It was graven with runes upon its metal pillars, but the gate was iron and wood, like the door of many an ordinary fortress; and when Erij drew Changeling and touched its black field to the joining of the doors the air sang with the groan of metals. The doors parted their joinings, and the pillars too, and stone rumbled, loosed from its supports. Dust choked them, and when it cleared a mass of rubble partly blocked the entry.
Erij gazed but a moment at the destruction he had wrought, then clambered over the rubble and sought the echoing inside of the place, which burned with light no fires supplied.
Vanye hurried through, asweat with dread, snatched up a sizable rock in the process, and as Erij started to look back at him, smashed it to Erijs helmeted skull. It was not enough. Erij fell, but still retained half-senses and heaved up with the blade.
Vanye saw it coming, twisted to evade the shimmer, kicked Erijs arm so that it wrung from him a cry of pain, and the sword fell.
He snatched it up then, gazed down on his brother, whose face was contorted with fury and fear. Erij cursed him, deliberately and with thought, such that it chilled his blood.
He took the sheath from Erij, who did not resist him; and upon an impulse to pity for Erij, he cast down Erijs own longsword.
Arrows flew.
He heard their loosing even before he whirled and knew they had come from the stairs, but Changeling in his warding hand made an easy path to elsewhere for the arrows, and they both remained unharmed. He knew the swords properties, had seen Morgaine wield it, and knew its uses in ways Erij did not. Erij would as likely have taken an arrow as not.
And perhaps Erij understood that fact, or understood at the least that continuing their private dispute could be fatal to them both: Erij gathered up the longsword with but a glowering promise in his eyes, and rose, following as Vanye began to lead the way.
Killing a man from behind was an easy matter, even were he in mail; but Erij needed more hands than one: he risked everything on it.
And quickly he dismissed the threat of Erij from his mind, overwhelmed by the alien place. Breath almost failed him when he considered the size of the hall, the multitude of doors and stairs. Morgaine had sent him here ignorant, and there was nothing to do but probe every hall, every hiding place, until he either found what he was seeking or his enemies found his back.
Save that, held straight before them, Changeling gave forth a brighter glow, and when lifted, sent a coursing of impulses through the dragon-hilt, such that it seemed to live.
Carefully, Erij treading in his wake, he took the stairs to the level above.
They found a hall very like the one below, save that at its end there was a metal door, of that shining metal very like the pillars of the Witchfires. Changeling began to emit a sound, a bone-piercing hum that made his fingers ache; it grew stronger as he neared it. He ran toward that gate, figuring speed their best defense against a rally from Hjemurn: and froze, startled, as that vast door lightly parted to welcome him.
And startled more by the sight of gleaming metal and light that stretched away into distance, glowing with colors and humming with the power of the fires themselves. Changeling throbbed, his arm growing numb from holding it.
The field directed at its own source of power would effect the ruin of all the Gates.
The pulsing of conflicting powers reached up his arm into his brain, and he did not know whether the blades wailing was in the air or in his own outraged senses.
He lifted it, expecting death, found instead that it did not much worsen, save when he angled it right. Then the pain increased.
Vanye, Erij shouted at him, catching his shoulder. He saw stark fear on his brothers face.
This is the way, Vanye said to him. Stay here, guard my back. But Erij did not. He knew his brothers presence close behind him as he entered that hall.
He understood now: it greatly disagreed with Morgaines careful nature, to have expected him to carry out so important a thing with so few instructions. There had been no need: the sword itself guided them, by its impulses of sound and pain. After a time of walking down that glowing corridor of qujalin works, the sound wiped out other senses until nothing but vision was left.
And in that vision stood an old man, hairless and wrinkled and robed in gray, who held out hands to them and mouthed silent words, pleading. Blood marred his aged face.
Vanye lifted the sword, threatening with that dreadful point, but the vision would not yield, barring their path with his very life.
Thiye, some sense told him: Thiye Thiyes-son, lord of Hjemur.
All at once the old man fell, clawing at the air, and there was an arrow in the robes at his back, and the red blood spreading.
A figure stood clear of the hall behind, gray and green, the young lord of Chya, lowering his bow. With sudden, breathless haste, Roh started toward them, slinging his strung bow to his back.
Vanye sought Changelings sheath at once, hope surging in him. The sudden silence in the air as that point found its proper haven was overwhelming: his abused ears could hardly hear Rohs voice. He felt Rohs eager hands grasp his arms, distant even from that sensation.
Vanye, cousin, Roh cried, ignoring the threat of his blood-enemy Erij who stood beside, sword in hand. Cousin, ThiyeLiellthey are at odds. Morgaine escaped them both, but
Is she alive? Vanye demanded.
Alive, aye, well alive. She had the hold, Vanye. She means to destroy it. Come, come, clear this place. It will tumble down stone from stone. Hurry.
Where is she?
Rohs eyes gestured up, toward the stairs. Barricaded up there, with her weapons in her possession again, and willing to kill anyone who comes within range. Vanye, do not try to reach her. She is mad. She will kill you too. You cannot reason with her.
Liell?
Dead. They are all dead, and most of Thiyes servants are fled. You are free of your oath, Vanye. You are free. Escape this place. There is no need of your dying.
Rohs fingers tugged at him, his dark eyes full of agony; but of a sudden Vanye broke the hold and began to run toward the stairs upward. Then he looked back. Roh hesitated, then began to run in the other direction, vanishing quickly toward the safety of the downward stairs, a wraith in green. Erij cast a look in either direction, as if torn between, then raced toward the ascending stairs, longsword in hand, pointed it at Vanye, his eyes wild.
Thiye is dead, Erij said. He is dead. Your oath to the witch is done. Now stop her.
The fact of it hit him like a hammer blow: he stared helplessly at Erij, owning the justice of his claim, trying to think where his obligation truly lay. Then he shook off everything and suspended thought: his duty to either one lay in reaching Morgaine with all possible speed.
He turned and ran, taking the steps two at a time, unto he came up, breathless, into yet another hall like the one below.
And confronted Morgaine, as Roh had warned him, hale and well and facing them both with the deadly black weapon secure in her hand.
Liyo! he cried, flung up his empty hand as if that alone could ward off harm, and with the other cast Changeling at her feet.
No! Erij cried in fury, but bit off further protest as Morgaine smoothly gathered the sheathed blade up, yet keeping the black weapon trained upon them. Then she lowered it.
Vanye, said Morgaine. Well met.
And she joined them, and began to descend the stairs from which they had come, carefully, trusting Vanye at her back; of a sudden he surmised what she sought thus cautiously.