Three hours after they left camp, they found themselves standing on the black, crumbling rock of Caer Duirga’s crest.
The air was cold and clear, almost unnaturally so, as if the hill was crowned in dark ice. Gaelin’s legs quivered in exhaustion, and his hands ached from a variety of small cuts and strains. Few of the others were in any better shape, and for a good twenty minutes they simply dropped onto boulders or flat spaces and caught their breath, shivering with the cold.
The guards’ jests and gibes fell flat in the desolate air of the place, and they soon lapsed into silence.
Seriene stood and began to examine the area, circling around their impromptu campsite. The hill crest itself was easily three hundred feet in width, and ran for half a mile to the east before descending into a rough jumble of broken rock and wiry thickets. The land was surprisingly level, and Gaelin found himself imagining that the rocky spires rising from the top of the hill were indeed an ancient keep, ossified or engulfed by the hill long ago. Seriene moved off slowly, examining the rocks while she muttered to herself and made strange passes with her hands. With a groan, Gaelin stood and followed her; he wasn’t about to let anyone wander out of sight.
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.”