Gate of Ivrel

The ride around the rim was long, and they must stop several times to rest. The sun went down the other part of the sky and the clouds began to gather thickly over Ivrel’s cone, portending storm, a northern storm of the sort that sometimes whirled snow down on such valleys as this, north of Chya, but more often meant tree-cracking ice, and misery of men and beasts.

The storm hovered, sifting small amounts of sleet. The day grew dimmer. They paused for one last rest before moving onto the side of Ivrel.

And chaos burst upon them—their only warning a breath from Siptah, a shying of both their horses. Another moment and they would have been afoot. Half-lighting, Vanye sprang back to the saddle, whipped out his longsword and laid about him in the twilight at the forms that hurled at them from the woods and from the rocks, men of Hjemur, fur-clad men afoot at first, and then men on ponies. Fire laced the dark, Morgaine’s little weapon taking toll of men and horses without mercy.

They spurred through, reached the down-turning of the trail. The slope was alive with them. They clambered up on foot, dark figures in the twilight, and not all of them looked human.

Knives flashed as the horde closed with them, threatening the vulnerable legs and bellies of the horses, and they fought and spurred the horses, turning them for whatever least resistance they could find for escape. Morgaine cried out, kicked a man in the face and rode him down. Vanye drove his heels into the black’s flanks and sent the horse flying in Siptah’s wake.

There was no hope in fighting. His liyo was doing the most sensible thing, laying quirt to the laboring gray, putting the big horse to the limit, even if it drove them off their chosen way; and Vanye did the same, his heart in his throat no less for the way they rode than for the pursuit behind them—skidding down a rocky slope, threading the blind shadows along unknown trail and through a narrow defile in the rocks to reach the flat to Irien’s west.

There, weary as their horses were, they had the advantage over the Hjemurn ponies that followed them, for the horses’ long legs devoured the ground, and at last pursuit seemed failing.

Then out of the west, riders appeared ahead of them, coming from the narrow crease of hills, an arc of riders that swept to enclose them, thrusting them back.

Morgaine turned yet again, charging them at their outer edge, trying to slip that arc before it cut them off from the north, refusing to be thrust back into the ambush at Irien. Siptah could hardly run now. He faltered. They were not going to make it. And here she reined in, weapon in hand, and Vanye drew the winded black in beside her, sword drawn, to guard her left.

The riders ringed them about on all sides now, and began to close inward.

‘The horses are done,” Vanye said. “Lady, I think we shall die here.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” she said. “Stay clear of me, ilin. Do not cross in front of me or even ride even with me.”

And then he knew the spotted pony of one that was at the head of the others, ordering his riders to come inward; and near him there was the blaze-faced bay that he expected to see.

They were Morij riders, that ran the border by Alis Kaje, and sometimes harried even into this land when Hjemur’s forces or Chya’s grew restive.

He snatched at Morgaine’s arm, received at once an angry look, quick suspicion. Terror.

“They are Morij,” he pleaded with her. “My clan. Nhi. Liyo, take none of their lives. My father—he is their lord, and he is not a forgiving man, but he is honorable. Ilin’s law says my crimes cannot taint you: and whatever you have done, Morija has no bloodfeud with you. Please, lady. Do not take these men’s lives.”

She considered; but it was sense that he argued with her, and she must know it. The horses were likely to die under them if they must go on running. There would likely be more Hjemurn forces to the north even if they should break clear now. Here was refuge, if no welcome. She lowered her weapon.

“On your soul,” she hissed at him. “On your soul, if you lie to me in this.”

“That is the condition of my oath,” he said, shaken, “and you have known that as long as I have been with you. I would not betray you. On my soul, liyo.”

The weapon went back into its place. “Speak to them,” she said then. “And if you have not a dozen arrows in you—I will be willing to go with them on your word.”

He put up his sword and lifted his hands wide, prodding the exhausted black a little forward, until he was within hailing distance of the advancing riders, whose circle had never ceased to narrow.

“I am ilin,” he cried to them, for it was no honor to kill ilin without reckoning of his lord. “I am Nhi Vanye. Nhi Paren, Paren, Lellen’s-son—you know my voice.”

“Whose service, ilin Nhi Vanye?” came back Paren’s voice, gruff and familiar and blessedly welcome.