The air was swathed in thick clouds of dust as the two picked their way through the rubble of the gates.

“Roland! Can we hurry it up a little?” Franklin shouted, grimacing at every shot fired. “It’s dangerous.”

“Not particularly, no,” said Roland, walking with his nose still in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. “As long as I can tell where the bullets’ll be, we should be fine. Duck.”

Franklin’s dropped immediately, a salvo of lead whizzing over his head. “You’re crazy! I’m moving up to the castle!”

“There’s a man who’s about to take a bullet in the place you’re running to, and if you keep running, you’ll take it instead.”

Franklin stopped and frowned. “Now you’re talking sh—” A man gurgled ten feet away and sank to the ground. “Okay, okay, I’ll listen.”

“Good. Now just take eleven steps in twenty-two point three seconds and we’ll be in the castle.”

“What?”

“Go.”