Acherontia, Pride of Cintra, Pandora Parvi and two galleons Geralt didn’t recognise raised their anchors and the waves bore them to the shore. This strategy was only seemingly an act of suicidal desperation. The captains had to choose between certain destruction in the bay and the risky manoeuvre of sailing into the river mouth.

The unknown galleons had no chance. Neither of them managed to align itself correctly. Both were smashed against the wharf.

Pride of Cintra and Acherontia lost their manoeuvrability too. They lurched into each other and became entangled, the waves tossing them onto the wharf and rending them to shreds. The water carried away the wreckage.

Pandora Parvi danced and leaped on the waves like a dolphin. But she held her course, borne straight into the mouth of the Adalatte which was roiling like a cauldron. Geralt heard the cries of people cheering the captain on.

Coral yelled, pointing.

A seventh wave was coming.

Geralt had estimated the previous ones—which were level with the ships’ masts—at about five or six fathoms or thirty to forty feet. The wave which was approaching now, obliterating the sky, was twice as high.

The people fleeing Palmyra, crowded by the guardhouse, began to scream. The gale knocked them down, hurled them to the ground and pinned them to the stockade.

The wave crashed down on Palmyra. And simply pulverised it, washed it off the face of the earth. The water reached the palisade in an instant, engulfing the people crowded there. The mass of timber being carried by the sea dropped onto the palisade, breaking the piles. The guardhouse collapsed and floated away.

The relentless watery battering ram struck the precipice. The hill shook so hard that Dandelion and Mozaïk fell down and Geralt only kept his balance with great difficulty.

“We must fly!” screamed Coral, hanging on to the balustrade. “Geralt! Let’s get out of here! More waves are coming!”

A wave crashed over them, swamping them. The people on the terrace who hadn’t fled earlier did now. They fled screaming, higher, ever higher, up the hill, towards the royal palace. A few stayed. Geralt recognised Ravenga and Antea Derris among them.

People screamed and pointed. To their left the waves were washing away the cliff beneath the villa district. The first villa crumpled like a house of cards and slid down the slope, straight into the maelstrom. Then a second, a third and a fourth.

“The city is disintegrating!” wailed Dandelion. “It’s falling apart!”

Lytta Neyd raised her arms. Chanted a spell. And vanished.

Mozaïk clutched Geralt’s arm. Dandelion yelled.

The water was right beneath them, below the terrace. And there were people in the water. Others were lowering poles and boathooks to them, ropes were being thrown and they were being pulled out. Not far from them, a powerfully built man dived into the whirlpool and swam to rescue a drowning woman.

Mozaïk screamed.