When Captain Flisk returned to the head of the road, the light was failing as the sun set behind its veil of storm clouds. A deepening gloom covered the bay, the black ships, the furious thrash and throw of the waters. The more distant vessels, the transports, were concealed by the coming night.

Below Flisk’s vantage, dusk made a vivid display of the battle. Out near where the former reef had bitten the seas, lightning still searched the bay for obstacles. Closer in, forked fingers of dazzling argent reached for the terraces, the cannon and gunpowder, the men. They left streaks across the Captain’s vision, half blinded him. At first, he could not tell whether they struck, or where.

But he could still hear the hard shouts of the long guns. Every shot answered the lightning with spouts of flame. And he had been counting: all sixteen of them were still firing. Somehow, the fury of the enemy’s sorcery had missed them. Or—

Blinking at the cold, the winds, the virulent extravagance of lightning, he forced his eyes to focus. Through the rapid stutter of theurgy and gunpowder, he looked down at the emplacements.

The teams of cannoneers performed their tasks with practiced skill: packing powder and wadding down the barrels; setting the fuses; lifting cannonballs or chain into the muzzles; putting flame to the fuse-holes. As their guns blared, they jumped away from the recoil. When ropes as thick as cables stopped the recoil, the men rushed to roll the cannon back into place. Despite the bright peril arcing toward them, they maintained the rhythm they had been taught.

None of the gunners were the youths who had come from the Open Hand to fire cannon. Those boys had trained with the men; had practiced as much as anyone. But neither Flisk nor Forguile had felt inclined to risk them. They were a last resort.

As Captain Flisk’s vision cleared, he saw that the wild bolts from the ships earlier had failed to hit the emplacements. They lacked the reach of the long guns. And now the Magisters of lightning were there, exerting their Decimates. Some of them whirled their arms as if they were flinging power. Others stood motionless, using only their minds and nerves; their desire to live. Whatever they did, they were succeeding. Hard shafts of silver seemed to evaporate over the waters, expending their force on nothing. The cannon were not harmed.

Whether or not the Magisters of wind were wielding their Decimates—whether or not their efforts served any purpose—Flisk had no idea. He had no sorcerous talent: he could not sense any of the theurgies contending in the bay.