Legacy of the Sword (30 page)

He stared up into Donal’s battered face. “Shapechangers be not welcome here.” He spat on Donal’s boot.

Donal swallowed. “I was,” he said, “before the Homanans began to lose.”

Small brown piglet eyes, malignant and unblinking. “Shaine the Mujhar put purge on your sort, shapechanger. Years ago, ’twas…and those of us’n here still be holdin’ with’t.”

Donal was dizzy and disoriented, but the mists were clearing from his head. He stared at the pig-eyed man in dazed amazement. “Shaine is dead.
Carillon
is the Mujhar.”

“Demon-spawn,” the short man said clearly. “Your kind’ll be burnin’ in the name of good an’ clean Homanan gods, unspoiled by the foulness of shapechanger demons.”

Donal heard stunned disbelief in Evan’s voice. “You would slay a man because of
his race
?”

“Demons,” the man repeated, and spat again against the floor. Mucous fouled Donal’s boot. “I be Harbin, leader of these men. We all of us’n here be servin’ the memory of the
rightful
Mujhar of Homana.”

“Shaine is
dead!
” Donal repeated. “Carillon is in his place.”

“Carillon be a weaklin’ king, bespelled by Cheysuli magic. We don’t be followin’ him.”

Donal became aware of the tension in the tavern. This was not some simple disagreement or mere displeasure over the
outcome of the fight. Carefully he took a breath, feeling the arm press more tightly against his throat cutting off the indrawn breath. “Carillon has declared the
qu’mahlin
ended. Do you slay me, you slay a man sworn to the Mujhar.”

Harbin stared up at him. Thick arms were crossed against his wool-clad chest; his heavy boots were planted firmly against the plankwood floor. “Carillon be bespelled. He holds Homana because of that. Because of his masters, the shapechangers. E’en now he plots to be givin’ the throne back into the hands—the
paws!
—of demon-spawn. Us’n be helpless to reach Carillon himsel’, but can reach the Cheysuli.” His eyes shone in the candlelight. “One at a time, us’n be slayin’ them. Us’n begin with you.”

“No!” Evan cried. “You know not whom you threaten!”

Harbin ignored him, staring fixedly at Donal. Then his lips stretched wide over strong yellowed teeth as his eyes took in the
lir
-bands, belt and circlet; the earring shining in black hair. “You be, for all, a
wealthy
demon.” He jerked his head. “Strip him of his gold!”

Donal struggled briefly, was contained, and had to stand stiffly as hands grabbed for belt and knife and circlet. But when they sought to pull the
lir
-gold from his arms and ears, it was Evan who shouted to them.

“
Look
at him! He is the Prince of Homana!”

Harbin’s head snapped around on his neck. “What folly you be speakin’ at me, stranger?”

“He is Carillon’s heir—” Evan grimaced as an arm nearly shut off his voice. “He is your prince, you fool—he is
Donal of Homana—
”

Harbin looked back at Donal sharply. He motioned the others away, save for the men that held him captive.

“Is it true?” a voice asked in belated discovery.

“Hold yon tongue!” Harbin snapped. He moved closer to Donal. His broad, stubbled face wore a scowl of consideration. “Is’t true? Be claimin’ yersel our prince, you be? Carillon’s own heir? You wear enow
gold
for it!” He laughed suddenly, harshly. “Donal o’ Homana, is’t? Us’n caught us a prize
worth
the burnin’!”

“If he
is
the prince—” one man began.

“Hush’ee!” Harbin shouted. “He be a shapechanger. See that beast-gold on his arms and in his ear? The mark of
demons
on him.” Harbin’s breath came quickly and noisily. “Must be burned for it. Must be sacrificed.”

“We can’t burn him
here
—” another protested weakly.

The dalesman’s piglet eyes narrowed as he picked at his yellowed teeth. “No. But he can still be cut here, and the body taken away for proper offerin’.” He nodded. “Aye, aye—no one be takin’ notice of a drunken man carried out of a tavern in the middle of the night.” He spun around suddenly and faced Evan. “You be fearin’ for your
own
life, stranger? Nay. We be not
evil
men. We be burnin’ only demons.”

Evan’s mobile face was darkening with bruises. His mouth twisted as he sought to speak clearly. “He is your
prince—
”

“There bein’ the greater offerin’.” Harbin turned back, indicating a long wooden table still upright in the center of the common room. “Lay him there, and pin him down. On his back, barin’ his throat to the gods. We be makin’ this sacrifice as our old’uns did.”

Donal felt fingers dig into his arms, broken and grimy nails scoring bare, vulnerable flesh. He bared his teeth at the closest man and saw him fall back in terror. But the others bore him to the table.

Fingers hooked into the heavy bands on either arm. He felt the nails cut as they twisted into his flesh. The
lir
-gold was forcibly dragged from his arms until he was naked without either band. But when a man set hand to the earring, Donal tried to jerk away.

“Lay him down!” Harbin shouted. “Pin him to the wood!”

They threw him down and stretched him flat on his back. His shoulders smashed against the table as they pinned him with countless hands, forcing his head back so that it hung off the end of the tabletop.

His senses reeled. He heard Evan shouting. Frenziedly he lashed out with a booted foot, smashing at any flesh and bone he could reach, but they caught and held him, jerking his legs apart until he was spread-eagled and utterly helpless. Hands grasped at his hair and yanked down his head, baring his throat to the blackened roof beams.

Donal cried out hoarsely, unconsciously reverting to the Old Tongue of his race. He writhed on the table, straining to break free, but he was held too firmly.

Lir!
he screamed.
Why did I leave you behind?
Blood
welled into his mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek.
By the gods…I have slain
myself—

Harbin drew a shearing knife from his belt and approached, eyes fixed on the bared column of Donal’s throat. Viewing the dalesman upside down, Donal saw only a face twisted by madness and the rising of the blade.

Gods…I should have stayed with Aislinn—

He opened his mouth to cry out a denial—

—a wailing howl curled around the corners of the common room and echoed within the timbers of the roof.

Then another came, closer still, and no man dared move.

The horn window smashed as the ruddy wolf leaped through and drove straight at Harbin, taking him in the throat. The knife fell as Harbin fell and the gurgling cry breaking out of his throat was the last sound he ever made.

A second man screamed as a striking bird of prey streaked in through the broken window and stooped, slicing with upraised talons at wide-open, staring eyes.

Rigid hands released rigid flesh. Donal, freed, came up from the table in a writhing twist. He stood atop the wood, balanced above them all, breath hissing between his tight-locked teeth. He felt a terrific upsurge of rage and the tremendous backlash of fear. He loosed himself, summoning up the magic, and blurred before them all.

Men ran screaming from the tavern, stumbling over others as they fought to escape the nightmare. Some did not make it, for Evan had caught up a fallen sword and cut off several fleeing men, driving them into a corner where he held them.

Lorn, blood-spattered and ablaze with fury, released his third kill. He turned, seeking other prey. Taj, having raked the eyes from one man and sliced open the face of another, screamed from the rafters.

“Hold!” Evan shouted. “Donal—it is
done
!”

Donal, locked in wolf-shape, heard the shout as a blur of sound, meaningless to him. He was caught up in the sheer lust for blood, snarling in ferocious joy as he stalked a man already bloodied from the encounter. Nails scratched against stained wood. Tail bristled. Hackles raised. Ears went flat against the sleek, savage, silver head.

“Donal,” Evan gasped breathlessly. “There is no more need to fight. Look around you!”

The wolf moved away from the man who huddled pitifully
against an overturned bench, crying and shaking. For a moment the wolf stared fixedly at the Ellasian, yellow man-eyes eerie and half-mad. But then he seemed to understand. The animal shape slid out of focus, blurring to leave a void in the air. Then Donal stood in its place. Blood ran from his mouth and painted his naked arms, but he was whole, and wholly human.

Four men had escaped. Evan held three against the wall. Five lay dead and two more badly wounded. Donal, standing in the middle of the tavern, shuddered once, and was still.

“Were I a vindictive man—” he said hoarsely, “—were I a man such as Harbin, I would order my
lir
to slay you all.”

Evan stared at him. “Donal—don’t. Do not besmirch your race and name.”

Donal pushed a forearm across his sweat-damp brow, shoving sticky hair aside. He left behind a smear of blood. “Should I not? Should I let them go?” For a moment, he shut his burning eyes. “Gods—what has happened here?” He opened his eyes again and looked around the tavern blankly. “What madness infects Homana?”

“Donal,” Evan said.

He shook his head. “No. I will not slay them. I will not besmirch my race and name.” Again, he pushed dampened hair from his battered face. “But I will let them see what it is to be Cheysuli.” He moved toward the three men Evan held in the corner. “Step away from them, Ellasian. This does not concern you.”

Evan, dropping the sword in a gesture of distaste, did as he was ordered. He moved to the broken window and watched as Donal paced slowly closer to the men. He held them with only his eyes, pinning them to the wall.

“We claim three gifts,” he told them clearly. “One is the gift of
lir
-shape, which you call the shapechange. A second is that of healing, which you refuse to believe, believing instead we are demon-spawn and evil. And the third, the final gift, is truly terrible.” Donal drew in an unsteady breath. “It gives us the power to force a man’s will, to replace it with our own. It is the gift of
compulsion.
” His voice was a whiplash of sound. “
Look at me.
”

They looked. They could do nothing else.

Donal held them all. “Take your wounded and care for them. Tell your women and children what you have done this
night, and what you meant to do, and what both things have earned you. And know that you will never again lay hands upon a Cheysuli with ill intent.” He stared at their blank, slack faces; their empty eyes. He had taken will and initiative from them, putting his own in the places left empty by his magic. The surge of anger within him was so powerful he wanted only to break them all, destroying their minds with a single, savage thought, but he did not. “Go from here,” he said thickly, and turned away to lean against the table that had nearly been his bier.

The men gathered up their dead, their wounded, one by one, and carried them from the tavern. When they were done, leaving Donal alone with Evan and the
lir
, he set a hand to his aching head. “Now—you have seen what it is to be Cheysuli.”

Evan, slowly sitting down on a righted stool, nodded. “I have seen it.”

“And do Lachlan’s lays exaggerate?”

“No.” Evan smiled faintly. “I think even Lachlan cannot capture what it is to see a man shift his shape into that of an animal. But I think also the magic exacts a price from the men who know it fully.”

Donal bent down. He gathered up the fallen
lir
-bands. In his hands, the gold seemed to recapture its luster. “It—exacts a price,” Donal agreed. Carefully he slid both bands over his hands and up his forearms, until they rested in place above his elbows. “I walked too close to the edge of madness.” Again he bent. He scooped up his belt, his knife, the golden circlet of his rank. And then, too weary to rise again, he sat down and leaned against the table.

Lorn came to him at once, pressing his muzzle against Donal’s chest. Donal hung one bruised arm around the wolf’s neck and hugged him briefly, putting his bloodied face against Lorn’s ruddy head. Taj fluttered down from the rafter and settled on the table, pipping at Donal quietly.

“What do they say?” Evan asked.

“They wish me well,” Donal told him. “They wish I might have kept myself from the encounter. They wish I had not seen fit to go out with an Ellasian princeling when I might have remained at Homana-Mujhar instead, and safe from such violence.” He smiled. “They wish me nothing I do not already wish for myself.”

“
I
could not have said the evening would end like this!” Evan was clearly affronted. “In Ellas, we do not have madmen out to sacrifice others for their blood.”

Donal draped the filigreed belt across one forearm as he propped the elbow across his knee. The rubies glowed dully in the torch-lit room. Like blood. Like all the blood on his arms. Absently, he smeared it across his flesh and dulled the gold as well.

“In Homana,” he said, “we have two races vying for a single throne. A Cheysuli throne, once—we gave it up to the Homanans four hundred years ago. For peace. Because they feared our magic. And now, because of Shaine, they fear us again, and seek to usurp us.”

“You
will
be the king of Homana.”

Donal looked at the Ellasian. “One day. One day, when Carillon is dead…and if
I
am still alive.”

“There will always be fools in the world, and madmen.” Evan indicated Harbin’s body. “You will have to cull them, Donal. Before they cull you.”

Donal rubbed the heel of his hand across his gritty eyes. “Evan,” he said. “Gods—I am weary unto death. What I have done this night is not lightly undertaken. I will pay the price for such sorcery.” He stared blearily at the Ellasian. “Will you see to it I am brought safely home?”

“Of course,” Evan agreed, surprised. “But why do you ask?”

Donal managed a final, sickly smile. Then he toppled sideways to the floor.

*   *   *