Behind him, a dozen infantrymen staggered out of the chaos. Prince Jaspid fired first. Jeck and Malder. A heartbeat later, more gunshots cut down Rile’s men like a scythe of lead.

The King thought he heard Elgart call, “Come!” He may have been screaming. Bifalt heard only a whisper through the thunder and crashing of the Fist’s end. He may have imagined it. But he had no choices left.

Choking on the dust in his lungs, he coughed, “Go!”

A few of the Magisters hesitated. Astride did not. Perhaps she thought that she might still be useful. Boy and Spliner took hold of the other Magisters, shoved them into the tunnel after Astride. At once, the workmen followed.

Bifalt watched with his heart as well as his eyes. If the passage was blocked, the rush of workmen would slow, then stop. But they moved on until they were out of sight. At Jaspid’s command, the riflemen began swarming into the tunnel.

A wide slab of the ceiling crashed to the floor and burst apart fifteen paces behind Bifalt. Belleger’s Fist was falling faster, harder. If he had thought about it, he could have measured his life in moments. But he had no attention to spare. Instead, he concentrated on the rush of his people. He could only see them past slivers of light from the lanterns. Then each of them passed into the darkness.

As long as they kept moving—

Another stash of gunpowder detonated. The explosion was little more than a groan amid the clamor of falling stone.

Abruptly, Bifalt felt Jaspid grab his arm. “Now, Majesty!” commanded the Prince. “I will keep three men to guard your back. You must go now!”

Bifalt felt unable to move. He stood where he was until Jaspid and Malder hauled him forward. Then he went, staggering, to join the last riflemen outside the tunnel.

Following Jaspid’s example, they pushed their King ahead of them, did not let him linger or look back.

Scrambling in darkness, he fled the ruin of his home.

One after another, King Bifalt’s people clambered over piles torn from the tunnel’s roof. They came to Magister Bone’s body. He lay dead, apparently unharmed. His heart or his lungs must have failed him.

The Magisters hurried past him, desperate for fresh air. They had lost only their weakest member. Perhaps they had expected to lose him. But the laborers were ordinary men. They recognized that Bone had given them a precious gift. One by one, they picked up chunks of rock and set them on his body before they went on, building a cairn for the fallen sorcerer.