With his bodyguards, King Bifalt moved to the crest of the hill and looked west.

With the force of a dozen hammers, a long crack like a string of granite bones breaking shook the trees, tossed the leaves upward. It made Bifalt stagger.

A moment later, the whole face of the bluff he had chosen leaned away from its moorings.

Trees toppled behind him. One fell so nearby that he felt its breath on his face.

For an impossible moment, four or five heartbeats, the wide stretch of stone simply stood there, motionless, as if it could not make up its mind. Then its weight overcame it.

Screaming rock against rock, the wall slid down toward the supply-train, the servants, the sparse infantrymen. The priests.

As it dropped, it broke apart, became boulders the size of houses, slabs broad enough to block the trail. The fragments hurtled downward. The hill under the King’s feet lurched. Below the rock-fall, scores of servants and a few priests must have screamed while they could. He did not hear them. The guttural howl of shattered stone, smashed wagons, and crushed men covered every other sound.

To Boy, Bifalt shouted, “Go!”

Boy sprinted. Snatching the reins of his frantic horse from his father, he flung himself up and into the saddle as his mount ran like panic among the unsteady trees.

A moment later, Bifalt heard the insistent barking of rifles through the shrill wails of Rile’s people. The Magisters were done. Now the attack depended on guns.

From the rims of the hills, bullets struck.

The King tried to watch. At first, he could not focus his eyes. There was too much to see. Furious at his weakness, he blinked and blinked until his sight cleared.

Aftershocks ran through the hills. Distance and turmoil hindered accuracy. Bifalt saw half a dozen priests knocked from their mounts; saw servants and infantrymen cut down. But other men in black leapt to the ground, crouched behind their beasts. They began to defend themselves. The shining of their globes intensified as they summoned their sorcery.

The fusillade stuttered. It did not falter. The riflemen had to recock their guns for every shot. They had to snatch out spent clips, slap loaded ones into place. But Prince Jaspid had fifty men, all that Elgart had not taken to guard the Magisters. Their bullets cut like scythes through clusters of panicking servants, running infantrymen. And Jaspid was a supreme marksman. Taking his time, he picked his targets. Every shot killed a priest.

The globes became blinding. It made the priests harder to hit. Most of them wheeled their staffs around their heads. Squinting, King Bifalt saw the effect.