The dying stranger lay among the corpses. He was barefoot; had no weapons except his fangs, his eerie strength, and his single-mindedness. His scant garments were a farmer’s or a laborer’s, vaguely Bellegerin in their cut, too thin for winter. Grey brain matter streaked with red showed on one side of his head. Gaping for air, he exposed his teeth. Without them, he could have passed for a poor and ordinary man anywhere.

Despite his wounds, he seemed to hear Flisk. Or sorcery still ruled him. His voice bubbled with blood. “The Great God’s instructions are precise.” He gasped for breath. “It is not his fault we failed.” Another gasp. “Too many of us died coming.”

“Died?” snapped Forguile. Abruptly, he released his friend; strode over bodies to the attacker. “Who killed them?” Crouching, he gripped the man’s shoulders, shook him to get his attention. “Where were you landed? Did you cross Belleger to come at us? Belleger and Amika?

“How?”

Rile’s servant coughed up a gout of blood and slumped. His head lolled loosely when the Commander shook him again; but he was already dead.

Hells! thought Flisk. All that way? Across Belleger and Amika? To attack us here? Now?

What kind of god was Rile?

“Gods and pestilence!” raged Forguile. “We are—!” But he could not find words for his ire and frustration.

Heren Flisk had other concerns. The here and the now compelled him: the purpose of the attack. The ships. He retched briefly to clear his throat, drew cold into his lungs. Still half choking, he asked, “Can anyone give me a tally?”

A rifleman nearby responded uncomfortably, “It is as the Commander said, Captain. Seven of our comrades are dead. One may die, if the stitchers cannot save him. Many of us are hurt, but we can still fight.

“We blame ourselves for the gunners. We count thirty-three crippled or dead. You do not want to look at them, sir. Those fangs— The damage is extreme.”

Flisk groaned. Thirty-three cannoneers lost. Too few remained. In a crisis, each gun could be fired by a team of three—but not rapidly. Not rapidly enough to sink ships before lightning killed the men. He still had eleven medium cannon. He needed forty-four—

The burden was too great. He was not the right man to carry it. But his friend was hurt. There was no one else to bear it.

Of no one in particular, he asked, “How many gunners are hurt? Can they still work the cannon?”

“We can!” shouted a rough voice. “We will! For our comrades. Our friends. We will punish these monsters!”

Flisk swallowed a groan. They were not enough. They could only manage seven cannon—or eight, if one gun had a team of three.

Thirteen black ships remained in the bay, clearing the way. They were almost done.

Harshly, Commander Forguile declared, “We need the boys.”