-”
“It was only four,” Flinn interrupted.
The girl shushed him, as if he had disturbed an invisible audience. “-as was the old custom,” she continued. “Now the baron had admired the old customs and had oft lamented their passing. Flinn’s vigil was the last honor Arturus would receive.
“And so for those four days and four nights Flinn kept vigil over the baron’s body until the day of burning. In all this time he stood straight and tall at his post, his sword shining bright in his hands. Never once did he lay upon the ground and rest. He stayed ever awake while the soul of the departed baron journeyed home.” Outside a gust of wind whistled mournfully.
“Arturus was known throughout Penhaligon for the terrible battles he had waged against monsters of the land. Many of these monsters’ kin came to the pyre. They thought to pay their last respects by defiling the boughs of aspen and apple that made up the baron’s final bed. Worse yet, they sought to fling offal at the baron’s midnight raiment.”
The girl paused, her eyes lingering on Flinn’s, perhaps seeking to appease him with her story. His lips pursed, but he said nothing.
“It is said that when the monsters saw the Mighty Flinn standing vigil over the baron of Penhaligon, the sensible ones turned away and brooded on vengeance for another day. But the foolish ones-aye, the ones corrupted by anger and hatred for the noble baron-one by one came down from the hills. And one by one Flinn slew them all.
“It is said that none have recorded how many monsters fell those ten-er, four-days. It is said that even Flinn himself knew not how many monsters came upon him, again and again.”
“It was seven,” Flinn interrupted.
“Seven?” Jo’s voice rose to nearly a shriek. “Is that all?”
Flinn nodded. “Two hill giants, a trio of bugbears, one ogre, and one very foolish goblin.”
“Oh,” the girl responded. Flinn smiled inwardly. He could see her struggle to reconcile fact with legend.
Johauna continued after a moment, apparently chagrined at the flaws in her story. “But the tale that is to be told here, the tale of how Flinn slew two giants with a single blow, recounts the fourth and final day of Flinn’s vigil. The lords and ladies of Penhaligon rode out on that last day, carrying the torches with which they would light their beloved baron’s pyre. There, they beheld Flinn’s final battle for his baron.
“Two fearsome giants from the northern Wulfholde Hills approached Flinn on foot. Flinn swayed a little in the cold wind that rose then, and in his fatigue he fell to one knee. His exhaustion was complete, but he did not yield to the temptation to sleep or flee, for soon his master’s body would be burned and his soul at rest. Flinn forced himself to stand once more as the giants approached.
“One giant carried an oak tree whose girth was thrice that of a barrel-chested man. The club, for such was the tree to the giant, was twice as tall as its bearer. The giant used the tree with its trunk still whole and sound, its branches still green, and its roots still quivering with fresh loam. The second giant was even more fierce! In his brawny arms lay a mountain’s babe of a rock, a granite waiting to take root in the ground and grow. This giant was even taller and broader than the first. Surely Flinn, in his exhaustion, could not hope to defeat these two behemoths.
“As the lords and ladies of Penhaligon drew near on their brightly liveried chargers, they saw a titanic struggle. The giants’ might proved a powerful match for Flinn’s skill with his blade, Wyrmblight. Although Wyrmblight was christened for shedding dragon’s blood, the blade sank deep and true that day into giant flesh, too.
“The lords and ladies of Penhaligon, hearing the clang of steel, spurred on their steeds, desperate to help a loyal member of their court. But they arrived in time only to see Flinn draw back Wyrmblight with both hands. He swung that shining blade in a noble arc, an arc that sliced clear through one giant’s neck, and then through the other’s.
“And in one blow-in but one blow-did Flinn the Mighty slay two giants.” Johauna sighed, her cheeks flushed.
