Part 1.3 of "The Heart's Search"
Merlin smiled. It was funny in a way. If you thought about it. They'd still read his rights even though they'd probably be more than happy to throw away the key once they'd got him.
“Sorcery?” he asked and then raised his bleeding palm. He turned his thoughts inward, seeking his power, feeling it rush through him from the very depths of him. It warmed him from the inside out; sparked his skin on fire. A blast lit up the night and went outward.
The ground shook. The light was so blinding Merlin couldn't tell how many men he'd downed. He only knew that now was the right time to run.
He moved.
Spurred by single-minded instinct of self-preservation, he dashed out of the dead end, legs uncoiling like springs, arms pumping wildly. He skidded, gained a straight. Continued on, muscles churning to achieve motion, his lungs, once again leaden and too small for his rapidly rising chest, gasping for air.
Before ducking into the first street he saw, he craned his head. They were still chasing him, relentlessly running him down. Hot on his heels. The tramp of boots running almost in double cadence tuned everything else out.
They were stubborn. And still after him.
He had to shake them off and do so before an entire platoon came at him. He couldn't hold off the ones in pursuit for long either. He was too tired. His limbs too heavy. He'd been doing this for too long. They were used to the hunt; he wasn’t. He wouldn't be able to out run them for long.
A shadow darted close to the side. Merlin veered off, loping at top speed across the street and in the opposite direction.
But pained bloomed through his shoulder like lightning. It took his breath as it ripped through him. Christ. His hand went to the source of pain and came away bloody. He let out a strangled gasp. The agony broke through all the same. The wound pulsed with a steady beat that radiated throughout the area. It burnt savagely.
Merlin swallowed hard, closing his eyes as a fresh wave of pain hit him. He clenched his jaw but continued moving. As dizzy as it made him he had to plough on or he'd die.
He staggered forwards, keeping to the shadows. He jogged when he couldn't run anymore, every step like moving lead across trickle.
It was the renewed shouts that made him try one last burst of speed. The Section 7 men had zeroed in on him again. It was now or never. He had to remove himself from their clutches.
But that didn't matter so much now, for he knew where he was and what to do.
Heart drumming in his chest and in his ears, he shot forwards. The bulk of Albert Bridge was stretching outwards in the dark. The tiny moulded turrets that decorated the tops of the supports standing guardian in the night.
Just as the Section 7 men rounded on him at the mouth of the bridge, Merlin climbed past the railing. Holding on to a pylon he stood on the rail. He looked back, his eyes skittering over the men gathered a few feet away from him, weapons out. He stretched one arm out, palm open.
The Section Sven men took a collective step backwards and held their fire. It was just what Merlin had needed. A moment.
He dove, his body breaking the water, pain hitting everywhere. He was under and the water was cold and dense. He experienced a momentary wish to let go, let his tired body be dragged down and hit bottom, but thoughts of his mother, of injustice of it all spurred him to fight.
With all of the strength that he had left, he sprung upwards. He tried to swim towards the light playing on the water, following it. With one last surge of effort he kicked and broke the surface.
As soon as he did he turned his head up and desperately dragged in huge breaths of air. His lungs were starving and he inhaled deeply for the longest time. It didn't do much but slowly his wheezing dwindled. He was only panting a little now. His heart was hammering so hard against his ribs though it felt like they might crack. But that was all right. It meant he was alive.
“Sorcery?” he asked and then raised his bleeding palm. He turned his thoughts inward, seeking his power, feeling it rush through him from the very depths of him. It warmed him from the inside out; sparked his skin on fire. A blast lit up the night and went outward.
The ground shook. The light was so blinding Merlin couldn't tell how many men he'd downed. He only knew that now was the right time to run.
He moved.
Spurred by single-minded instinct of self-preservation, he dashed out of the dead end, legs uncoiling like springs, arms pumping wildly. He skidded, gained a straight. Continued on, muscles churning to achieve motion, his lungs, once again leaden and too small for his rapidly rising chest, gasping for air.
Before ducking into the first street he saw, he craned his head. They were still chasing him, relentlessly running him down. Hot on his heels. The tramp of boots running almost in double cadence tuned everything else out.
They were stubborn. And still after him.
He had to shake them off and do so before an entire platoon came at him. He couldn't hold off the ones in pursuit for long either. He was too tired. His limbs too heavy. He'd been doing this for too long. They were used to the hunt; he wasn’t. He wouldn't be able to out run them for long.
A shadow darted close to the side. Merlin veered off, loping at top speed across the street and in the opposite direction.
But pained bloomed through his shoulder like lightning. It took his breath as it ripped through him. Christ. His hand went to the source of pain and came away bloody. He let out a strangled gasp. The agony broke through all the same. The wound pulsed with a steady beat that radiated throughout the area. It burnt savagely.
Merlin swallowed hard, closing his eyes as a fresh wave of pain hit him. He clenched his jaw but continued moving. As dizzy as it made him he had to plough on or he'd die.
He staggered forwards, keeping to the shadows. He jogged when he couldn't run anymore, every step like moving lead across trickle.
It was the renewed shouts that made him try one last burst of speed. The Section 7 men had zeroed in on him again. It was now or never. He had to remove himself from their clutches.
But that didn't matter so much now, for he knew where he was and what to do.
Heart drumming in his chest and in his ears, he shot forwards. The bulk of Albert Bridge was stretching outwards in the dark. The tiny moulded turrets that decorated the tops of the supports standing guardian in the night.
Just as the Section 7 men rounded on him at the mouth of the bridge, Merlin climbed past the railing. Holding on to a pylon he stood on the rail. He looked back, his eyes skittering over the men gathered a few feet away from him, weapons out. He stretched one arm out, palm open.
The Section Sven men took a collective step backwards and held their fire. It was just what Merlin had needed. A moment.
He dove, his body breaking the water, pain hitting everywhere. He was under and the water was cold and dense. He experienced a momentary wish to let go, let his tired body be dragged down and hit bottom, but thoughts of his mother, of injustice of it all spurred him to fight.
With all of the strength that he had left, he sprung upwards. He tried to swim towards the light playing on the water, following it. With one last surge of effort he kicked and broke the surface.
As soon as he did he turned his head up and desperately dragged in huge breaths of air. His lungs were starving and he inhaled deeply for the longest time. It didn't do much but slowly his wheezing dwindled. He was only panting a little now. His heart was hammering so hard against his ribs though it felt like they might crack. But that was all right. It meant he was alive.