Desperate, a hunted thing, he plunged off down the passage.
More cries behind him. More green fire blazing.
But these ancient alleys were like a maze, a rabbit-warren. Given ten seconds' lead, a man had at least a gambler's chance to lose himself, find safety.
And Craig had ten seconds ... ten seconds a grey-thatched serving serf had bought with his own life.
The knowledge brought new sickness surging through Craig—a sickness that drew no fragment from the pain of his wounded shoulder.
But he had no time for thoughts or bitterness or brooding. Not now. For him, there were only the shouts behind and the blackness of the alley.
Only then, from his backtrail, a new sound rose ... the whisper of a roller's leathery pads spinning over the cobbles.
Craig whirled.
Running blind, caroming from wall to wall as it sped through the narrow alley, the sphere raced towards him.
Craig threw himself into the angle of the nearest doorway.