Three more blocks. Gods! He would die before then. He reached down inside himself to gather needed strength. You're Ancar, he told himself. An Ancar doesn't tire in a race. An Ancar will die on his feet rather than give up! Keep going! Make your ancestors proud!
He stumbled once, caught himself, and ran on. Dog had sensed his master's panic, and stretched out a dead run, ready to turn and fight if need be. Kekoja began to pull away, and Duran knew he would be left behind.
"Keep going!" Kekoja called over his shoulder. "I'll get the others ready!"
The others? Duran dimly wondered how many "others" there might be. As many as made up the mob? He doubted that.
As he very much doubted his ability to run those three blocks more.
Vadami had caught up to the head of the mob before they had gone very far, but that was all he had been able to accomplish. He had tried reasoning with them, but the men and women who stalked along after Zeldezia were beyond reasoning now.
He and Zeldezia had called the men and women together in a neighborhood far to the east of Duran's, so no casual observer could guess what was going on. They had started off to the west, traveling a route that would bring them into Duran's neighborhood several streets to the north. Along the way, they had added a few more people to the mob, and Vadami estimated their numbers were now forty-five strong.
He did not understand how he had gotten into this position. He kept thinking of going off to the side and returning to the Temple. No one was listening to him. Everything was—
"There he is!"
The mob roared. Vadami could barely make out a distant figure several blocks south, down the street headed east.
"After him!" shouted the burly fellow who had been so vocal earlier. "Don't let him get away!"
"Wait," Vadami yelled in a very unpriestlike voice. "Listen to me!"
Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning lit the sky. People began to run, waving sticks, pausing to gather up loose cobbles.
Then Vadami heard another noise over the thunder, the noise of hooves. Several other people had heard the sound, too, and they broke stride as they ran to glance around.
Suddenly, the street that crossed directly in front of them was filled with horses, and on those horses sat the green-cloaked Guard of the Duke himself.
"Halt!" their commander bellowed over the thunder. "Stop where you are, in the name of His Grace, the Duke!"
The mob halted and began to mill around, some men and women looked frightened, while others seemed increasingly defiant.
"Down with the Sabirn!"
Zeldezia's screech split the heavy silence. She darted off to one side, somehow escaped the arms of a guard who leaned halfway off his horse to catch her, and pelted down the street.
Her action spurred the mob into unthinking motion. Several men charged at the guardsmen, brandishing rocks they had picked up in their hands.
"Swords out!" The Guard commander roared.
Even over the yelling and the rumble of thunder, Vadami heard the rasp of steel on steel as the guardsmen drew their weapons.
The mob howled.
"Death to the Sabirn!" someone yelled.
The commander brought his hand down. "Engage!"
Vadami closed his eyes at the sound of the first scream. Confusion reigned: horses neighed, people cursed and screeched. A body pitched into Vadami, a horse went down—Vadami started to run, heart pounding in his chest, in the direction Zeldezia had taken, fear giving him a speed he had not known he possessed. His legs ached, and he wondered how Zeldezia could keep up the pace: others did—men passed him, with sticks in hand—
Hladyr . . . Shining One! Help me to stop this!
Only the thunder answered him, thunder and the sound of Zeldezia's exhortations.
A large wagon stood in the center of the road. There were no buildings around Duran now, only the ancient arch of the river-gate, the harbor, and the fort built there to protect it. He ran—hearing the shouts closer and closer behind him—the pelting of stones—Dog loping, panting, beside him—
"Duran!"
Kekoja was with the wagon! The sight of the boy frantically beckoning him on gave Duran new energy: he ran, his ears ringing, and small black specks beginning to dot his vision. Behind him, he heard the shrill voice of a woman crying out for death to all unbelievers—
Zeldezia. He would have recognized that crow's voice anywhere.
He stumbled, staggered, caught himself painfully, and kept running—
"Duran! Hurry!"
Kekoja's voice. A stone hit to his left—he threw himself into final effort toward that wagon—ran and ran until he lost his vision, lost his footing entirely.
Strong hands lifted him up. He hung in their grip, limp.
"Get him into the wagon," another voice said. Old Man. Old Man had made it to safety, too.
"They're on us!" Kekoja cried.
"Aye, I see them."
Duran was half-dragged, half-carried over the side of the wagon—tried to help himself as men lifted him up and then unceremoniously dumped him down on his baskets—his -baskets—!
Dog landed in the middle of him—
Stones hailed about them, the shouts grew—Duran looked down the street, and his chest tightened: men running at the wagon, armed with knives and large stones. In the forefront ran Zeldezia, her dark hair come loose from its ribbons, streaming out behind her like a storm cloud.
And Vadami.
Duran closed his eyes. He had never particularly liked the priest, but he had not thought Vadami one to stoop to mob violence.
"Ready?" Old Man called.
"Aye," someone answered.
Three Sabirn men stood at the side of the wagon, long metal tubes held in their hands.
Old Man stood facing the mob, not moving, not saying a thing. Duran wanted to yell, to curse, to do anything but lie in a shivering heap in the wagon, waiting for the mob to take him.
"Now!" Old Man said.
Duran had been in situations of danger before, and knew that time could do one of two things: it could speed up so he had taken action before he knew it, or it could slow down so that each moment felt like an hour.
The thunder cracked close at hand: all of Dandro's hells seemed to explode from the tubes—smoke, and fire, and screams from the crowd. Smoke cleared on the wind—there were people on the ground—the crowd running in terror—
The men scrambled aboard, Kekoja and Old Man, too. The wagon jerked into motion, wheels rumbling on the cobbles, and Duran held on to Dog, held on to him for dear life.
He had finally seen true wizardry, he thought: he had seen it with his own eyes.
EPILOGUE
Not more than two leagues off from Targheiden, beneath a sky that poured cold rain, Old Man brought the wagon to a stop. Duran and Dog sat covered by a tarp in the rear among his baskets; Duran's head still spun, but his breath came evenly again.
"Will anyone follow us?" Kekoja asked Old Man.
"In this weather?" Old Man shook his head. "I doubt it. Not the mob and not the Guard. I don't think they'll dare. I only regret we had to let them see the weapons—"
"They'll call it sorcery," one said.
The other Sabirn standing alongside the wagon laughed. Duran stared at them in wonder. How casually they acted after having delivered fire from their hands—hard men, dangerous men. He shivered, held on to Dog's collar, sitting in his nest of baskets.
The rain slacked to a drizzle, and the thunder and lightning diminished. Even so, Duran agreed with Old Man: no one would come after them. No one in his right mind, at least.
"And now, Sor Duran," Old Man said, turning sideways on the wagon's seat, "we'll try to make amends to you." He glanced at the other Sabirn. "Hear me," he said, "this one is called Duran. He has my name and Kekoja's. You now have his. The only thing lacking is for you to tell him your names."