Stone of Inheritance

by Melissa McShane

  She couldn’t understand why Alaric let them drag him out of the cage until he was free. Alaric swung a fist at the nearest carver, catching her under the chin and sending her reeling a few paces back. He ducked a swing of the next one’s knife and pounded him hard in the kidney, then spun and caught the knife hand of the third, using the man’s own momentum to flip him over to land heavily on his back. Alaric ducked the first one’s knife and rushed her, catching her around her midriff and flinging her to crash into a table.

  Sienne became aware of a rhythmic thrumming sound, a heavy, regular beat she couldn’t at first identify. Then she saw that the carvers seated at the tables were thumping the tabletops with their fists, thump, thump, thump like the tramp of a hundred boots on a wooden bridge. It was almost like… applause. Sienne clenched her own fists and shouted, “Stop it! Stop that right now!”

  The thumping continued. The three carvers fighting Alaric disengaged and leaped lightly away, out of the pit and onto the tables. Alaric, his shoulders heaving, ran to Sienne’s side and dragged her not very gently away from her captor. The man made no move to stop him, which frightened Sienne further.

  “Stay here,” Alaric said, and turned to face the woman. She’d risen again and was watching him, a smile touching her perfect lips. Alaric, his back to Sienne, tensed visibly. He put his hands to his head as if it hurt. The woman’s smile vanished, and she leaned forward. She looked like someone concentrating on a difficult task who puts her whole body into that concentration.

  Alaric’s knees buckled, and he landed hard on the stone floor. Sienne shouted his name and ran forward. She put her arms around him and tried to help him to stand, but it was like lifting the keep itself. “Alaric,” she said, “what is she doing? Don’t let her—”

  Alaric sagged, all the tension going out of him at once. The sudden lack of resistance bore Sienne to the ground beside him. The woman stepped back. Alaric raised his head and focused on Sienne. His eyes were dull in the dimly lit hall, and the pupils were tiny dots in an ocean of pale blue.

  He raised one arm and backhanded Sienne across the face.

  She had already been off-balance, and the blow knocked her off her feet and sent her skidding away, flailing to stop herself. Her jaw erupted with fire, her eyes watered, but that was nothing to her stunned horror at having been struck by someone she trusted with her life.

  Alaric rose to his feet and wavered unsteadily before taking a step toward her, and another. Sienne shrieked and scrambled to her feet. She ran for the side of the pit and got one knee up on the wall before being shoved back down by a couple of carvers sitting at the nearest table. A heavy hand fell on her shoulder a second before Alaric spun her around and punched her in the stomach. She let out a pah of breath, ducked his next blow, and in desperation darted between his legs and under him, running for the other side of the pit and the cage above it.

  She heard Perrin and Kalanath screaming words she couldn’t understand, saw hands reaching out from between the slats, saw silver flash as Dianthe desperately picked the lock, and skidded to a stop before reaching them. She needed not to draw attention to what Dianthe was doing. All she could do was run, stay away from Alaric—something was dreadfully wrong with him.

  She caught sight of the woman, staring at Alaric in intense concentration as he weaved across the pit toward Sienne. He couldn’t keep a straight line, and he once again clutched his head as if it pained him. The woman’s gaze flicked toward Sienne, and Alaric’s path altered to point him more directly at her. It had to be the charm spell dominate, one of the few Sienne knew by name. That woman was controlling Alaric, making him do her bidding. At that moment, Sienne understood exactly why charm spells were forbidden. She wanted to weep for Alaric, his will shredded to nothing by that woman, and weep for herself, who was going to die at the hands of a friend if she couldn’t figure out a plan.

  Sienne again made a break for the wall and was again shoved back down. She darted to one side, but not fast enough, and a blow aimed for her stomach hit her leg instead, buckling it. She dragged herself out of the way of the next blow and got to her feet, but her leg wouldn’t support her for more than a hobble. The thrumming of the pounding on the tables beat in time to the rhythm of her pounding, frantic heart, accompanied by the screams of her companions. She scrambled past Alaric again, feeling the barest tug on her hair as he grabbed for her and missed. The woman looked triumphant, her smile fierce as any predator’s snarl. Beside her—

  Oh. I am an idiot. Sienne hobbled as far from Alaric as she could get. Her vision went in and out of being blurry, but she could still see her spellbook, lying unattended next to the carver woman. Alaric was staggering toward her again, but his hands weren’t clutching his head and his eyes looked alarmingly aware of her. She would only get one chance.

  Sienne willed her spellbook off the table. It flew across the room to land in her hands with a sharp crack that stung her palms, already open to the spell she wanted. She blinked to clear her eyes and read off the evocation force as rapidly as she dared.

  The power of the spell built inside her, burning her mouth like acid, until the last syllables ripped out of her and a bolt of pure magical energy shot away from her. It flew past Alaric’s head as he reached for her and struck the carver woman square in the face, flinging her backward into the wall.

  Then Alaric’s hand was around her throat, and he squeezed. Sienne choked and gasped in a futile effort to draw breath. She clawed at his fist, leaving deep scratches that had no effect on his powerful grip. Dimly, she was aware of her other friends pounding at his arms, prying at his fingers, but the light was fading and she smelled blood, her own or Alaric’s, she had no idea.

  The grip loosened. Sienne’s vision cleared. Alaric stood looking down at her, utter bewilderment on his face. His pupils were normal-sized again and his mouth hung slack, moving slightly as if he was searching for words. He let go of her, and she gasped, gagged, and coughed so hard she thought she might throw up. “Sienne,” he whispered. The pounding had stopped, and her coughing as blessed frigid air poured into her lungs was the only sound in the still room. She sagged, her arms and legs unable to support her.

  Alaric stepped backward, his eyes still focused on Sienne. He roared, an agonized sound that shattered the stillness. Then he was gone, and in his place was an enormous equine creature, dark brown shading to black where the shadows touched his flanks. The unicorn tossed his head, making his black horn gleam as if oiled in what little light there was. He reared back, screamed defiance, and charged.

  9

  “Lie still,” Perrin said. His hair fell loose around his face as he tore a blessing from his riffle of papers and pressed it to Sienne’s forehead. She closed her eyes. Her throat felt torn to shreds, her leg was on fire, and she was sure Alaric had ruptured something inside her with his second punch. She knew she had to fight, but she could barely rise.

  “O gracious Lord, stop being a cranky bastard and be useful for once,” Perrin muttered. A glorious green haze filled Sienne’s vision, and warmth coursed through her like a stream of hot water. The smell of jasmine and mint came to her nose, strong but not overwhelmingly so. She blinked, and sat up. The pain was gone, and so was the fear. They were going to fight, and they were going to win, damn it.

  She snatched up her spellbook, slung the harness over her shoulder, and looked around. The room was in chaos, centered on Alaric, who lashed out with sharp-edged hooves that had never been shod and a horn that came to a wicked point. He was screaming the high, furious scream of a horse in terrible pain, and it made her want to weep for him again. The carvers tried to keep their distance from him, but he ranged from one side of the pit to the other, stabbing and slashing and covering himself in pale rosy blood that came from nothing human.

  Dianthe and Kalanath stood back to back, picking off carvers who fled from Alaric’s wrath. Dianthe had taken a bad blow to her left arm, which dripped blood that enraged the carvers who came near. They pressed her c
losely enough that even Kalanath, guarding her off side with his whirling staff, couldn’t keep all of them away.

  Sienne threw open her spellbook and cast force again, and again, knocking away the carvers threatening Dianthe. She heard a thump and turned to see Perrin holding up his left arm, from which radiated the pearly gray glow of a divine shield wide enough to cover both of them.

  “On my mark, move!” Sienne called out, flipping the pages of her spellbook and raising one hand. She began reading off the evocation scream, closing her hand into a fist as she neared the end. Perrin whirled the shield out of her way to cover her back as the last syllables erupted from her as a wave of tangible sound shrill enough that even she winced.

  The four carvers caught in the blast dropped, writhing and covering their ears, which bled rosy pink. Sienne had enough time to reflect on how grateful she was that carvers were at least that close to human before she had to blast another one bent on stabbing her.

  She cast force once more and had to bend over to catch her breath. Her mouth was raw from the evocations, and she felt dizzy, a sign that she’d cast too many spells in too quick succession. Pearly light flared, and she looked up to see Perrin once more shielding the two of them from carvers whose knives dashed impotently against the divine barrier. “Are you well?” he said.

  “Well enough.” Even in the heat of battle, the carvers were eerily silent. The two slashing at the shield snarled at them noiselessly, their faces contorted with anger. “Are we winning?”

  “We need to retreat,” Perrin said. “Follow me!”

  He thrust forward with the shield, pushing the carvers back. The shield was in gray tatters from the carvers’ knives, but held firm as they crossed the room to Dianthe and Kalanath. Both were bleeding, Kalanath from a wound along his hairline that had nearly scalped him. He had to pause every few seconds to wipe blood out of his eyes.

  “We have to get out of here,” Perrin said in a voice pitched only slightly above normal. It made the whole situation even more surreal that he wasn’t shouting, Sienne thought, and wondered why everyone was moving around so much. No, it’s me, she realized. Her reserves were lower than she’d thought.

  “They barred the door,” Dianthe said, “and Alaric is out of control. We have to stop him.”

  “You do that, and let us manage the door,” Perrin said.

  Dianthe nodded, stabbed one of the carvers through what Sienne hoped was her heart, and ran off to where Alaric paced an arc of the pit, screaming and thrusting at the carvers who were trying to back out of his reach.

  The shield shivered, then shattered and vanished like soap film. Perrin swore. “To the door,” he said, and the three of them ran for it, dodging carvers.

  A heavy oak beam barred the door, surprisingly sturdy after so many years—or maybe it wasn’t so surprising, if the carvers had been here long. Sienne turned her back on the door and flipped the book open to scream. She heard Perrin and Kalanath shoving on the bar, and then all she could hear was scream, burning her lips like acid and knocking down another three carvers. It hurt, but it was bearable. She did it again, and this time she gagged on the spell as it emerged from within her. Her eyes could barely focus to read the spell language, every carver had a ghostly double emerging from them, and her stomach roiled.

  She staggered, blinked, and cast scream again. The sound echoed through the still chamber, but no carvers collapsed. She blinked again, and realized they had all stopped outside her range. They’d figured it out. They hovered there, pacing an invisible line past which scream had no effect, watching her as intent as an owl hunting a mouse’s burrow. She croaked out a warning.

  Hands took her by the upper arms. “Keep walking. They know you are a threat,” Kalanath said in her ear. He and Perrin guided her through the little entry hall and out into a crisp first summer night. The moon cast the keep’s sharp shadow over them, and the fine new grass crunched underfoot.

  “Where—” she whispered, then gagged again and nearly vomited.

  “Coming,” Perrin said.

  A thunder of hooves, and Dianthe and Alaric emerged from the keep at a run, swiftly outdistancing them. Sienne tried to walk faster, but only stumbled. They had to run, they had to get away before—

  The first of the carvers emerged from the keep’s door. She was battered, and pink blood streamed down her right arm, but her gaze was fiercely intent on them. More followed, dozens more—had they killed any of them? It seemed an unending stream of tall, pale, impossibly beautiful men and women poured out of the keep, all of them wielding bloody knives, all of them moving with the fluid grace of predators who know it is just a matter of time before the prey falls to them.

  Dianthe shouted, “What are you doing? Run!”

  “The only thing keeping them at bay is their fear of Sienne,” Perrin said. “If she turns, we are lost.”

  “She cannot keep going. She will collapse,” Kalanath said. “She is at the end of her reserves.”

  Sienne heard all of this in a daze. She glanced at her spellbook. The letters danced on the page, wavering in and out of focus. She couldn’t cast spells if she wanted to. She watched the carvers steadily advance, took another step backward, and hoped Perrin and Kalanath would keep her from falling.

  The sound of hooves on the hard ground grew louder. Alaric’s shrill, terrifying scream made Sienne stumble, and this time she went down, dropping her spellbook to dangle loose in its harness. The carvers surged forward, then scattered as Alaric thundered down upon them, spitting one on his horn and flinging him into three of his fellows.

  Perrin hauled Sienne to her feet and spun her around. “Run!” he shouted, and Sienne lurched into motion.

  She could barely see, her vision was so badly doubled, and she depended on Perrin, who hauled her along bodily. Everything was dark except where the moon shone, turning the pale grass into a milky sea she could walk on. She knew it was a slightly mad comparison, but nothing in the world made sense except for Alaric’s sharp, terrible neighing. She clung to the sound, because it was the only clear thing she could perceive.

  She tripped and fell hard on her face, skinning her palms. Someone, she thought maybe Dianthe, hauled her up again, and then they lifted her, and she was lying across something broad and warm and hairy that moved like a ship, up and down. She flung her hands out and grabbed long strands of hair, wound her fingers around them and clung as if her life depended on them, which might be true.

  She didn’t bother opening her eyes, which would only lie to her, just gripped tight with her hands and her knees. The air was filled with the scent of blood. Alaric hadn’t been able to avoid all those knives. The coppery stench combined with the bitter tang of what had to be carver blood made her stomach churn.

  In any other situation, she’d have been awestruck. How many people in all of history had ridden a unicorn? She tried not to think how embarrassing it was, not only for her but for Alaric, how awkward and intimate. That wasn’t important. What was important was getting away from the carvers, who were going to chase them down until they couldn’t run anymore, and then—her mind skittered away from the possible ways she and her friends could die by those horrible knives.

  Something niggled at her addled mind. The river. Right. “Head for the river!” she cried, but her mouth was full of mush and she only managed to make a garbled croak. Maybe the story was right, and carvers couldn’t cross running water. It was the only chance they had.

  Despite her resolve, she opened her eyes, and the whirling was so bad combined with the up and down motion of Alaric’s gait that she vomited all down his side. She was so sick she couldn’t even feel embarrassed about it. If I live through this, I’ll never be able to face him again, she thought.

  “Just keep running!” someone shouted, and there was a terrific splash, and water rushed over her face, making her splutter and cough. She clung tighter, and moments later Alaric reared up, and she slipped toward his hindquarters, crying out in terror that she would be fl
ung off. His muscles strained beneath her, bunched and lifted, and with a couple of bounces his gait leveled out, then stopped.

  Sobbing, Sienne clung to him, feeling the heave of his flanks as he sucked in air as desperately as she was doing. Why had they stopped? They weren’t giving up, were they? If this was a desperate last stand, she needed to be up and fighting. Even if all she could do was throw up on their enemies.

  She heard a splash, and then a high-pitched wail that in a human might have been a scream. This sounded like the death cry of a mortally wounded animal. “It’s true,” Dianthe said. “Kitane’s left arm, I don’t know that I’d wish that on any creature.”

  “They tried to kill us,” Kalanath said, his voice flat and vicious. “I think if they die, it is no loss.”

  “They cannot follow us,” Perrin said, “and they have no ranged weapons. And—dear Averran, what are they doing?”

  Sienne tried to sit up and failed. “They’re leaving,” Dianthe said. “What if they find a way across?”

  “There are no bridges,” Perrin said. “We are safe for now. We need to return to camp and start a fire. The river was bitterly cold, and this night is not much warmer. And we must tend to Sienne.”

  “Alaric, will you carry her a while longer?” Dianthe asked.

  Alaric made no response. He couldn’t speak in this form, but Sienne had seen him nod or shake his head the few times he’d transformed, and this time he did nothing. She felt the bunch and pull of muscles as he started walking, and she released most of the death grip she had on his mane. That couldn’t be comfortable for him.

  “Sienne, are you awake?” Dianthe said, putting a hand on her forehead. Sienne groaned. Nodding seemed like a really bad idea. “The water stopped them. One of them fell in and it boiled his skin away, down to the bone. They won’t follow us.”