The Tainted Sword

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“Flinn the Fallen! Flinn the Fool!”

The taunts ripped loudly through the cold winter air. Children raced about the man on the griffon and continued their chant, their words growing more bold and cruel when nearby adults did not chastise them. One man—a baker by the looks of his flour-covered apron—even cheered his son’s viciousness. He made a wicked gesture with his hands, then turned toward his companions and laughed. “Flinn the Fool! Flinn the Mighty is no more!” the baker shouted spitefully.

A young woman edged closer, her tall, lanky frame moving gracefully through the onlookers. A gust of wind blew her braided hair into her face, and she tossed the reddish plait to her back. Her clean, calloused hands gripped her leather belt, which bound a shift to her thin waist. Johauna Menhir had yet to see her twentieth year, but her clear gray eyes held wisdom—wisdom gleaned from thirteen years spent as an orphan on the streets of Specularum. Jo had lived in the southern seaport city until recently, when she journeyed north and found herself in the tiny village of Bywater.

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