Below him, Commander Forguile and the first gunners were moving along the terraces to their cannon. Forguile had chosen the most dangerous post for himself: the fourth level, not the third—and the gun farthest from the road. Flisk swore aloud; but he was not surprised. Of course Forguile had claimed the most exposed position, the place where he was least likely to survive. No doubt he would have called it leading by example.

Flisk kept a grim hold on the rope. Despite the ash that had been scattered down the road, the hard freeze after the snowstorm formed fresh ice. He felt the threat of a slip with every step. The visceral tremor of submerged earthquakes shook him. Still, he spared enough attention to watch the enemy’s sorcery, the sizzle and plunge of power into the depths. Brighter than any moonlight, and more acute than the sun, the lightning did its vicious work under the waters.

As Flisk passed the third terrace and crept down toward the fourth, two more bolts of force from his Magisters scorched the air. One caught the rear deck of a vessel, destroyed the men there as if it had pitched them into the heart of a furnace. But the other struck only waves and spume.

Magister Glowing, perhaps, still half-stunned by exploding gunpowder, too weak or too frightened to be sure of her target.

Abruptly, the enemy’s lightnings ceased. While Flisk’s Magisters continued to unleash their Decimates two at a time, doing as much damage as they could, Rile’s theurgists changed their tactics. Instead of assailing the bay’s floor—or the cliff—they used their sorcery to dismiss the power aimed at them. Blast after blast from the Magisters became silver mist in midair. Some of the bolts flared brightly as they dissipated. None of them touched the ships.

Now, my friend! thought Heren Flisk. Fire now! While you can! He finished his descent to the fourth terrace in a rush.

There he was alone. The last gunners were moving along the walled level toward their cannon. They were not ready yet. Forguile would wait until every gun was primed and loaded. But Flisk did not want that. His Magisters had too little stamina. When their force began to falter, the ships would be free to strike at the cannon.

Anchoring himself on the rope a little way below the fourth terrace, a position that allowed him to watch the cannoneers on one side and the enemy on the other, Flisk insisted, Now! Fire now! But he kept his plea to himself. The counterattack was in Ennis Forguile’s hands. Where it belonged.

When it came, he did not hear the command. The first shout of cannon fire caught him by the throat.

Gun after gun spat fury across the waters. Under better circumstances, the first cannon would be ready to shoot again when the last had delivered its sixty pounds of iron. But the gunners had trained with sixteen guns, not eleven. Gaps in the barrage were inevitable.