There he was alone. The last gunners were moving along the walled level toward their cannon. They were not ready yet. Forguile would wait until every gun was primed and loaded. But Flisk did not want that. His Magisters had too little stamina. When their force began to falter, the ships would be free to strike at the cannon.

Anchoring himself on the rope a little way below the fourth terrace, a position that allowed him to watch the cannoneers on one side and the enemy on the other, Flisk insisted, Now! Fire now! But he kept his plea to himself. The counterattack was in Ennis Forguile’s hands. Where it belonged.

When it came, he did not hear the command. The first shout of cannon fire caught him by the throat.

Gun after gun spat fury across the waters. Under better circumstances, the first cannon would be ready to shoot again when the last had delivered its sixty pounds of iron. But the gunners had trained with sixteen guns, not eleven. Gaps in the barrage were inevitable.

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.