A storm of lead greeted them. Fired at close range, slugs pierced the iron. Even glancing shots struck hard. Infantrymen were knocked off balance or flung backward. Instinctively, some of them lowered their shields: a fatal mistake. In moments, they were all down.

They were only the first to reach the floor. More followed them without hesitation. Many more.

Prince Jaspid concentrated his fire two steps below the archway. He missed once. Then he struck a man’s hip. The bullet slammed through that man’s leather skirt-armor. He staggered against the wall, started to pitch forward.

But he did not fall on the man below him. The infantrymen had already suffered one disastrous fall down the stairs. They were prepared to prevent another. The next man in line jumped lower, shoved his hip-shot comrade aside. Spraying blood, the infantryman toppled off the stairs. The charge rushed on.

Bifalt fired once. Again. Then he stopped. In the unsteady torchlight and the thick pall of gun-smoke, he could not be sure of his aim.

Between him and the stairs, bodies in a tangled pile gave their blood to the stone. Some of them still writhed, struggling to rise, or to live. But Rile’s losses were too few. The nearest infantrymen kept coming. In a few more steps, their swords would reach the first of Bifalt’s men.

Now? he asked himself. Was the time now?

At any moment, the attackers might notice the fuses. They might understand their peril.

Jaspid stood behind a column several strides away from the caravan-master, poised to take the dying man’s place.

Deliberately, King Bifalt took his last risk.

“Now, Jaspid!” he yelled. “Set Ungabwey!”

His voice seemed to catch in his throat. He could hardly hear himself through the cacophony of screams, gunfire, ricochets, and clashing metal.

The Prince turned his head, met Bifalt’s gaze, nodded.

As clear as a trumpet, Jaspid shouted, “Set Ungabwey!”

Then he began dodging among the pillars, moving to light the fuses if Master Ungabwey failed. If he had already lost his hold on life.

Through his teeth, Bifalt hissed, “You fool!” Now everything depended on the tunnel. Without it, he had nothing.

But he was out of time. To the nearest riflemen, he barked, “Back! Fall back!”

They had their orders. Trusting their comrades to cover them, they ran toward the far wall and the tunnel.

With his bodyguards, King Bifalt joined them. That was his duty. Set Ungabwey and his brother and the fuses were out of his hands. Moving more slowly than his soldiers, he bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. The taste steadied him.

As he passed them, the second line of riflemen took up the fight. After scant moments without gunfire, moments punctuated only by screams and running, rifles blazed defiance. The shouts of the guns and the whine of ricochets battered the air.