Blast. He shouldn’t have taken so long at the docks. Or lingered at the apple cart before setting off on his return. Regret filled his lungs. Frederick had warned him. He just hadn’t listened enough.
His hands flexed as white-hot fear coursed through him and Hannah’s face flashed in his mind. How brave and clever she’d been when she saved him. What would she do now? Not go down without a fight, certainly. Well then, that was what he’d have to do, weapon or no weapon.
He couldn’t disappoint her.
A harsh laugh welled in his throat, focusing him. Right. He clasped his hands together. Time to do what they did best—survive.
“Thank you for the offer,” Sol managed to say. “But I think we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
Before any of the three could respond, he shoved the crates toward them, knocking the stack over with a deafening crash. Not waiting to see the results of his handiwork, Sol ran past them as fast as he could, not daring to look back.
Legs pumping, Sol tore down the main street, bumping into drunken strangers, teetering over the stones as hesearched for safety, the snow falling harder and harder, making the ground slick.
A few glances over his shoulder told him that the three had not given up the chase, so he was going to have to lose them, somehow, someway. He did put aside the thought to consider later the strangeness of their eagerness. Surely there were far easier marks for robbery.
It was almost as if they were bent instead upon his injury—or death.
He darted through narrow passages, around cellar doors, and over troughs, but still they hounded at his heels, getting closer every time he slowed. His lungs ached as he pressed forward, clambering over stopped carts and outbuildings as they seemed to herd him eastward—away from the safety of his brother’s house.
Lightning crashed through the sky, and he heard shouts, probably at the light giving them a clear view of him. Oy, he was done for if he couldn’t move faster. Sol glanced around for any miracles of assistance. When his eyes lit on another stack of crates, he followed them upward and considered. It would take a bit of muscle, but if he pulled himself up hard enough… he swallowed as the shouts of his pursuers behind him grew louder.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed forward, scrambling up the creaking slats until he was close enough to grab the edge of the roof. With as much strength as he could muster, he pulled himself up so his chest was high enough that he could use it to slither his knees and feet up, tearing at his clothes and scraping the flesh beneath.
But he made it.
With a groan, Sol doubled over, before forcinghimself to his feet again. He was up. Which meant he had a chance to survive, which he would not waste. And thus, he had to move. Now. At least he could see the city better from here, and the direction that he should go.
Maybe. Hopefully. He dashed to the far edge and glanced down. Mercy, that was quite a fall, though not that much of a jump to the next building. As long as he was careful…
The wind swirled thick, sticky snowflakes in his face. With luck, the weather would help, not hurt him. All right, he swung his arms a little, closed his eyes, and—with a great leap—he cleared the first rooftop, then the second, then the third. He craned his neck; they were still following, though they had only just managed to climb to that first rooftop. Fire in his veins now, Sol ran faster, toward a high-sloped roof, probably of an inn, which, if he got around it, could probably shield him and his course for at least a little while.
The gap between buildings was greater than the last two, but not impossible, as long as he ran fast enough. He swung his arms for extra leverage, pulled back, bent his knees, and—yes, his hands hit the shingles, then his first foot and—oh no—his ankle twisted and slid.
His chest and chin hit the roof first as he fell forward. He gripped for purchase with his fingernails, kicking wildly for anything as he fell, pausing only for a second as his jacket caught.
Panting, he worked to grip anything solid. Then a terrible ripping noise cut through the air as the sleeve disintegrated.
He might have screamed as he fell; he couldn’t quite tell over the wind. Only that there was a crash and a blinding pain and then nothing at all.
