“Are you ready,” he asked her, “to leave upon the instant?”
“Yes,” she said, and indicated the fireside, where her belongings were neatly placed; he had none.
Outside, in the halls, there was commotion. It was not long in reaching them—the sounds of shouting, the heavy sound of steps approaching.
A heavy hand rapped at the door. “Lady?” one asked from outside.
“Let them in,” Morgaine said.
Vanye opened it, and in his other hand only his thumb held the sheath upon the longsword: a shake would free it.
Men were massed outside, a few of the marshlanders; but chief among them was the scarred Barrows-man, Fwar, with his kinsmen. Vanye met that sullen face with utter coldness, and stepped back because Morgaine had bidden it, because they were hers—violent men unlike the Aren-folk: he surmised seeing them now who had done most of the slaughter in Ohtij-in, that were murder to be ordered, they would enjoy it.
And among them, from their midst, they thrust the disheveled figure of the qujal-lord, thin and fragile-seeming in their rough hands. Blood dabbled the satin front of Kithan’s brocade garment, and his white hair was loose and wild, matted with blood from a cut on his brow.
Fwar cast the dazed halfling to the floor. Morgaine settled herself in a chair, leaned back, Changeling balanced on her knee, under her hand; she watched calmly as the former lord of Ohtij-in gathered himself to rise, but they kept him on his knees. Vanye, moving to his proper place at Morgaine’s shoulder, saw the force of the qujal’s gray eyes, no longer full of dreams, no longer distant, but filled with heat and hate.
“He is Kithan,” said Fwar, his scarred lips smiling.
“Let him up,” Morgaine said; and such hate there was in Kithan that Vanye extended his sheathed sword between, cautioning him; but the captured halfling had some sense. He stumbled to his feet and made a slight bow of the head, homage to realities.
“I shall have you put with the others,” Morgaine said softly. “Certain others of your folk do survive, in the higher part of this tower.”
“For what?” Kithan asked, with a glance about him.
Morgaine shrugged. “For whatever these men allow.”
The elegant young lordling stood trembling, wiped a bloody strand of hair from his cheek. His eyes strayed to Vanye’s, who returned him no gentleness, and back again. “I do not understand what is happening,” he said. “Why have you done these things to us?”
“You were unfortunate,” said Morgaine.
The arrogance of that answer seemed to take Kithan’s breath away. He laughed after a moment, aloud and bitterly. “Indeed. And what do you gain of such allies as you have? What when you have won?”
Morgaine frowned, gazing at him. “Fwar,” she said, “I do not think it any profit to hold him or his people.”
“We can deal with them,” said Fwar.
“No,” she said. “You have Ohtij-in; and you have my order, Fwar. Will you abide by it, and not kill them?”
“If that is your order,” said Fwar after a moment, but there was no pleasure in it.
“So,” said Morgaine. “Fwar’s kindred and Haz of Aren rule in Ohtij-in, and you rule your own kind. As for me, I am leaving when the flood permits, and you have seen the last of me, my lord Kithan.”
“They will kill us.”
“They may not. But if I were you, my lord, I would seek shelter elsewhere—perhaps in Hiuaj.”
There was laughter at that, and color flooded Kithan’s white cheeks.
“Why?” Kithan asked when the coarse laughter had died. “Why have you done this to us? This is excessive revenge.”
Again Morgaine shrugged. “I only opened your gates,” she said. “What was waiting outside was not of my shaping. I do not lead them. I go my own way.”
“Not looking to what you have destroyed. Here is the last place where civilization survives. Here—” Kithan glanced about at the fine tapestries that hung slashed and wantonly ruined. “Here is the wealth, the art of thousands of years, destroyed by these human animals.”
“Out there,” said Morgaine, “is the flood. Barrows-hold has gone; Aren is going; there is nothing left for them but to come north. It is your time; and you chose your way of meeting it, with such delicate works. It was your choice.”
The qujal clenched his arms across him as at a chill. “The world is going under; but this time was ours, tedious as it was, and this land was ours, to enjoy it. The Wells ruined the world once, and spilled this Barrows-spawn into our lands—that drove other humans into ruin, that plundered and stole and ruined and left of us only halfbreeds, the survivors of their occupations. They tampered with the Wells and ruined their own lands; they ruined the land they took and now they come to us. Perhaps he is of that kind,” he said, with a burning look at Vanye, “and came through the Wells; perhaps the one named Roh came likewise. The Barrow-kings are upon us again, no different than they ever were. But someone did this thing to us—someone of knowledge more than theirs. Someone did this, who had the power to open what was sealed.”
Morgaine frowned, straightened, drawing Changeling into her lap; and of a sudden Vanye moved, seized the slight halfling to silence him, to take him from the room: but Morgaine’s sharp command checked him. None moved, not he nor the startled peasants, and Morgaine arose, a distraught look on her face. She withdrew a space from them, looked back at him, and to Fwar, and seemed for a moment dazed.
“The Barrow-kings,” she said then: there was a haunted expression in her eyes. . . . Vanye saw it and remembered Irien, ghosts that followed her, an army, lost in that great valley: ten thousand men, of which not even corpses remained.
His ancestors, that were to her but a few months dead.
“Liyo,” he said quietly, his heart pounding. “We are wasting time with him. Set the halfling free or put him with the others, but there are other matters that want attention. Now.”
Sanity returned sharply to Morgaine’s gaze, a harsh look bestowed on Kithan. “How long ago?”
“Liyo,” Vanye objected. “It is pointless.”
“How long ago?”
Kithan gathered himself with an intake of breath, assumed that pose of arrogance that had been his while he ruled, despite that Vanye’s fingers bit into his arm. “A very long time ago.—Long enough for this land to become what it is. And surely,” he shot after that, pressing his advantage, “you are about to bid equally with the man Roh: life, wealth, restoration of the ancient powers. Lie to me, ancient enemy. Offer to buy my favor. It is—considering the situation—purchasable.”
“Kill him,” Fwar muttered.
“Your enemy has gone,” Kithan said, “to Abarais—to possess the Wells; to take all the north. Hetharu is with him, with all our forces; and eventually they will come back.”
Fear was thick in the room. Morgaine stood still. The Barrows-men seemed hardly to breathe.
“The Shiua spoke the same,” said one of the marshlanders.
“When the flood subsides,” said Morgaine, “then there will be a settling with Roh; and he will not return to Ohtij-in. But that is my business, and it need not concern you.”
“Lady,” said Fwar, fear distorting his face, “when you have done that—when you have reached the Wells—what will you do then?”
Vanye heard, mind frozen, the halfling held with one hand, the other hand sweating on the grip of his sword. It was not his to answer: with his eyes he tried to warn her.
“We have followed you,” a Barrows-man said. “We are yours, we Barrowers—We will follow you.”
“Take them,” Kithan laughed, a bitter and mocking laugh; and of a sudden the foremost of the Aren-folk fled, his fellows with him, thrusting their way through the tall Barrows-men, running.
Still Kithan laughed, and Vanye cursed and hurled him aside, into the midst of the Barrows-men, who hurl
ed him clear again; Vanye unsheathed the sword, and Kithan halted, within striking distance of him, and knowing it.
“No,” Morgaine forbade him. “No.” And to the Barrowers: “Fwar, stop the Aren-folk. Find me Haz.”
But the Barrowers too remained as if dazed, pale of face, staring at her. One of them touched a luck-piece that he wore hanging from a cord about his neck. Fwar bit at his lip.
And Kithan smiled a wolf-smile and laughed yet again. “World’s-end, world’s-end, o ye blind, ye Barrows-rabble. She has followed you through the Wells to repay you for all you have done . . . your own, your personal curse. An eyeblink for her, from there till now, but there is no time in the Wells, nor distance. We are avenged.”
A knife whipped from sheath: a Barrows-man drew—for Morgaine, for Kithan, unknown which: Vanye looked toward it, and that man backed away, whey-faced and sweating.
There was silence in the room, heavy and oppressive; and of a sudden there was a stir outside, as the animals in the pens began bawling all at once. Furniture quivered, and the surface in the wine pitcher on the table shimmered and then men sprang one way and the other as chairs danced and the floor heaved sickeningly underfoot, masonry parting in a great crack down the wall that admitted dusty daylight. The fire crashed, a burning log rolled across the carpet, and there were echoing crashes and screams throughout the hold.
A rumbling shook the floor, deafening, sudden impact jolting the very stones of the hold.
Then it was done, and anguished screams resounded outside and throughout the keep. Vanye stood clinging to the back of a chair, Kithan to the table, the laughter shaken from him, and the Barrows-men stood white and trembling against the riven wall.
“Out,” Morgaine shouted at them. “Out of here, clear the hold. Out!”
There was panic. The Hiua rushed the doorway in a mass, pushing and cursing at each other in their haste; but Vanye, sword’s point levelled at Kithan, saw Morgaine delay to gather her belongings from the fireside.
“Go,” he told her, reaching for her burden. She did not yield it, but left, quickly. Vanye abandoned Kithan, intent on staying with Morgaine; and the halfling darted from the door, raced the other way down the hall, a way that led upward.
“His people,” said Morgaine; and Vanye felt an instant’s respect for the qujal-lord, realizing what he was about.
And as he looked he saw another thing—broken timbers, a doorframe riven and shattered, and a door ajar.
The priest.
“Go!” he shouted at Morgaine; and turned back, running, slid to a stop and pulled that jammed door wide, splintering wood as he did so.
The storeroom was empty. The priest was a slight man, the opening he had forced sufficient for the body of so slender a man, and the priest was gone.
He turned and ran, back the way Morgaine should have gone, past a cabinet that was overturned and shattered, a wall that leaned perilously. He saw her, redoubled his effort and overtook her just as she reached the main corridor.
Terror reigned in that long spiral: few had torches, and the fall of some in the corridor had darkened areas of the passage. Servants gained courage to push and shove like free men: screaming women and children of the Aren-folk fought with hold servants for passage, and men pushed ruthlessly where strength would avail in their haste. One of the sons of Haz fought his way to Morgaine’s side, pleading for comfort, babbling words almost impossible to understand. Morgaine tried to answer, caught for balance on his arm as they came to the riven place that had always been in the corridor. It was the width of a man’s body now. A child fell, screaming, and Vanye seized it by its clothing and deposited it safely across, hearing a stone crumble. It hit water far below.
And Morgaine, with the marshlander to make way for her, had kept moving. Vanye saw her gone and fought his own way through, ruthless as the others, desperate.
The gate at the bottom was not barred: it had not been since the attack. He saw Morgaine step clear, onto the steps, in the drizzling rain, and caught his own breath as he overtook her, dazed, dimly conscious that they were still being jostled by those that poured out behind.
But his eyes, like hers, fixed in shock on the gate, for the barbican tower had fallen, leaving a wider gap beside the ruined gates; and pitiful folk clambered over the rubble in the falling rain, where the uppermost stones had fallen among the shelters, crushing them, crushing flesh and timbers alike under megaliths the size of two men.
Shiua saw Morgaine standing there, and there went up a cry, a wailing. They came, dazed and fearfully; and Vanye gripped his sword tightly in his fist, but he realized then that they came for pity, pleading with their gestures and their outcries. There gathered a crowd, both marshlanders and folk of the shelters, Hiua and Shiua mingled in their desolation. None reached her: she stepped off the last step and walked among them, they giving back to give her place, pressing at each other in their zeal to avoid her. Vanye went at her back, sword in hand, fearful, seeing the mob that once had threatened him now pleading desperately with them both. Hands touched him as they would not touch Morgaine, but they were pleas for help, for explanation, and he could not give it.
Morgaine slung her cloak about her and put up the hood as she walked across the yard, and there, in the clear of threatening stones, she turned and looked back at the keep.
Vanye looked, a quickly stolen glance, for fear of those about them, and saw that the tower that had fallen had taken one of the buttresses too, riving it away from the keep. There was a crack in that vast tower, opening it widely to the elements and promising further ruin.
“I would give nothing for its chance of standing the hour,” Morgaine said. “There will be other shocks.” And for the instant she gazed about the yard, seemed herself in a state of shock. Over the babble of prayers and panicked questions rose the steady keening of men and women over their dead.
And suddenly she flung back her head and shouted to those of the Aren-folk near her: “There is no staying here. It will all collapse. Gather what you must have to live, and go, get out of here!”
Panic spread at that dismissal; she did not regard the questions others shouted at her, but seized at Vanye’s sleeve. “The horses. Get our horses out before that wall goes.”
“Aye,” he agreed, and then realized it meant leaving her; half a step he hesitated, and saw her face with that unreasoning fixedness, saw the folk that crowded frantically about her, that in their fear would cling to her: she could not get away. He fled, steps quickening, avoiding this man and that, racing across the puddled yard to the stable, remembering Jhirun, left to her own devices, panicked horses and the damage of the quake.
The stable door was ajar. He pushed it open. Chaos awaited him inside that warm darkness, planks down where horses had panicked and broken their barriers. There was a wild-eyed bay that had had the worst of it: it bolted when he flung the stable door wide. Other horses were still in stalls.
“Jhirun,” he called aloud, seeing with relief Siptah and his own horse and Jhirun’s mare still safe.
No voice responded. There was a rustling of straw—many bodies in the darkness.
Fwar stepped into the light, his kinsmen emerging likewise from the shadows, from within a stall, over the bars of another: armed men, carrying knives. Vanye spun half about, caught a quick glimpse of others behind him.
He slung the sheath from his sword and sent it at them, whirled upon the man at his left and toppled him writhing in the straw, bent under a whistling staff and took that man too: his comrade fled, wounded.
A crash attended those behind, Siptah’s shrill scream. Vanye turned into a knife attack, ducked under the clumsy move and used the man’s arm to guide his blade, whipped it free and came on guard again, springing back from the man that sprawled at his feet.
The others scattered, what of them survived, save Fwar, who tried to stand his ground: a shadow moved, a flash of a bar
e ankle—Fwar started to turn, knife in hand, and Vanye sprang for him, but the swing of harness in Jhirun’s hands was quicker. Chain whipped across Fwar’s head, brought him down screaming: and in blind rage he tried to scramble up again.
Vanye reversed the blade, smashed the hilt into Fwar’s skull, sprawled the man face-down in the straw. Jhirun stood hard-breathing, still clenching the chain-and-leather mass in her two hands; tears streamed down her face.
“The quake,” she murmured, choking, “the rains, and the quake—oh, the dreams, the dreams, my lord, I dreamed . . .”
He snatched the harness from her hands, hurting her as he did so, and seized her by the arm. “Go,” he said. “Get to horse.”
It was in his mind to kill Fwar: of all others that had perished, this one he would have wished to kill, but now it was murder. He cursed Jhirun’s help, knowing that he could have taken this man in clean fight, that after killing kin of his, this was the wrong man to leave alive.
Jhirun came back to his side, leading the bay mare. “Kill him,” she insisted, her voice trembling.
“This is kin of yours,” he said angrily—minded as the words left his mouth that she had once said something of the same to him. “Go!” he shouted at her, and jerked her horse’s head about, pushed her up as she set foot in the stirrup. When she landed astride he struck the mare on the rump and sent it hence.
Then he flung open the stalls of Siptah and his own horse, dragged at their reins and led the horses down the aisle, past the bodies. His sword sheath lay atop the straw; he snatched it up and kept moving, paused only in the light of the doorway to settle his sword at his side and mount up.
The gelding surged forward: he fought to control the vile-tempered animal with the Baien stud in tow; and overtook Jhirun, who was having difficulty with the little mare in the press of the yard. Vanye shouted, cursing, spurred brutally, and the crowd parted in terror as the three horses broke through. About them, folk already streamed toward the shattered gates, their backs laden with packs, some leading animals or pulling carts. Women carried children, older children carried younger; and men struggled under unwieldy burdens that would never permit them long flight.