Samurai and Other Stories (10 page)

The crowd went quiet as the Witch Queen moved through from above the fighting pit to take her place in the throne room above the main gate. She spoke, seemingly only a whisper, but Garn knew that even those making their way to the far reaches of the corridor would hear her. He tuned her out, focused on building his own mental fortitude—he’d need it before this evening was much older. Besides, she was reciting the rules and he knew all that he needed to know about them. One chaser would be released to chase him every turn of the small hourglass by the Witch Queen’s hand, and if he got to the end of the ten miles in one piece, he would be a free man.
 

She said
if...
in his head he heard
when
.

The chaser at the head of the line held a long
flensing
in her left hand. She licked it, raising blood from her tongue, and smiled from a mouth that dripped red.
 

Garn turned his back on her. When a gong sounded he broke into a loping run. He had no strategy beyond running and killing. The bitches might have been bred for this purpose...

But so was I
.

The crowd bayed and roared. After a time he heard the ringing of a gong. A chaser was on the way. A few minutes later he reached the marker that denoted he had reached the end of the first mile.

-The Second Mile -

He was going to have to look back, to check on the proximity of his first pursuer.
 

But not yet. Why waste energy? The crowd will let me know when they are close.

He was starting to work up a sweat despite the rapidly cooling night air. The wound in his scalp throbbed and burned in time with the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The noise wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the gong denoting that the second chaser was on her way.
 

He pushed onward, fighting the urge to up the pace, trying to maintain the same steady lope that had always served him well on the deer hunts of his youth. Just the memory of
home gave him a fresh burst of energy. He could see the marker for the end of the second mile. It was still some ways ahead of him, but he was getting there.
 

The roar of the crowd suddenly increased to a crescendo, and he knew the first chaser was almost upon him. He turned sharply on his left heel and dropped into a fighter’s crouch. Just in time—she was only twenty yards away and coming fast, her braid swinging in rhythm with her paces.
 

Garn let her come. She feigned to go left, but he’d been watching her eyes. When she dodged right he was waiting. As her arm brought the flensing knife down he managed to block it at the wrist. He gave a single twist. The
crack
as the bone broke sounded loud even above the roar of the crowd. He used her weight against her, and as she followed through the knife slid easily between her ribs. She was dead long before she hit the ground.
 

Garn held on firmly to the knife, feeling it tug against bone as the bitch fell away. He took just enough time to take her braid off with one cut close to her scalp, turned and started to run. He tied the hair to his belt, and it hung behind him like a tail, dripping blood on the dry sand.

The gong sounded, more distant now. The third chaser was on her way. Shortly afterwards he passed the marker.

-The Third Mile -

He felt the new tail sway behind him and smiled, remembering his words to the witch
. I shall dock their tails and bring each to you.
He was off to a good start. He could not expect the others to be dispatched so easily—the first had been too eager, too ready to grab glory. In her haste she had underestimated Garn. But the others would now be more circumspect.

Which may also be to my advantage. It may buy me more time to build a lead.
 

The thrill of the first kill sustained him for almost half a mile, but the sound of the next gong, almost inaudible over the roar of the crowd, surprised him. He had thought to be closer to the next marker before then. He risked a look over his shoulder. The second chaser was coming on fast, some way behind but moving much faster than Garn. Once again he considered turning and waiting, but he could see even through the ever deepening darkness that the third pursuer was also in view, moving like a big cat full-pelt on the hunt.

He started to put more effort into it, trying to maintain a lead. Up until now he had managed to ignore the presence of the crowd, his focus all on the task at hand. But when he felt a sting at his shoulder and put his hand there, he felt fresh blood and heard a
thud
in the sand behind him. He had no time to stop and look but felt sure it had been a small knife of some sort. A second projectile hit him in the thigh and stuck there for a second before falling to the ground. Garn turned, just in time to see a heavy-set man in the crowd raise an arm for a third throw. The man smiled broadly as he saw Garn looking.

“Run little pig!” the man shouted, and threw a small, thick-bladed knife.

 
Barely having to break step, Garn plucked the missile out of the air and in the same movement sent it straight back to embed itself in the man’s neck. The tormentor fell, gurgling, and a wash of blood ran down his chest.

“Die little pig!” Garn shouted, laughing as he ran past.
 

The crowd roared even louder.
 

Garn’s breath started to come heavier. His throat felt dry and dusty, scraped and scoured by sand. He risked another look over his shoulder. The second chaser was closing in on him; the third a mere spot in the distance at the moment, but even from this far he could see she was gaining fast.

I must stand, for a time. If I run too far, too fast, I won’t be fit to fight, and they will just drag me down.

He veered to one side of the corridor. A huge portion of the crowd surged forward, arms outstretched, eager to touch him..
 

“Wine,” he shouted, “A drink for a thirsty man.”

Someone thrust a deerskin at him. He sucked at it eagerly. The wine was vinegar-sour but it wetted his throat and put fire in his belly. As he took a second gulp, the crowd screamed, alerting him to danger. He ducked and turned in one movement.
 

The second chaser had thrown a long knife, hoping to catch him in the back. Garn thought he felt it pass through his hair. There was a pained
grunt
behind him—some unfortunate in the crowd got more excitement than he had bargained for. Garn had no time to check. The chaser had used up the weapon she was allowed—but she was also allowed to use anything found in her path. That included the small throwing knife that had fallen after scoring Garn’s thigh. Still running she bent, picked up the blade, and rushed on, an eager grin on her face.

Garn waited until she got almost at arm’s length. As she raised the knife, aiming for his eyes, he blew a mouthful of wine in her face...

... and gutted her with the flensing knife as she blinked.
 

The next pursuer was close now. It was now too dark to see any of the others, and Garn knew he was almost too far away to hear the gong, but he had to assume that at some point soon all the bitches would be on the hunt.

Let them come. I am ready.

He took a calculated risk and stood his ground, waiting for the third. The crowd bayed for blood. They got it soon enough.

The chaser had no guile to her. She came straight on, mouth open in a soundless scream. Garn plucked her out of the air like a doll and broke her back across his knee with about as much effort as he would have made breaking a twig.

He left her there, broken and wondering what had just happened. When he started running again he had three tails hanging from his belt.

He passed the next marker grinning widely.

-The Fourth Mile -

He began to hope. The first three bitches had gone down far easier than expected; he had already delivered a blow to the witch’s authority. And the crowd loved him for it. They chanted his name in time with his every step as he fell once more into a steady loping stride. The wine felt like acid in his stomach and he started to sweat again almost immediately, but he had his focus back. He set his eyes on the alley of flaming brands stretching out ahead of him and ran towards his freedom.
 

The braids of hair swung behind him. He knew this was a piece of vanity on his part, something that his old instructor would have berated him for.

Never take anything into the arena that you do not need for the fight.

But he did need the braids—or rather he would, when he reached the end, when he faced the witch a free man with the ten braids to lay in front of her. The thought of her face at that moment gave him more than enough reason to leave the hair where it was, tied to his belt and swaying gently with each pace.

It was almost full dark now, the flaming brands throwing flickering shadows on the sand before him. He listened intently as he ran, waiting for a signal from the crowd that the next chaser was closing in.
 

It never came.
 

He approached the next marker.

She should have caught me by now.

He saw the reason when he took a look back. Not one but two chasers ran side by side some way behind him.
 

And they are not gaining.

They kept pace with him, and he saw their tactic—they would wait for a third, and maybe even a fourth, to join them before closing up. They had noted how easily their sisters had fallen.
 

Their next attack would be a co-ordinated one.

-The Fifth Mile -

He stopped and turned.
 

Better to face two than three or four.

But he wasn’t going to be given the chance. The pursuers stopped thirty paces away and stood still. Garn started running—towards the chasers. They retreated before him and behind them he saw another closing up fast.

They are trying to lure me. I am wasting precious time here.
 

He turned his attention back to his eventual goal, set his mind on the target, and ran. Once again the crowd took up the chant and he used the rhythm to set his pace. He ran, giving no thought to his pursuers, only thinking of the end of the corridor and his freedom. By the time he reached the next marker and looked back there were three of them a hundred yards behind and keeping pace.

The attack will come soon.

-The Sixth Mile -

As before, the crowd told him first. They chanted his name with every step, and when the noise changed to a shapeless roar he knew it was time. He turned to see three chasers, closing fast. He refused to wait for them to come to him. He ran, heading straight for them.

The left-side chaser helped Garn’s cause by stumbling, seeming confused by his decision. She lost her footing and fell sideward, disturbing the balance of the chaser beside her.

Garn concentrated on the third chaser to his right. She showed Garn her knife as he moved in. She slashed and Garn parried, aware already that he was the superior knife-fighter. He feinted to go under the bitch’s knife, then twisted his wrist and went over. The steel felt like an extension of his arm as it slid through her throat and, with a twitch of the wrist, sliced the jugular vein and sent her gurgling to the ground.

He sensed a movement to his left, and turned and ducked in one movement as a knife flashed in front of him. He felt a sting in his shoulder and blood flowed. The second chaser advanced, knife swinging wildly. Again, this one was no knife fighter, but she was strong and fast, her heavy blade sending shocks up Garn’s arm every time he had to parry.

The third chaser had regained her composure and moved in to join the fight.

I have to finish this fast.

Garn stepped inside the swing of the closest attacker, cramping her movements and at the same time smashing the pommel of the flensing knife into her face, feeling her nose crush wetly with the force of the blow. She let out a yell, but managed to push Garn away, and came back at him, knife swinging.

He let her come, and, just as the knife seemed set to slash at his throat, he stepped to one side. The momentum of her swing carried her forward and off balance. Garn thrust his blade deep between her ribs, at the same time kicking her to the sand.
A final kick to the side of her head put her out of the fight.

Garn had no time to think. The third had advanced, snarling like a cornered wildcat. This one carried herself like a true knife-fighter... she wasn’t about to rush in swinging. Garn circled her, saying nothing, trying to stay calm.

She sent her blade out in a quicksilver flicker that he only just managed to parry as it was over his heart. It slid off a rib, bringing a flare of pain. He felt more blood flow, wet heat at his side. He stepped forward into a lunge that caught her off guard, but she managed to weave to one side and Garn’s stroke cut a slice across her ribs instead of taking her through the heart. She let out a yell and stepped into the attack with renewed vigor. Garn was hard pressed to defend himself.

The sound of clashing steel echoed around them as they circled, searching for an opening. Blood flowed freely at his side.

The wound is deeper than I thought. I must finish this.

He decided to try a risky feint, one that he sometimes had success with on the training ground. He stepped backwards, as if retreating before her attack, and let his right leg give under him, feigning a stumble and letting his knife hand go down towards the sand, looking as if he was going to use it to steady himself. As he hoped, she went for his suddenly exposed left-hand side. He ignored the descending blade, and, with a straight arm, punched the knife upwards, catching her under the ribs, pushing through to cleave her heart.

She fell, already a dead weight, pinning Garn to the sand, and he had to use all his remaining strength to push the body off and stand upright. Suddenly the crowd fell quiet and all he heard was his own heavy panting.