Groaning, Flisk tried to brace himself. Someone had to catch him, whoever he was. There was no one else. At that speed, the man would die when he hit the strand’s boulders—if his tumbling had not already beaten him to death.

The Captain hauled at his rope, managed to draw out a little slack. He clenched it with his good hand, the hand supported by his undamaged shoulder. Spreading his legs, he crouched to stretch out his bad arm. He lacked the strength of the men above him; but unlike them, he was not taken by surprise. He could watch the desperate shape pitch closer.

Too soon or too late, he lunged.

Somehow, he caught a fistful of robe.

Earlier, his shoulder had seemed numb. Now he felt his arm wrenched out of its socket. The whole joint became a shriek of agony. He may have shrieked himself, but he did not hear it. He could not hear anything through the sharp hot Decimate of pain tearing his shoulder.

Nevertheless he did not let go.

The falling man’s momentum swung him in an arc against the taut rope. As if inadvertently, one of his arms flopped over the lifeline. Some instinct for survival made him hold on.

Sobbing, and unaware of it, Flisk released the man’s robe. His shoulder shrieked again. Then the limb dangled at his side, as useless as deadwood. Even if he could have borne the pain, he would not have been able to lift it.

He was still sobbing as he watched the small man struggle to plant his feet. But Flisk did not recognize him until the man turned painfully toward him.

Badly battered, bleeding all over his face, caked with ash and snow where his robe had not been ripped open: Magister Pillion.

Flisk’s next sob stuck in his throat. His first thought was blank astonishment.

His second was, Oh, hells! No!

King Bifalt needed the road.

Pillion’s Decimate was earthquake.

“Those whoresons,” panted the Magister. Every word spattered blood. “Did they think they could woo me?”

Flisk had no idea what Pillion meant. An earthquake here might destroy the bay’s last hope of defense, the last chance to oppose the enemy’s ascent with rifle-fire. Pillion must have known that. He had thrown himself downward because every sane man on the cliff would have tried to stop him.

Flisk had no strength. He seemed to have no mind. He could not think of a way to prevent Pillion. Without his left arm—

Risking a fall, he let go of the rope; crept dangerously downward. When he could face the Magister directly, he gripped the man’s robe again to demand his attention.

“They do not understand,” spat Pillion. “I love my wife. I love my children. I am not the man they want me to be.”