Ward nodded. "I'll tell when."
The Grimnal rode closer, the crash of its bow waves sounding louder. Ship after ship was coasting past the hidden frigate. Ward's excitement grew to a pounding thing. They would be able to get them all in range.
The sails towered over them. A hundred yards. Almost abreast; just at the narrowest point. Ward took a deep breath, and said quietly:
"Now."
Resi turned and hissed. Steaming liquor trickled down hungry cannon mouths. Lava balls were softly rammed home. Muzzles came down. Aimed. The gunners tensed, raised their hammers—and swung.
The night came apart.
A crashing roar racketed through the Break. The walls blasted back the echo. The Windsong rocked and trembled. Smoke boiled into the moonlight and dimmed the Grimnal ship. And that was only a small sound. Over a mile of fire smashed from the shadow and for a quivering second, it seemed the world had exploded. Then came the thunder, and Ward flinched.
Waterspouts climbed in the moonlight. Wreckage spun from the Grimnal ships. Holes splintered in their sides. The Windsong roared again; the bobbing corvettes answered. And a deafening, mind dulling thunder covered the break.
And the Grimnal did not answer.