"Every fourth," Miro said firmly. He agreed with Beorn, but there were no more orbs in their stockpiles. Each man here carried three, and that was it — for the duration of the war.

Beorn passed down the news while Miro watched more and more of the enemy enter the water, each Black Army soldier's sword held above his head with the water reaching to his waist. Miro reached over his shoulder and drew his zenblade; it was almost time.

As much as Miro would have liked to wait until the enemy reached the bank, and fight them from the height of land as they emerged tired and wet from the river, he knew he couldn't afford the risk. This was where the darkness gave the enemy extra protection, for there was too great a chance that some would slip through Miro's terribly thin defences and regroup on the Alturan side. Miro knew his men wouldn't survive an attack from the front and the rear, and these men were the only protection Sarostar had.

Marshal Beorn was good, and Miro didn't even hear the command for the men to throw their orbs. He saw the tiny specks fly through the air, and caught the shouts of the enemy as their fear and surprise was carried across the water. They now knew their crossing had been detected, and the black specks could only be one thing.

The explosion of the prismatic orbs was devastating.

Miro almost felt sorry for them. An underwater explosion sent bigger shockwaves over a longer distance than one in the air, and the pandemonium was instant as men screamed in pain; water fountained into the air and body parts flew in all directions.

But any sympathy Miro felt was short-lived. This was his homeland they were attacking, and these men were either mindlessly following the orders of their leaders or were attracted to the carnage by nature.

"Attack!" Miro cried, the shout instantly echoed by his men.

Even as the Alturans and Halrana-in-exile who made up Miro's army surged up and out of the protective forest, the enemy launched their own volley of prismatic orbs.