The detonation shook the ridgecrest where Klamath sat his mount. Bodies were tossed away like scraps of cloth or ruined dolls, Magisters of fire, Magisters of lightning, half a dozen of them, more. Sheets of dirt and chunks of stone rained down into the lower trench, stunning or scattering Magisters of drought.

Through a haze of shock, Klamath heard Captain Rowt yell, “Our fault, General! We did not know what to expect!”

Klamath ignored him. To hit one of those globes while it was in the air would require supreme marksmanship. He did not believe it could be done.

Desperately, he howled, “Retreat!”

He had the appalling sensation that the priests were laughing at him.

The surviving Magisters from the upper trench did not need his command. They were already scrambling up the slope, clawing the ground for speed. They had lost at least a quarter of their number, but Klamath could not tell who still lived.

Behind them, the drought-wielders from the lower trench began to flee. Frantic with haste, they crawled or staggered, helped each other, pushed each other backward. They were exposed on the ridgeside—

Another priest swung his staff, hurled his bright globe.

Stricken, the General watched the shining ball arch high enough to plunge down on him. Instinctively, he kicked his feet from the stirrups, started to vault out of the saddle. But the globe did not reach him. Instead, it seemed to falter. An instant later, it dropped toward the Slough.

Magister Trench had intercepted it with a slap of wind.

Too shaken for chagrin, Klamath swung back into his saddle.

Without fire and lightning, darkness closed over the ridge, the Slough, the opposite hillside. Still, the theurgy of the priests shone like fallen stars. Three more lights sailed. A rush of gunfire answered. One globe detonated in midair. The other two arced closer—

Hells and gods!

—and turned away, driven backward by Trench and his Magisters of wind.

Klamath prayed for explosions among the enemy.

He was disappointed. By some unknown act of sorcery, the priests caught the globes with their staffs.

Another omen.

The priests glanced at each other. As one, they dipped their staffs again: the command to charge.

Rile’s cavalry obeyed without hesitation; without thought. The beasts sprang into motion, an explosion of a different kind. Some of them had already lost their riders, but they had their own savagery to goad them.

And behind them came rank after rank of fresh cavalry, men and mounts in appalling numbers.

Now General Klamath understood that Rile did not care about his losses. He could afford them.