An icy gust kicked at Magister Rummage’s face, colder than the air around him. He tasted moisture, a promise of snow. Strong sunlight still poured past the high peaks, but a storm was coming. He felt it in his bones.

“A storm?” croaked Magister Avail. “Now?”

Cursing mutely, the hunchback turned away from the Knights and cavalrymen. He had seen enough. With a tap on Avail’s hand, he sent his second signal.

From the height of the balcony, neither sorcerer heard Waysel shouting. His men did. In a rush, they sprang to their cannon.

The guns had been primed, loaded. Their fuses needed no more than three heartbeats to burn. Then their booming echoed off the face of the keep. Their harsh reports crashed against the mountainsides.

Four siege-guns covered the road where Rile’s cavalry still sped from the north. Half of them had been loaded with chain. The thick iron links cut through riders and beasts like scythes. Blood splashed in all directions, a thick gush that masked the carnage. Dozens of men and mounts were swept away. Bits of limbs and entrails sprayed everywhere.

The other guns fired cannonballs. They did less damage to the enemy, but they tore chunks out of the road. After one volley, its surface was broken, littered with treacherous holes and gouges.

The priests among the cavalry must have been screaming, but they could not halt the momentum of the charge in an instant. For the soldiers and beasts, the second blast of chain was almost as ruinous as the first. More cannonballs struck the road. Slabs of rock broke loose, slid and tumbled down the hillside. Cracks gaped in the smooth stone.

Magister Rummage turned away. Those guns would keep firing until the road became a death-trap. Until they cut in half the long serpent of the Great God’s cavalry. And General Klamath’s soldiers were already at work, pacing their shots to be sure of their aim and conserve bullets.

With his heart thudding in his throat, Rummage looked down at the other cannon.

Their shots passed over the growing mass of priests, the deep throng of the horde. The contortions of the slope hid the effects of the balls and chain. He hoped for slaughter at the rear of the horde, among the infantry, but he could not be sure. The guns might be wasting their fire on empty ground.

That was his fault, that failure of foresight, but he did not waste time regretting it. The sight of skirmishers among the priests arriving at the edge of the road distracted him.

In the mute Magister’s dreams, General Klamath had already contrived to kill all of those small, feral men. A useless wish. Many of the skirmishers had died. Enough still lived.