“You’ll be an excellent prize, Johauna Menhir,” he seethed eagerly.
Jo lashed out with her fists, but struck only the stone of the passage. Although she flailed in both directions, her knuckles struck nothing.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the caves shook again. In desperation, Jo wrenched her foot free of the rock, drew her knife, and searched the cave floor for the lantern. After dragging across the shattered glass, her hands at last settled on the lantern’s handle. She adjusted the wick and the flame grew bright again. Lifting the lantern into the dusty air, she drew her knife, but the defamed knight was nowhere to be seen.
“Brisbois! You bastard!”
The amphitheater was lighted by an unholy glow as luminous vapors swirled thickly through it. The magical storm rose from the abaton and spiraled up into the black night above Armstead. Its twining mists reached like spectral claws up to the clouds high above and tore a hole in them, revealing the starry heavens. White-hot jags of lightning erupted through the center of the storm and danced in spinning circles across the devastated village. The ash that had settled on the charred ground lifted on the winds and filled the air like snow.
And, suddenly, Teryl Auroch stood in the midst of the storm, as calm as if he were standing on land. His face bore no expression, and, as he was lifted on the rushing winds, his piercing blue eyes settled on the campfire atop the amphitheater.
With a motion of his hand, Auroch awakened his son. Dayin rubbed his eyes and looked upward, shielding his face from the radiant mage. Then, lip trembling, he stood. Resignation hung plainly in his features, as though he knew in that moment what his father had planned, always had planned, since the moment of his birth.
The storm heightened, a moaning roar rising from the abaton itself. The charred remains of a blasted home collapsed in the gale, and rubble from the rock walls jiggled uneasily. Abruptly, fire erupted in the core of the vapors, flames that leaped to the very clouds. The sudden blast of heat sent winds howling and thrumming through the surrounding forests, bearing with them flocks of leaves, torn from their boughs.
The boy seemed mesmerized, unaware. He didn’t flinch as the crackling thunder shook the ground. He didn’t wince as the flames roared in huge, spiraling sheets from the box. Without expression, Dayin calmly stepped up from the earth, as though on an invisible stair, and walked to his father. The mage put his arm around the boy and held him close, as if to protect him from the ravages of the still-growing storm. Dayin glanced up at his father, the gazes of their brilliant blue eyes locking.
Jo burst out from the catacombs entrance just before the building above her toppled into the caves. She dropped the lantern and gripped Wyrmblight in a firm, two-handed grasp as she rushed toward the storm-swathed amphitheater.
“Karleah!” she shouted in fear, though the wind ripped the word from her throat. Leaning into the gale, she ran, stones sliding beneath her feet. Her legs slipped out from under her and she fell. Crying out in surprise and pain, Johauna gripped a charred root to keep from being blown backward.
Blinking, she stared into the raging storm. A blue-white column of mist rose from the amphitheater, its core blazing with fire. A shower of sparks and embers emanated from the storm’s heart, raining down on the land around her. And there, at the heart of the storm, she saw Teryl Auroch holding Dayin.
“Dayin!” she cried, but the wind blew too hard for her to hear her own voice.
A tremendous pillar of light pierced the sky, stabbing at an angle through the heart of the storm and entering the abaton. The pillar had a beautiful, pearlescent glow. Teryl Auroch gently gestured his son to walk into the slanting light. Jo watched helplessly as the boy floated on the air, entering the glowing shaft without a backward glance. The mage shot Jo a last enigmatic look, then stepped in behind his son.
“No! Dayin!” she screamed. “Dayin, come back!”
Struggling to her knees, Jo lifted Wyrmblight, wanting to feel the four runes of the Quadrivial pulse and glow with heat. But the sword was dark and cold.
All was lost—Armstead, Dayin, Flinn, Wyrmblight … Jo didn’t even want to guess what had happened to Karleah and Braddoc. Auroch had defeated them. Brisbois had escaped. Honor, Courage, Faith, and Glory were dead, and Jo’s heart was dead with them. Her pledge to Sir Graybow and herself—her pledge of mercy—rang hollowly in her ears.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Jo grasped the blade of Wyrmblight and set the hilt firmly on the ground. Leaning the sword toward her, she placed the tip against her left breast and closed her tearful eyes.
“No, Jo, there is another way,” a voice said from behind her, a voice she actually heard, one she recognized.
Johauna Menhir whirled around, Wyrmblight clattering loudly to the ground. Her heart leaped. It was impossible. It was true. For a moment, the fury of the storm was nothing.
Standing in the blasted city, framed by the flames of the burning buildings, stood Flinn the Mighty. He was clothed in scintillating light, his armor blinding. His smiling face glowed with strength and health.
And life.
Chapter XVI
Involuntarily, Jo crumpled to her knees and buried her face in her hands. She felt suddenly unworthy, suddenly ashamed of her despair. Reflexively, she reached out for comfort to Wyrmblight, lying beside her. It was cold to her touch, cold with the taint of your unworthiness, the voice in her head told her. Only the stone in her belt pouch was warm and comforting.
“Rise, Johauna,” came Flinn’s voice from the brilliant light. “Your fear can wait. Now we must act.”
Jo’s eyes remained averted, and she trembled upon the ground.
“I said rise!” the voice commanded, its tone tinged with anger.
Slowly, Johauna stood, lifting Wyrmblight with her. “Oh, Flinn,” she breathed, her voice just audible over the storm. Still her eyes would not meet his. “I have missed you, so.”
“And I, you, my dear,” the radiant Figure said. He reached out gently toward her, cupping the side of her head in his hand. “Give me the sword, my love.”
“Yes,” she said, her heart pounding painfully. She turned Wyrmblight toward him, pommel-first. “You are an Immortal now, aren’t you? You have the power to set things right, don’t you?”
Flinn smiled a polite smile and reached out for the blade.
Only now looking him full in the face, Jo saw the way the wind blew his hair, and remembered riding with him in the days when they first had met. She remembered her joy when fighting side by side with Flinn the Mighty, hero of legend and song. She remembered the thrill that had traveled up and down her spine, and she wondered why she didn’t feel that same thrill now. The young squire suddenly withdrew the blade. “Promise me.”
Flinn’s brow furrowed, but he maintained his smile and still held out his hands. “Promise you what?” he asked, his voice resonant above the howling wind.
“Promise me you’ll save Dayin and kill Auroch and Verdilith and Brisbois.” Jo took a single step closer, fixing her gaze on the eyes of the man she loved. “And promise me you’ll never leave me again.”
Flinn let his arms fall to his side, the smile on his face quickly fading to an expression of deep pity. For a moment, it seemed to Jo that the man—the Immortal—might fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for leaving her to die all alone. But she understood in her heart and soul that whatever Flinn had become, through whatever fiery lands he had walked, he didn’t need her forgiveness for any act, past or still to come. He was beyond guilt and innocence now. Though he stood resplendent before her, Flinn would never truly be the same man she had once loved.