For the next hour, Seriene carefully circled the whole hilltop, leaving no inch of ground uncovered. At length, she returned to the place where they had first scrambled up, her face tight with concern. “There’s no doubt that this place conceals a powerful source of dark mebhaighl,” she reported, grimacing.
“I can well believe there was an ancient power that laired here. It stained the place with evil. Can any of you sense it?”
Erin nodded silently. Gaelin agreed. “The whole place gives me the shivers,” he admitted. “I can feel it watching us.”
Seriene nodded at the dark fissures that ran back mazelike into the hill’s heart. “You feel the mebhaighl,” she said. “Bannier’s source of power is very close.”
“What? Is it here?”
“Almost, but not quite. It actually lies within the Shadow World, but this is the place that corresponds to its location on the other side.”
“Could Bannier harness such a thing?” he asked.
Seriene nodded gravely. “There are powers in the darkness, powers with which a wizard of skill and strength can ally himself.”
Erin joined the conversation. “It would explain much, Gaelin. Think of the enchantment we saw Bannier weave just a few days ago to destroy your army at Marnevale.”
“What can we do about this? Is there any way to sever his connection with the Shadow?” Gaelin asked.
“Not from here, no,” Seriene replied. “But within the Shadow, things may be different.”
“You can’t mean to go there!” Gaelin cried.
Seriene’s eyes glittered. “It’s only a step away, Gaelin. Anywhere you go, it’s right there. Behind the mirror, in the shadow of a tomb, we’re never far from the twilight world.
It’s dangerous, yes, but I’ve been there before.”
Erin nodded. “It’s said that the last emperor, Michael Roele, led his army through the Shadow a number of times in order to confound his enemies.” She looked at the overcast skies and the bleak stones of the hillside. “Although I doubt he sought out places like this when he passed the door of night.”
“Well, Gaelin?” Seriene watched him, allowing him no respite. “Ilwyn may be imprisoned only a few dozen yards from where we stand.”
He shuddered. “Very well, although I don’t like it.”
The princess said, “Gather everyone near. I will open a doorway – it shouldn’t be hard, not here – and we will go inside.
I’ll be first, and then everyone else will follow, one at a time.”
“Can we get back, once we go over?” said Erin.
Seriene raised her hands. “Unless there’s something on the other side to preclude it,” she replied. “Would you feel better if I scouted it out first?”
Gaelin stepped in. “No, we won’t divide ourselves. If there’s trouble, I don’t want Seriene to face it alone.” He called Boeric, Bull, and the other guards over, and explained the situation to them. Not surprisingly, the men were not pleased by the prospect, but they did an admirable job of restraining their protests.
“Time to own up to my word,” Bull observed with a nervous laugh. “When I signed up I swore I’d follow the Mhor anywhere, and I guess he’s decided to take me up on it.”
Seriene stepped a little way from the soldiers, stopping in front of a black crevice in the rock. Facing the dark opening, she began to chant softly under her breath, her hands crooked into strange gestures. Gaelin wondered just how powerful a sorceress she was; it certainly seemed that this was no casual enchantment she wove. In a moment, the shadows between the stones suddenly grew darker and more tangible, seeming to writhe and flutter of their own volition as the princess finished her spell. Over her shoulder, she said, “Follow me, and stay close. You don’t want to get lost on the other side.” Then she stepped into the darkness and was gone, as if the gloom had swallowed her alive.
Gaelin hesitated. For a moment he wrestled with his fear, but then he realized that Seriene was waiting, alone on the other side. Steeling himself, he stepped forward quickly and followed, letting the darkness embrace him.
*****
Within two days of setting the siege, the Ghoeran artillerists had small engines ready for firing, and the great trebuchets were rising at a slow but steady pace.
Of course, the heaviest of boulders did little to earthen ramparts, such as those the Mhoriens had raised to bolster their defenses. Tuorel had already attempted one impetuous assault in the dark of night. The Mhoriens had repelled the attack after an hour of hard fighting. The baron’s temper showed signs of fraying already; he muttered to himself and paced anxiously as he waited for Bannier to complete his work. Beside him, Baehemon stood, as immobile as a mountain, his thick arms folded across his chest.
Bannier supervised a team of artillerists as they readied a catapult at his direction. In the catapult’s sling lay a small cask, about twice the size of a man’s head. He examined its seals and the runes carved upon its exterior. He’d spent the better part of a day preparing the vessel, and another day filling it with a potent incendiary. Unlike the spells he used at Marnevale or Shieldhaven, this particular enchantment required nothing more than a knowledge of the magical arts; he had no need to harness the land’s mebhaighl in order to power the spell.
“By all appearances, you intend to fling brandy casks at the Mhoriens in the hope of getting them drunk,” drawled Baehemon.
“What agent is so noxious that a single blow from a tiny cask will bring the Mhoriens’ defenses crumbling to the ground?”
Bannier ignored the commander’s scorn. “Be patient. And I didn’t promise ‘a single blow,’ Baehemon. You may need to throw several of these for the desired results.”
“So? What is it?” Tuorel turned, locking his eyes on Bannier.
“You have heard of the hell-powder used by Khinasi wizards?”
“Aye. It causes a great burst of flame and smoke, shattering anything near. But I’ve heard that you need a great hogshead of the stuff to damage a castle or knock down a gate.”
Bannier smiled. “Those fools just don’t know how to mix it properly.” He traced one last set of designs on the cask. “This is a perfect mixture, much more potent than the Khinasi dirt.
And its power is augmented many times by the spells I’ve laid upon the vessel. The results should be spectacular.”
Baehemon waved one hand at the Mhorien lines. “I still see no gates to breach with your hell-powder, wizard.”
With a shrug, Bannier completed his last enchantments and stood back. He nodded at the captain in charge of the catapult, who set a couple of burly soldiers to the task of winching the arm back into its firing position. The wheel clanked and g roaned against the strain of the powerful torsion. “I believe this mixture may be capable of leveling the ramparts, anyway, ” he observed. “Baron Tuorel, with your permission?”
Tuorel grinned in anticipation. “By all means, proceed.”
Bannier nodded to the captain. The fellow leaned forward and knocked the restraining arm free with a single skillful blow of a small sledge. The machine bucked, and the arm slammed into its forward rest with a muffled thump! His eye caught the tiny shape of the cask hurtling through the air, tumbling headlong as it curved through the sky in a high, lazy arc. “Watch where it hits,” he said, quite unnecessarily.
The cask began to descend toward the low earthen battlements, quickly vanishing against the background of dark hills.
Then a colossal explosion in the center of the line threw a column of dirt a hundred feet or more into the air, with a mighty roar that slapped at their faces even from several hundred yards away. Stones and timbers rained down around the Mhoried lines. The captain standing next to Bannier shucked his helmet and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “By Cuiraecen’s hammer!”
They waited for the smoke and dust to dissipate enough to survey the damage. A light drizzle helped settle the plume, and within a few minutes they could see that a ten-yard section of the earthworks was simply gone, blown to
nothing.
Even as the ringing echoes of the blast died, they could hear the cries of consternation drifting from the Mhorien lines. “A well-aimed shot, Captain,” said Bannier. “You struck the rampart dead-on.”
“Thank you, my lord. It was tricky, with such a light projectile.”
The officer signaled to his men, who started the tedious process of realigning the siege engine. Two more artillerists brought up another of Bannier’s casks, handling it with more care than they had shown a few minutes ago.
Tuorel leaped up on top of the earthworks, to gain a better view. He smacked one fist into the other. “Excellent, Bannier!
Afew more missiles like that, and their rampart will be completely untenable! We will prepare for another assault at sundown!”
Bannier bowed. “I shall leave this work in the hands of your capable artillerists, my lord baron. There is a sufficient supply of missiles to sustain the bombardment for a day or so.”
“You’re not staying to watch?”
“I am afraid I have an engagement elsewhere,” Bannier said. He bowed again, shouldered his satchel, and turned to go.
“Bannier, wait a moment,” Tuorel said. He joined the wizard and paced beside him. “Are you finished with Ilwyn?”
“Ilwyn? She is mine, by the terms of our agreement.”
“I know, I don’t dispute that. I ask because Count Dhalsiel of Mhoried has asked me about her.”
“Surely you couldn’t care less what Cuille Dhalsiel thinks?”
Tuorel looked out over the battlefield. “You may recall that I secured his neutrality with a false promise. If he realizes that I lied to him, he hasn’t dared to speak his mind. He knows his place now.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“I told him that she was your captive, and I had nothing to do with her fate.” Tuorel returned his attention to Bannier.
“He has guessed that the Mhoried bloodline is your prize, but he wanted me to ask you to consider stripping her of the bloodline through divestiture, instead of killing her outright.”
Bannier smiled. “I’m afraid the decision is out of my hands. If the young count asks you about her again, tell him that Princess Ilwyn died attempting to escape.”
Tuorel nodded. “Very well.” He watched Bannier vanish among the tents and fires of the Ghoeran camp. A moment later, the catapult thrummed as another deadly bomb was hurled at the Mhorien lines.
*****
The cold drew Gaelin’s breath away as he stumbled through the door into darkness. All around him were shadows and a bone-numbing chill, but then Seriene’s hand caught his arm, and she moved him away from the door.
“Stand aside, Gaelin. The others will be following.”
He noticed that her voice had a curious ringing quality, as if the very properties of sound were altered by the bitter air.
He let her guide him a few steps away, and stood there blinking as he tried to get his bearings. Surprisingly, it wasn’t completely dark. In fact, his eyes were rapidly adjusting to a deep gloom, similar to a winter night an hour or so after the sun goes down. The sky was clear and dark, but instead of the warm and friendly stars that should have been there, only a handful of dim and hateful lights flickered weakly in the heavens.
Gaelin turned slowly, peering into the shadows that surrounded them and gasped in astonishment. They hadn’t gone anywhere! Everything was just as he had left it – the rise and fall of the land, the black towers of stone, even the bleak and twisted vegetation. The only thing that had changed was the preternatural darkness that lay over the landscape, and the gnawing cold. He could still see for several miles, taking in the surrounding hills and fields, but it was like looking at the world through smoked glass, and it hurt his eyes to peer too far.
Seriene, too, had changed subtly. She was limned by a strange blur, a soft and otherworldly radiance, while her fair complexion seemed paler and more brittle than bone.
Alarmed, he examined his hands and torso, and found that he, too, was as insubstantial as the sorceress. But instead of the shimmering glow that surrounded Seriene, he seemed to blaze with a vital green fire, an aura that mantled him like a king’s robe. The last time he had seen this manifestation of his bloodline was when he had inherited the regency of Mhoried, on the banks of the Stonebyrn.
There was a ripple of dim light in the air, and Erin stepped through. She was disoriented for a moment, until Seriene directed her to one side. “Help those who follow, Gaelin,” Seriene instructed. “Keeping this doorway open takes most of my concentration.”
Gaelin grasped Erin’s hand and drew her away from the door. The minstrel’s eyes glimmered with a strange violet light – her Sidhelien blood, Gaelin guessed – and she oriented herself much faster than Gaelin. Erin appeared as unnaturally pale as Seriene and himself, but her nimbus was not as strong as either of their own. A shudder racked her frame, and she gasped for breath. “So – cold,” she breathed. “Gaelin, you’re shining. You’re more real here than I am.”
“It must be my bloodline,” he said. “Are you all right?”
Erin leaned into his body, seeking warmth. “So this is the Shadow World,” she said. Her voice, too, had that strange clarity. “I don’t like it.”
“This isn’t a place for us, that’s for certain,” Gaelin agreed.
In short order, the rest of their party followed. Gaelin noticed that Bull, Boeric, and the other guardsmen had only the weakest of auras. When the last of the men stepped through, Seriene dropped her arms, her shoulders sagging, and Gaelin realized that her aura had dimmed noticeably since he had first come through – her exhaustion was tangible and visible here. She rallied and motioned for everyone’s attention.
“Welcome to the Shadow World,” she said with a weak smile. “This is an extremely dangerous place. Don’t wander off by yourself. If you do, I will never find you. Perspective and distance are tricky here, and your sense of time can play tricks on you. Keep track of where you are, where your companions are, and most importantly, where I am. I can’t shepherd you around and do what I need to do here.
“Do not get curious. Don’t look behind boulders or trees.
There are creatures here that can end your life in the blink of an eye, so don’t go looking for them.
“Finally, stay awake and stay alert. There are powers in the darkness that can enter your mind when your defenses are lowered. You may find strange ideas and urges coming into your head. Don’t listen to them!” Seriene paused. “Any questions?”
A few guards shuffled their feet or glanced at each other nervously. Gaelin squeezed Erin’s hand and was sur- prised to find her trembling in cold or fear. Seriene nodded.
“Very well. Follow me, and stay close.”
They set off, winding back toward the center of the hill. It was a march of only a couple of hundred yards on the other side, but here it seemed to take much longer. As they moved on through the darkness, Gaelin became aware of a watchfulness about Caer Duirga that was much more immediate and malevolent than the simple uneasiness he’d felt about the place in the daylight world. He caught up to Seriene. “Where are we going?”
“Bannier’s source,” she answered. “Can’t you feel it?”
“I feel something wrong here, but… wait, I do feel it. It’s stronger up ahead, isn’t it?”
Seriene nodded. “If you were a mage, you would be able to see what I see now. It’s unmistakable.” Glancing at Gaelin, she halted and took his hand. “Actually, you may be able to see it anyway. Close your eyes a moment, and then look again.”
Gaelin did so. When he looked again, he saw a thin purple column of energy rising from behind the hillocks just ahead, arrowing into the sky. A few hundred feet overhead, the column suddenly divided into a dozen razor-thin lines of lambent fire that arched away into the darkness. “Haelyn’s shield! What is it?”
“You’re seeing the raw stuff of magic, mebhaighl caught and corrupted here by Bannier’s sorcery. The smaller ones are ley li
nes, running away from here to other places where Bannier desires to tap this power.” Seriene pointed at the low, dark rocks that blocked their view of the foot of the column. “His source must be just over that rise.” Cold vapors formed from her words. She released his hand, and to Gaelin’s eyes the crackling, thrumming energy slowly faded from view – but now that he knew where to look, he could still feel it on his face, just as a blind man can feel the heat of a fire without seeing its light.
They continued forward, climbing up the last hillside, a shelf of rock that crowned Caer Duirga like a turret on top of a castle. At its crest, they found themselves looking down into a small hollow, a bowl-shaped space in the mountain’s center.
There, a great ring of ancient standing stones leaned drunkenly around a black slab or altar. On the far side was a gloomy mass of trees. Gaelin was certain no such place existed on the other side – the stones and the altar must have waited here in the Shadow for ages. He started to say something to Seriene, but then his eyes caught a pale wisp of white trapped in the menacing darkness. “Ilwyn!”
He drew his sword and started forward at once, but Seriene quickly caught him. “No, Gaelin!”
“But that’s Ilwyn!”
“It may be Ilwyn, Gaelin. Remember, things aren’t always as they seem here. And Bannier has not left her unguarded.”
Gaelin halted, frowning. “I don’t see anything.”
“You don’t, but I do,” Seriene replied. “We must be very careful how we approach this place; Bannier has woven traps all around this vale, and I can only guess he may have some here that even I can’t see.”
He growled in frustration, lowering the blade. “But we’re so close! Are we going to wait until Bannier himself appears to show us the way in?”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 27