He shouted something in a language she did not know, a rarity.
Blood surged as her heartbeat quickened. Her instincts served her well, as had her few days learning Byllskos for the contract. The city unfurled in her mind, and she flew down an alley branching off the main port, only to turn hard onto the next busy street. Sorasa schooled her breathing, keeping it in time with her sprint. After checking ahead, assessing her steps, she dared look back.
For a moment, she thought a bull had escaped its pen.
A cloud of dust and clinging blue smoke followed the man as he ran, arms pumping, a dark green cloak flying out behind him like a flag. The sun glinted off his golden hair. He was no watchman of Byllskos or villa guard. She saw that even from a distance.
Another joined the list of people Sorasa feared.
Men and women alike stumbled away as she vaulted between them, throwing a few to the ground. She ran, her right fist prickling with pain from striking her pursuer. She looked back again and a bolt of shock ran down her spine. Though she had a head start and great speed, he was gaining on her quickly.
An idea snapped together in her head. For the first time since she’d set foot in Byllskos, a bead of sweat trickled down her neck.
This is a warning, Garion had said. The first rumble of thunder before a storm.
Was this man the lightning? Lord Mercury’s final punishment?
Not if I can help it.
Sorasa turned again, sharply agile as she swung herself into another alley crowded with less reputable vendors, their wares stolen or useless. She dodged, a dancer in the disarray, leaping over bowls of half-rotten fruit, through hanging sheets of fabric, around haggling men and women. All of it closed behind her, undisturbed by her quick and skillful passing. Sorasa half hoped the crowd would hide her, if not slow her pursuer down.
It did neither.
He pummeled his way through, stalls collapsing in his wake. A few women swatted at him, but their blows glanced off his broad chest and shoulders. To Sorasa’s surprise, he only blinked at them, bewildered. His confusion didn’t last.
Through the crowded alley, his eyes found hers, and she caught a flash of teeth as he clenched his jaw.
Adrenaline snapped through her, a delicious feeling. Despite her fear, Sorasa felt her heart sing in anticipation. It had been a year since her last true fight.
She scrambled up a stack of crates, jumping from stall to stall, balancing on poles and planks, ignoring the shouts of the tradesmen below. Her size was an advantage and she used it well.
But he lunged up the crates like an animal, following her path down to the splinter.
“Shit,” she cursed. A person that large shouldn’t be able to hop around so easily.
Sorasa leapt again, landing precariously on a pole. It swayed beneath her. Below, a man selling bruised fruit shouted and shook a fist. She ignored him, cursing Lord Mercury and whatever he had done to ensure Sorasa Sarn died painfully.
With a flip of her hand, she drew up her hood again, covering her hair. The other assassin was only a stall away now, perched with one foot on a narrow plank, the other braced against the alley wall. In another place, he would look comical. Now he was only terrifying. He glowered at her, eyes green with fury. At this distance, Sorasa could see his short beard was as golden as his hair hanging loose. He didn’t look a day over thirty years old.
But one side of his face was scarred, as if clawed to pieces. By what? she wondered, her stomach churning.
The sword and dagger hung at her side, begging for her attention like children pulling at their mother’s hands. Instead her fingers strayed for the coiled bullwhip, all leather and rage.
“I would like to speak to you,” her pursuer ground out in Paramount, the common language stilted and oddly formal for their circumstance. She tried and failed to place his accent.
While her heartbeat still surged, he showed no signs of exertion. Not even a single hair out of place.
“You’re speaking to me now,” she replied, adjusting her balance, both feet set beneath her. Her toes wiggled in anticipation. The whip loosed, trailing like a venomous snake.
Below them, the fruit vendor continued to yell in Tyri, but no one else stopped to watch. The Byllskos alleys were filled with fools. Two more were of little consequence.
The man did not blink, watching every tick of her muscles. “I would prefer to converse elsewhere.”
She shrugged and tightened her grip on the plaited handle of the whip, slipping the wrist loop into place. “That’s a shame.”
The man stretched out his hand, the palm as big as a dinner plate, the pale skin crossed with calluses and training scars. Won at the citadel, though I have never seen him before. Is he some pet of Mercury’s trained in isolation, a dragon to unleash on any of us who cross his will?