There were still seven ships. They had lost their cover.

But now most of them sat beyond the reach of the medium cannon. The farthest vessels were well out of range.

This time, the delay was longer as the cannoneers scrambled to raise their aim.

Commander Forguile and his teams should have been ready sooner. But the sudden shift in the positions of the ships must have surprised them badly. They were not prepared for it.

Before the first of the medium cannon could fire, a flash of theurgy brought ruin.

During the brief instants of its blazing, lightning scoured the whole northward side of the third terrace.

In destructive fire, every grain of gunpowder there exploded. The shock was tremendous. It deafened the world. The cliff itself shook. Chunks of rock and twisted iron rode flames into the air. They seemed to hang in the brightness of the blast. Then they plunged down—

—onto the fourth level, crushing every man and gun below them.

The concussion almost tore Flisk off the rope. He did not hear himself screaming for retreat. If Forguile yelled the same command, his shout could not pierce the clamor.

All those men—! The boys—!

Staccato with urgency, interminable heartbeats passed.

Flisk barely glimpsed the second lightning-strike. It seemed to stop his pulse.

Forguile.

But the Commander was not hit. The terraces on the south were not. In the instant of its attack, the sorcery burst into bright mist. The winds blew it away.

Some lightning-wielder on the rim of the cliff must have seen what was happening; recognized the threat. A Decimate had dismissed the bolt.

There would be another. Or more than one. Even Magister Brighten could not banish every blast the black ships might hurl.

Flisk snatched a breath to scream again, then caught himself. None of the surviving gunners needed his orders. They were already running for the road and the ropes.

All of them except Commander Forguile in the south.

His team must have loaded his cannon even while theurgy ravaged the northern emplacements. Then he must have sent his men away. He was alone with his gun. As if he were calm, he adjusted the cannon’s elevation, sighted along the barrel. Without hurry, he lit the fuse.

His gun roared. It slammed back against the ropes that stopped its recoil. Flisk did not see where the shot went.

Brighten or other Magisters shielded the southward terraces from a second bolt. They were not quick enough to stop a third. Directly behind Forguile, the third terrace went up in an appalling howl of lightning and gunpowder, flame and iron and wrecked stone.

The Commander seemed to vanish. The blast left Flisk blind as well as deaf. For long moments, he knew nothing. Then his senses began to recover, and he heard the rapid cracking of rifle-fire.