Heren Flisk flinched. He wanted to refuse. Those nine boys were youths at best, less than fully grown, overeager and barely trained. But they would not need strength and skill to light the fuses. And if he called on them—if he sent them to die—he would have full teams for ten cannon.

Forguile was right. The boys were necessary.

But before Flisk could force himself to give the order, the Commander added, “I will go with them.” His tone defied argument. “My ribs are not so bad. I can handle a fuse.” He had his numbers ready. “I make that forty-one. Send full teams to eight cannon. The others will make do with teams of three. All eleven will fire.”

Forguile grinned fiercely. “There are only thirteen ships—and they are close. They will not be hard to sink.”

Then he added, “But you will have to command us, my friend. I cannot light fuses and direct the attack at the same time.”

He meant that he would not know when to recall the gunners.

Heren Flisk’s private wounds ran deep. He did not believe that he could bear the responsibility for more losses. But there was no one else. And he had already given his instructions to the Magisters and riflemen. He could trust them to do as much as they could.

He answered the Commander with a broken grimace. “Bring the boys,” he told a nearby soldier. “Do it quickly.” At once, he turned to the cannoneers. “We will go when the boys come. Let them light fuses. Nothing more. They are not men.

“Follow Commander Forguile to the guns. But look to me for orders. I will tell you when to withdraw. Until then, I will advise your aim.”

“We do not need advice, Captain,” called the same man who had spoken earlier. “We see well enough.” Lightning and moonlight would help. Then he admitted gruffly, “But we will welcome your order to retreat.”

Flisk did not expect his orders to save any of them. He risked saying, “When King Bifalt hears the tale, he will be proud of his men.” Then he walked away so that the gunners would not see his eyes weeping.

His tears made beads of ice on his cheeks. They seemed to take bits of skin with them when he scrubbed them off. But those little pains were trivial. His bad shoulder had gone numb. That, too, he ignored. He needed to gather himself. He had never imagined that his duties would require him to sacrifice boys.

At the head of the road, he located a servant among the spectators and asked the man for hot cider. At once, the servant ran for the nearest kitchen.

While Flisk waited, he sent the Magisters and riflemen back to their shelters along the cliff. They would be needed soon. As they dispersed, he huddled into his cloak and rain-cape, and tried to summon whatever it was that men called courage.