Flisk reached out to grasp Magister Trench’s arm. When he had the man’s attention, he asked as quietly as he could, “I have heard that any sorcerer can sense the presence of sorcery before it strikes. Is that true?”

The Captain saw alarm stutter like reflected lightning in the sorcerer’s eyes. But he also saw resolve as Trench concentrated on the question.

“A moment,” answered the wind-wielder. “A brief warning. No more than a heartbeat or two. But yes. Sorcery announces itself. Its rising can be felt.”

“Then tell me,” returned Flisk. “Can you sense it now?”

He meant, Can the guns be protected? Can the gunpowder?

Trench jerked up his head, faced the distant blare and smash of theurgy. “At this distance? Through this storm?” His body tensed as if he were concentrating with every nerve. His arm resembled iron in the Captain’s clasp. “No.”

No? Flisk swallowed dismay.

But before he could respond, the Magister shifted his stance. As he had done at the Captain’s request once before, he stretched out his Decimate to impose a space of comparative quiet on the howling, whining air.

Instantly, every sorcerer watching the bay stiffened. They looked around wildly for the source of theurgy.

Through his teeth, Magister Trench panted, “Yes. Now. Barely. It is less than a whisper. But yes.”

Unaware of his own tension, Heren Flisk sagged. He did not know how to fight this enemy. The challenge surpassed him. But now he began to imagine that King Bifalt and Queen Estie’s Magisters might be effective in the coming battle.

General Klamath had promised to bring more soldiers—and more sorcerers. Flisk trusted him. But he doubted that Klamath would be able to return before the next dawn.

The struggle in the bay might begin long before then. It might be over before the General arrived.

Slowly, the snowfall thinned, bringing with it a fanged cold. A clear, merciless sky showed in the east, shedding light as brittle as icicles. The sun remained hidden behind the westering cloudbank, but now Captain Flisk could see the terraces with their emplacements, the road stained with fresh wood ash and lined with frozen ropes for handholds, the strand piled with the debris of the convulsion which had shaped the cliff-face.

His first decision was clear. He sent a few soldiers to escort Magister Whimper and her fellow sorcerers of drought. After days of blinding weather, the cannon were buried in mounds of snow, useless despite the whipping confusion of the winds. The long guns on the two upper levels would be needed first. They had to be cleaned, dried; made ready to fire. Three drought-wielders were hardly enough. But their guards would help them. If they were quick—and if their stamina held—they might be able to retrieve the long guns from the drifts.