As the last of the gunners hurried down the ropes, two more bolts joined the sorcery over the waters. Again, they both attacked a single target, a different ship this time. But they had less success. One tore down spars that scattered fragments of wood like shrapnel. The other hit the vessel’s side, ripped a hole too far above the thrashing waters to do any fatal harm.

It was time for Heren Flisk to go. He had left his rifle in the slush behind him. Now he tossed his saber aside. It would only hamper him. Where he was going, weapons would be useless. At the last cannoneer’s back, he left the crest of the road, lowering himself closer to the enemy’s sorcery.

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.