“Magisters.” He tried to shout, and could not. “All of you. With me.”

Only Magister Brighten heard him. But she was enough. She summoned the other sorcerers.

Flisk paused long enough to tell Forguile, “Recall the drought-wielders.” Then he lurched into motion, heading for the nearest kitchen. The Magisters watching the bay followed him.

As he left the onlookers, the Captain searched among them for some sign of Mattwil. But Matt’s son and Cloras were not at the edge of the cliff.

Flisk chose to trust they were somewhere safe. Mattwil had sworn to General Klamath that he would not fight.

Hurrying in the opposite direction, the teams of cannoneers—four for each gun—went past him; but he had nothing to say to them. He knew them all. He refused to think that they were running to their deaths. Commander Forguile would manage them. Heren Flisk had to find the strength or the resolve or the sheer worthiness to make Magisters heed him.

The kitchen was a crude wooden structure large enough to seat fifty men while the cooks and servants fed them. It would have been bitterly cold without its oilcloth sheeting and its two hot stoves, one for cooking, the other for warmth. Most of the riflemen who had searched the woods with Commander Forguile were there. While they restored themselves, they waited for orders.

Standing close to a stove, Flisk began to shiver urgently. He had been exposed too long: the cold had soaked into his bones. He needed to speak. Time was precious now. But he could not master himself.

Then a servant put a mug of hot cider in his numb hands. As he sipped sweet warmth, he regained a measure of steadiness.

He had eight Magisters of lightning with him. Four of wind, the survivors of Father Skurn’s coerced attack. They stood in a circle around Flisk and the stove. Magister Pillion was here as well. He sat at a table near one wall. He had recovered enough to attempt a bowl of stew. But he ate like a man who had difficulty finding his mouth with the spoon. He did not appear to be aware of anyone around him.

“Magisters,” began Captain Flisk: a ragged croak. He faced the stove so that he would not have to see their alarm and skepticism. “You are needed. You do not require me to tell you cannon and gunpowder cannot withstand the Decimate of lightning.”

There was a maelstrom of argent sorcery at work in the bay. Its bolts could destroy the emplacements at any time. When the cannon began to fire, Rile’s sorcerers would strike back.

“What of it?” demanded Magister Lambent from somewhere at Flisk’s back. “We can do nothing.”