The pounding of my sandals.
My gasping, sucking breaths.
The drumbeat in my chest.
And something else I have to strain to hear . . .
There!
A footfall from behind,
like the one that first prodded me
from a stroll into a run.
There!
Another step-sound,
like the one that diverted my quest for water
into a panicked escape through this city
of crime and disease . . .
There!
And again!
And closer!
And yet each time I turn my head,
the steps
come only
from the empty air.
I lean into the hill, legs pumping at a deerfooted pace
like Actaeon must have felt
fleeing Artemis
and his own hounds.
The road slopes upward toward Echion's Gate
on the west side
of a wall made from
rocks and boulders
mashed together
by one-eyed giants.
Perched atop the gate,
the face of Echion
Screams!
his silent battle cry.