With an air of unconcern, the rifleman shrugged. He took more time to settle his aim.

His third bullet broke the slender shaft of the staff. Its cross fell away. Clattering, it landed on the table among the books.

The rifleman nodded to himself. His next shot destroyed the last ruby.

Like a man standing secure in the eye of a storm, he removed the clip from his rifle, dropped it in his satchel, took out another and slapped it in place. Then he began firing at the books. His bullets tore through the pages, scattered them like dead leaves.

People around the balcony cheered as if the battle had been won. Magister Threnody did not. The Great God was unharmed—and growing brighter. She could hardly bear to look at him. His howling sounded like the end of all things.

Gasping through his teeth, King Bifalt tried to recover his balance. He had lost it somewhere. He could hardly see. His surroundings swayed from side to side, and the unsteady labor of his heart seemed to beat in his eyes. He would have fallen again without Elgart’s support, and Klamath’s.

Moments passed before he managed to glance at his friends.

Then he wanted to weep.

They were grievously hurt. Elgart had a dirty strip of cloth tied over his left eye. The socket oozed blood. Another scar for the scarred man. The stump of Klamath’s right elbow was a lump of charred meat. A belt cinched his upper arm.

Bifalt’s friends—

He was hurt as well. Clamped below his ribs, his left hand seemed to grip a bundle of broken glass. It shredded his side. He had been cut there. The wound leached away his life.

But Estie had commanded him. Jaspid tries to give you an opening. You must strike now. He could not stop for pain, his friends’ or his own.

There was no one behind him. The infantrymen had driven Klamath’s riflemen and Magisters downhill. Only the King and his friends were close enough to obey his wife.

I love you!

He worked his throat until he had summoned a little moisture, enough for a hoarse whisper. “We must go up. To Rile. We have a chance.”

“Up there?” Elgart groaned. “How? I can hardly see.”

“I can see,” muttered Klamath. “I cannot fight.”

Bifalt told Elgart, “Then support me.” He looked at the General. “Give me your sword.”

Elgart’s was gone. Without a word, Klamath reached across his body, fumbled his blade from its sheath. Trembling, he put it in Bifalt’s hand.

The King hefted the saber as if he were capable of wielding it. “One last blow,” he promised himself. “Take me to Rile.”

After a moment, Elgart nodded. “If we come at his back, you may find an opening. He has no priests there.”

Klamath attempted a shrug.

Alone while the fighting below them lashed on, the three damaged men struggled uphill.