As Magister Crawl stumbled onto the ridgecrest, Klamath reached down, grabbed him by the shoulder. The young sorcerer was bleeding from a scalp wound. The blast in his trench must have hit him with a rock. Ignoring Crawl’s stunned look, Klamath shouted, “Gather the Magisters! All of them!” He did not ask how many men and women Crawl had lost. Crawl probably did not know. “Get them to the horses! Run!”

Magister Crawl managed a dull nod. Without a word, he shambled away.

Below Klamath, the second charge slammed into the wetland. The beasts struggled. Oh, they struggled! But only with their footing. Now their hooves did not drive down into the muck. The weeds did not tangle their legs. They seemed to plow the surface of the waters. They slowed but did not stop.

Klamath wanted to weep.

The beasts were forcing their way over the bodies of fallen skirmishers, men, other creatures. Their own dead made a ford across the bog.

Most of the Magisters from the lower trench were still scrabbling up the ridgeside. Soon those beasts would be able to overtake the drought-wielders.

Voice cracking, Klamath cried over the thrashing of the charge, “Solace! Rowt! Protect Whimper’s people!” Then he wheeled his mount to face Magister Trench. “Go!”

Trench scowled in protest. “Those globes—” he began.

“Are you blind?” yelled Klamath. “The priests will not waste their power! Their cavalry will finish us!”

An instant of incomprehension froze Magister Trench. Then he grasped that this battle was lost.

Shouting at his fellow wind-wielders, he led them at a run down the back of the ridge toward the horses.

Solace and his Magisters were as relentless as their stamina allowed, but their power was indiscriminate. To avoid the Magisters of drought, they had to fling pestilence at the riders and beasts still in Long Slough.

Gunfire was more accurate. The riflemen concentrated on the front of the charge as it surged out of the waters.

Suddenly calm, Klamath stepped down from his mount, unslung his rifle, lowered himself into the slush and snow to steady his arms, and joined the fight to save his last drought-wielders.

The task seemed impossible. He needed an entire clip to drop the nearest creature. Fortunately, a number of the beasts were already wounded. Some were dying with every stride, stricken by pestilence and bullets.

Yet they kept coming. They were almost near enough to catch the weakest Magisters. Klamath and the riflemen fired, fired, until their gun barrels steamed in the cold and their hands were scorched when they slapped in fresh clips. Beasts stumbled onto their sides, squalling as they knocked down mounts and riders below them.

One creature at a time, the charge stalled.

In small clusters, Magisters reached the ridgecrest. Klamath did not waste time counting them. He did not know how many had been broken or buried by the first explosion. Ignoring his burned fingers, he went on firing.