“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 hurled him clear again; Vanye unsheathed the sword, arid 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 Borrowers 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.