The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Those down below will be on our heels before we can engage those above.”

  “Should we sit and die here, to no account at all? I am going on.”

  “Did I say I was not? I am with you.”

  “Get to horse, then. It is getting dark, and we dare not waste the little time we have.”

  “You cannot go on wielding that sword. It will kill you. Give it to me.”

  “I shall carry it while I can.” Her voice went hoarse. “I do not trust it near Nehmin. There is danger that you might not feel, a thing one senses in the sound and feel of it . . . a limit of approach. A mistake would kill us all. If it comes to you—avoid the jewels . . . avoid them. And if someone stirs up the forces channeled through the fortress—I hope you feel it in time. It would tear this rock apart, unsheathed.” She thrust herself from the gateway and sought Siptah’s side, took up the reins. “Stay with me.”

  Others began to go to their horses, weary as they were, determined to come with them. Morgaine looked about at them and said nothing. Only at Roh she looked long and hard. In her mind surely was Nehmin itself—and Roh for their companion.

  Roh averted his eyes and looked instead toward their fragile barricade. The sounds of the horde were louder, the enemy almost at the foot of the road, by the sound of it. “I can keep a ram away from that barrier a little time. At least they will not be on your backs. That will give you a chance.”

  Vanye looked at Morgaine, wishing otherwise, but Morgaine slowly nodded. “Aye,” she said, “you could do that.”

  “Cousin,” Vanye said, “do not. You can buy too little time for your life.”

  Roh shook his head, desperation in his eyes. “You mean well; but I will not go up there while there is any use for me here. If I went up there, near that . . . I think I would break my word. There is some use for me here . . . and you underestimate my marksmanship, Nhi Vanye i Chya.”

  Vanye understood him then, and embraced him with a great pain in his heart, then turned and hurtled himself into the saddle.

  Sezar cried out sudden warning, for there was the sound of a force advancing not only up out of the valley, but down off the height, coming down upon them.

  Only Perrin and Vis stayed afoot, leaning on their bows. “Here is work for more than one bowman,” Perrin said. “Three of us just might be able to change their minds; besides, if some pass you, we can keep them from Roh’s back.”

  “Your blessing, lord,” Vis asked, and Merir leaned down and took the khemein’s half-gloved hand. “Aye,” he said, “on you all three.”

  Then he broke away, for Morgaine turned Siptah’s head and rode into the gathering dusk. Vanye followed closely, too wrapped now in their own fate to mourn others. Even for them it was a matter of time: Lellin and Sezar were with them, weaponless; the little arrha rode with them, bloodied and scarcely clinging to her saddle, but she stayed with Merir; and Sharrn and Kessun with their bows . . . the only two armed now but themselves.

  “How far?” Morgaine asked of the arrha. “How many turns before the Horn? How many from there to the fortress of Nehmin itself?”

  “Three before the Dark Horn; more after . . . four, five; I do not clearly remember, lady.” The arrha’s voice was hardly audible in the sounds about them, a painful breach of habitual silence. “I have only been here once.”

  Rocks hove up on either side of them in the near-darkness, making a wall on their left, sometimes falling away sharply to the right, so that they looked down a darkening fall to the flat. There was no more sound from above them, while shouts came distantly from the gray masses which surged toward the Lesser Horn.

  Then the rocks began to rise on their right as well as on their left, and they must venture a steep, dark winding.

  “Ambush,” Vanye muttered as they approached that. Morgaine was already reaching for Changeling.

  Suddenly rock hurtled down, bounding and thundering from above, and the horses shied in terror. Changeling whipped the air and wind howled, cold, sucking at them in that narrow chute. The moaning drank the thunder: the only rock to come near them plummeted down on their very heads and went elsewhere. Sweat ran down Vanye’s sides beneath the armor.

  Siptah leaned into a run; they pressed forward with arrows hailing down like invisible wasps, but the overhang of the cliff and Changeling’s wind sheltered them from harm.

  It was when they made the turning and faced the height that the arrows came truly; Morgaine held the fore, and the sword shielded them all, hurling the arrowflight into nothingness, the winds sucking such few as passed into forceless impacts. Men with wooden spears opposed them and Morgaine hit those ranks with a sweep that cleared Men and weapons elsewhere, flung them screaming into dark, and what remained Vanye caught, closer to Changeling’s howling dark than ever he liked to come: he felt the cold himself, and Morgaine struggled to press Siptah as close to the outer margin of the road as she could, rather than risk him.

  Panic seized the Shiua remaining; they turned their backs and began to flee up the road, and on them Morgaine had no mercy: she pursued them, and in her wake no bodies remained.

  Blackness waited beyond the turn, the shadow of the Dark Horn itself, upthrust against the sky, a wide flat a bowshot across where the road turned and enemies massed.

  Suddenly Kessun cried warning at a rattle of rock behind, for enemies poured off the rocks at their left flank, cutting them off from retreat.

  Witch-sword and plain steel: they held an instant; then Morgaine began to back against the rock of the Horn. These Shiua did not break and run: “Angharan!” they cried, knowing Morgaine, voices hoarse with hate. With pike and staff they pressed forward, demon-helms on the one side and marshlands rabble on the other.

  There was no more retreat. Lellin and Sezar, Sharrn and Kessun, had snatched themselves weapons such as they could off the dead, wooden spears and barbed lances. They set their backs against the jumbled rock of the Horn, the horses backed almost against it, and held, the while Changeling did its dread work.

  Then there was respite, a falling back, the enemy seeming exhausted, dazed by the lessening of their ranks, and raw abrasion of Gate-force loose in the area: hearing dimmed, skin seemed raw, breath seemed close. A man could bear that only so long.

  So could its wielder. Vanye spurred forward as the retreat spread, thinking Morgaine would attempt it, but she did not; he checked his impulse at once, appalled when he saw her face in the opal light. Sweat beaded her skin. She could not sheath the sword. He pried it from her fingers and felt the numbing force in his own bones, worse than it was wont to be. With that gone, she simply slumped against Siptah’s neck, undone, and he stayed beside her, the sword yet naked, for he wished to give their enemies no encouragement by sheathing it.

  “Let us try,” said Merir, moving up beside. “Our force added to yours. We might have distance enough here.”

  Morgaine sat up and shook her white hair back. “No,” she exclaimed. “No. The combination is too dangerous. It might still bridge, take us all, perhaps. No. And stay back. Your kind of barrier cannot turn weapons. We have seen that. You and the arrha—” She looked about, for the arrha was not with Merir. Vanye cast a quick look back too, and saw the small white figure poised halfway up the black rock, perched there forlornly . . . horse lost in the melee. “See she stays there,” Morgaine said. “Lord, go back, go back against the rock.”

  Then came a booming from far below, echoing up the height. Even the murmur of the enemy fell silent, and the faces of the arrhendim were for an instant bewildered.

  “Ram,” Vanye said hoarsely, shifting his grip on Changeling’s dragon-hilt. “The Lesser Horn will fall quickly now.”

  A shout arose from the enemy; they had also understood the sound and the meaning of it.

  “They will wait now,” Lellin judged, “till they can come at us with the help of those from the flat.”

 
“We ought to carry the attack to these uphill of us,” Morgaine said. “Sweep them from our path and try to reach Nehmin’s doors.”

  “We cannot,” Vanye said. “Our backs are at least to rock and we can hold that turning. Higher up—we have no guarantee there is a place to stand.”

  Morgaine nodded slowly. “If they grow cautious of us, we may last a little time—maybe long enough to make a difference for the arrhend. At least we carry food and water. Matters could be worse.”

  “We have not eaten today,” Sezar exclaimed.

  Morgaine laughed weakly at that, and others smiled. “Aye,” she said. “We have not. Perhaps we should take the chance.”

  “A drink at least,” said Sharrn, and Vanye realized the parchment dryness of his own throat, his lips cracked. He sipped at water of the flask Morgaine offered him, for he did not sheath the sword. And another flask went the rounds, fiery stuff that lent a little false warmth to shock-chilled bodies. In their lasting freedom from attack, Sezar broke a journeycake or two which they passed about; and Kessun went over to the arrha on her lonely perch, but she accepted only the drink, refusing the food.

  Anything of substance lay cold in the belly, indigestible; only the arrhendur liquor lent any comfort. Vanye wiped his eyes with the back of a bloody hand and suddenly became aware of silence.

  The ram had ceased.

  “Soon now,” Morgaine said. “Vanye, give me back the sword.”

  “Liyo—”

  “Give it to me.”

  He did so, hearing that tone; and his arm and shoulder ached, not alone from the shocks they had endured, but from the little time he had held it. It was worse than ever it had been. Jewel-force, he thought suddenly, in the fortress above us. Someone has one unmasked.

  And then with comforting clarity: They know that we are here.

  Not yet did the enemy come on them. There was a growing murmur from below, from the part of the trail which wound below the Dark Horn. The sound came nearer and louder, and now their enemies above rallied, waiting eagerly.

  “We simply hold,” Morgaine said. “Stay alive. That is all we can do.”

  “They come,” Kessun said.

  It was so. The dark mass of riders thundered up the road in the dark. They have erred, Vanye thought with grim joy; they choose speed over numbers. And then he saw the number of them and his heart sank, for they packed the road, filled it, coming on them leftward as the marshlanders surged forward on the right, slower than the riders who plunged between.

  Demon-helms, white-haired riders, and pikes and lances beyond counting in the moonlight . . . and there was one bareheaded.

  “Shien!” Vanye shouted in rage, knowing now who it was who had broken Roh’s defense, though Roh had spared him once. He checked his impulse on the instant: he had other concern, Shiua arrows on their flank. Morgaine fended those away, though one hit his mailed ribs and nigh drove the breath from him. Sharrn and Kessun spent their last several shafts in the other direction, into the riders . . . spent them well; and Lellin and Sezar gave good account of themselves with Shiua pikes. But constantly they were forced back against the rocks.

  A charge surged at them. Shien was the heart of it, and he came hard, seeing them without retreat. Horsemen plunged about them and Morgaine drove Siptah for the midst of them, aimed at Shien himself. She could not; man and rider Changeling took, but there were ever more of them, more pouring up the road, deafening clamor of steel and hooves.

  They were done. Vanye kept at her side, doing what he could; and only for an instant in the shying of a demon-helm from attack was there an opening. He rammed the spurs in with a manic yell and took it, broke through, swung an arm which itself was lead-weighted with sword and armor, but he was suddenly without hindrance.

  Shien knew him: the khal-lord’s face twisted in grim pleasure. The blade swung; rang off his, his off Shien’s in two passes. His exhausted horse staggered as Shien spurred forward and he lurched aside and felt the blade hit his back, numbing muscles. His left arm fell useless. He drove up straight-armed with his blade with force enough to unseat his elbow, and it grated off armor and hit flesh. Shien cried a shriek of rage and died, impaled on it.

  Gate-force swept near, Morgaine by him. The wind out of the dark took the man who came at him; the face went whirling away into dark, a tiny figure and lost. He reeled in the saddle, and while the reins were still tangled in the fingers of his left hand, the arm was lifeless, the horse unguided. Siptah shouldered it back; it staggered and turned with that shepherding as Morgaine tried to set herself twixt him and them.

  Then her eyes fixed aloft, toward the Horn.

  “No!” she cried, reining back. Vanye saw the white-robed arrha who stood with one arm thrust up, the shapes of men crawling up the height to reach her; but the arrha looked not at them, but to Morgaine, fist extended, white wraith against the rock.

  Then light flared, and dark bridged from Changeling’s tip to the Horn, cold and terrible. Rocks whirled away vast and then eye-wrenchingly small; and riders and horses, debris sucked screaming into a starry void. The white form of the arrha glowed and streamed into that wind, vanished. Abruptly light went, all save Changeling itself, while the earth shook and rumbled.

  Horses shied back and forward, and part of the road went. Rock tumbled over the side, taking riders with it; rock tumbled from the height, and poured over the edge. Those riders nearest cried out in terror, and Morgaine shrieked a curse and whipped a blow that took the man nearest.

  Few Shiua remained; they fled back, confounding themselves with the marshlanders. And Vanye cast his sword from his bloody fingers; with his right hand he dragged the reins from his useless left and kept with her.

  Some of the enemy attempted the slide itself, scrambling down the unstable rocks to escape; some huddled together in desperate defense, and a few of their own arrows returned from arrhendur bows shattered that.

  There was silence then. The balefire of Changeling lit a place of twisted bodies, riven rock, and seven of them who survived. Kessun lay dead, held in Sharrn’s arms: the old arrhen mourned in silence; the arrha was gone; Sezar had taken hurt, Lellin trying with shaking hands to tear a bandage for the wound.

  “Help me,” Morgaine asked in a broken voice.

  Vanye tried, letting go the reins, but she could not control her arm to give him the sword; it was Merir who rode to her right, Merir alone of them unscathed; and Merir who took the sword from her fingers, before Vanye could prevent it.

  Power . . . the shock of it reached Merir’s eyes, and thoughts were born there that were not good to see. For a moment Vanye reached for his dagger, thinking that he might hurl himself across Siptah—strike before Changeling took him and Morgaine.

  But then the old lord held it well aside, and asked the sheath; Morgaine gave it to him. The deadly force slipped within, and the light winked out, leaving them blind in the dark.

  “Take it back,” Merir said hoarsely. “That much wisdom I have gained in my many years. Take it back.”

  She did so, and tucked it against her like a recovered child, bowed over it. For a moment she remained so, exhausted. Then she flung her head back and looked about her, drawing breath.

  It was utter wreckage, the place where they had stood. No one moved. The horses hung their heads and shifted weight, spent, even Siptah. Vanye found feeling returning to his back and his fingers, and suddenly wished that it were not. He felt of his side and found riven leather and parted mail at the limit of his reach; whether he was bleeding he did not know, but he moved the shoulder and the bone seemed whole. He dismounted and limped over to pick up his discarded sword.

  Then he heard shouting from the distance below, and the heart froze in him. He returned to his horse and mounted with difficulty, and the others gathered themselves up, Sharrn delaying to take a quiver of arrows from a marshlander’s corpse. Lellin gathered up a bow and
quiver, armed now as he preferred. But Sezar was hardly able to get to the saddle.

  The sound was coming up from the foot of the road. It roared like the sea on rocks, as wild and confused.

  “Let us ride higher,” Morgaine said. “Beware ambush; but that rockfall may or may not have blocked off the road below us.”

  • • •

  They rode slowly, the only strength they and the horses had left, up the winding turns, blind in the dark. Morgaine would not draw the sword, and none wished her to. Up and up they wound, and amid the slow ring of the horses’ shod hooves there were sounds still drifting up at them out of the night.

  A great square arch loomed suddenly before them, and a vast hold built of the very stone of the hill. Nehmin: here if anywhere there should be resistance, and there was none. The great doors were scarred and dented with blows, a discarded ram before them, but they had held.

  Merir’s stone flashed once, twice, reddening his hand.

  Then slowly the great doors yielded inward, and they rode into a blaze of light, over polished floors, where a thin line of white-robed arrha awaited them.

  “You are she,” said the eldest, “about whom we were warned.”

  “Aye,” Morgaine said.

  The elder bowed, to her and to Merir, and all the others inclined themselves dutifully.

  “We have one wounded,” Morgaine said wearily. “The rest of us will go outside and watch. We have advantage here, if we do not let ourselves be attacked by stealth. By your leave, sir.”

  “I will go,” said Sezar, though his face was drawn and seemed older than his years. “You shall not,” Lellin said. “But I will watch with them for you.”

  Sezar nodded surrender then, and slipped down from his horse. If there had not been an arrha close at hand, he would have fallen.