Hells! Rile’s slaves were starving. That was the goad the priests used to drive them. They were rabid with hunger. They would eat any man that fell, comrade or enemy.

Screaming, King Bifalt kicked his horse forward. As fast as he could, he emptied his clip, wrenched it out and discarded it, slapped a new one into place.

Behind him, his soldiers and the el-Algreb resumed firing. Stung by horror, they blazed at the horde.

Only Prince Jaspid had not paused or slowed. Instead, he had surged ahead, shooting as he went. With Jeck and Malder, Bifalt followed. Elgart joined them. Every gun in the King’s small army spat lead.

But now none of their bullets struck.

A swirl between Bifalt and the horde distorted his vision, a smear like a mirage, like incipient blindness. Strange theurgy veiled the massed enemy, dismissing gunfire as if the slugs had simply melted out of existence. It had the effect of a solid wall—and it was coming closer. It pushed air ahead of it, a blast so sudden and incomprehensible that it nearly unhorsed the King. Jeck and Malder crowded close to keep him in his saddle. Even Jaspid was staggered.

Through the smudge of sorcery, Bifalt saw priests drawing closer. Their beasts shouldered men aside, trampled some of them. Other men pounced on the fallen to eat, but the priests ignored them. Matching each other, the sorcerers aimed their staffs at the riflemen. Bifalt had no gift for theurgy, yet he felt power pouring toward him, twisting the air, stopping bullets. The globes at the ends of the staffs shone like bits of lightning.

Oh, hells!

The King wheeled his mount, tried to think. Jaspid had stopped shooting. So had Elgart. The riflemen had wrenched their mounts to a halt. Behind them, the el-Algreb stared, stupefied.

One heartbeat later, Magister Brighten answered. Her first bolt struck the migraine smear.

It did not pierce the power of the priests. Instead, it spread out like cracks in glass and evaporated.

Her second slammed out of the sky beyond the barrier. It lit a priest. He burned like phosphorous. His globe exploded. The concussion flattened men, wrenched beasts aside.

Somehow, the other priests kept their balance. Their sorcery did not waver.

Brighten’s third strike ripped through the horde like a scourge, shredding slaves.

In response, the priests aimed their staffs higher, lifting their power to cover them. The Magister’s next lightning-bolt hit like the first, left a crazed web of white fire across the wall and accomplished nothing.

At that instant, three flung globes sailed up from the horde. Like balls of concentrated sunlight, they arced over the smear of distortion or passed through it. Carrying high over King Bifalt’s head, they plunged down toward the el-Algreb.

Magister Crawl was ready. With gouts of flame, he detonated two of the globes in midair. But they were falling too fast. He missed the third.