Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Safe journey, old wolf,” Donal whispered aloud.

  And in his arms there was nothing but dust.

  Donal and Evan stole a boat on a night with no moon and sailed to Hondarth, where they shed their heavy boots and slipped overboard near the docks, swimming the rest of the way so as not to give warning to the Atvian fleet. Lorn swam strongly, apparently fully recovered, though still a little thin; Taj flew ahead and waited, perching on the seawall.

  They splashed out of the harbor under cover of a dark night sky, wrung water from their clothing and headed up toward a seaside tavern. Donal clenched the sword in his left hand, for he had no belt or scabbard. The blade gleamed in the infrequent wash of torchlight; the ruby, black in Strahan’s grasp, glowed blood-red in his.

  “I am trusting my life to you,” Evan whispered as they crept into the shadow of an alley by the tavern.

  Donal raised his brows and slanted a curious glance. “To me? What of yourself? I thought you ever claimed yourself a valiant fighter.”

  “Oh, aye, I am, I am…but certainly not as accomplished as you. After all, you have wolf and falcon by you and the ability to shapechange—what have I?” He grinned. “And you carry that sorcerous sword.”

  Donal looked down at the sword. He thought perhaps it was ensorceled somehow; he recalled how it had warded them against Tynstar; how it had felt like a living thing in his hands when he had nearly beheaded his uncle.

  Briefly, he shut his eyes. Su’fali, oh su’fali—

  A sound. His eyes snapped open. He saw two men passing in the darkness, on their way to the tavern. Donal looked down at his bare feet and wiggled icy toes. “I could use a pair of boots. My feet grow weary of this abuse.”

  Evan grinned. “Shall we relieve those two sailors of theirs, then?”

  “Aye. But quietly…quietly.”

  Evan ran lightly through the darkness from the alley with Donal at his side. A moment later they dumped two unconscious bodies into the shadows, stripped them of their scuffed, fish-oiled boots and tugged the footwear on.

  Donal winced. “Too small.”

  “Mine will do well enough—and no, I will not trade with you.” Evan pushed a forearm across his grimy face. “What do we do now, Mujhar?”

  Donal chewed a ragged fingernail. “I have already turned thief with the acquisition of these boots…I think I shall have to worsen my lot and steal a horse as well.”

  “No,” Evan said. “These horses broke loose of their tethers. We only seek out their owners.”

  “Ah.” Donal smiled. “And where might we look for these owners?”

  “The army might do,” Evan said thoughtfully. “Rowan is there—doubtless he could use two more horses.”

  “And two more men—?” Donal went softly after the two horses tied to the tavern’s front wall. He released one animal and handed the reins to Evan, then took a mount for himself.

  Hooves clopped against the cobbles. Donal bared his teeth and cursed, wishing he could somehow muffle the iron shoes. But at last he and Evan reached another deep pocket of darkness in the rabbit-warren of seaside buildings. They mounted and headed north.

  “I should have made you steal them,” Donal said. “It is you who requires a mount. I can always fly.”

  “The proof of a real king lies in his humanity.”

  Donal scoffed. “What nonsense do you mouth?”

  “A man who will rule others must learn to treat them as he himself would wish to be treated.”

  Donal laughed. “Such wisdom from a renegade prince!”

  “Well, my father said those things. Rhodri grows pompous at times.” Evan plucked his torn linen shirt, still wet and grime-stained, from his skin. “I fear I no longer resemble a prince, my lord Mujhar…nor do you much resemble a king.”

  Donal unsheathed the old sword attached to his saddle. It was hardly worthy of the name; likely the sailor had carried it for appearances in port. He leaned out of the saddle and dropped it into a running gutter, hearing the splash and clank of poorly tempered steel.

  Carefully, he slid the Cheysuli sword into the sheath and slid it home. The old leather scabbard was too short; the blade extended a handspan from the lip. But it would do. “I am not yet a king,” he said absently, settling the blade.

  “You are Mujhar. The difference lies only in the name.”

  “First I must slay Osric.” Donal wished for a cloak against the cold; winter had passed into the edge of spring, but nights were still quite cool. “Only then will I be worthy of assuming the Lion Throne in Carillon’s place.”

  “Well,” said Evan, “I think it is worth the doing. And I think you will succeed.”

  Donal smiled grimly and rode on, one hand resting on the glowing Mujhar’s Eye. Beside him ran the ruddy wolf; above him flew the falcon.

  * * *

  They crept around the outskirts of the Atvian host and found the Homanan army settled upon a wide plain. It was patently obvious the plain had been the site of repeated battles. The ground had been churned into a fine, pale feathering of dirt. No grass grew. There was no vegetation, but the miasma of too much death.

  Donal slipped through the Homanan lines like a wraith, with Evan close behind. He spoke quietly to the guards who challenged him. When they saw clearly who it was, all men fell to their knees and swore allegiance. It was a forcible reminder of Carillon’s death. Donal—accepting the fealty offered wholeheartedly—nonetheless felt the weight of the burden usurping any pride he might have felt by the reception.

  Rowan’s vermillion field pavilion was separate from the others, perched atop a swell of a hill overlooking the spreading plain. The moon was nonexistent; Donal could see the tiny fires of Osric’s host on the other side of the field.

  He dismounted, forgetting the sword at his saddle, and handed the reins to a young boy, who bowed his head shyly. Black-haired, he reminded Donal of Sef.

  Until he remembered who—and what—Sef was.

  Lorn flopped down outside the doorflap. Taj perched upon the ridgepole. Donal took a deep breath and pulled the flap aside.

  Rowan glanced up from the map he studied. Black brows drew down; no doubt he was irritated by the unannounced intruder. But his mouth dropped open as he saw Donal clearly in the candlelight. The map rolled itself back into itself. “Donal! We had begun to fear you were dead.”

  “No.”

  Rowan shook his head. “We received word from Finn a month ago, before he and Evan went in to get you free. But—we had begun to think the attempt had failed.” Rowan’s gaze sharpened as he saw the weal burned into Donal’s neck. “By the gods!—What is that?”

  “A token from the boy.” Donal moved into the pavilion as Evan came up behind him. “How fares the army?”

  Rowan gestured them to stools and hooked one over for himself. “Well enough. We do not advance, but neither does Osric. He is a master strategist. He lacks our numbers, but he knows how to make his few work in his favor. It is a long, drawn-out affair, my lord. And now—he hangs back. As if waiting for something.”

  “He waits for me,” Donal said.

  Evan, who had remained standing in the entrance, moved forward. He set the unscabbarded sword down on the table with a thud and folded his arms. “He waits for that.”

  Rowan started, staring at the blade. “Carillon’s sword! You have got it back!”

  “I said I would,” Donal said grimly. “Osric gave it to Strahan.”

  “And you took it back from the boy—”

  Donal looked away. “No.” His voice shook a little. Slowly he reached out and touched the rune-kissed blade. “No…I did not take it. Strahan—left it unintentionally.”

  Rowan drew in a breath. “Have you slain him, then?”

  “No.” Donal could hardly look at him. “He left it because it was not his, but mine. He left it because Finn saw to it he left it. My su’fali—” Donal broke off sharply. When he could, he met Rowan’s waiting eyes. “He—is slain, Rowan…by the sword made by his o
wn jehan.”

  “Finn—” Rowan’s breath ran ragged. “Not Finn…” he begged. “No. Oh…no—no—”

  Donal could find no words to answer Rowan, so he gave him only silence.

  After a long moment, Rowan slid awkwardly off his stool and knelt in the dirt of the pavilion floor. “Forgive me, my lord,” he whispered. “I did not give you proper honor when you came in.”

  Donal stared at the general’s bent head. They had ever been at odds, it seemed. Rowan served Carillon, not his heir, and that exacting a service had made him intolerant of Donal’s small rebellions. But Carillon was dead. And now Finn. It left him with no one at all.

  Save me. Donal bent and clasped Rowan’s shoulder. “I have said I will not have you kneeling to me.”

  “It is done.”

  “Not this night. Rowan—I need your help.”

  Rowan stood up. “And I have said you will have it.”

  Donal tried to ignore the pain in his back. Finn had not had time to heal the talon wounds. “I am Mujhar,” he said. “Cheysuli…but I do not suit.”

  Rowan, turning to pour three cups of wine, frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “The prophecy speaks of a man of all blood who unites four warring realms. Blood of two races flows in my veins—not four.”

  “Four realms,” Rowan said thoughtfully, pouring the cups full. “Solinde and Homana, of course—we are ever at war with Solinde, it seems. And Atvia might be the third. But—which realm is the fourth?”

  “Ellas?” Donal turned to Evan.

  The Ellasian sat down on his stool near the doorflap. “I think not. Ellas has never fought overmuch. Never with Homana or the other realms you name. No…when we fight, we fight the Steppes…and occasionally Falia and Caledon.” He shrugged. “It is why we wed their princesses so often—to settle alliances. For a while.”

  “It leaves Erinn.” Rowan handed out the wine. “Erinn of the Idrian Isles. Not much larger than Atvia—but we have never fought with Erinn.”

  Donal frowned. “Shaine’s first cheysula was Erinnish. The one who bore Lindir, my Homanan granddame.”

  “But we have not treated with Erinn since then.” Rowan indicated the map he had been studying. “There has been no reason to. Erinn and Atvia fight one another like two male dogs over a single bone with each turn of the season—some question of a title and imagined insults—but Homana has never been involved.”

  Evan shrugged and stretched out his legs, displaying his stolen boots. “Perhaps that is the key. Perhaps Erinn fights Atvia, and Atvia fights Homana, while Homana battles Solinde.” He held up a fist. One by one he flicked up a finger as he named the names. “Homana—Solinde—Atvia—Erinn. Four realms.”

  “But—I lack the bloodlines.” Donal shook his head. “I am not the man in the prophecy.”

  Rowan’s brows lifted a little. “Perhaps your son will be.”

  Donal grimaced. “I think it extremely unlikely Ian would ever be accepted as my heir. He is a bastard, and the Homanan Council—”

  “I do not speak of Ian,” Rowan said steadily. “Aislinn has conceived.”

  Donal let out a rush of sound. “Aislinn—”

  Rowan nodded. “The child is due in two months. We pray this one will be full-term.”

  Gods…she has won…that night she drugged me—Donal shut his eyes. Does she serve Strahan, that child will be a travesty!

  “Donal, there is more.” Rowan’s voice was expressionless. “It concerns your meijha and your children.”

  Donal’s eyes snapped open. “What do you say?”

  Rowan took a breath. “Aislinn—summoned Sorcha to Homana-Mujhar. What they discussed I cannot say…but not long after it was announced the queen would bear a child, Sorcha took the children and left the Keep.”

  “Left—” Donal was on his feet. “Aislinn has sent them away—?”

  “They are well, Donal.” Rowan said it sharply. “They are well. Aislinn meant them no harm. But Sorcha has taken the children and gone up across the Bluetooth, into the Northern Wastes.”

  “To the other Keep—?” Donal slammed down his cup so hard wine slopped over to spill across the table. “I cannot believe she did it…not Aislinn—but—” His resolve hardened as he recalled how she had tricked him. “I swear—if she does this out of spite or to serve Strahan, I will do to her what Carillon did to her jehana. Send her away from me—”

  “Donal.” Rowan cut him off in mid-spate. “She was not harmed, and neither were the children.”

  “Sorcha would never do it,” Donal said flatly. “She would never leave me. She would not take the children away.”

  Rowan shrugged, plainly uncomfortable. “Who can say what happened between Aislinn and Sorcha? They probably argued over you. Sorcha would never give you up. But neither would Aislinn.” He shook his head. “Never Aislinn. She is too much like her father.”

  “And she is pregnant,” Evan said casually. “My mother bore twelve of us. I recall how she was with several of my sisters. Breeding women occasionally have—odd notions.”

  “I do not care if Aislinn has odd notions! I will not allow her to do this to my meijha or my children.” He set one forefinger into the spilled wine and tapped the map. “I will slay Osric—I will win this war—and then I will fetch them home.”

  “How?” Rowan asked. “We have been fighting Osric for more than half a year. Half our army remains in Solinde; Osric supplies his men from Hondarth. Do you propose to end this war tomorrow?”

  Donal heard the underlying hint of contempt in Rowan’s tone. He did not blame him; no doubt it was hard for Rowan to serve another, younger master, who had less knowledge of war than he did. It was a bittersweet service.

  Like an old dog separated from an older, beloved master. Donal sighed. “Not tomorrow. I propose to do it tonight.”

  Rowan laughed. But there was nothing of humor in his tone. “How?” he repeated.

  “I will go to him as a Cheysuli…and fight him as a king.” Donal’s eyes were on the sword.

  Evan snorted. “How shall you get through the lines?”

  “Not through them, Evan—over them…as a falcon.”

  Evan said nothing more. His silence was heavy; he frowned, but swallowed his wine and sat unmoving on his stool.

  “When?” Rowan asked.

  At least he does not try to gainsay me— “Later, when darkness is hard upon us. When I have made this sword truly mine.”

  Rowan drew in a careful breath. “Do what you must do. I will not argue with the gods. But Donal—you have no heir.”

  Donal caressed the shallow runes in the gleaming steel, dragging broken nails across the incised edges. “I can name none now living. But—should aught befall me and Aislinn bears a son, he shall be Mujhar.”

  “Executioner,” Evan said suddenly. “The rune might have meant the boy for slaying Finn. Or you, for slaying Osric of Atvia.”

  “It does not matter,” Donal said calmly. “I will see to his death regardless.”

  * * *

  With his lir, he stood on the field of battle. Behind him stretched the endless leagues of Homana and the endless Homanan army. His army. And before him, clear to the dark horizon, lay the massive Atvian warhost.

  The moon was a nacreous curving sliver in the blackness of the night. But he could see by the light of the ruby.

  Donal had feared, at first, the stoneglow would give him away. But what illuminated the area around him was apparently invisible to Atvians and Homanans alike, for no man came to investigate.

  Or else each army believes it something inconsequential. Donal smiled. The ruby—and the sword—was hardly inconsequential. He had come to believe it at last.

  The sword was naked in his hands. Unsheathed, the steel was silver in the moonlight. A bright, white silver, wrought with eloquent runes. Oh, aye, he could read them. He could read what was written there. What Hale had put there for him.

  Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.

/>   Donal nearly laughed. How he had run away. How he had turned his back. How he had repeatedly refused to accept a gift meant for him alone.

  “Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.” Donal spoke the words aloud. First in the Old Tongue, and then in the language of Homana: “Accept, grandson. In the name of Homana’s tahlmorra.”

  He released a tremendous breath. And then slowly he bent and knelt upon the ground. The tip of the blade he set into the powdered dirt, and then pressed downward against the crossguards. When he let go, the sword stood up of itself.

  “Lir,” he said aloud. “I lack the proper words. I do not know the ritual.”

  A ritual is what you make it, Lorn said.

  Taj flew down and lighted upon the crossguard. Say what words you will, and they will be enough.

  Donal wet his lips. Tension knotted his belly. When this thing was done, he would have to confront Osric of Atvia. For all he was willing to take on the task, he was not sure he could do it.

  He drew in a breath and held it. Slowly he closed both hands around the blade just below the hilt. Below Taj’s talons. And then, summoning all his courage, he jerked his hands downward, downward, until they touched the ground, and he felt the pain fill up his palms.

  “Ja’hai-na!” he cried. “Ja’hai-na, Homana tahlmorra ru’maii! I accept in the name of Homana’s tahlmorra!”

  He sat back on his heels. His fingers sprang open rigidly; he saw the blood pour forth. It spilled through his fingers and down his wrists to splatter the ground.

  His arms shook. Pain ran the length of his forearms to his elbows, then up into his shoulders. Shock filled his belly with sickness. “Ja’hai-na,” he breathed. “Accepted.”

  Still the blood flowed out of his hands to spill against the soil. He saw how the drops soaked in almost immediately, as if the battlefield had not had its fill of the blood of men. And yet he could smell it. He could smell the stench of war; the stink of rotting bodies. All had been burned or buried, but still he could smell the stench.

  “More?” he asked. “Is that what you want, Homana?”

  But the earth did not answer him.