Chapter 30

August Fenwick had seen the soldiers raise their rifles.

As he raced across the uneven ground to the high ridge, he had expected to find the men who now faced him.

He had seen their approach through the mind of his master, Rashan, who now held the bulk of the approaching force in a hypnotic thrall.

For all of Fenwick's speed he had not reached the ridge in time to use his martial training to his advantage. Dozens of unarmed combat styles were his to command, together with strength, agility, and a familiarity with the terrain.

But as the soldiers approached he knew that he was too late,

that their guns gave them a striking reach he could not match.

As the length of red silk around his eyes pulled taut behind him in the onrush of wind,

time seemed to slow.

Each moment seemed to be a complete act, an hour, a day.

He forced his body harder, faster,

knowing it would never be enough. He saw hands move to triggers and seemed to throw himself towards his enemies in a last burst of energy, of desperation, never realizing that he did not,

at that moment, move at all. The men were perhaps fifteen yards

away when he heard the guns begin to roar. For an instant, August Fenwick felt himself

suspended, as if in amber. Still himself, but not within himself. He heard the rifle shots

tearing at the air and their roar seemed to wake him suddenly as if from a dream.

His first thought was sheer amazement at the absence of pain. His eyes darted up to the men on the ridge.

Their rifles were aimed, not at Fenwick, but had an open, empty space thirty feet to his left.

They had paused in their attack as if confused, until a sudden cry came from one of their

number.

Fenwick looked up and saw the squat man with the beard pointing at him in astonishment.

August Fenwick did not pause to wonder at what had happened.

...