Like a man who had never learned to doubt, Ennis Forguile turned and strode away toward the crest of the road.

Flisk had known for a long time that the Amikan Commander was King Bifalt’s friend; but he had never understood the bond between them better than he did at this moment. Belleger’s King had the gift of making men like Ennis Forguile believe. Forguile knew how to make men share his beliefs.

In silence, the gunners followed him. Dragged along by his friend’s example, Captain Flisk brought up the rear.

Closer to the bay’s rim, the winds were stronger, colder. And now they carried the crashing, the repetitive thunder, of massive breakers on the strand: a strange sound to men who were accustomed to the cross-currents and immense boulders that had interrupted the direct surge of the seas earlier. On the terraces, the water’s roar would be louder. Flisk would have trouble making any order heard, especially when the medium cannon began blaring. But he refused to think about what would be required of him.

It had to be done. Therefore he would do it.

With the cannoneers around him, Forguile paused to point out the usable guns. Then, without a glance back at Flisk—without any kind of farewell—he gripped a rope and began his descent.

In a tight line, the gunners followed him. One by one, they dropped out of sight as if they had vanished from the world.

The Captain’s heart beat a fusillade in his chest. For an instant, he forgot his own responsibilities. But only for an instant. When it passed, he snatched cold into his lungs and yelled, “Now, Magisters! Start now!”

On the ships, there was no chance that anyone would hear him.

While his pulse threatened to choke him, nothing happened. But as he drew breath to shout again, sudden lightning answered him. Out of the cloudless night, two bright, branching bolts slashed downward.

Both blasts struck the same ship.

One made carnage on the deck. Men burned like torches. The other found the top of the tallest mast. Its sails were furled on its spars. They may have been too tightly wrapped to catch fire. But the Decimate ran down through the core of the tree. In an instant, the whole mast became kindling and ash. The spars fell, killing more men on the deck. Loosened sails flung sheets of flame. When the blast expended itself, only a stump of the mast remained.

Flisk wanted to cheer. One or more of the slain might be sorcerers. It was possible.

But the enemy’s assault on the bay’s rocks did not waver. One black ship had been hurt. It may have been crippled. Twelve went on working.