The priests would detect more theurgy, but they would not know where their foes were hidden. Not in this storm.

The General beckoned for Magister Trench, drew the wind-wielder closer. “Hold,” he ordered. “Hold until they charge. Wait until the first beasts hit the Slough. Then raise your Decimate. Drive snow into their faces.”

Harried by sudden blasts, the cavalrymen might lose sight of their peril.

Instead of responding, Trench pointed at the enemy.

Klamath turned in time to see the priests dip their staffs in unison. They misunderstood the cries of struggling and fear from the bog, or they did not care.

As one, the whole front surged forward. Crouched over their mounts’ necks, the warriors gripped their longswords and clung to the beasts’ harnesses.

The best of the riflemen began firing: small popping sounds in so much snow. Their shots had no effect.

Only moments now. Hells, those beasts were fast. Klamath could measure the time in heartbeats.

The priests had dismounted. They did not lead the charge. As the columns pounded past them, they strode closer, holding their staffs with the confidence of too much power.

Below them, they would see an easy slope. A dark stretch of water that seemed to swallow the sorcerous light. Another gradual rise to higher ground. General Klamath’s army had passed this way. Therefore it was safe. The priests must have expected their cavalry to sweep down the hillside, plow through the water, and hammer their way up the slope on the far side. Belleger’s army must be waiting just beyond the ridgecrest. Why else did the enemy rely on sorcery to slow Rile’s forces?

Nothing could slow those beasts.

Ignoring rifle-fire and the Decimate of drought, the cavalrymen crashed like an avalanche into the treachery of Long Slough.

From higher ground, the globes of the priests did not give Klamath enough light. He imagined the hooves of the beasts crushing skirmishers into the muck. He could not see it.

Then he could.

Magister Brighten’s need to strike was too much for her. With the other lightning-wielders, she brought down killing bolts. Their Decimates stuttered like shutters opening and closing as individual Magisters paused. Still, their lightning lit the turmoil in the waters.

Below Klamath, a doomed swarm of the small men or creatures floundered, sick and drowning, trying to swim. The cavalrymen ignored them. The great beasts fell on the skirmishers, drove them deeper into the water and mud.

In any case, the beasts could not stop, not when so many more came behind them, crowding at their backs.

Still, skirmishers remained on the far hillside. They did not add their deaths to the frantic turbulence of the Slough. The priests must have halted them.

Somehow, Magister Crawl and his comrades resisted the temptation to attack prematurely.