it. This wasn’t too dangerous; the streets were empty.
A screech came from overhead. Arren looked up sharply and saw several griffins flying over the market district. He didn’t stop to think; he broke and ran, sprinting down the street and to a crossroads. There he turned right and ran on, his mind racing. He had to keep out of the light, find somewhere to lie low until they had moved on.
He turned and ran down a small side street. Nowhere to hide here. Just blank walls. He burst out of the other end and into another street.
Straight into the path of a squad of armed men.
For an instant both he and they stood dead still, staring in surprise, and then Arren turned and ran away from them. The guards came in pursuit, at least six of them, all armed and shouting to raise the alarm. As he ran, realisation flashed across Arren’s mind. They were hunting for me. His escape had been noticed; by now every guard in the city must be searching for him.
After that there was no more thought; there was just night, and shadows, and terror. Arren ran as he had never run before in his life, every sense strained to its uttermost, always with the thud of boots and clank of armour following just behind him. The guards were weighed down by their weapons and breastplates—but the collar and the sword in his belt were doing the same to him, and he was still weak from the fight against Darkheart and the strains and shocks of that night. But he didn’t feel any pain. All he could feel was his feet hitting the ground, and all he could see was the street ahead of him, the twists and turns and the places where he could hide. He veered off the main street and into an alley; it was narrow and though he got through it easily enough, the guards had trouble following him. It delayed them long enough to give him some ground; he chose a direction at random and followed it at full speed, searching now for somewhere he could hide.
But he wasn’t quick enough. This street was well lit by the moon, and he heard the voices of the guards behind him. They were shouting at him, ordering him to surrender.
He paid no attention. There had to be somewhere to go, somewhere to hide, some way to escape, there had to be.
He turned another corner, onto another street. This one looked familiar . . . he turned right and went along it, ducking in and out of the shadows. It was a little darker here, more places to hide. The guards were still on his tail. They were carrying torches, and as they drew closer he could see the light throw his shadow ahead of him. They were gaining on him.
But Arren did not give up. He found an extra burst of strength inside him and sped up, leaving them behind. If he could put enough distance between him and his pursuers, it would give him a chance to hide before they saw where he had gone.
It was working. They were falling behind, tired out, and he felt a kind of wild glee. He was getting away. He’d always had long legs and been well coordinated. He was a natural runner, with none of the stockiness of a Southerner. They couldn’t catch him.
And then shouts came from ahead of him. He slowed down, confused, and saw another group of guards come running toward him from the other end of the street. They were heading him off. Arren stopped. He looked back and saw the first group catching up. He was sandwiched between them, with nowhere to go.
No. There was one way to go. He looked to his left and saw a gap between two houses. It would do. He darted through it, scraping his elbows on the wooden walls. Hope rose in his chest. They would be stuck in this gap; it was barely wide enough for him to fit through, let alone them with their armour. He’d made it. He’d outwitted them.
He burst out of the gap and onto—
A stretch of bare planks, jutting out over the edge of the city and into space.
Arren skidded to a halt and looked desperately this way and that. There was nowhere to go except back through the gap; the houses on either side were built right up to the edge of the planking, and in front