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.