“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.