No shot hit any of those men. Several of Jaspid’s soldiers must have been concentrating their fire on each priest. The sorcerers should have died. Yet none of them fell. None of them tried to flee. The whirling of their staffs and the glare of their globes seemed to banish bullets.

Other priests hid behind boulders or thick slabs, behind piles of rock and crushed bodies. They did not spin their staffs. Instead, they swung the iron instruments in throwing motions.

Their globes were flung away. The bright balls arced higher and higher, impossibly high. Most of them sailed toward the riflemen. In the west, one threatened the position of Bifalt’s Magisters. Plunging down, it fell short. Instead of striking its target, it hit the raw hillside below the crest. There it exploded like a keg of gunpowder.

The King had never seen sorcery like that. It surpassed his nightmares.

The blast ripped another wound in the bluff. Dirt and rocks rained down on the shattered wagons. Bifalt watched for shreds of grey cloth, limbs and broken bodies, splashes of blood.

There were none. Elgart had withdrawn the earthquake-wielders in time.

Other explosions followed. From both directions, more priests arrived, forcing their mounts through the turmoil of servants, the useless shouting of infantrymen. More globes scorched the air. Their detonations shredded the hilltops where Jaspid had placed his riflemen.

At once, the fusillade stopped. Only the repeated bark of a single gun still opposed the priests. As the bright assault arched higher, a rifle fired six shots in quick succession. One by one, six globes exploded, wasting their force.

“That,” muttered Jeck, “is Prince Jaspid.”

If he said more, it was covered by the eruption and ravage of increased strikes.

Malder gripped Bifalt’s arm. “Majesty! We must go!”

The King nodded. He wanted to shout at his brother, Run! But no cry of his would be heard through the shock of detonations, the downpour of rubble. Run now!

Jaspid might keep fighting. This was his dream, to stand alone against impossible odds.

But his display of marksmanship had fixed his position for the priests. A dozen globes came for him.

His rifle did not speak again.

The blasts transformed that hillcrest into a crater. Rocks spouted from the concussions. Uprooted trees toppled downward.

The shocks knocked the air out of Bifalt’s lungs. He did not try to shout or pray. Instead, he wheeled away, sprinting for Spliner and the horses. Jaspid dreamed a fool’s dreams, but he was not fool enough to wait for death.