It felt like someone had reached inside him and was tearing his lungs from his chest. His heart was pumping so violently that he could feel the movement of blood pulsing up through his neck and into his head. He could almost hear his skin hissing with the heat. Every part of his body was screaming at him to stop, to give up, but he knew that to do so was to die.

For an instant, he allowed himself to sink into a momentary calm, allowing the cool breeze, inexplicable amidst the devilish heat of the inferno, to take hold of him like his mother’s embrace. Deeper and deeper he sank, his mind reaching for clarity and a vision to guide him. Slowly, he seemed to rise, drifting upwards above the trees, higher and higher until the sight of the coastal plain opened up below him. To the right he could see the village, small columns of wispy smoke rising from the cooking fires, but it was too far to see his people, so far had he run, so far had he been chased. His eyes followed the winding track out of the village up onto the low ridge and down into the dune forest and here there was nothing to see but destruction. Dark smoke filled the sky above, billowing from the flames below. Such flames, clawing upwards as if trying to pull the sky and the earth together, to render everything one. He could see the flames leaping from tree to tree, announcing their advance in a series of triumphant, vicious cackles. And the trees fell, smashing into the ground to send up great showers of sparks that rained down on everything below. He turned to look over his right shoulder and could see that the fire extended all the way from the ridge to the coast beyond in an enormous swathe through the dune forest. Senseless destruction, all because of him. He could not go inland and he could not go south.

He turned to look left. He was perhaps two miles from the dune ridge beyond which the great ocean lay. He could not escape that way but there was hope to the north. Looking ahead he could see that the fire was racing toward the coast like an arm reaching out to slam the gate shut before he could reach it. They were driving it that way, desperate to hold him in their grasp. As each tree fell and as each flame leapt to its next prey the gap was reducing. He knew he had little hope. He knew that he could stop now, sink into the earth and the pain would soon end.

Then he heard the sound, the blood-curdling, manic yelping of the dogs. They had unleashed the dogs and they were moving fast. He snapped awake and with barely a moment’s hesitation leapt forwards, driving for that single point where the dune broke out of the forest into the land beyond. If he could make it there he could be safe from them. They had lived all of their lives deep in the forest lands. They would not follow him beyond the edge.

He ran like he had never run before, stilling his mind to focus only on each step. One trip and it would be over. One wrong turn and he would not make it. He gulped the air down, feeling it tearing at his lungs. It felt like his heart would burst. ‘Dance’ they had taught him, ‘dance to the beat of your heart and the rhythm on the land beneath your feet’. He threw his head back, looking at the top of the rise ahead and drove his arms back to counterbalance the swift movement of his steps as he climbed steadily upwards. Then down he raced, over the brow of the hill, the land tumbling away before him. It was like flying, each step striking a stone, or a branch and projecting him up and on, his body swaying, his arms windmilling about him as he sought the perfect balance that was the only thing that could save him.

The dogs were louder now and their barking was not just coming from behind him but from forward to his right. Were they driving the dogs ahead of the flames? Were they so desperate to stop him that they would risk losing them? He could hear their bodies crashing through the undergrowth and their constant yelping, a mix of desperation to reach their prize and to tear him limb from limb and fear of the flames. He was not the only one being hunted now, the flames were not choosy about their food.

On and on he drove himself. He knew that if he allowed himself to think about how far he had come and how far he still had to go he would fail. There was nothing useful to be gained now from pondering his position. He just had to keep going – it would either be enough or not. Probably not. He was on a wider track now which ran roughly north, parallel to the coast and the dune ridge to which he would have to cross. He would have to leave the path at some point but he knew that the ground between the path and the dune ridge would be dangerous ground – a tangle of branches, pitted with holes dug by the night creatures. The path was a good surface, fast and even. It was sensible to use it while he could even though it meant he was out in the open. That mattered little now, they knew where he was and they had sensed where he was heading. It was a straight race – not with the men, but with the fire they had set and the dogs they had sent. He had to keep running. He simply had to keep moving forwards, no matter how much his body was screaming at him to stop.

He could see the forest clearing to his left, the spaces between the trees were lightening, no longer filled with yet more forest but showing the sky beyond. If he had stopped, and if he could have turned off the incessant roar and snap of the fire and the howling of the dogs he would have heard the ocean’s waves slapping onto the beach. But running that way would not bring safety and now to his right the darkness of the forest was progressively giving way to the orange glow of the fire as it spread its embrace around his path. He had to keep driving forwards.

He sensed the dog in the trees to his right and his heart stopped for an instant. He could not fight it – they were bred to be such savage creatures. It was tearing through the undergrowth, like a bullet of flesh and teeth hurtling towards him, and he knew it was going to strike its target at any moment. Out it came, just a few paces ahead and he slammed to a halt, jarring his ankle with a surge of pain unlike any other he had ever felt. Instinctively, he braced himself for the attack, but something was wrong. The dog was yelping wildly and spinning, and he saw that it was on fire, it’s tail and now, even as he watched, its hind quarters flickering. Over and over it tumbled, desperate to free itself of the orange knife that stabbed it again and again, before crashing into a bush on the left of the path and unleashing a cry of defeat as the needle-like thorns tore into its face and throat. How had the dog got so close to him? Were there more? He didn’t have time to answer his questions. Flames leapt up to his left as the forest on both sides of the path erupted.

He put his head down and sprinted as fast as he could. This was the final surge. He had to get far enough ahead of the fire that the dog had brought with it to give himself the time he needed to cut across to the dune ridge. A hundred paces more.

Ninety.

Eighty.

Seventy.

He knew that when he went he had to go with full commitment. He knew that if he hesitated he would fail. He would probably fail anyway. He had to trust his instinct and let his feet lead the way.

Sixty.

Fifty.

The flames were right upon him now as the whole forest to his right burned, a wall of orange from within which arms of flame reached out desperately to grab him. He could feel the heat and the dryness of the air. When he drew the air down into his lungs it tore at him from the inside and he choked on it at every breath.

Forty.

Thirty.

Twenty.

His eyes were scanning to his left, searching for a place to leave the path. He had little choice.

Ten more paces.

The flames were almost on him, flickering at his right side and curling overhead.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

In an instant, he turned his right foot slightly, pushing hard against a smooth rock and leapt across the gully at the side of the path and into the undergrowth. He screwed his eyes shut and threw his arms across his face to protect it from the brambles as he crashed through. Thorns tore at him – arms and legs, face and head. He stumbled – once, twice, three times, each time wondering whether his ankle would snap as his foot slipped into a hole. But he was almost through. He opened his eyes as he emerged from the dense thicket and saw a branch ahead, about waist height, blocking his route. Everything depended on the ground before it. He needed a firm footing to launch himself upwards and over. He pushed down hard and began to bring his hands up to grasp the branch to vault over it but the ground gave way and rather than rolling over the top of the branch he was now heading straight for it and a deadly impact. Instinctively, he dropped his right shoulder and threw his head back and to his left. His body clattered into the branch and he felt his right ear scrape hard against the bark and then his cheek dashed against the wood. But his legs continued forwards, ramming his body through the narrow gap between the branch and the ground and crashing him into a rock.

He was dazed. Nothing seemed to make sense. He shook himself and gently pressed his fingers against his face. There was obviously some blood but everything seemed to be in place. He tested his arms and legs. To his amazement everything still seemed to be working, and he was almost there. Gingerly, he stood up and started forwards, not rushing now but carefully drawing himself out of the undergrowth and up onto the dune ridge. He could not hear the dogs but the fire was still there. He could see it and he could feel its heat but it was behind him now and unable to bridge the gap through which he had launched himself. He knew he couldn’t stop; there was a chance they would send someone through after him. But it would be a while before the flames had subsided enough for anyone to follow and, anyway, they would surely assume he had perished. He had a little time now. Time to think and time to dust himself down and catch his breath. He was through.

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Next: Chapter 2 – The Sentinels
Previous: Prologue
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