Count Baesil shot a hard look at her. “Without even fighting for the first line?”

Seriene swallowed. “There’s powerful magic at work here, and I have no idea what it might be,” she said. “Give the signal for retreat. I beg you!”

Baesil looked at Gaelin. “Should I, Mhor Gaelin?”

Gaelin’s stomach was knotted up. “All right. We’ll give Bannier the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he didn’t just bluff us out of our position. Fall back.”

The bannerman raised the signal. Along the rampart, the Mhorien soldiers stepped back, hesitating. A few began to slide down the near side of the rampart, or milled about trying to keep in ranks.

In that moment, a black mist began to rise from the ground, surrounding the earthworks. Dark corruption welled silently out of the ground, a spring of blackness, as if the ground itself was burning and giving off smoke of purest midnight.

The stuff swelled up from the earth, sending tendrils of inky fog racing ahead to catch and envelop the re t reating Mhoriens.

Men shouted and screamed in fright. Many broke and ran rather than face the darkness, while others held their ground on the ramparts while the sea of ebon mists lapped around their feet and then rose to overwhelm them.

“By Haelyn! What sorcery is this?” said Gaelin.

Seriene’s eyes were wide with terror. “It cannot be! No one is strong enough to do that!”

“Seriene! What is it? What’s he doing?”

The princess only shook her head in horror. “We must flee.

Now! Or we are lost, too!”

Gaelin looked out over the battlefield, where his men were vanishing into the dark mists. He heard their screams and shouts, and a dim clangor that might have been the clash of arms heard from an impossible distance. Here and there, a few men were outdistancing the encroaching mist, fleeing the scene. Even as he watched, the center of his line was overwhelmed; a knot of sixty or seventy men stood on top of the rampart, back to back, while the mist surged and seethed over them. With the earthworks inundated in darkness, the mist started rolling uphill toward the rise where Gaelin and his guards waited. It moved with malign intelligence and speed. “I can’t leave them here!” Gaelin cried. “I can’t abandon them!”

Baesil Ceried leaned over and caught Blackbrand’s reins, turning the horse toward the rear. “That’s fine, my lord Mhor, but I don’t know how we can fight that. Let’s go!”

Gaelin threw one more glance over his shoulder. The mist was receding from the earthworks now, having flowed over and past the ditch and dike. There was no one there. The mantles and stakes still stood where they had been, unharmed, and here and there he saw a discarded helmet or a dropped bow – but of the men themselves, there was no sign. Eight hundred men had just vanished without a trace. And the thing that had taken them was now only a few yards short of Gaelin’s position, and gathering itself to lunge up the hill after him.

Gaelin spurred Blackbrand hard and fled for his life. Behind him, the Ghoerans cheered raggedly and ran forward in pursuit of the few Mhoriens that remained, although they were careful not to follow the darkness too closely. Within another two hundred yards, the mist suddenly halted, roiling in place for a long moment, and then it sank down into the ground as quickly as it had risen. But now the Ghoeran cavalry was sweeping forward, charging ahead to ride down the surviving Mhoriens. They’d just barely missed annihilation by Bannier’s spell, but Tuorel’s horsemen would quickly overtake them. Gaelin cursed viciously.

Erin halted abruptly, wheeling to one side as the rest of the royal party streamed by. She took in the scene with one quick glance, and then raised her hands, singing under her breath.

In a moment, the coiling blackness returned, surging back up from the ground in the path of the Ghoerans who pursued them. In panic, Tuorel’s troops bolted back the way they had come.

Gaelin stopped in amazement. “Erin! How did you – ”

“It’s an illusion!” she replied. “I guessed that the Ghoerans would want nothing to do with that mist, after watching what it did to us.” She permitted herself a brief smile. “Let’s get out of here while it lasts.”

Beside her, Seriene nodded in appreciation. “Well done, Erin. I underestimated your talents for the Art.”

Erin glared at the princess, but did not reply. As they cantered away from the gap, Gaelin asked, “What was that, Seriene?

What did Bannier do?”

The princess shook her head. “I don’t know how he did it, Gaelin, but he summoned the Shadow World here. He must have a potent source of magic, in order to wield spells of that magnitude. And a dark source, at that.”

“Source? What do you mean?” Gaelin knew they should be making the best distance they could while Erin’s spell lasted, but this seemed important. He slowed down and stayed near the two women, as they picked their way back down the reverse slope of the pass.

Seriene replied, “A source is a place strong in magic, a place where a blooded wizard – or someone of elven descent, for that matter, since they’re magical in their own right – can tap into the power of the land itself to cast spells. Most spells, such as the shields you’ve seen me cast, draw their power from the caster’s skill and strength. But that’s nothing compared to the power of mebhaighl, the land’s magic.” She looked at him oddly. “Why do you ask?”

Gaelin shook his head. “When you mentioned the idea of a source, a thought occurred to me: Why would Bannier want to meet me at Caer Duirga? It’s in the middle of nowhere.

And I have this sense that something’s there. I can feel Mhoried, ever since I stood before the Red Oak, and now that I think about Caer Duirga, it feels like a sore that won’t heal.”

He tried to find the words to continue, but gave up. “I guess that’s not much help.”

Seriene reached out and took his hand. “On the contrary, Gaelin, if Caer Duirga hides the source of Bannier’s magic, I may be able to strike at him in a way he doesn’t expect. Can you take us there now?”

“We’re going there in a day or two anyway.”

“The sooner, the better,” Seriene said. “What I’ve got in mind could take several days.”

“Even if there’s nothing at Caer Duirga, we could use the time to prepare for your meeting with Bannier,” Erin pointed out. “Maybe we can set a trap for him.”

Gaelin considered it. “All right. We’d have to leave for Caer Duirga soon, in any event. We can cut across the highlands and make for it now.” He rode ahead to where Count Baesil was, surrounded by a few surviving officers, and matched Blackbrand’s pace with the general’s. Baesil’s face was an ashen mask of horror, but somehow he managed to keep control of himself and marshal the escaping Mhoriens.

With curt orders, he hammered at the fleeing men and directed their retreat. The survivors – mostly men of the reserve – were quickly forming into patchwork companies and abandoning the camp as it lay.

“Go back to Caer Winoene, and organize a retreat,” he told Baesil.

“Retreat? Where?” Baesil waved a hand at the northlands.

“If we have to flee into Torien or Marloer, we won’t be able to supply the army. We can’t give up Caer Winoene.”

“Well, what do you advise?”

“If I have some hope of relief, I’ll try to wait out a siege.”

Gaelin turned Blackbrand, circling Baesil as he looked for signs of the Ghoeran pursuit. Over the last month, he’d spoken with a hundred or more different lords, knights, and captains, but he had no idea how many would answer his call when the time came. “All right, then. Pull back to Caer Winoene and get ready to stand a siege. Somehow I’ll find a way to relieve you, hopefully within a couple of weeks.”

Baesil nodded. “I’ll hold the ruins at least that long. Where are you going?”

“I’m heading for Caer Duirga. Do me a favor, and try to maintain the illusion that I’m still with your army for a few days.” He grasped Baesil’s hand. “Haelyn light your path, Baesil.”