Legacy of the Sword (37 page)

D
onal gasped at the impact of bodies meeting. The Solindish soldier weighed more heavily on him than he had expected. He reached in, thrusting a forearm against the man’s sword hilt, and drove the blade off course. The tip of the sword hovered, then drifted back near his ribs; he leaned away, pivoting from the hips, and took a firmer grasp on the long-knife in his right hand.

He thrust. The tip struck leather-and-ringmail, catching in steel circles linked together. The blade scraped; a screech of subtle protest. Donal wrenched it away and thrust yet again. Upward this time, beneath the Solindishman’s arm. He sought the vulnerable, unmailed flesh of the armpit.

The gap—there!

The blade slid in. He felt it catch on leather, slowing, then digging deeper into flesh, where there was less resistance. The entire length of the blade sank in; he twisted.

The Solindish soldier cried out. His sword wavered in his hand, then fell free altogether. Blood pumped out of the man, flooding his side and painting his ringmail red. Donal felt the warm wetness flow down to wash across his hand, his arm, dripping from his elbow.

As the man sagged, the knife went with him. The hilt slipped out of Donal’s blood-smeared hand. He followed it down, bending to regain the weapon; as he caught the hilt once more, he heard Evan’s warning cry.

“Donal! ’
ware sword!”

He dropped to one knee, ducking instantly. The whistle of
a blade near one ear told him how close he had come to losing his head. A wrench freed the knife at last; he twisted, spinning on the knee, and came up offensively, slipping beneath the swinging sword. One hand caught the soldier’s wrist, the other thrust again with Cheysuli long-knife.

Again, blade met ringmail. Cursing inwardly, Donal tried to draw back and thrust again. But this man brought up a knee in an attempt to catch him in the groin.

He twisted and caught the blow on the thigh. He grunted as the impact nearly knocked him down; grimly, he stood his ground and leveled a vicious knife swipe at the Solindish soldier. The swordsman’s reach was greater, but the maneuver nonetheless took him by surprise. He jumped back instinctively and left Donal free of the sword.

Donal backed away. First one step, then another. And then, as the soldier prepared to follow, he flipped the knife in his hand and threw it with a snap of his wrist that sent the blade slicing through the tough leather collar at the man’s throat and through it, into the flesh beneath.

He turned. Evan, he saw, had engaged yet another soldier. The field was filled with men: Homanans, Cheysuli, Solindish. Those of the clans he knew by their
lir
-gold and yellow eyes; the Homanans and Solindish, save for blazons on their tunics, he could not tell apart. In the midst of battle, one grimy, blood-stained face looked very much like another.

From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of muted gold, feathers blurred in flight. Taj, stooping, scythed through the air. Donal watched him choose his target: the swordsman who confronted Evan. The Solindishman, intent upon his Ellasian prey, never saw the bird. Taj closed talons on leather gauntlets, slicing through to rend flesh and muscle.

“Hah!” Evan cried as the man staggered back, sword falling from wounded hands. “My thanks, Donal!”

“Not my doing,” Donal returned. But the conversation went no further. A dying Solindishman, falling at Donal’s feet, struck a final blow. Knife blade flashed in the sunlight of midafternoon; tip bit through the leather of Donal’s left boot and into flesh, cutting to the bone. Donal, staggering back, wrenched himself free of the knife. But not before he realized he had lost most of his mobility.

He hopped back again, favoring the wounded leg. Curses
filled up his mind and mouth; teeth gritted, he hobbled away from the dying man.

Lir
, It was Lorn, shoring up his side.
Lir, seek help.

Not yet
, he answered, testing the leg.
I can still stand well enough.

He sheathed his bloodied knife. Quickly he unstrapped his compact Cheysuli warbow, pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it, seeking out a target. But even as he raised the bow, preparing to let fly, he smelled the stink of sorcery.

Tynstar
—? he wondered vaguely.

But there had been no sign of the Ihlini since the battle had begun.

Fog. Fingers of it, violet, drifting along the ground. And then, almost instantly, the fog thickened. Stretched. Swallowed up the field.

He could see nothing. His eyes were filled with haze. The smell of it, sickly sweet and cloying, coated his tongue, and he bent to spit it out. Damp, malodorous arms seemed to twine around his neck, putting fingers into his ears. He was cold, wet, nauseatingly sickened by the smell.

“Donal!
Lodhi
—there are
demons
—”

Evan’s voice, raised in honest horror. Donal turned, staggering on one leg, and tried to locate his friend. But the vapor was like clay, sealing up his eyes. They burned. They teared. He cursed.

Lir? Lir
—?

Here
, Lorn’s voice sounded distant, swallowed up by the fog. Lir—
this is the Ihlini’s doing.
”

Donal put away his arrow and the bow. Neither could help him now.
Taj?
he asked.

Above
, the falcon answered.
Lir—it is everywhere—I can see no sky—

“Evan!” Donal shouted. “Tell me where you are!”

There was no answer. In the depths of the heavy fog Donal could hear other voices, all muffled, all indecipherable. But the tones were clear enough. Fear. Horror. Blind, unreasoning terror.

“Evan!”

“Demons!” Evan shouted. And then the Ellasian screamed.
Lir, go to Evan
, Donal ordered, hobbling through the choking mist.

I cannot even find you
, Lorn retorted. But then the wolf
loomed up through the fog, a solid ruddy shape in the pervasive violet shroud.
Lir, you are limping.

Aye
, Donal agreed. He felt safer with the warmth of the wolf against one knee.
Gods—where is Evan—?

Here
, sent Taj.
To your right by seven steps.

Seven steps. Donal hobbled. It took him more than seven steps. But at last he saw the body, belly down, sprawled against the ground.

“Evan!” Fear shot through him. He dropped to both knees, ignoring the pain in his leg, and put one hand on Evan’s shoulder.

The Ellasian prince came up from the ground in a twisting, convulsive lunge. His blue eyes were wide in a pale face, his mouth agape in fear. But a knife in his hand, and he nearly thrust with it.

Donal fell back, sprawling on his rump against the earth. “Evan—
wait
you—”

Breath rasped in Evan’s throat. He stopped hunched, legs spread, nearly swaying on his feet. “Donal?” He peered uncertainly. “Lodhi—is it
you
?”

“Aye,” Donal agreed. It felt better to sit than to stand. “What demons do you mean?”

The knife shook a little. “There was one. There was. It came at me out of the fog…
Lodhi!
—but what a vile, horrid
stinking
thing it was! It had no mouth—no eyes…it was a slimy, foul, wretched
tentacled
thing—” Evan shuddered. “It wrapped itself around my head and nearly smothered me—” He turned his head and spat upon the ground.
“Lodhi
—I can still
taste
the horrid thing!”

“But now it is gone?” Donal had seen nothing. He thought it likely the demons were illusion called up by the Ihlini for those of the enemy who were not Cheysuli.

Evan sucked in a steadying breath. “Gone. I thought—when you touched me—I thought it had come again. But now even the fog is clearing.” Evan looked down at Donal. “You are hurt.”

Donal glanced down at the torn, bloodied leather of his boot. “A slice. Nothing more.”

Evan knelt, putting away his knife, and peeled aside the leather. In the flesh of Donal’s shin, not far above the ankle, was a deep, clean-edged cut. “To the bone, and beyond. You are fortunate the bone is whole.” He reached out and caught
Donal’s elbow. “Come up. I will see you to a chirurgeon’s tent.”

Donal glanced around as he fought to regain his balance. “The battle seems to be ended. I see both sides withdrawing.”

“But no victory, I will wager.” Evan steadied Donal’s progress. “How much longer will this Solindish folly continue?”

“In two months, we have got nowhere,” Donal said. “Neither side has won. Who is to say how much longer this will go on?”

“Aye,” Evan agreed grimly as Lorn trailed Donal. “
We
have the Cheysuli, but the Solindish have Tynstar and his minions. The advantages are cancelled.”

Donal sighed, wincing as movement jarred his aching leg. “We
will
win, Evan…the gods are on our side.”

The Ellasian snorted. “Aye. And no doubt the Solindish claim the same thing—just that
their
gods are different.”

Donal gritted his teeth. “Let us cease discussing war.”

“Aye!” Evan agreed. “Why speak of war when there are
women
in the world?”

Regardless of his pain, Donal had to smile.

*   *   *

Carillon came in as the army chirurgeon tied the last silken knot of the stitches in Donal’s leg. Donal himself was too intent on locking his teeth against the pain to pay much attention to the Mujhar, but he was aware of Carillon’s entry.

“Not serious, then?” the Mujhar asked.

The chirurgeon shook his head. “Hardly, my lord. It will hamper him a little, but should heal well enough.”

“Good.” Carillon’s bulk blocked most of the sunlight from the open doorflap. “Rumors said you had nearly lost the leg.”

“No—though it feels like it
now.”
Donal scowled at the chirurgeon as he bound the calf with tight linen bandages.

“Do you think you will need a crutch?” inquired Evan in mock solicitude.

Knots tied off, Donal brushed the chirurgeon aside with a muttered word of thanks. Then he glanced up at Carillon. “My lord—”

His words trailed off. He was faced again with the advancing age of the Mujhar; with the knowledge of what Finn had done to him. And Carillon’s willingness.

“Aye?” Carillon waited.

“No,” Donal muttered, looking away. “Nothing.”

“Courier!” called a voice. “Courier for the Mujhar!”

Carillon turned back toward the entrance. “Here!”

A moment later a young man in royal livery bowed before the Mujhar. “My lord—messages for you and the Prince of Homana.”

Carillon accepted them. Like Donal and Evan, he was obviously weary, clothing torn and bloodied. Hands soiled by the dirt of sweat and boiled leather closed around the scrolls, and Donal saw again the leather bracers at his wrists.

“Yours.” Carillon passed one over.

Donal, frowning, broke the crimson seal. He read the two brief lines and the signature, and felt the cot shift beneath his weight.

He became aware, suddenly, that Carillon was demanding to know what was wrong. His face must show what he felt. When he could, Donal looked up and met the anticipatory eyes. “Aislinn, my lord. She has miscarried of a son.”

For a long moment Carillon stood unmoving in the sunlight as it slanted inside the tent. But then he reached out and caught the parchment from Donal’s hand, nearly tearing it in half. He read it, and then he shut his eyes.

Slowly, so slowly, one hand crumpled the message. The parchment crackled in the silence. Donal saw how the fingers spasmed, shutting, and how the callused, grimy hands took on the aspect of a corpse’s.

The Mujhar expelled a breath that hissed upon the air. His eyes, when he opened them again, were filled with a quiet desperation. “I am sorry,” he said at last. “The loss of an unborn son…” He did not finish the sentence.

Donal felt the kindling of distant grief into something very real.
A son unborn
…It had happened once before, when Sorcha had miscarried his first child. Ian and Isolde had come into the world safely, and he had grown complacent. He had thought Aislinn would bear him a healthy child; he had not considered a loss. He had not thought of what it meant to lose an heir.

“My lord—” Donal stopped and cleared his throat. “My lord—Aislinn says she is recovered. She says she does well enough.”

“Aye. For which I thank the gods.” Carillon looked at the
scroll given to him. “Perhaps this is from Aislinn as well—perhaps there was something more she wished to say—” He broke the seal, read the message, then stared blindly at them all.

“My lord—?” Donal nearly rose.

Carillon turned away from them. He stepped into the opening and shouted for Rowan. He said nothing at all until the general came, and then his words lacked all ceremony. “Osric,” he said clearly. “Osric of Atvia invades through the port of Hondarth.”

“Osric—!”
Donal blurted.

Rowan hardly glanced at him. “He means, then, to march on Mujhara while we dally here with Tynstar.”

“Aye.” Carillon sighed in utter weariness. “To protect one we risk the other.”

“There is no other way,” Rowan said flatly. “You must, my lord.”

The Mujhar nodded. “He has been stopped a week out of Hondarth, on his way to Mujhara—just this side of the fenlands. The domestic troops hold him for now, but for how long?”

Rowan’s tunic was stained and torn. The rampant lion hung in tatters. “We are a month’s march out of Mujhara. Osric is only a week away from the city. My lord—we must go
now.”

“And lose Solinde entirely.” Carillon grimly crumpled the message. “That may be Tynstar’s plan. Can you not see him, Rowan? He suggests to Osric the time is now—the Atvian sails to Hondarth while we wrestle here with Tynstar. Faced with no army to gainsay him, Osric takes Hondarth and marches toward Mujhara. Once he overcomes what few domestic troops there are, he has trapped us between Tynstar and himself: a grub between two stones.” He turned to Donal. “Do you understand what we must do?”

Donal felt a hollowness in his belly. “We must stop them both, somehow—Tynstar as well as Osric.”