“Johauna Menhir,” Flinn said gravely, “I promise to do these things. And I promise that even death cannot separate us now.” He raised his hands again to accept Wyrmblight.
Jo lifted the heavy blade without hesitation, pushing it forward into Flinn’s arms. The runes of the Quadrivial blazed brightly, almost angrily, in the hands of the glowing creature. Johauna gazed at it with awe, guessing that whatever holy essence was used to create the sword, the blade knew when it was in the hands of its wielder.
Flinn gripped Wyrmblight with both hands, the perfection of his body reflecting the brilliant white radiance of the pillar of light, which seemed now to be drawing the mists and winds into it. Jo watched with fascination as every muscle contracted with power—more power than any mortal man could wield. She felt hypnotized, staring at his graceful, muscular body, and all other thoughts fled her mind: she forgot the destruction of Armstead, the disappearance of Karleah and Braddoc, the abduction of Dayin. None of these things were important any longer. Flinn was back from the dead, and she knew he would set things right.
“What would you have me do, Johauna Menhir?” Flinn asked, his arms slowly lifting Wyrmblight above his head, as if to strike Jo down. She did not move, but stood entranced. “What would you have me do? Shall I travel to this other world to retrieve Dayin, kill his father, and ensure the abelaats never return?”
Jo nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said above the winds.
“Shall I smash this pillar of light and destroy the abaton?”
Jo nodded again. “Yes.”
“Shall I find Karleah and make her your equal in youth so you may share your lives as closest friends?”
Jo’s head dropped to her chest. “Yes.”
Flinn placed the tip of Wyrmblight under Jo’s chin and lifted her head to face him. She felt the metal on her flesh as the storm winds buffeted her, as the crackling lightning split the sky.
Her love had returned from the land of the dead.
He would set things right.
“Shall I take you as my one true love, above whom I will place no other?”
Jo said nothing. She moved forward, letting the edge of Wyrmblight caress her skin, drawing a thin line of blood across her check. She felt no pain, only the joy of being closer to Flinn. She raised her arms and clung to him, daring to hold him close, embrace him, feel the power beneath his once-dead flesh. His heart beat loudly in his chest and his breath was hot.
Jo gently parted her lips and looked up toward Flinn’s face. With a trembling hand on the back of his neck, she pulled his lips down onto her own, tasting what she had longed to these many months. The kiss was a gift of forgetfulness, purging her mind of all that had past. As long as he held her close, as long as she clung to him, she would never feel pain again.
“Jo, dear,” he whispered, huskily, pulling back from her. “To stop the wizard, I must regain all of my life force ”
Jo staggered backward a step, staring doe-eyed into her lover’s face. She wanted to continue the kiss, so safe a haven from the maddening storm.
“Wyrmblight,” Flinn continued, “holds a small part of my soul. I must release it if I am to stop Teryl Auroch”
Jo gave a vague nod, her eyes blank. “I remember. You spoke to me.”
“Yes. It is as I said to you. To release it, I must break the blade. But to break the blade, I need you to will that it be broken,” Flinn replied. He knelt, digging the tip of Wyrmblight into the ground and laying the great length of the blade across his bent knee.
Jo nodded again. She blinked as if to clear her thoughts and looked to see what Flinn was about to do.
“Desire it to be broken, Jo. You must abandon your faith in Wyrmblight, or my soul will never be freed,” Flinn explained. “I must destroy Wyrmblight ”
Jo’s limbs felt as heavy as stone. Her mind, whirling in a haze, believed Flinn when he said he must break the blade. But her heart screamed at the thought; if Wyrmblight was the soul of Flinn, it must not be destroyed. It had been her source of guidance, her source of hope in the dark times since Flinn’s death. She had wielded the blade against Verdilith and nearly slain the beast. She had listened to its wise counsel to have faith, not abandon it.
Flinn’s fist came down on the blade. A shower of sparks arched from his knuckles and were drawn into the insatiable winds. The four runes of the Quadrivial flared brightly at the man’s touch. Flinn’s fist came down a second time, and his expression twisted with pain as his hand rebounded from the hard metal. The runes flamed again, sending shafts of light into the air and into Jo’s dazzled eyes. The blade cracked across its width at the third blow, and the Quadrivial blazed once more before it went black.
Jo staggered back another step, feeling the pulse of the abaton’s pillar of light. In the pearlescent glow, Flinn seemed huge and monstrous as he raised his fist for the final blow. Anger twisted his face, and, in his eyes, Jo saw something she had never witnessed before in the man she loved.
Madness.
Flinn would never have destroyed Wyrmblight. He would never have made the runes of the Quadrivial go black. You will be an excellent prize, Johauna Menhir. The words of Brisbois echoed in her mind.
“Not Brisbois,” she murmured, incredulous. Jo screamed her rage and lunged forward. She grabbed the hilt of Wyrmblight, yanking it from the glowing creatures grasp. “For Flinn!” she cried, running the blade through the mans heart. Coruscating bands of white light streamed from the wound.
Flinn’s eyes opened in sudden horror, revealing vertically slitted pupils: the eyes of Verdilith. With a roar, he reached out to grapple her, his arm suddenly maimed and bleeding. Jo pushed the great sword farther into Flinn’s body. He shrieked in agony. His eyes rolled back into his head and his hands clawed at the air, mouth now opening without a sound.
Jo twisted the blade, and Wyrmblight snapped in two, lodged in the ribs of the statuesque figure. Flinn’s body fell back to the ground, but Jo leaped atop him and battered him with the jagged edge of the broken sword. The blows fell on that muscled form with equal measures of hatred and love, and the runes of the Quadrivial blazed brightly on the shattered blade.
“Mer—Mercy,” the dragon whispered through the lips of Flinn the Fallen.
Jo paused for a moment, staring down blankly at the ruined form. Setting the razor edge of the broken blade on the creature’s throat, Johauna Menhir said, “No. Not mercy. Justice.”
Epilogue
The black gateway of the Realm of the Dead opened.
Flinn arose in flames. Stepping from a burning building at the center of Armstead, Flinn breathed the air of Mystara into his lungs again. His memory of what had just happened was vague, shrouded by a haze of forgetfulness, like the drifting ash that shrouded the village. He didn’t even know his own name.
But he did remember the abaton, the evil box of Auroch and the abelaats. He remembered, too, the instruction he had received from Diulanna: Destroy the abaton or remove it from Mystara.
There it was before him, its white-hot pillar drawing the magic from Mystara. Flinn could feel the life of his world gradually drain away into the pearlescent column, feel the balance of magic slowly shift and sway to favor the abelaats’ world. He must destroy the box, or every creature on Mystara would be dead within the year Diulanna had shown this to him. Thor, the Thunderer, and Odin, the All Father, had confirmed it.
Flinn flexed his muscles and felt his immortal form writhe with power. His mortal body had been strong, but now he wielded an otherworldly power. Even so, his powers were new to him, and he did not know them all. But he would learn them, and learn them quickly if he was to destroy the abaton.