Hardly aware of himself, Bifalt slowed. Had Set Ungabwey succeeded? Would Jaspid? How long would the first burning fuse take to reach its gunpowder? How many of the fuses would the attackers spot? How many would they stamp out?

Bifalt’s nerves shrilled with tension as he waited for hope—and still he was not braced for what came.

The first concussion hit him as if someone had slammed his back with a door. The blare of the detonation volleyed back and forth among the columns. Shards and splinters of rock shrieked through the air. The stone under his feet heaved like heavy flesh in pain. Trying to turn, trying to see, he missed his next step, sprawled on his face.

For an instant, he lay stunned. He thought that he had gone deaf. Then he wedged his arms under him, strained to rise.

Hands caught his shoulders, heaved him upright. As he regained his feet, he recognized Prince Jaspid.

Jaspid said something inaudible. Bifalt thumped his forehead with one hand, trying to clear his ears or his mind.

The Prince tried again. More loudly, he said, “He must have heard us.” He seemed to whisper. “That old man.” He shook his head. “He is tougher than any of us. He did it before I could reach him.”

Jaspid had set the fuses. He knew them all. “The next blast,” he added, “should come in three. Two. One.”

That the King heard. With Malder and Jeck, he and his brother sprinted.

The second shock seemed to lift Bifalt and Jaspid off their feet. Or perhaps they were tossed by the stone under them. Cracks spread through the ceiling. Rocks rained behind them: small pieces, heavy blocks. Fresh screaming and the clang of struck iron filled the foundations.

The riflemen had been ordered to keep the enemy away from the fuses. They did what they could. Infantrymen crashed to the floor. But more raced down the stairs, a continuous stream. And they had seen the fuses, the burning and smoke. Some of them veered away to prevent more explosions. Others kept charging at Bifalt’s men. Their broadswords cut through bronze breastplates and leather armor, hacked at limbs and necks. Bifalt saw three riflemen spurt blood and drop.

Four. Five.

There was nothing that he could do.

He did not know when to expect the next blast. Jaspid said nothing.

Hurrying, they reached the back wall, the mouth of the tunnel.

Six of the Magisters were there. Spliner and Boy. All of the workmen. They were enclosed by a cordon of the King’s soldiers. Were there as many as sixty riflemen? Bifalt had no time to count. Others were dying behind him.