lead now. Blundering forward, Reynik ran straight at the corner. It was only in the last few paces that he
realised his mistake and swung wide to avoid being too close to the blind spot as he rounded the building. It was well that he did, for his quarry was waiting for him.
Instinct and a slice of good fortune saved Reynik from being butchered in the opening exchange. The assassin leaped, swinging his sword down at him in a deadly overhead stroke. Even as the blade
whistled at him, the young Legionnaire twisted and raised the shovel to block it. The blade bit deep into the handle of the shovel about an inch below the metal head and jammed in the wood. The
shock of the impact drove the handle down and in towards Reynik’s body, but the resistance that he offered, together with the pivoting effect of the blade sticking in the wood some distance
from his hands, carried the tip of the sword clear of his body.
Reynik was quick to respond to the situation. Even as the shovel tip touched the ground he shifted his weight and reversed the pivotal movement of the handle, wrenching the assassin’s
sword arm back up and over in an arc. The handle of the sword was twisted from his fingers, but Reynik did not stop the momentum of the shovel and he smashed it down onto the cobblestone street.
The deep cut in the handle had weakened it such that the handle splintered on impact, sending the sword and the head of the shovel spinning across the road.
For a moment, Reynik and his assailant faced one another. As he looked into the assassin’s eyes, Reynik realised to his astonishment that it was not Shalidar staring back at him, but a
complete stranger. For a split second the two paused, each as surprised as the other. How circumstances had changed in those few action-packed heartbeats! Reynik’s attacker had gone from
having the advantages of both surprise and superior weapons to being unarmed and facing a soldier armed with what now looked like something between a staff and a spear.
Shalidar he was not, but if Reynik had been a gambler, he would have put money on the man being a paid killer.
‘You . . . are . . . under . . . arrest . . .’ Reynik started, panting out the words and lifting the lethal-looking wooden handle threateningly.
The man growled. There was no other description that adequately conveyed the sound that issued from his mouth. It was a low-pitched rumble of anger and frustration that erupted from the
man’s throat like the ominous grumble of a big cat. Then he took advantage of Reynik’s surprise and fatigue by spinning and running away in one swift movement.
Reynik hesitated to follow. He was tired. The fire of vengeance that had burned in his belly had been doused by the discovery that he was not chasing his sworn enemy. He was in no fit state to
follow further. The man still had a soldier’s knife, which if wielded competently could be every bit as deadly as a sword. All Reynik was left with was the remains of the shovel – now
more of a pole.
Reynik glanced across at the sword lying in the road, but realised that grabbing it would lose him more time. Duty and fatigue battled for supremacy in his mind. It was a swift conflict. Duty
won. He did not know what the man had been doing in tent city, but judging by his actions when pursued, he was unlikely to have been doing anything good.
Gritting his teeth and forcing his body onwards, Reynik took up the pursuit again. The side street was narrow and darkening fast. Dusk was already giving way to night. Reynik’s laboured
breathing, together with the echoing footfalls of their running feet, sounded loud in his ears. An alley cat yowled and ran to one side as the assassin approached it. It gave a spitting hiss at
Reynik as he passed by a couple of seconds later, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from its evening hunt.
The man turned right into a narrow alley between two rows of tall, overhanging terraced houses. Reynik once again took the wide
realised his mistake and swung wide to avoid being too close to the blind spot as he rounded the building. It was well that he did, for his quarry was waiting for him.
Instinct and a slice of good fortune saved Reynik from being butchered in the opening exchange. The assassin leaped, swinging his sword down at him in a deadly overhead stroke. Even as the blade
whistled at him, the young Legionnaire twisted and raised the shovel to block it. The blade bit deep into the handle of the shovel about an inch below the metal head and jammed in the wood. The
shock of the impact drove the handle down and in towards Reynik’s body, but the resistance that he offered, together with the pivoting effect of the blade sticking in the wood some distance
from his hands, carried the tip of the sword clear of his body.
Reynik was quick to respond to the situation. Even as the shovel tip touched the ground he shifted his weight and reversed the pivotal movement of the handle, wrenching the assassin’s
sword arm back up and over in an arc. The handle of the sword was twisted from his fingers, but Reynik did not stop the momentum of the shovel and he smashed it down onto the cobblestone street.
The deep cut in the handle had weakened it such that the handle splintered on impact, sending the sword and the head of the shovel spinning across the road.
For a moment, Reynik and his assailant faced one another. As he looked into the assassin’s eyes, Reynik realised to his astonishment that it was not Shalidar staring back at him, but a
complete stranger. For a split second the two paused, each as surprised as the other. How circumstances had changed in those few action-packed heartbeats! Reynik’s attacker had gone from
having the advantages of both surprise and superior weapons to being unarmed and facing a soldier armed with what now looked like something between a staff and a spear.
Shalidar he was not, but if Reynik had been a gambler, he would have put money on the man being a paid killer.
‘You . . . are . . . under . . . arrest . . .’ Reynik started, panting out the words and lifting the lethal-looking wooden handle threateningly.
The man growled. There was no other description that adequately conveyed the sound that issued from his mouth. It was a low-pitched rumble of anger and frustration that erupted from the
man’s throat like the ominous grumble of a big cat. Then he took advantage of Reynik’s surprise and fatigue by spinning and running away in one swift movement.
Reynik hesitated to follow. He was tired. The fire of vengeance that had burned in his belly had been doused by the discovery that he was not chasing his sworn enemy. He was in no fit state to
follow further. The man still had a soldier’s knife, which if wielded competently could be every bit as deadly as a sword. All Reynik was left with was the remains of the shovel – now
more of a pole.
Reynik glanced across at the sword lying in the road, but realised that grabbing it would lose him more time. Duty and fatigue battled for supremacy in his mind. It was a swift conflict. Duty
won. He did not know what the man had been doing in tent city, but judging by his actions when pursued, he was unlikely to have been doing anything good.
Gritting his teeth and forcing his body onwards, Reynik took up the pursuit again. The side street was narrow and darkening fast. Dusk was already giving way to night. Reynik’s laboured
breathing, together with the echoing footfalls of their running feet, sounded loud in his ears. An alley cat yowled and ran to one side as the assassin approached it. It gave a spitting hiss at
Reynik as he passed by a couple of seconds later, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from its evening hunt.
The man turned right into a narrow alley between two rows of tall, overhanging terraced houses. Reynik once again took the wide
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