“Pestilence has too little range.” The Commander was sure. “When those Magisters are near enough to reach the enemy, his sorcerers will be able to strike at them. No Magister of wind can counter these gusts and gales. And drought will be useless here.”

For a long moment, Klamath studied the bay: the froth and surge of the waters, the teeth of the rocks, the erratic scourge of the winds. He had his own ideas about the lesser Decimates, but he did not mention them. They were untried.

Finally, he thanked the Captain and the Commander. “You have done well, sirs. You will do more before the end. When I return to the Open Hand, I will send as many men as I can. Until the enemy comes, hold fast. And rest, both of you. Know that you are not alone. And that no one else can take your place.”

Flisk looked clenched for endurance—and unsure of his ability to endure. Forguile’s grin had a wild cast that promised extravagant efforts. Neither of them spoke again as they guided General Klamath back to the nearest kitchen and hot food.

When Klamath had eaten, he spent an hour among the bay’s stubborn volunteers, offering praise and encouragement to anyone who seemed able to listen. Later, he went down to the terraces to inspect the emplacements for himself, and to watch how his riflemen worked with the cannoneers and the guns. When he was satisfied, he climbed back up the road to the rim of the cliff.

There he found the First Captain waiting.

Klamath was already breathing hard, tested by the steep ascent. The sight of his old friend seemed to seize the air in his chest.

Matt looked like a man who had taken a blow to the heart. In the afternoon sunlight, his eyes held a stifled pain that made him seem blind. He faced the General’s arrival as if he had no idea who Klamath was. He was taller than Klamath, stronger; made for hard work and courage. Nevertheless he had been given a beating that he did not know how to bear.

Hells! thought Klamath. Mattwil.

At once rigid and unresisting, Matt went with Klamath as the General drew him back toward the buildings of the camp. He did not react as Klamath called for their horses. When servants and Captain Flisk brought the mounts, Matt went through the reflexive motions of checking the girth and tack, settling the saddle. Unaware of himself and Klamath, he stepped up into his seat.

Flisk held the reins while Klamath mounted. Looking up at Klamath, the Captain said like pleading, “I did not do enough for him, sir.” He meant Mattwil. The General had sent Matt’s son to him. “The work distracted me. And he pushed himself hard. But I imagined that he found a little peace. I did not expect—”