Magister Oblique had neglected to speak aloud for Crayn’s benefit. When Estie had mastered herself, she told him what she had said. He bore the disappointment more staunchly than she did.

During the nights and days of the storm, his heavy cloak and almost enough food enabled General Klamath to endure the cold. Shivering occasionally, and working his arms to make his blood flow, he watched the ascent of the enemy.

The snow fell as soft as down, but so thickly that he could hardly see past the reach of his arm. Nevertheless the shining of the priests’ sorcery marked their passage. Through the windless shroud of snow, he witnessed the first of them finding their way upward, leading the dark mass of the horde. Behind them came more priests with the heavy infantry. And a day later, the Great God himself followed, striding powerfully in a golden glow tainted by the crimson of his eyes and gems. With him, he brought a number of servants carrying obscure burdens. At his back, the light infantry crossed the road guided by still more priests.

On the General’s strict orders, his men waited, keeping themselves hidden. During the cavalry charge earlier, they had exposed themselves. Now they were left alone, protected by the storm, and perhaps by Rile’s scorn for his foes. If they opened fire now, none of them would survive the horde’s response.

Perhaps King Bifalt would have acted in some other way. The son of Klimith no longer cared.

Long hours of day and night passed, and still Klamath waited.

Perhaps he had spent too much time immersed in his King’s distrust of sorcery and sorcerers. He assumed that his Magisters would choose to fight as they had done during the old wars, from a place of safety. When Captain Rowt found him during the second night to report that they had returned, all of the gifted men and women who had come from the Open Hand, Klamath was speechless. Now they had come back to him? In this storm? Of their own volition?

“General, sir,” prodded Rowt. “Where do you want them?”

For a while, Klamath had no answer. His thoughts whirled. Suddenly, he had more than riflemen. He had Magisters, a wealth of them. More than twenty drought-wielders. Perhaps fifteen Magisters of fire. Eight, no, seven with the Decimate of lightning. Magister Solace and eleven other pestilence-wielders. And a full fifteen Magisters of wind led by Magister Trench.

Was that all? No. King Bifalt had given him six earthquake-wielders, Magister Astride and five others.

What could he do with such largesse?

Unfortunately, it was all on his side of the enemy’s ascent. He could not ask anyone to attempt a crossing through the priests and the horde and the heavy infantry. Hegels would have to be content with bullets and sabers.