Any delay might allow Rile’s sorcerers to respond.

Eleven guns, one after another. They were loaded with chain, not balls. The heavy links stripped the lower spars on four ships, tore away structures that looked like housings, swept men from the decks. On a fifth vessel, the forward mast cracked and leaned. It toppled in a welter of splinters.

Then came a long moment of silence while the teams struggled to reload.

Flisk’s Magisters could have used that opportunity to strike. It would distract the opposing sorcerers. But he had told Brighten and the others to rest. He was too far away to howl new orders. They would not hear him.

During that pause, there were no Decimates at work in the bay, no lightnings, no earthquakes.

Nevertheless the enemy had an answer. The damaged vessels sat where they were, waiting to sink. Before the cannon could fire again, the other ships moved.

Sliding eerily through the sharp swell and thrust of the waves, they rode some unnatural force as if they were coasting. With the swift delicacy of a dance, they shifted to place themselves behind the smitten ships, where the second barrage could not reach them.

That tactic was unexpected—and it happened too quickly. The cannoneers did not have time to correct their aim.

This time, they fired cannonballs. Mere wood could not withstand that weight of iron. Prows and sides exploded. Muffled by the incessant clamor of the seas, the balls seemed to wreak havoc in silence. Four of the damaged ships were broken. Borne down by their burdens, they dove for the bottom of the bay, seeking their graves. Unbalanced without its forward mast, the fifth vessel tilted over a gaping hole that sucked in the hunger of the seas. With terrible slowness, the black ship surrendered to the waves. Its men had time to watch death come for them.

There were still seven ships. They had lost their cover.

But now most of them sat beyond the reach of the medium cannon. The farthest vessels were well out of range.

This time, the delay was longer as the cannoneers scrambled to raise their aim.

Commander Forguile and his teams should have been ready sooner. But the sudden shift in the positions of the ships must have surprised them badly. They were not prepared for it.

Before the first of the medium cannon could fire, a flash of theurgy brought ruin.

During the brief instants of its blazing, lightning scoured the whole northward side of the third terrace.

In destructive fire, every grain of gunpowder there exploded. The shock was tremendous. It deafened the world. The cliff itself shook. Chunks of rock and twisted iron rode flames into the air. They seemed to hang in the brightness of the blast. Then they plunged down—

—onto the fourth level, crushing every man and gun below them.

The concussion almost tore Flisk off the rope. He did not hear himself screaming for retreat. If Forguile yelled the same command, his shout could not pierce the clamor.