Mattwil stumbled to a halt, turned to face the servant of the Church. “You talk about peace. You promised it. But men are dying.” The cannon must have sunk ships. The enemy’s forces were dying as well. “How will you bring peace?”

“Do not stop!” snapped Father Skurn. “I will make everything plain when we reach the cliff. You will see what I can do.”

To Mattwil, he sounded like a man who would enjoy abusing Nuuri slaves.

While the young man hesitated, he heard another explosion. In an instant, more guns stopped firing.

“Mattwil!” panted Cloras. “We know those men. Some of them have been kind. If Father Skurn can save any of them—”

Hells! Oh, hells!

Trying to prove worthy, Mattwil attacked the hillside again.

Desperately, he floundered through the snow. The trees were not far now. He had almost reached them when a third blast shocked the air. He felt its power in the ground under him. It dropped him to his knees.

The guns did not fire again. As he struggled back to his feet, he knew that the defense of the bay had failed.

He wanted to believe that men dying with their guns was not his concern. He owed himself that much loyalty. Nevertheless he prayed for more shots. The medium cannon remained. As a last resort, there were the siege-guns. Surely, Captain Flisk had not surrendered. Commander Forguile had not. They would send gunners to the third and fourth terraces. To the lowest level if they had no choice. Someone had to resist the enemy.

Father Skurn could not prevent it.

“Guide me,” demanded the priest as if he knew Mattwil’s thoughts. “Watch what I do. You will see peace restored.”

“Go, Mattwil,” urged Cloras. She sounded faint; at the end of herself. But she did not falter. He had never known her to seem unsure. “We must help him. It is all we can do.”

Groaning, Matt’s son dragged his weakness toward the trees.

Evening was near. The sun cast an early dusk past the westering storm. Under the trees, the gloom was deeper. Yet Mattwil was able to move more easily. The ground must have been trampled earlier. His boots met only packed snow and patches of ice. Men had been here ahead of him, many of them.

At first, he assumed that the soldiers hunting for Father Skurn had disturbed the snow. But the evidence of running feet was everywhere. Had the riflemen searched that thoroughly? The whole woods?

Moving more quickly, Mattwil followed his instincts in the direction of the bay’s edge. He was intimately familiar with the extent of the terraces, the positions of the emplacements. He did not know exactly where he would reach the cliff, but he trusted that he would emerge where Father Skurn wanted to be.

North of the guns.