“You cannot imagine the glory of it,” he proclaimed. “Already, whole continents bask in the Great God’s peace. The lives of those people are relief and contentment and service. But he is not satisfied. He has endured the gods of folly too long, the brutish lust of the flesh, the overweening lust of the mind. He means to end them. When he has swept the false knowledge of pride and books from the world, he will teach all men and women to know their place in his peace.

“It begins here.”

“Mattwil!” insisted Cloras. “Look!” She pointed urgently northward along the cliff, between the woods and the precipice. “Look!”

Her friend and lover did not even glance in that direction.

“Be silent, woman!” snapped Father Skurn over his shoulder. “You serve the lusts of the flesh. Their hold on you is too strong. I will silence you if I must.”

“Mattwil,” cried Cloras again, but softly, with tears and weariness in her voice.

Yet her earnestness remained, and her determination. From somewhere under her winter garb, she produced a thin blade more like a needle than a knife: a tool a seamstress might use to pick out stitches. With all of her remaining force, she jabbed it between the priest’s ribs near his spine.

Then she mustered a shriek that pierced the winds and the sky, the frying shafts of lightning, the agony of the seas. Despite her weakness, her voice seemed to reach the whole bay.

Cursing, Father Skurn wheeled on her. With one heavy blow, he stretched her out on the stone. She flopped once and lay still, bleeding from her mouth, hardly breathing.

Mattwil did not look at her. He looked where she had pointed.

From the north, a mass of men came running toward him. A horde of them, too many to count.

They were not soldiers. They were not ordinary men. They ran without a sound, barefoot on the rough stone. Dark skin, dark clothing. Rags fluttered from their strong frames, the tattered remnants of peasant’s garb. Moments of lightning exposed open mouths full of teeth filed for rending. They did not shout. If they panted for air, they did so in silence.

Mattwil understood. Cloras had stabbed the priest. She had shrieked a warning. Father Skurn had felled her with a blow. Between one heartbeat and the next, Mattwil’s mind opened.

Skurn claimed that he would impose peace on the battle, but he meant defeat. These men were his means, his weapons. They would take Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile by surprise; kill every defender in their way. Because of them, the ships would be free to reach the strand unopposed.