And then I think: I’m an idiot.

My fingers enclose the handle of the sword. Ra!

No hand-to-hand combat required.

He lunges.

But instead of drawing the sun-blade, instinct kicks in—evasion. I feint left and spring right. Scooting low along the base of the wall, I use the bricks as leverage to propel myself forward and shoot past him. I’m through, I’ve made it.

I turn to gloat. He raises his head to look at me, panting, and I give him the finger, unfurl it real slow, let him see.

It’s a mistake. Run when you have the chance.

Run.

I feel a hard shove in the small of my back.

Someone else. Behind me.

It sends me slamming into the man I evaded and he twines his arms around me, thick as tree roots. I kick and squirm, but his grip is a vise. He grabs my wrist and bends it back and I let out a yelp and drop the sword. He clamps a hand over my mouth. I can’t breathe. Through swirling dots, I see the second man, the one who must have pushed me, right in front of me now. He looks identical—same black coat and dark suit, same height and size and age—as the first man. Two against one. Not good.

I try to bite the hand over my mouth and my head is smashed into the wall. I feel a trickle of warm blood roll down my temple. I feel weak, my knees give.

Stay focussed, Ana. Stay awake. Stay conscious.

And that’s when I feel their hands go slack on me. I drop to my knees and gasp, eyes watering. When I look up, I see the men have backed off, so far into the shadows they’ve merged into them, melted completely away. And, in their place…

A third figure—tall and thin—alone in the swirling red ash.

20

His eyes are obscured in the hooded shadow of a faux-leather coat with an ermine-fur collar, but I can see his mouth. He’s a man. He’s tall. Maybe six four and his skin is bone-pale, like Akuji’s. Beneath his unbuttoned coat, he wears a suit of jet-black articulated armour. He carries a long hardwood staff in his hand and he advances towards me through the ash and it roils about him and smokes from his body. He seems a figment of the red dust and yet, somehow, also distinct from it.

“Good evening,” he says. His voice, sepulchral, familiar in a way that chills me. And I think: here is someone you cross and don’t walk away from unscathed.

I drag Ra to my body and, using the sword as leverage, I stand.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Bene?”

“I’m fine,” I answer.

“Fortunato,” he says. “A few more moments and your fate was sealed.” His accent is foreign. Italian maybe. But what world?