Miro wished he was wearing some kind of armour but it was too late for wishes. At any rate, only enchanted armour stood a chance at stopping the blade.
Glancing behind him, the assassin saw he was being pursued and spurred on extra speed. Miro put all his strength into running, his strides lengthening and his breath coming deep and even. All of the work in the Pens was paying off. He was at the peak of fitness.
The disguised assassin was fast. Miro soon found he was racing from street to street, becoming quickly lost, and the assassin was still drawing away.
The assassin ducked and weaved behind a series of containers. Miro followed, the awful smell meaning they could only contain rotting garbage. The assassin ducked to the side, taking an unexpected turn. Momentarily thrown, Miro stopped, then saw the brown of the man’s clothing as he ducked into yet another street. Miro ran, twisting and weaving, and then the assassin was again just ahead of him.
The assassin jumped a steel fence taller than his height, placing only the palm of his hand on the top and leaping over with extraordinary agility.
As he himself approached, Miro realised he would need to make a difficult choice. There was no support — he could hear no one coming behind him.
He threw his sword aside.
With a burst of speed Miro leapt the tall fence, barely touching the top with three of his fingers.
Looking over his shoulder, the running man turned, and seeing Miro gaining on him, put down his head.
Completely unarmed now, Miro increased his speed to the limit. He was gaining on the assassin, but what would he do if the man forced an encounter?
They had by now followed so many turns it was impossible to say where they were. In all directions Miro could see the Wall staring down at him.
Miro rounded a large building, and a new vista was revealed in the half-light just before dawn. He realised they were back in the port district. Fishing boats were unloading at the dock; the ground was slippery with tiny baitfish and scales. Larger fish were being sorted in containers.
The assassin jumped a huge wooden bucket. Intentionally or not, his foot kicked the side of the bucket as he leapt, spilling the contents. Fish splattered over the ground, and unable to stop himself, Miro slipped and tumbled, falling amongst the slippery fish, their sharp fins cutting into his unprotected skin.
Miro rolled and leapt up again. The assassin glanced back and saw his pursuer still following.
Then he noticed for the first time that Miro was without a weapon.
The assassin grinned and paused, turning and then walking towards Miro, taking his time.
Miro looked frantically around for a weapon. Fifty paces away he saw a cleaver lying next to a tray of spindly green fish.
Miro ran for it, just as the assassin leapt for him.
Something threw him to the ground, a blast of hot air punching in the very centre of his back. Miro’s wind was taken from him; he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. His vision blacked for a moment, clarity only returning slowly.
He first reached around to feel his back. It was red, raw, but there was no blood. He was alive.
Miro turned, wincing. With movements like an old man he raised himself onto his knees.
Where the assassin had been there was nothing but a pile of burnt flesh. Miro was staring into the dark, dead eyes of four legionnaires. Lord of the Sky, they were huge men — bigger than the heaviest wrestler Miro had seen back in Altura. They wore armour with bands of imperial purple, and all sported the sun and star of Tingara tattooed somewhere on their faces. One of them casually tossed a prismatic orb from one hand to the other, glancing at the double-banded leader, questioning.
The leader waited a moment, and Miro knew his life hung in the balance. The legionnaire shrugged. "Leave him," he said.
The legionnaires walked away, striding purposefully, their challenging stares intimidating everyone around. The fishermen and other pedestrians studiously looked in any other direction, wanting no involvement with whatever was happening here.
Miro looked down at the floor. The enchanted knife lay paces away, its runes still glowing softly but fading as he watched.
Gingerly picking it up, he began his long journey back to the Alturan market house.
~
THINGS had settled somewhat in the financial district. Smoke still poured from the Halrana market house, soldiers still ran from one place to another.
The day was beginning to dawn, the sky a menacing red above the imposing grey of the Wall.
An Alturan soldier saw Miro and immediately called for the captain.
Captain Sloan came striding up, his face grim. For once, his grey hair wasn’t brushed. "Well, what happened?"
"He carried an enchanted knife..."
"Yes, yes, I know. What happened to the assassin? Did you see where he went?"
"I followed him to the port district."
One of the soldiers whistled. "All the way there? You ran all that way?"
Captain Sloan silenced him with a glare.