Harried by Magister Brighten, the sorcerers straggled toward him. Lambent had been their self-appointed leader, but he was gone. With fury and shouting, Brighten took his place. Supported by Magister Trench with his sorcerers of wind, she made even the most reluctant lightning-wielders obey her despite their fatigue and the biting cold.

With her, she had the woman who had been struck down earlier, Magister Glowing. By moonlight and reflected theurgy, Glowing looked pale, unsteady on her feet, frightened. But she came.

The Magisters of drought were too few. Flisk hoped that they would do what they could.

To show his respect, he went to meet them all.

“Thank you, Magisters,” he began. “You are needed.”

“To do what?” demanded a burly man who had been one of the first to retreat from the upper terraces. “Those”—he seemed to search for an adequate insult—“hellish sorcerers have already beaten us. We are wasted against them.”

Flisk made a placating gesture. “Calm yourself.” He groped for the man’s name and could not find it. “I will not ask you to go down the road again. You will use your Decimates as you did in the old wars, hidden where our enemies cannot target you.”

His assurance drew a palpable relief from the Magisters. Even Trench gave a sigh of released tension.

But Magister Brighten was not eased. “Then what do you expect us to do?” Her outrage seemed to include everyone everywhere. “They are still too strong.”

The Captain took a deep breath, tried to appear relaxed. The effort left him light-headed.

“Find your coverts,” he answered. “Note the positions of the ships. At my signal, strike at them.” He wished for the Decimate of fire, but no one here had that gift. “I do not expect you to sink them. I do not ask you to set them burning”—although he hoped for that. “I need you to draw the attention of the enemy’s sorcerers. Make them counter you, or try to strike at you. While our gunners descend to the terraces and ready the cannon, they will be defenseless. They must have your attack to protect them.”

“We understand, Captain,” said Magister Trench. “But it will require a sustained attack. None of us can manage that. Perhaps Magister Brighten and her comrades should work in pairs. One pair to strike while the others rest, one after another by turns.”

“Yes!” snapped Brighten. “Good.” She was holding Magister Glowing’s arm, supporting or compelling her, but she did not glance at the injured woman. “That we can do.”

Flisk nodded approval. His heart lifted a little. Between them, Trench and Brighten gave him a measure of hope.