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richie’s rooftop.
    I glance towards the gate and see that it’s still half-open. The gate is strong but it’s also slow. As I watch, a pair of figures tumble out into the night. Two foxaries, each with two riders dangling from their backs. Two more foxaries burst past them, wild and riderless. Then one last foxary, a single rider on its back, and I’m counting to five in my head with a wild rush of hope. But there are guards behind them, spraying bullets towards the riders, and one of them is about to –
    Psshreeeikkkk!
    The flare screams into life above me. It’s a fireball upon the turret, squealing and spinning and shooting flames into the night. This is a specially designed guard-tower flare, designed to imprint a golden tattoo upon the sky, but its flames whiz out of sight above the distant trees.
    Then there’s a smash of light and sound.
    I slip several terrifying metres, but manage to slam one climbing pick back into the mortar. The jolt leaves me breathless, hanging from one arm. Agony tears through my shoulder and I know I’ve dislocated it. This isn’t the first time I’ve suffered a dislocation – and this doesn’t hurt as badly as the first time – but still, my eyes water. I can barely keep myself from screaming in tune with the flare. I thrust the other pick into the mortar and redistribute my weight onto the uninjured arm.
    Then I twist towards the gate. The guards have stopped, panicked, and turned towards the flare. It must be an important emergency signal – something that isn’t just fired on a whim – because they’re suddenly as jumpy as seeds in a toasting pan. Some run back inside the city, while others head in my direction. The foxary riders have vanished into the trees, a fact that sends a surge of hot triumph through my body.
    But there’s no time to celebrate. The guards have spotted me now – some are pointing up at the wall, loading their rifles. I scramble down even faster, favouring my bad arm. The guards are still too far away to shoot me, but they’re getting closer every second.
    Finally, with a reckless leap, I yank my climbing pick from the wall. It’s a four-metre fall, but I angle my body towards a pile of leaf litter. I crash down with a shriek of pain, all the breath knocked from my body. I don’t have time to check for injuries. There’s a second of lying startled in the leaves before I’m up and staggering into the woods.
    The guards are only fifty metres away. I plunge through the foliage with shaking legs. I keep tripping, thwacking my numb limbs into trees, but it doesn’t really hurt. The fall has shaken me badly; it feels like my body is a puppet, and I’m a very inept puppeteer who’s struggling to make its limbs work properly. I’ll feel the bruises tomorrow – if I live that long – but for now I’m grateful that the pain’s been put on hold.
    My breaths are cold and sharp. I can’t keep this up forever, and I can hear the guards drawing closer. I’ve got to find a hiding place, a way to disguise myself until they blunder past me in the dark. My only luck is that they’re city guards, not used to the foreign environment of Taladia’s woodland. They’re probably just as lost as I am. If they were the king’s hunters, I’d already be dead.
    I plough through a thicker crop of trees, struggling not to break too many branches. The last thing I need is to leave a clear trail. A few years ago, a crew of five adults spent almost a week on the run before the hunters caught them. Their only mistake was breaking too many branches. How unfair is that? You struggle halfway across Northern Taladia and then get blasted to scraps because you snapped a few twigs on the way.
    Hunters aren’t like city guards. They’re trained for canopies, not cobblestones. They can read your trail like they’re tracking a deer, and they know