“What are your mages doing?” snapped the premer to the mage next to him. “Do they not have spells to counteract this attack?”

“No one has ordered them to attack,” balked the mage.

Premer Doralin turned abruptly, his open hand swinging hard into the mage’s face. The mage staggered backwards for a few paces. He looked up with hurt and rage on his face.

“Thousands of my men are dying out there,” bellowed Premer Doralin, “while your prima donnas stand watching. Order the mages to attack. Now!”

The mage moved away from the premer and immediately began sending orders to the other ships. Doralin turned back to observe the battle. Another half dozen Motangan ships were sinking, but bright fiery balls started soaring through the air as the mages began their attack. The small Sakovan ships started to burst into flames. Doralin nodded subconsciously and felt the presence of someone beside him. He turned to find General Valatosa alongside him.

“That will prove to be a fatal error,” the general said softly. “You should never strike one of Vand’s mages. He may obey you at the moment, but you will be marked for death.”

“I cannot believe those fools would wait for an order to defend themselves,” scowled the premer. “Do they think that conquering the Sakova will be a picnic? If anything, this attack on us shows their resourcefulness. We must never underestimate them.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” commiserated the general. “They have been treated as royalty by Vand, and they have let it go to their heads. Still, you must fully understand their motivations. They would kill Motangan soldiers just as quickly as Sakovan soldiers. They are a society unto themselves. They will not mourn the thousand soldiers that go down with the ship. They will mourn the dozen mages that were on it. They will conspire to see you dead for daring to strike one of their own.”