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.

Its explosion ripped through warriors and horses. Blood sprayed from the blast, limbs and shredded torsos, great hunks of horseflesh. Too many of the el-Algreb died.

Bifalt’s mind had gone blank. Too much was happening.

But then the screams of his allies reached him. Their shrill agony brought him back to himself.

He saw fanged men sprinting through the wall of sorcery. The shimmering blocked bullets and lightnings from his side: it let men and globes pass from the other.

“Retreat!” he howled. “Go! Run!”

His riflemen obeyed. Frantically, they spun their mounts and scrambled away, dragging Magister Brighten with them.

Over her shoulder, she hurled lightning that incinerated the nearest strangers. Then the urgent jostling of her guardians forced her to grip her saddlehorn while she fled.

Elgart stayed with the King. Jeck and Malder crowded close to him. Only Prince Jaspid stood his ground.

Alone against the enemy, Jaspid fired and fired. He had a wild light in his eyes. His hands were blurs of speed as he emptied his clips, replaced them, kept shooting.

Every man he killed slowed the horde’s rush for a heartbeat or two. Others fell on the dead to feed. Their frenzy blocked those behind them.