Legacy of the Sword (49 page)

“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.

Donal looked at the sword. The runes ran red with his blood. But the ruby seemed dull by comparison.

Slowly he reached out his hands. He closed both of them upon the pommel and shut away the ruby from the light of the virgin moon. And then he shut his eyes and emptied himself of the knowledge of who he was.

He needed to know
what
he was.

—he was a boy again, so small, and listening to his father. Listening to the man who was clan-leader of the Cheysuli
,
wiser than everyone save the
shar tahl,
who kept all the histories.

“You are a Cheysuli warrior, a child of the Firstborn, and beloved of the gods. You are one among many; a man who is more than a man; a warrior who serves more than war, but the gods and the prophecy. In you lies the seed of that prophecy, dormant now, but waiting for the day when you will awaken at last and comprehend the
tahlmorra
of a kingdom. Not of a boy, of a man, of a clan. Of a kingdom, and
you
will be its king.
You
will be what no one has been for nearly four hundred years: a Cheysuli Mujhar of Homana. The man in the prophecy.”

Donal opened his eyes. Took his hands away from the sword. The blood-bathed ruby glowed more brilliantly than ever. And when he looked at his palms, he saw the wounds had healed.

*   *   *

Osric of Atvia, when Donal finally found him, was ensconced in a huge black field pavilion ringed with smoking torches. He was alone. He sat at his table and pondered his maps, plotting new strategy. Four braziers and two tall candleracks illuminated the interior of the tent. Light flashed off ruddy hair banded by a plain gold circlet; it glinted as he absently smoothed the map with a thick-fingered hand. His broad shoulders threw odd shadows on the fabric behind him: black on black. He scratched idly at his heavy, sun-gilded beard.

He was not old. Perhaps thirty, a year or two more. He was a hardened fighter in his prime; Donal knew he faced harsh odds. But he would not turn from them.

Donal stepped into the glowing light and smiled, carrying the sword. Osric, glancing up at the faintest whisper of sound, froze. His blue eyes widened minutely, then narrowed; he did not otherwise indicate alarm or fear. He appeared more irritated than anything.

“Hist?”
he asked curtly in his Atvian tongue. But then he saw the sword. He pushed himself to his feet. “You are Donal.” Now he spoke Homanan, accented heavily.

“I am the Mujhar.”

“How did you come by that sword?”

Donal watched him. “You took it from Carillon. I got it back from the boy.”

“Strahan gave it to you?”

“After a fashion.”

Osric was very tall, massive as a tree. Donal recalled Carillon’s description of Keough, Osric’s grandsire, and thought this man must resemble him. He knew himself outweighed badly, outreached as well, and undoubtedly outmatched when it came to deadly swordplay.

“Strahan held you captive, I was told.”

“I was freed. I brought the sword out with me.” He paused. “It is
mine
, Osric. My grandsire made it for me.”

Osric’s blue eyes glittered. He was so vital Donal could sense the strength moving in the man. “I have heard that sword holds magic. Shapechanger sorcery.” The blue eyes dipped to the sword, then lifted to Donal’s face. “Hale was your grandsire, then?”

“Aye. You see, do you not, I am not an upstart warrior who wishes to grasp at a throne? I have a lawful right to it, Osric. I have blood in me that harks back to the Mujhars of old, and the Cheysuli Mujhars before them.”

“
I
have the right of conquest,” Osric said. Then, “How did you come through my lines?”

“I flew.”

“Flew?”

Donal smiled. “I am a falcon when need be—or a wolf whenever I choose.” He pulled aside the doorflap. Lorn came into the pavilion silently. “You have chosen a bad enemy,” Donal told the Atvian lord. “We Cheysuli do not sit idly by while you try to usurp our homeland.”

Osric still stared at Lorn. “My grandsire died because of a wolf,” he said slowly. “In Homana, it was—inside Homana-Mujhar. It was whim—a
wolf’s
whim. It did not slay with tooth or claw—it slew by using fear.”

Donal laughed aloud. “That wolf,
ku’reshtin
, was my mother.”

Osric’s teeth showed briefly. “No matter. I know the truth of you. Hold that sword if you wish—I know the truth. The Cheysuli have no sword-skill. I do not mind slaying Homana’s shapechanger Mujhar, but I would prefer a better match.”

Donal shrugged. “It was Carillon who taught me. Judge my skill by the reputation of my master’s.”

Osric’s eyes narrowed. “Carillon is dead.
I
was the one who slew him—as once he prophesied.” He smiled suddenly
as Donal started. “Did you not know? Aye—Carillon prophesied our meeting. He told it to my brother, Alaric, when I sent him here some sixteen years ago.” He laughed. “Carillon said—if I recall it right—that if we ever met on the field of battle, one of us would die.” He studied Donal closely. “Carillon’s reputation? Overpraised, I think. As for yours? Let us make one now.” He turned. He caught up his own broadsword from his cot, swung back and advanced on Donal.

The hilt settled comfortably in Donal’s hands. He felt the warmth of the metal. The odd, vibrant
life
sprang up again.

Osric was a master swordsman. Donal discovered that very quickly. The Atvian’s bulk gave him both superior reach and strength, but slowed down his reactions. Donal was quicker.

He ducked under two whistling slashes that clove the air near his head. He felt their wind in his hair. Still he ducked away, not yet engaging the man.
I am no swordsman, for all I boasted to him—there is too much I have left to learn—

Osric needed no lessons. He shattered the edge of the table with one huge swipe of his broadsword and laughed aloud as Donal stumbled back hastily. Teeth gleamed in his sun-gilded beard as he lifted the blade, teasing Donal with its tip. “You are mine, fool. Homana falls as
you
fall.”

Donal skipped back as Osric’s blade flashed by his ribs. He stumbled over a brazier, overturning it; rolled to his feet as he blocked a blow with his blade. Coals burned his legs and feet, charring the leather of his boots, but he ignored that as Osric came on.

“Homana has stood firm against you for over half a year without me,” Donal pointed out, moving constantly. “What makes you believe the realm will fall do
I
fall?”

“It is the way of battles involving kings.” Osric struck again; Donal ducked. “Soldiers require leadership, royalty preferred. But slay the king and the army is slain, though most men walk away.” Osric shifted his stance. The sword was a splinter in his tremendous hands. “Atvia is but a small place. I grow weary of an island. A realm the size of Homana will suit me well enough.”

Donal moved back. “After Homana—Solinde? Your present ally?”

Teeth gleamed in Osric’s beard. “Too soon to say, Cheysuli.”

The sword seemed to hum in Donal’s hands. He felt it protest his poor skill, as if it were disappointed by his lack. Donal set his teeth and set up a fence of steel, trying to maintain his ground as Osric sought to batter him down.

He stepped back, back again. The table pressed against his spine. Donal threw himself onto the table in a bid to roll away and gain his feet, but Osric’s sword was in the way. It settled at his throat.

“True,” Osric said. “The Cheysuli have no sword-skill.”

The ruby blazed up and created a nimbus around them both. Osric, crying out, fell back, eyes popping in their sockets. His own sword shook in his hands, but he was too much a warrior to give over to fear so easily.

Donal pressed up from the table. Osric brought his sword down. Blades clashed. The immense strength of the Atvian drove Donal down again. His torn back pressed against the wood.

The nimbus continued to burn. It splashed blood-red light across Osric’s face until his blue eyes turned Ihlini purple.

Donal felt the numbness beginning in his hands, felt the sword cleave to his grasp as if it was part and parcel of his body. Runes glowed white the length of the blade—he swung—

—Osric’s sword broke in a rain of shining steel.

He stood there with nothing in his hands but a useless hilt. His mouth hung open: a tombstoned cavern in red-gilt hair.

Donal, still flat on his back on the table, felt the sword lift him up; felt the power surge through his arms from shoulder to fingertips. He was lifted; he thrust. The blade slid home in Osric’s belly.

That for Carillon. That for my su’fali.

D
onal took back his human form in front of Rowan’s pavilion. As he pulled open the doorflap he met Evan in the entrance. “Osric?” Evan demanded.

“Atvia lacks a lord.” He could still feel a residual warmth and vitality in the sword. The ruby was red against his hand.