Bifalt dropped to his knees beside the caravan-master. Among the supplies that Boy had kept ready, he found a damp cloth. As carefully as he could, he dabbed the blood away. Next, he located a reed as thin as a needle. Easing it into the tube, he tried to clear out any dried blood that might block the flow of air.

A small flinch tightened parts of Set Ungabwey’s slack face. He blinked, trying to open his eyes. After a moment, he looked up. His gaze was still clear.

With an effort that squeezed out more blood, he breathed, “Wine.”

King Bifalt wiped away the blood, then picked up the flask of herbed wine that dulled the caravan-master’s pain. Almost tenderly, he lifted it to Set Ungabwey’s thick lips.

The man managed two small swallows. After that, wine dribbled down his chin.

Bifalt put down the flask. Bending over the man who had left him to die in the desert decades ago, he said, “The end is near, Master Ungabwey. The enemy fills Belleger’s Fist. Soon they will find us. Then it will be time. When you strike the spark, lift the flame to the fuses. That will be enough.”

The caravan-master studied Bifalt’s face like a man waiting for the word that would give meaning to his long pain.

Bifalt was Belleger’s King and Abbator’s son. Harshly, he added, “You will not save your daughters, but you will strike a blow at the enemy. Whatever happens, he will feel that wound.”

Set Ungabwey’s sigh brought up more blood. He did not try to respond.

Riflemen continued to arrive. King Bifalt could not spare the attention to count them.

From the back of the cellars came a sharp crack, a sound like stone splitting.

Goaded by too many fears, the King demanded, “Do you understand?”

He meant, Can you do it?

The constant frown of the dying man’s distress deepened. “It is,” he wheezed. “Your realm. Your home.”

The King swore to himself. “Do you doubt me?” he reported. “Your home was destroyed. You lost your people. You know what I feel. I will save as many of my people as I can.”

With a wrenching effort, Set Ungabwey lifted the striker, braced it ready on his chest. Between ragged breaths, he asked, “How will? I know? The time?”

King Bifalt started to say, You will hear me. But that might not be enough. When the infantrymen arrived, a tumult of gunfire and iron armor would fill the high chamber. Set Ungabwey might not be able to hear—

Another crack, longer than the first.

Bifalt made another instant decision. “One of us will shout your name. We will shout until we see the spark.”

Sighing, the caravan-master closed his eyes. He seemed to breathe a bit more easily.

Hurrying now, Bifalt glanced around until he spotted his brother. Without hesitation, he called, “Jaspid! Watch over Set Ungabwey. I must check on the tunnel. If I do not return in time, shout his name. Make him hear you.”