It was faint with distance, little more than a hint in the cold. It could have been a bird, if there were any birds flying at night with so much sorcery in the air. Or perhaps a wounded animal, if any beasts remained in the woods after so many men had searched for Father Skurn. But there was such desolation in the cry, such urgency, that it pierced the winds.

That was a human shriek. Worse, it was a woman’s.

There were only a few women among the bay’s volunteers, all of them Amikan.

“Did you hear that?” He hardly made a sound. For no reason except instinct, panic clogged his throat. The gunners ignored him. They were too busy complaining; calling each other names.

Flisk pounded his chest. He coughed once to draw breath. “Did any of you,” he shouted urgently, “hear that cry?”

Some of the spectators turned to stare at him: a Magister or two; a few soldiers. Half a dozen of them shook their heads, more in confusion than denial.

He tried again. “Listen to me! Did any of you hear that cry?”

Two riflemen stood near him, ready to carry orders. One of them said hesitantly, “I heard— Captain, I heard something. I think I did.”

Flisk wheeled on him. “From where? I heard it, I tell you! A woman’s shriek. Where did it come from?”

The soldier flinched. “Forgive me,” he replied. “I am not sure what I heard.”

Trench yelled Flisk’s name. In a rush, the Magister left his fellows and the road, hurried closer. As he came, he called, “I did not hear it! But I know wind. I know how it carries sound. If you heard a cry, it came from the north.”

Flailing one arm, he pointed along the cliff at the stretch of bare stone between the precipice and the woods.

Frantic with alarm, Heren Flisk flung his gaze northward.

He had good eyes. In full moonlight and flashes of lightning, he saw nothing except dark trees and dull grey rock and empty air.

He must have imagined the cry.

Instead of fading, his panic mounted. Earlier, he had asked himself if the enemy knew something that he and Forguile did not. Now he felt sure. Every nerve in his body squalled at dangers he could not see or understand.

Even as a young soldier before his only ride into hell, he had been troubled by a frightened streak, an inclination to see dangers everywhere. But when he had finally gone with Malder and Captain Swalish to fight the charging Amikans, he had forgotten his fears. He had no time for them. Only the Amikans had existed then, the battle—and his instincts.

Now he barely had time to bellow “Riflemen!” Then he saw that he was right.