Raesinia watched Hayver collapse, no more than a darker shape inside his personal ball of hellfire. The woman glanced at him and extended her hand, and the flames around him shot back toward her, rejoining the orb hovering before her. What was left behind was a steaming, blackened ruin barely recognizable as human.

Marcus was halfway to the door already, with Andy close behind him. The third Mierantai had thrown himself behind the barrels of gunpowder, loading his rifle, his face the grim mask of someone staring death in the face. The old woman regathered her flame from his burning companion, calling them back to her hand like a medieval falconer and his hunting bird.

We’re not going to make it. Raesinia threaded her way back through the piles, ignoring the Patriot Guard musket balls that still snapped and whined around her. The Mierantai got to his feet and fired, producing no more than another spatter of lead, and more fire snapped out. As he burned, the charges in his belt pouch exploded, nearly tearing him in half. The old woman gave a harsh, cackling laugh.

Marcus and Andy had reached the last row of cannon, but there was an open space between them and the back door. If they run, she’ll burn them. They’d apparently reached this conclusion, and Marcus had hold of Andy’s arm, holding her in the protective shadow of the guns. Raesinia found herself among the chests and caissons, huddling as the woman, the Penitent Damned, stalked closer.

Raesinia’s eyes fell on the closest chest. It wasn’t locked, just latched. She pried it open an inch with one finger, and found it full of linen bags. Her knowledge of artillery was limited, but she guessed that these were premeasured portions of powder, used for speed in the heat of battle. Each one was about the size of her hand. They can’t be very heavy . . .

Carefully, she extracted one of the pouches and let the chest close. She hefted it, testing the weight, and then gauged the old woman’s unhurried progress. A few more steps. Marcus, just stay put a little longer . . .

“Andy, go!” she heard Marcus shout. The girl ran, and he stood up, pistol in hand. The old woman smiled.

Goddamn all chivalrous bastards!

Raesinia sprang to her feet as the report of his pistol echoed through the warehouse. She took a step forward, winding up, and hurled the sack of powder toward the old woman with all the strength she could muster.