Heren Flisk did not understand. He stared in astonishment as the only coward among the defenders went on shielding two of the long guns while the cannoneers continued firing. Lambent had surrendered himself to his theurgy. He had become his Decimate.

He was considered the most powerful of the lightning-wielders. The gunners he preserved may have believed that his strength would endure. Their exposure to instant death may have driven them insane. Or they may have thought that they would not survive leaving their cannon. The road was too far away. Because Lambent was so afraid, he had been positioned at the south end of the highest terrace, where his impulse to flee was obstructed by guns, gunners, and guards. Now he was all that kept his cannoneers alive. They stayed and fought.

His defiance could not last. Even terror would not sustain him much longer. But it was not enemy lightning that killed him.

Abruptly, Lambent clutched at his chest. His mouth fell open, gaping for air. He went rigid, locked in every muscle. For an instant, his eyes held pure panic.

Unable to make a sound, he toppled over the parapet.

That was the end. After his protection vanished, sorcery found the gunners, their cannon, their supply of gunpowder. It killed two more riflemen. The concussion dropped Flisk to his knees; deafened him. He could not hear the debris of the ruined terrace collapsing onto the next level, and the next. None of the long guns fired again.

Belleger and Amika had lost the first engagement.

But when the cannon were stilled, the black ships—thirteen of them—ceased their attack on the cliff. As if they had lost interest in their foes, they resumed their efforts to clear the bay for the larger vessels behind them.

Hardly able to hear himself gasping, Captain Flisk regained his feet. He had gone so long without his weapons that he had forgotten how they hindered his movements. But that was a trivial frustration. He had no attention to spare for it. He had lost too many Magisters, too many guns and gunners. And Ennis Forguile might be badly injured. He might need help. But Flisk could not go to him. He had to assess the damage and try to think.

Fortunately, the soldiers had their own under-captains, men without formal titles who could make decisions and take action. They had already sent six riflemen hurrying down the ropes to aid the Commander.

Flisk looked out at the sorcery stabbing like spears into the black waters of the bay. Through his boots, he felt the deep thud of earthquakes. For a moment, he watched the waves thrash as if they were in torment.

A throng had gathered around him. The Magisters of wind and drought were there. The survivors of the first engagement. Spectators from the encampment. Riflemen. Even the camp’s physicians had come from their small infirmary. They had brought a stretcher for the stunned sorceress, Magister Glowing.