Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  Fingers spasmed, then dug more deeply into the pelt. He felt the ladder of Lorn’s protruding ribs. Will you live?

  You still have need of me.

  Donal wavered in relief, then bent and set his face against Lorn’s shoulder. I could not bear it if you died. Then he smiled up at his uncle. “I think he will be all right.”

  Finn knelt and gathered the wolf into his arms. “I will take him. You are not much stronger than he.” He rose and jerked his head at Evan. “See he comes, Ellasian. We have gone to too much trouble to lose him so easily now.”

  Evan grinned and grasped Donal’s arm. “Come, my lord—we must steal ourselves a boat.”

  They won free of the palace proper without coming to harm—Evan slew three Atvian guards—but the high white walls of the bailey proved a greater foe than man. Locked and attended gates denied them an exit as easy as their entrance.

  They ducked down into the darkness of full night, hiding themselves in shadows and vegetation. Finn tended Lorn while Evan watched for guards. Donal knelt against the wall and pushed a trembling forearm through sweat-dampened hair, aware the six months of captivity had leached him of grace and quickness. He rested his head against one doubled knee, trying to catch his breath, and felt the hard cold iron of Strahan’s shackles on his arms.

  Gods—is this what it was for Carillon when he wore Atvian iron? Inwardly, he shuddered. It is a perfect humiliation.

  “Donal—?” It was Evan, hunching down beside him. One hand touched Donal’s leather-clad shoulder.

  Donal lifted his head. “I am well enough, Evan…see to yourself.”

  Evan, laughing softly, withdrew the hand. “Without me, my proud Mujhar, you might still be Strahan’s prisoner. Do I get no thanks from you?”

  Donal smiled into the darkness. “Would a prince accept payment for the aid he rendered a fellow prince?”

  “Mujhar,” Evan corrected. “Aye, he might…could he win it in a fortune-game.” Slanting shadow across the Ellasian’s face hid his eyes and nose, but not his mobile mouth. He grinned. “But there may be a better reward than that. There was a young woman I admired at your wedding celebration. Could you give her good word of me, it might be payment enough.”

  “Which one?” Donal asked dryly. “I cannot recall them all.”

  “You said her name was Meghan.”

  Chains clashed as Donal glanced at Evan sharply. “And do you forget?—I also told you who sired her.” He indicated Finn crouching not far from them with Lorn still cradled in his arms. “Say to him you wish to know his daughter better.”

  “Were you to give him good word of me—”

  “I think he knows you better than most.” But the levity quickly faded. Donal moved over to kneel beside his wolf. Lorn?

  I have not died yet, lir.

  Donal smiled. Then he glanced up at Finn’s face. “He requires proper healing.”

  “And will have it…but not just here.”

  Donal peered through the bushes at the wall. Absently, he chewed at a broken thumbnail. “We can hardly scale the walls with an injured wolf—”

  “Scale them? Why not fly over them?”

  Donal looked back at him sharply. “Taj is—lost. I have no recourse to falcon-shape.”

  “Do you not?” Finn’s mouth hooked down as he shook his head. “Can you not even trust your own senses, Donal? Or your own sense. Were Taj truly lost, how could Evan and I have found you?”

  “But—I thought you somehow knew Strahan had come here—”

  “How?” Finn’s voice was underscored with contempt. “Am I omniscient? Did Evan throw the rune-sticks? And how were we to know the boy was Tynstar’s get?” Grimly he shook his head. “Imprisonment has not improved your sense any more than your temper.”

  Donal hunched forward, trying to keep the chains from clinking. “I saw it, su’fali! Strahan summoned a demon-bird from Asar-Suti, and she slew Taj. I saw him fall!”

  “The hawk injured him, aye, and he fell. But he was not slain.” Finn indicated the wall with his head. “Do you think that is Strahan’s hawk? Or is it more likely a falcon?”

  Donal’s head snapped around. Now that Finn pointed him out, the bird was visible. But only as a shape in the shadows. There was no light to give the bird name or color.

  Hope and longing leaped up to fill Donal’s chest. “Taj?”

  I am here, the falcon said. Why do you tarry, lir? Do you come, or do you stay?

  “Leijhana tu’sai,” he muttered aloud in a prayer of thanksgiving to the gods. Then, within the link again: Finn says I must fly over the walls.

  You have done such things before.

  Donal laughed to himself wryly. I am somewhat weary, lir—this has not been an easy imprisonment.

  Then why not leave it behind?

  Donal shook his head in resignation. How many guardsmen, Taj? Ihlini or Atvians? If they were Ihlini, he had no recourse to lir-shape. And Taj could not help him attack them.

  Six Atvians.

  “Six,” Donal said glumly. “And I am only one—”

  “Are you?” Finn asked. “I thought you were Cheysuli.”

  Donal scowled at him, then turned to Evan. “There is something you must do for me. When a warrior assumes lir-shape, that which he touches also changes. I would prefer not to take the shackles with me; I need you to hold them, and as I change from man to falcon you must pull them free of my wings. Can you do that?”

  Evan shrugged. “It does not sound particularly difficult.”

  Donal smiled a little. “And if the change encompassed you?”

  The Ellasian’s blue eyes widened a trifle. “Could it?”

  “Who can say?” Donal, grinning inwardly, held out his shackled arms. “Catch hold, Evan, and we shall find out.”

  The Ellasian, after only a momentary hesitation, reached out and closed his hands around the heavy chains at wrists and ankles. Donal, doubled up in a sitting position, drew in a deep breath and shut his eyes. The shapechange required extreme concentration, and of late the concept had become an alien one.

  He felt the peace come rushing in to fill him up with a marvelous sense of well-being. All the pain and anguish of the past six months melted away into nothingness. He was at peace within himself, and from the center of that calm he reached out to tap the power that gave him the gift of the shapechange.

  Donal froze. Even as he tapped the power and felt it run up from the earth to encompass flesh and bones, he thought of the thing his father had been. And he could not face himself.

  “Donal!” Finn’s voice sounding oddly frightened. “Donal—go one way or the other—”

  So, he was a halfway thing. Even Finn saw the difference.

  Instinctively he reached out to his falcon. Taj?

  Trust me. Trust yourself. What Strahan did was Ihlini-wrought, and not of good, clean earth magic. Do you think the gods would allow the magic to fail when it is you who asks it?

  No. And he reached out again, let the power enfold him utterly, and took flight as the shackles and chains crashed against the ground.

  Two falcons drove out of the darkness at the guardsmen, striking with deadly talons and hooked, sharp beaks. They were not large birds, not as dangerous as eagle or hawk in full attack, but in darkness—and unexpected—even a small creature can prove powerfully effective.

  Men screamed and fell to their knees, arms flailing at the birds. When three of them groveled in the dirt, clutching bleeding faces, three others drew swords and slashed viciously at the attacking falcons. One sought safety in a tree. The other flew to the ground and became a man.

  A blade dipped as the hand that held it clenched in spasmodic fear; the tip bit into dirt. Donal stepped close and broke the man’s neck with a single blow, then caught up the sword and turned to face the other two.

  He smiled. Leijhana tu’sai, Carillon…the skill will not go unused after all—

  He spun, whirling, as one man sought his unprotected back. He swung, felt blade bit
e through leathers and wool, then more deeply, splintering ribs and sundering flesh. But his hands were ungloved in the nighttime chill, and the gush of warm blood slicked the grip of the blade. It slipped in his hands, and as the man crumpled to the ground he took the sword with him.

  The last guard came at him as he turned, lacking knife, sword or bow. Donal’s arms rose slowly as he lifted them away from his body, hands spreading in the air. He saw the faintest flicker of the sword in the torchlight near the wall; he leaped back, nearly tripped over the dead man’s body, then lunged backward yet again.

  Lir— he began.

  I am coming, Taj replied. You require my help after all.

  The falcon swept down out of the tree and dug his talons into the guardsman’s hands upon the hilt. He let out a startled oath and dropped the sword. Taj veered away, but as he did the guardsman drew his long-knife.

  Donal watched the knife blade. But the guardsman was no fool; he swung with his other arm and smashed it into Donal’s face. Ringmail bit in and scored his cheek; Donal swore viciously and jerked his head away. The knife sought his abdomen even as he held the ringmailed wrist.

  The Atvian slammed him against the gate. The left arm slid up to crush Donal’s vulnerable throat.

  Thank the gods he is not Ihlini— Donal took lir-shape instantly and left the guardsman staggering against the gate. He darted up, then flew down again and took back his human form.

  The Atvian plunged forward with his knife. Donal slid easily aside. He caught the man’s slashing arm as it drove past him and snapped it against his upraised thigh.

  He caught the knife as it fell from spasming fingers. He allowed the man to fall—

  —he spun—

  —threw—

  —the knife was buried in the back of the Atvian’s unprotected neck.

  Three more. Donal turned, prepared, but the Atvians provided no threat to him. All three still groveled in the dirt, hands thrust up before their bleeding faces. One man had lost both eyes; the other two bled badly from mouth and nose.

  All cried piteously for help from their gods and Strahan. And the man who faced them.

  Donal turned away. Grimly he unbarred the gate and thrust open one of the leaves, whistling for Finn and Evan. They came, accompanied by Storr, and Lorn clasped in Finn’s strong arms.

  “Six,” Finn remarked as he passed by Donal into the darkness. “A warrior after all.”

  “I slew only three,” Donal retorted.

  “Ah,” said Evan, nodding as he slipped by. “That does somewhat diminish your accomplishment.”

  Donal departed the gate and followed them to the dock. “Which boat?” he asked.

  “The closest!” Evan answered.

  They ran—

  —and Strahan’s black hawk exploded out of darkness.

  Donal was hurled to his knees as the tremendous weight drove into back and shoulders. Talons closed. Leather tore open; so did flesh and muscle.

  He arched, straining upward in an effort to catch the hawk in his hands. Pain vibrated through his body until he thought he would scream with it. But his fingers could not touch the bird.

  Evan thrust with his knife. But Sakti drove upward, avoiding the blade with a snap of her powerful wings. She shrieked, wheeled, stooped. Talons slashed past Evan’s desperate defense and drove again into Donal’s back. She hurled him onto his face.

  Donal was half-blind with pain. He tasted blood in his mouth from having bitten his tongue. His face pressed into sand and seashell; he dug handfuls of fine-grained sand. “Su’fali!” he cried. Sand and shell crept into his mouth as Sakti’s weight ground his face into the beach. “By the gods, su’fali—gainsay this demon-bird—”

  “No warbow!” Finn raged. “Had I my bow—!”

  “Do something!” Evan shouted, diving at the hawk. “Lodhi!—how can we stop this thing—?”

  Finn set Lorn down upon the beach. Hastily he sought stones. Those few he found he caught up in his hands, and searched for the hawk. She spiraled over their heads, drifting in apparent idleness; her cries were malevolence given tongue.

  One by one, Finn hurled the stones at the hawk. His aim was good, but Sakti was too swift. Strahan’s borrowed demon began to play with them all.

  Donal pressed himself upward, biting his lip to keep back his cry of pain. His back and shoulders were afire, but he thrust himself to his knees. “She—seeks to delay us—for Strahan—” he said breathlessly. “We must ignore her—go on—get away from here—”

  “How?” Evan demanded. “That thing is more than hawk!”

  “Demon—” Donal gasped. “Strahan summoned her from the god of the netherworld—”

  Sakti wheeled. Stooped. But her target was Evan now.

  His breath exploded from his chest as the hawk drove into his ribs, talons closed, knocking him to the ground. But this time Finn was prepared. He waited as she rose, preparing to stoop again, and as her wings snapped closed he drew his knife and hurled it into the air.

  The blade glinted in the moonlight. It sliced upward toward the hawk. Sakti, screeching, turned aside. But one foot shot out and talons grasped, closing on the hilt. Wings snapped shut. She stooped. Now she drove at Finn.

  He dropped to the ground, rolling as the hawk came at him. One lone talon slashed across his shoulder, tearing fur-lined leather. But she released the knife, and as she hurled herself upward to stoop again, Finn thrust himself to his feet and caught the hilt as it fell.

  Sakti soared, wings extended against the stars. Finn waited. And when she snapped her wings shut he hurled the knife again.

  Taj darted out of the darkness directly at the hawk. Sakti’s size dwarfed the falcon, but Taj did not give in. He flew straight at her and turned her from her course into the path of the oncoming knife.

  The blade struck home in Sakti’s chest. She screamed; screaming, she fell. But her talons were still extended.

  Donal, head tipped back to stare upward into the sky, cried out as the talons sank into the side of his neck. Sakti’s weight threw him over onto his back; the talons dug deeper still.

  He clawed at his neck, seeking escape. Sakti quivered and was still, but even death did not loosen the clutching talons. It was Evan who at last pried them free and clamped a hand over the wound in Donal’s neck.

  “Lodhi!—how he bleeds!”

  “—to death, do we not stanch it.” Finn pressed Evan’s hand more tightly against the wound. “You must keep it shut—I will take Lorn…Ellasian, get him up from there! We must take him into the forest.”

  Donal was half-senseless. He felt Evan urging him to his feet, but his limbs would not obey him. He thought it would be easier and far less painful did he simply remain lying on the beach with the cool sand under his twitching body.

  “Up—get you up—” Evan panted. “Lodhi, Donal—do you wish to bleed to death?”

  Evan’s hand was clamped to Donal’s neck. The pressure hurt. Donal’s own hand rose up to peel the Ellasian’s fingers away, but Evan withstood his feeble attempt.

  “Finn—can you not compel him? Can you not use a little of your magic?”

  “Not here; not I. Too many Ihlini present. Donal might have the ability—” his voice broke off a moment “—carry him, if you have to!”

  Evan dragged him from the ground. Donal stumbled, staggered, nearly fell again. His neck was bound up in pain. “Gods—” he said hoarsely, “—gods—”

  “Bring him,” Finn said harshly, and carried Lorn from the beach into the forest.

  * * *

  —pain—

  He stumbled. Evan held him up. He staggered. Evan kept him from falling. He nearly vomited. Evan merely held on more tightly and gave him what words he could of encouragement. But most of them were in Ellasian.

  —pain—

  His left shoulder was wet with warm blood. It soaked through his leathers and dampened the fur lining, until he could feel it running down his arm in rivulets. It dripped from his fingers to the fore
st floor, splattering onto his boots.

  —so much pain…pain and blood—

  He staggered. But Evan held him up and mumbled Ellasian encouragement.

  “Here!” The call came from Finn, hidden by trees and shadow. “Hurry, Ellasian—”

  Evan hurried. Donal could not. But at last they broke from the trees into a clearing and saw the tumbled ruin.

  Finn came out of the crooked doorway, lacking Lorn, and helped Evan carry Donal. “Bring him inside. It is cold, damp—offering little enough shelter—but perhaps Strahan will forget this place exists.”

  “What is it?” Evan asked.

  Donal, half-dragged, peered through slitted eyes. He saw huddled green-gray stones taller than Carillon, set in a haphazard circle. Slotted darkness lay between them; they had lost their uniformity, the perfection of their edges. They gaped apart, like a man missing most of his teeth.

  “This place was once used as a place of worship by the Firstborn,” Finn said grimly, half-carrying his nephew. “There are a few remaining in corners of Homana….I do not doubt this is the first, the oldest. Perhaps it will be our protection against the boy. Here—let us settle him here, against the wall.”

  Donal moaned as they put him down on the cold, damp ground. The stone was hard and cruel against his torn back.

  “Lay a fire,” Finn told Evan.

  “With what, my will?” Evan demanded. “I have no flint.”

  Finn dug into his belt-pouch. “Here. Use your knife and your wits. This calls for cautery.”

  Evan caught the flint as Finn tossed it. “Can you not use your healing powers?”

  “I am one man. I have not the strength to seal so deep a wound. And you are not your rujholli with his magic harp.”

  Evan turned and went out. He brought back chips of wood and broken branches and piled them carefully. Sparks flew from the flint as he used his knife upon it, but none caught in the kindling.

  “Princeling.” The twisted title, from Finn, was an insult. “Too gently raised in Rhodri’s hall.”

  Evan said nothing, but Donal could see the grim line of his mouth. Finn, kneeling next to his nephew with one hand shutting off the blood, watched impatiently as Evan worked the flint.