Flisk felt frozen inside his heavy garments, immobilized by cold and dread; hardly capable of thought. Nevertheless, suddenly, he was no longer alone in the watching crowd. The Amikan had that effect on him, his partner through all of his harsh years in the bay. Fighting the stiffness of his face, the crusts of ice at the corners of his mouth, the chilled awkwardness of his tongue, he said in a thin gust of vapor, “The guns.” How had he neglected his duty so long? He should have dispatched the cannoneers to their posts an hour ago. “We must call the men.”

Forguile did not answer him directly. For reasons of his own, the Commander rasped, “We did not find the priest. In this snow? He must have left a trail. We saw where he left the camp. But there are too many tracks.” With a twitch of his head, he indicated the woods near the northward rim of the cliff, the dense stretch of trees that had sheltered two coerced riflemen earlier in the day. “The ground looks like fifty men have been swarming there for hours. Yet there are no men. I cannot imagine how it was done.

“That priest has eluded us.”

Blinking, the Captain stared at his friend. His lids scraped his wind-abused eyes. After squinting out at the bay for so long, he could not focus on anything closer.

Forguile had lost Father Skurn.

A man who could do worse than cloud minds. A man who could compel treachery. Somehow, he had escaped. It should not have been possible.

Fifty men swarming everywhere? Who would do that?

Ennis Forguile had been exercising hard for hours. He was warmer than Flisk; better able to think and move. He took a moment to gauge the Captain’s condition. Then he gave Flisk’s shoulder a rough slap.

“We have time. Let those ships come a little nearer. Once we begin to fire, we may not get a second chance. We must do as much damage as we can quickly.”

Forguile had hit Flisk’s bad shoulder. The pain sent a jolt of alertness through him. He had not noticed Magister Brighten coming toward him. Seeing her at his friend’s side startled him.

“You risk too much, Commander,” she said urgently. “They are almost in my range. They may already be able to hit the cannon.”

“But they will not,” answered Forguile. “They cannot strike at us and clear their way at the same time. They will wait until we threaten them.

“Still, I understand you.”

Briefly, he turned to bark an order at the nearest rifleman. “Summon the gunners to the long guns. Only them. We will not risk men on the other cannon until we have no choice.”

While the soldier sprinted away, Commander Forguile faced Flisk again. “Go,” he said sharply. “I will oversee the guns. You have a different task.”

Captain Flisk understood. He had to move. He would—