The nearest ships were still within reach of bullets. Every soldier atop the cliff was shooting as fast as he could. If Flisk had been able to focus his eyes, he might have seen slugs shredding the men on the decks, tearing the planks under them.

He might have seen gunners hauling themselves up the ropes to escape more lightning.

But there was no more lightning. It was not needed. If any of the siege guns on the fifth terrace remained intact, they were unmanned. The ships were free to resume clearing the bay’s floor.

The Captain had foreseen none of this. Neither had King Bifalt. They had not known enough about Rile’s power to imagine what his servants could do. Or how many sorcerers the enemy had.

Rubbing his eyes with his free hand, Flisk struggled to clear his sight.

After a moment, he managed to discern blurred shapes on the ropes. The cannoneers were little more than shadows in the moonlight and lightning, too dim to be counted, but some of them had reached the crest of the road. Others were close. The treacherous surface snatched at their feet. They gripped the ropes for their lives. Floundering, they struggled upward.

Flisk stayed where he was. He felt unaccountably exhausted. He had lost his friend. Without Ennis Forguile’s encouragement, he could not move. The bay’s defenses had failed.

Perhaps he could afford a little rest. He was not needed above the cliff. There was nothing that anyone could do until General Klamath brought reinforcements. The road was the safest place for him. Rile’s sorcerers might scrub the whole cliff-top with lightning when the black ships came closer, but they would not strike at the road. The enemy needed it.

So did King Bifalt.

Heren Flisk closed his eyes, lowered his head. Briefly, he let himself imagine sleep.

A shout from above warned him. It was barely audible, but its consternation cut into him.

He jerked a look out across the dark waters and saw only what he expected to see. With their strange ease, the ships were gliding closer to resume the destruction of the bay’s final obstacles. Nothing from the cliff threatened them.

Muttering under his breath, Flisk turned to peer at the road.

A small shape came sliding down its center. The outstretched arms of the last gunners on the ropes showed that they had tried to catch whatever it was; but it skidded past them out of reach.

Another shout demanded strength Flisk did not have.

The road was a treacherous mix of bare stone, ash-packed snow, and black ice. The sliding shape started to tumble, tripped by patches of bare rock and slickness. It became a man with his arms and legs flailing wildly.

The man had flung himself downward, trusting the ice. He may have meant to slide all the way. Instead, he was battered in every direction by the grip-and-release of stone, ash, and ice.