The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  But the sound of pursuit was almost upon them, and she touched the spurs to Siptah and led them forward, circling within the fringe of trees, riding the bow of the clearing.

  She meant a run with the White Hill between her and Nehmin, Vanye realized; it was what he would have done, running at the horde on the flat from an angle such that they had cover for at least a portion of their ride.

  “They are on us!” Kessun cried; they looked back and the foremost of their pursuers had broken through, riders stringing out in wild disorder, cutting across the open to head them off while they still rode the arc.

  But at the same moment Morgaine veered out into the open, and meant to lead them from under the face of that charge, riding for the White Hill.

  “Go!” she shouted. “Lellin, Sezar, Merir, ride while you can. We will shake these from our heels and overtake you. The rest of you, stay by me.”

  Well-done, Vanye thought; the unarmed five of their party had cover enough in which to gain ground; the nine armed had cover in which to deal with these rash pursuers. He disdained the bow: he had no skill at firing from horseback. He was Nhi when he fought, and whipped out the Shiua longsword, at Morgaine’s left. Perrin and Vis, Roh, Sharrn, Dev, Larrel and Kessun: their arrows flew and riders went down; and Morgaine’s lesser weapon laced red fire across the front of the charge which met them. Horses and riders went down, screaming, and even so a handful broke through. Demon-helms, their barbed lances lowered, with a straggling horde of marshlands foot panting behind.

  The charge reached them: Vanye fell to the side Nhi-style, simply not there when the lance passed, and the good horse held steady as he came thrusting up again, blade aimed for that rider. The khal saw it coming, horrified, for the lance point was beyond and his sword inside the defense. Then his point drove into the undefended throat and the khal pitched over his horse’s rump, carried on the force of it.

  “Hai!” he heard at his side, and there was Roh, longsword flashing through khalur defense—no plains-fighter, the Chya lord, but there was an empty saddle where there had been a khal about to skewer him.

  Others came on them; one rider pitched from the saddle short of them, a red streak of fire for his undoing. Vanye trusted to Morgaine’s aim and took the gift, aiming for the rider hard behind, whose half-helmed face registered horror to find an enemy on him before he expected and his own guard breached. Vanye cut him down and found himself and Roh enmeshed in marshlands rabble. That dissolved in terror at what fire Morgaine sent across their mass, cutting down men indiscriminately, so that dying fell on dead. Grass was burning. The trampling of feet put it out as the horde turned in panic. Arrhendur arrows and Morgaine’s bolts pursued them without mercy, cutting down the hindmost in windrows of dead and dying.

  Vanye wheeled to turn back, chanced to look on Roh’s face, which was pale and grim and satisfied. And he turned further and saw Larrel on the ground with Kessun bending over him. From the amount of blood that covered him and Kessun there was no hope he could live; a khalur lance had taken the young qhal in the belly.

  Even as he watched, Kessun sprang up with bow in hand and sent three shafts in succession after the retreating Shiua. Whether they hit he did not see; the khemeis’ face ran with tears.

  “Horses!” Morgaine shouted. “Khemeis—get to horse! Your lord needs you!”

  Kessun hesitated, his young face twisted with grief and indecision. Then Sharrn ordered him the same, and he sprang to the saddle, leaving his arrhen among the Shiua dead. The shock had not yet hit Kessun. Vanye hurt for him, and remembered at the same time that they had two horseless members of their company . . . one, now: Perrin had caught Larrel’s.

  And Roh came up leading one of the Shiua mounts, even as they started to move. They struck a gallop and held it, and Kessun rode ever and again looking back.

  The White Hill lay before them, and their party neared it. Morgaine gave Siptah his head and the gray stretched out and ran with a speed which none of the arrhendur horses could match. Vanye dropped back in despair, but he looked on that craggy hill which rose so strangely out of the flat and of a sudden chill hit him as he considered how it seemed to stand sentinel to this approach.

  Morgaine wanted the others stopped short of arrowflight of that hill; Merir’s group was nearly there, moving at the best speed they could make with two horses carrying double, but she and the gray horse closed on them rapidly, the while they behind labored to stay with her. And she had their attention; the five waited at the last, seeing her desperate to overtake them, and in moments they all closed ranks, out of breath.

  “Larrel,” Merir mourned, seeing who it was who had fallen. Vanye recalled what Merir had said of a qhal dying young, and grieved for that; but he grieved more for the stricken khemeis who sat his horse with his hands braced on the saddle and his head bowed in tears.

  “Mount up,” Morgaine bade the arrha shortly; the young women scrambled uncertainly to the ground and Sezar helped them to the horses they were offered. Their handling of the reins was that of folk utterly unused to horses.

  “The horses will stay with the group,” Roh told them. “Keep the reins in your hands and do not pull back on them. Hold to the saddle if you think you will fall.”

  The arrha were frankly terrified. They nodded understanding, and held on at once when they started to move, the horses hardly more than loping. Vanye looked on the women and cursed, showed them how to turn and how to stop, thinking with horror of what must befall the helpless creatures when they rode full tilt into the Shiua horde. It was all there was time to give them. He shook his head at Roh, and received back a grim look.

  “Larrel was only the first,” Roh said; and that took no prophecy, for the arrhendim were not armed or armored for hand-to-hand. Only he, Roh, and Morgaine could fight that sort of battle. Vanye rode closer to Morgaine, taking his place by habit as much as clear thought; and it was impossible now to avoid the sight that faced them. Gray indistinct lines stretched across their whole horizon, the great rock of Nehmin behind. Their coming was not yet remarked or not yet known for attack: they might as well have been Shiua riders for all the main forces knew. The skirmish had not been seen because of the hill . . . and the approach of thirteen riders to that countless host could hardly seem threatening.

  “Look!” cried one of the arrha, gazing back, for there was a signal fire lit on the White Hill, a plume of smoke trailing out on the wind.

  And that was enough.

  The sound that went up from the Shiua horde was like that of the waves of the sea, and their number—the number was unimaginable even to a man who had seen forces in the field and knew how to estimate them: all that the camp on Azeroth had spilled forth, the refuse and scourings of a drowning world. Khalur riders poured out toward them, a troop of demon-helms, a cold sheen of metal and a forest of lances in the fading daylight.

  Then Vanye doubted their faintest hope of survival, for even if the marshlanders would flee and confound themselves by their own numbers, the Shiua riders would not: the khal knew what they attacked, had made up their minds, and came at Morgaine for hate. A hundred riders, two hundred, three hundred deep and twice that wide; a shout went up, drowned in the thunder of hooves.

  And of a sudden Merir drew even with them in the lead, the white mare easily matching strides with Siptah and the bay. “Fall behind,” the old lord urged them. “Fall back. Here the arrha and I are worth something, if anywhere.”

  Morgaine began to do so, falling back more and more, though Vanye shuddered at the sight of the old lord, out to the fore of them, and the frail white-robed arrha joining him in the face of those lances. Merir and his companions spread wide, and the horses shied with the arrha as Gate-force suddenly shimmered about them; one lost her seat and fell, a stunning blow; but the one on the horse which had been Larrel’s rode still with Merir.

  The downed arrha scrambled for her feet, scraped and shaken, child
like in her size and her helplessness. Vanye rode down on her and in a desperate maneuver leaned from the saddle and seized the back of the clothing as they seized the prize in riders’ games in Kursh . . . dragged the bemused girl belly-down across his saddle and kept going. Morgaine cursed him bitterly for his madness, and he flung her back a look of anguish.

  “Stay with me,” Morgaine shouted at him. “Throw her off if you must; stay with me.”

  “Hold on,” Vanye begged of the arrha; he could not do more for her. His horse was already laboring with that added burden. But the frail child struggled to rise, pounding her taut fist on his leg, until at last he realized that she yet held the jewel and wished him to know it. She was sore hurt; he thrust his sword into sheath and hauled her up with one hand by her robes, knowing what pain the saddle must be giving her. Thin arms went about his neck, held desperately: she dragged at one side and he leaned to the other. She flung a leg across his, relying on his balance with more courage than he had expected. The Shathana horse held steady with this shifting, staggered only a little, and when she had gained a hold he suddenly felt the queasiness of Gate-force about them: the arrha had unleashed the power of her jewel.

  He knew then what she wanted of him, and used the spurs, aimed himself forward with all the speed the horse had left . . . defying Morgaine’s direct order for one of a few times in their partnership. He pulled out to the side at the interval of Merir and the other arrha, hearing someone coming hard yet farther over; and it was, as he had thought . . . Morgaine.

  He gasped and the horse staggered as they joined that bridge of force, but the little arrha held tightly and he blinked his eyes clear as the serried line of lances came at them, near and distinct, like a forest horizontal.

  It was madness. They could not hit that mass and live.

  Senses denied it, even while the terror of Gate-force ripped the air along the line they held. He thought of Changeling added to that, and that frightened him the more; but Morgaine did not draw it. The red fire of her lesser weapon laced across the charge, merciless to horse and rider. Animals went down in a line; those behind tumbled after in a screaming tangle; and others went round them, some falling, but not enough. The lances came into their very faces.

  Vanye leaned aside as the Gate-force hit the rank like a scythe, tumbling horses and riders in the area of crossing forces; but the few riders nearest stayed ahorse, unaffected, flashing past most too dazed to strike well. Vanye could but lean and evade. A blade rang on his helm and shoulder as he bowed over the saddle and shielded the arrha as best he could. The horse stumbled badly, recovered by a valiant effort, and they rode over corpses and the unconscious; he was hit more than once, and then they broke into the clear, the horses running. Morgaine drew ahead of him, Siptah taking free rein for a space, with the marshlanders ahead of her. The rabble tried to hold their ground; a hedge of braced spears barred her way. Then Changeling flashed into the open, a force that hit his nerves and sent the horse staggering even at this distance. It stopped; the arrha had shielded her own. For an instant he thought himself clear.

  Then a hoarse shout warned him. He hurled the arrha off as he wheeled and leaned, holding to the mane only. Roh was there, and Lellin, and the rider that thundered past spun off over his horse’s tail. More Shiua came on. Vanye gained his seat and whipped out his sword, feeling his backing horse stumble over a body, recover under the brutal drive of the spurs.

  Hetharu. He saw the khal-lord coming down on him ahead of a trio of riders, and tried to gather himself to meet that charge. But Roh was already flashing past him, sword to sword with the khal with a shock of horse and metal, and Vanye veered instead for the rider at Hetharu’s right—swordsman likewise. The halfling shouted hate and cut at him; Vanye whipped the sword aside and cut for the neck, knowing the man at the last instant: Hetharu’s akil-drugged minion. He grimaced in disgust and reined about for the two that had sped behind him, expecting attack on his flank, but arrhendur arrows had robbed him of those. Roh needed no help; in his jolted vision he saw Hetharu of Ohtij-in flung nigh headless from the saddle, and themselves suddenly in a wide area where only corpses remained, corpses, a scattering of dazed men and horses only beginning to recover, and a handful of arrhendim, and the main body of the horde yet hazy with distance.

  He reined full about in desperation, seeking Morgaine—but he saw her then beyond them, she, and Merir, and a wide area where no dead lay and their enemies were in confused retreat. Changeling’s shimmer glowed moon-pale in the twilight, and his arm ached in sympathy, for he knew well what it was to wield it.

  Then he recalled another companion, and looked right, turning his horse . . . saw with a pang of shame the little arrha, her white garments torn and bloody, who had gained her feet and caught one of the dazed horses. She could not reach the stirrup; the horse shied from her. Sezar reached her before any other, reached across the saddle from the other side and pulled her up. Then Vanye called to the rest of them and they started moving forward anxious to close the interval between themselves and Morgaine and Merir, for the Shiua were recovering themselves and their clear space was about to be invaded.

  But Morgaine did not delay for them. Once she saw them coming she reined about and spurred Siptah into a charge, knifing toward the regrouping Shiua foot, driving them before her as they had scattered the first time. Arrows flashed about them, brief and short of the mark; the fleeing Shiua did not delay to fire again.

  The Lesser Horn loomed now distinct and near, rising out of the twilight; a road led up to it, and marshlanders and Shiua humans scattered off it as they came. Some lingered to die, whirled away into that darkness at Changeling’s tip; more fled, even casting down weapons in their terror, scrambling down the rocks at the side of the road.

  A vast gateway was open before them, and a dark interior with yet another open gate beyond, showing road and rocks in the fading light. Morgaine rode for that narrow shelter, and Merir beside her, the rest of them following in desperate haste, for arrows began to rattle on the stones about them. Then they gained the refuge, finding it empty—a fortress, of which the doors were splintered and riven, the near ones and the far. The horses skidded on the stone floor, hooves bringing echoes off the high arch above them, and stopped, hard breathing. Roh came in; and Lellin and Sezar; and Sharrn and Kessun and Perrin, the arrha with them. Vis came last and late. Perrin leaned from the saddle to embrace her, overwhelmed with relief, though the khemein was bloody and hurt.

  “Dev is not coming,” said Sharrn; tears glistening on the old arrhen’s face. “Kessun, we must make a pair now, we two.”

  “Aye, arrhen,” said Kessun steadily enough. “I am with you.”

  Morgaine rode slowly to the gate by which they had entered, but the Shiua seemed to have hesitance to charge the fortress, and had fallen back again. She found Changeling’s sheath and despite the tremor of her arm, managed to slide the blade in and still the fire. Then she leaned forward on the saddle, almost fell. Vanye dismounted and came to her side, reached up and took her down into his arms, overwhelmed with fear for her.

  “I am not hurt,” she said faintly, though sweat beaded her face. “I am not hurt.” He sank down on his knees with her and held her tightly until the trembling should leave her. It was reaction, the pain of the sword. They all settled, content for the moment simply to draw breath. The old lord was almost undone, and the little arrha lay down quietly sobbing, for she, like Sharrn and Kessun, was alone.

  “Doors.” Morgaine murmured suddenly, trying to gather herself. “Better see if there is any stir outside.”

  “Rest,” Vanye said, and rose and left her, picking his way back to the riven farther door of the fortress. There was little means to close those gates now, little left of them but splintered wreckage. He looked at what lay farther, a road up the height, winding turns indistinct in the gathering dusk. Sight of enemies there was none.

  “Lellin,” Morgaine said
elsewhere, and timbers crashed. She was on her feet by the other doorway, that by which they had entered, trying to move it alone. Lellin rose to help her; Vanye came to assist; others gathered themselves up, exhausted as they were. Down on the flat, in the gray distance across the clearing, there was a force massing, riders gathering, sweeping up the horde of foot and forcing them on, driving them rather than leading.

  “Well,” Roh said hoarsely, “they have learned. That is what they should have done before now, put the weight of bodies against us. Too late for Hetharu. But some other leader has taken them now, and they care not how many human folk they lose.”

  “We must get these doors closed,” Morgaine said.

  The hinges were broken; the doors, thick at the edges as a man’s arm, grated over the stone and bowed alarmingly close to coming apart as they threw their strength against them. They moved the other half as well, and that was too free at one point, for one hinge still held, but it too grated into place, with daylight between.

  “That big timber,” Roh said, indicating a rough, bark-covered log which had been an obstacle in the hall, amid the other fallen beams. “Their ram, doubtless. It can brace the center.”

  It was the best they had. They heaved it up with difficulty, braced it hard; but the broken gates could hardly stand long at any point if the Shiua brought another ram against it. The doors were a lattice of splinters, and though they braced them up with beams and debris from the rear doors, they could not stop them from bowing at their weak points, even to one man’s strength.

  “It is not going to hold,” Vanye declared in despair, leaning head and arms against it. He looked at Morgaine and saw the same written on her face, exhausted as she was, her face barred with the half-light that sifted through their barricade.

  “If,” she said in a faint voice, “if those higher up this hill have not attacked us down here it can only be for one cause: that they see the others coming. They are waiting for that, to hit us from both sides at once and pin us here. And if we do not stop them from attacking Nehmin itself, then ultimately they can batter down its gates. Vanye, we have no choice. We cannot hold this place.”