Trench and the Magisters of wind had been told to wait for further orders. For the Magisters of pestilence, Klamath had a different task. He wanted them to strike as soon as their power could reach the skirmishers.

With no pretense of courtesy, Magister Solace had rasped, “Sorcerers sense sorcery. If Rile sends sorcerers, they will recognize us. He may hold back.”

Klamath thought not. Like the snow, the threat of drought and pestilence would not temper Rile’s anger. But such things might distract his forces from the hazards of Long Slough.

While darkness and snowfall tightened their grip, General Klamath tried not to fret. This pause was like the interminable waiting before battle during the old wars. That had been a time of dread and loose bowels. It had not ended until the men were swept into the horrific clash of arrows and blades, of rampant sorcery. This interval was no different. It had to be endured.

Perhaps two hours later, Klamath seemed to glimpse a wink of pure white through the falling snow.

He refused to concentrate on it. He may have imagined it. Instead, he forced himself to gaze elsewhere, straining to pierce a veil of snow that he could only feel, not see.

The snow came down heavily. Over his winter garments, he wore a cloak two inches thick. The men and women nearby were nothing more than lumped shapes like suggestions.

Then he saw the light again. This time, it did not disappear. Sure of itself, it shone through the storm like a distant star. It was sorcery, it had to be: a kind of sorcery that he had never encountered before. And it was not alone. Soon he made out half a dozen white beams. More. They formed a line across the west. A long line.

How many infantrymen were on that line? Or cavalrymen?

It was unlikely that Rile had dispatched all of his cavalry to take Fivebridge.

More lights cast their brilliance. By their movement, Klamath could gauge their progress. That line was still some distance away. The skirmishers would be closer, a deadly throng of them. They would reach the Slough first.

Good, thought the General. Long Slough offered him his best chance to answer those feral men. It might be his only chance.

“Now!” he called down to the Magisters of drought. “Give me more snow. As much as you can.”

He had no gift for sorcery. He could not sense it. But he felt the weight of snow on his shoulders increase. The level of the Slough would continue to rise.

Exposed by the lights, the skirmishers seethed eagerly.

They had halted their advance. Rile’s sorcerers must have felt the Decimate of drought. They paused to assess the peril.