“Parry! Parry!” Flinn shouted. “Quit using the sword as just a shield!”
“You told me to use it as a shield!” Jo retorted.
“Never mind what I told you! Parry the stroke, don’t just meet it!” Flinn shouted in return.
Spurred on by his words, Jo stepped forward, forcing his blows back rather than merely blocking them. She successfully turned six strokes in a row. Astonished, she smiled.
Suddenly she was lying on her back with Flinn’s sword at her waist again and her own beyond reach. Flinn shook his head at her, clicking his tongue. He pulled her to her feet.
“You got cocky, girl,” he said. “Worse thing that can happen to a fighter—think the fight’s over and gloat. You had a couple of nice moves, but don’t let those go to your head. That’s why you’re in the snow again.” He gestured toward her sword and shook his head. “Never, never lose your sword, Jo, no matter what the cost of keeping it in your hand.” His dark eyes were serious as he peered into hers. “Losing your sword will cost you your life.”
“But I was afraid you were going to break my arm. I had to drop the sword.”
He shook his head. “No, you only thought that. Human bone is strong, Jo, particularly with a little armor.” He rolled up the left sleeve of his woolen tunic and traced the deep scar in the middle of his forearm.
“I lost my shield once in a fight. The next blow struck my left arm. The blade bit through my armor, gouged out some flesh, and broke the bone in two places. I survived and lived to win the fight.” Sighing, he continued, “The point is, don’t be afraid to suffer some pain in the short run if it can save your life in the long run.”
Johauna hesitated, then reached out and lightly traced the ridged scar. “I’ll remember, Flinn.”
“Now,” Flinn said briskly as he rolled down the tunic’s sleeve, “do you want to continue or are you tired?”
Jo knew she was tired. She also knew Flinn enjoyed these practice bouts, particularly because she became a more worthy adversary daily. “Continue,” she said, retrieving her sword and returning to her starting stance.
This time Jo concentrated on parrying each of Flinn’s moves without trying to anticipate them. She carefully avoided being maneuvered next to the buildings or the fence, where she might be trapped. At one point, Flinn drove her toward the corral’s gate. Jo dropped and rolled toward Flinn, bringing her wooden sword upward in a thrusting stroke inches from his gut. Flinn leaped neatly aside. “Good move!” he cried.
Jo rolled to her feet and took the offensive, slashing enthusiastically with her blade, forcing Flinn toward the barn wall. Flinn laughed, the first genuine laughter Johauna had ever heard from him. The sound spurred her on. Each stroke fell with greater force, sharper precision. Even so, Flinn stepped back, parrying the blows easily.
At last Jo cried, “Enough!” She released her sword and dropped to the ground. Her nearly healed shoulder throbbed with the exertion. Flinn plopped down beside her on the packed snow.
“Well done, Jo, well done!” Flinn proclaimed and began massaging her sword arm. He had stressed the importance of stretching her muscles before any exercise bout and chasing away any knots in her muscles afterward.
Jo’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. Her lips parted and her breath became shallow.
Flinn was still speaking. “You’ve improved quite a lot since we first began practicing. Anyone who can keep showing progress will…” Flinn’s words trailed off as he gazed into her face. His lips pursed and his eyes darkened.
She wondered if he thought she was trying to seduce him. She abruptly pulled her arm from his hands and leaned away. “Thanks, Flinn. My arm’s fine now.”
Flinn stood, picking up the weapons and taking a few brisk strides about the yard. “You’re progressing very well, Jo. I’m pleased.” He paused to look down at her. “I think you should spend the rest of the day practicing with the bow. The target’s still set up by the barn.”
The warrior extended his hand and pulled Jo to her feet. “You want me to practice target shooting?” Jo asked, “Or should I do the run-and-shoot maneuvers?”
“Target shooting,” Flinn said, smiling. “Your archery isn’t nearly as advanced as your swordplay. We need to fix that.”
“Will you watch and tell me again what I’m doing wrong?” Jo asked, moving to the barn where Flinn kept his bow and arrows.
“No, Jo, you’ll do fine without me,” Flinn answered, then paused. Jo turned around in the silence. Shaking his head, Flinn spoke again. “I’m going inside to work on restoring my armor.”
“I can do that this evening. It’s part of my job as a squire.” Flinn held up a hand to forestall her. “I know, I know, Jo. But there’s a lot of work to be done, and you can’t do it all.”
“…A lot of work to be done?” An odd chill ran down her back.
Flinn only nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly, his eyes glinting. “We’re going after the abelaat.”
Jo felt as though her throat was closing in on itself. “When?” was all she could say.
Flinn’s eyes were dark with compassion. “This week, depending on the weather. When I think you’ve advanced a little more and I get the armor back in order, we’ll head out. I’m tired of keeping Ariac and Fernlover here in the corral. And I want us to be able to gather firewood without looking over our shoulders every minute.
“We’re going to kill the abelaat—before it kills us.”
Chapter IV
Sir Brisbois yawned. The council meeting had dragged on for nearly three hours now. He gazed restlessly at the fourteen lords and knights who lined the small meeting room—the small prison, he thought. Brisbois closed his mind to the discussion surrounding him, his attention wandering to the stone ceiling some thirty feet above. A vague dizziness flushed through him as his eyes traced the intricately carved bosses and the pale murals on the ceiling. Brisbois’ eyes shifted to the huge tapestries that hung from three of the walls. Then his gaze turned toward the fourth wall, which held arching windows filled with leaded glass. He had watched the early winter sun set almost an hour ago through those windows. The brass lanterns throughout the room had magically lit at sunset, their blue-white glow casting harsh shadows across the people’s faces. Brisbois squinted. He had drunk too much last night.
He sat in an unupholstered, ornately carved chair that was distinctly uncomfortable for his angular, lanky frame. Before him was a U-shaped table, its top so perfectly joined that the seams were invisible to all but a master carpenter. Excepting me, of course, Brisbois thought wryly. If I sit here any longer, I’ll have every dust mote in this room catalogued. Beneath his feet stretched a green marble floor lined with gold. It was beautiful and cold and practical—just like the baroness herself, Brisbois mused.
Brisbois stared at the young matriarch, sitting at the center of the table. She was as tall as many of the men there, Baroness Arteris Penhaligon. Her blue and silver raiment set off her chestnut hair and eyes. To many of the older knights, she was the youthful image of her father, Baron Arturus Penhaligon. They revered her because the likeness was not simply physical; honor ran deep in the daughter of the baron. Other courtiers though—mostly younger knights who had never met the old baron—murmured against giving allegiance to a woman. She didn’t even have a husband, they argued. She should provide not only an heir but a husband as well—a proper lord to rule. Brisbois chuckled inwardly; his age placed him among the baroness’ supporters, but his views placed him among her adversaries.
Baroness Penhaligon continued to drone on about lifting the peasantry’s tax burden, and Brisbois, a leer coming to his lips, let his thoughts slip back to the maid he had cornered last night. He closed his ears to the discussion surrounding him.