Then the Arishaig crossed the invisible plane of the walls, and the wards that protected Paranor struck back. The magic did so as if it were an invisible giant blowing off an annoying insect, its breath slamming into the huge warship with enough force to send her spinning away. All of her crew and most of her weapons went flying across the decks in a jumble of wood and iron and bodies. Screams rent the air, spars and light sheaths snapped loose and went flying into space, and the Arishaig bobbed and yawed as if caught in a windstorm.

Shades, Aphenglow mouthed in awe and disbelief.

Then Cymrian was at her side, crouched next to her in the lee of the wall. “What happened?”

“Magic wards the Keep, and apparently it decided enough was enough,” she answered, still watching the Arishaig as she bucked and swayed and fought to keep flying. The other Federation ships were clustered about her protectively, but none of them tried to approach when she was so clearly out of control. “Where’s Arling?”

“Down below, safe. I told her if she came up here you would just worry and not be able to concentrate.” He gave her a quick once-over. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

She shook her head. Down the way, several hundred yards along the battlements, Bombax was looking at them. She waved to him, signaling that she was all right. When he pointedly looked away, she was angry with him all over again.

The Arishaig had righted herself, and her crew was scurrying about, trying to put the weapons and shields back in place, restringing the radian draws and tightening down the light sheaths. Apparently, the Federation wasn’t finished yet. Aphenglow glanced down the walls to the defensive ports and found Krolling and his Troll guards.

“Everyone stay down!” she shouted. “No weapons! The wards will protect us!”

The Federation transport had backed off and was landing in a clearing some distance off. The scout vessel had joined her. But the three warships had lined up anew in front of Paranor’s walls and were slowly turning broadside to employ the maximum number of weapons possible. Aphenglow felt helpless, crouched down and watching with no real way to stop what was happening.

Then all the Federation weapons began firing at once, one after the other—rail slings, fire launchers, and flash rips—a cacophonous roar of discharge and recoil, the rush of missiles released and the crash of targets struck. Stone blocks cracked and shattered, wooden beams collapsed, the front gates—oak fully two feet thick and reinforced with iron plating—shuddered and split, and dust and ash clogged the air with so much debris that it became impossible to see anything more than a dozen feet away. For long moments the sounds were so overwhelming that the Keep’s defenders could do nothing but crouch behind the walls and wait for the roar to subside.