The fiddle started up again in the distance, fluttery, like a little bird in flight.
Another collective sigh ran through us, like wind in a field of wheat. The Scotsman smiled and spoke over it, his voice low but carrying over the crowd.
“I promised to heal what ails you. And I will keep to that oath. But first, in the grand tradition, we will have a volunteer from the audience.”
Malone stepped forward. I was looking straight at him at the time, and it looked like he had moved before even thinking about it. A momentary confusion showed in his face, but his features were grim and set hard as he stepped onto the stage.
“See,” the Scotsman said. “A volunteer, at the first time of asking. What would you have me do with him? Shall I cut him in half?”
He raised the sword and made a mock swing, stopping just short of Malone’s ample belly. As one the crowd cheered. That did not improve Malone’s mood. He looked fit to burst as he turned to the Scotsman.
“What is your purpose here?” he said, his voice high, almost a shout.
The Scotsman merely smiled. “I have already said. I have come from the auld Homeland, come to heal what ails these good people.”
He swung the sword in the air above his head. The Irishman flinched, but when the Scotsman’s hands came down he had the fiddle in one hand and a bow in the other. He put it to his chin and started to play, the tune coming from the far distance at first, but getting closer, ever louder. The ground beneath us seemed to swell and thrum. As one, we began to sway.
A loud Irish voice broke the spell.
“Enough of this mummery.”
He made to reach for the fiddle but the Scotsman danced away, still playing, mocking Malone and teasing him by throwing notes and phrases full in the Irishman’s face. The tent seemed to melt and flow and we danced in time, lost in a place where there was no hurt, no tiredness, only blessed peace.
We were dropped back into grim reality by the blast of a single gunshot. The fiddle blew apart in a cloud of splinters, and a red hole appeared at the Scotsman’s neck. He was dead before he hit the ground. Malone stood over him, his Colt still smoking in his hand.
I do believe the crowd might have lynched Malone that very night had he not held such clout over us that we depended on him for almost everything from employment to food. As it was the tent was in uproar until he fired another shot over our heads.
“Go home,” he shouted. “All of you. And I want you all at work as usual on the morrow.”
We went, with the sound of the gunshot ringing in our ears.
For the rest of the evening I thought of little but the sound of the fiddle and the tune that had seemed both so strange yet so familiar. The air played in my head even after I lay down abed. So when I heard the strain of a fiddle starting up, I was unsure for long seconds whether I was awake or asleep.
But this was no pastoral tune. Yes, it spoke of the auld country, but now it held a martial air that spoke of battles against tyranny, of blood feuds and scores settled. The auld country called... and we answered.
When I walked out into the street I found all of my neighbours already there. We followed the sound of the fiddle, dancing to its tune all the way to the small cemetery at the rear of the church.
As we shuffled into the hallowed ground the tune finally faltered and fell silent. I was first on the scene, which is why it has fallen on me to relate this tale. The sight I saw will be forever etched on my memory.
It was obvious that Malone had started to dig an unmarked grave for his victim. A shovel sat on the ground beside a pile of disturbed earth. Two bodies lay there. The Scotsman was still just as dead, the red hole gaping at his neck. But he had a broad smile on his face.
The reason for the smile was also obvious.
The mine-owner Malone lay beside him, a black tongue lolling from a wet mouth. He had been garrotted... almost beheaded.
Two fiddle strings were wrapped tight around his neck.
THE TOUGHEST MILE
-The First Mile -
He felt joy in the kill for the first time since his capture.
The gathered crowd roared as he struck the bear through the throat with a backhand swipe of the short sword. Blood sprayed over the nearest spectators, sending them into a braying frenzy. Garn scarcely noticed. He had already turned to the high podium where the witch sat, green eyes studying him coldly. Her bitches were grouped at her feet, all ten feigning disinterest. He knew from long experience that if he took one step closer, they would be at his throat before he could swing his blade.
Garn showed the witch the bloody sword, then threw it to the ground at his feet. He raised his hands high and the crowd cheered. After three years of fighting in the Pit, he had won his right to the challenge.
The Witch Queen did not seem happy at the outcome, but the law was indisputable: If you can survive one hundred duels, you will have a chance to walk free, no longer a thrall. Merely pass the challenge. Garn was the first in many years to survive long enough to take advantage of the offer. It had always been the thing foremost in his mind, even as he left his dead—man and beast alike—in a bloody wake on the sand of the Pit. It had not come without cost. In only his third fight he lost the smallest two fingers of his left hand to a wolf. In his sixtieth fight a fire-salamander had seared a burn that bit to his thighbone and brought a dull ache every cold night. And the bear, the last opponent thrown at him, had nearly got him. He’d only just managed to duck a swipe from a huge paw that would have taken his head off. The beast’s claws only grazed him, leaving two bloody ridges across his scalp.
He’d ridden his luck many times, driven by the vision he held in his head of home, a dear green place far from the heat and sand of the pits. It had sustained him through many a dark night: the shutters rattle loudly against the window frame, and from the docks of Aer beyond he can hear rigging rattle and masts creak. The wind is an autumn southerly, whistling in over the Sleeping God’s Pizzle, bringing with it the tang of salt spray and the faint but unmistakable stench of decaying whale meat. The ale is warm, and the woman on his lap is buxom.
He blinked, cleared his head.
That is the prize. First I must earn it.
He stood before the queen of this desert land and demanded his right—the prize.
Look at those eyes. She would kill me herself. But she is the Law. She has to give me my chance. To naysay me would be to deny her own authority.
He said nothing, merely stared back at her. The crowd slowly fell quiet, aware of the tension between their queen and their hero. He grabbed at the black, iron torc around his neck—the symbol of his servitude.
It is time for this to be removed.
He didn’t have to say it. She knew only too well what he desired most in life. She nodded and waved a hand. The heavy metal ring broke in two pieces that fell to the sand with a double thud. The crowd cheered and whooped. The witch looked like she had swallowed a fly. Garn smiled.
She will miss me—both for the spectacle in the Pit—and mayhap more for the nights in her bed.
He could have killed her many times on those nights when she sent for him, but he had submitted, knowing that he would be hunted all his life if he gave in to the urge. There was only one way to freedom.
And now I have a chance.
Besides, there were far worse places to spend a desert night than in the arms of a green-eyed witch who knew how to please a man. He had enjoyed those nights, looking forward to them with anticipation, even though he could never admit it, to her or to himself.
She looked down at him, and he heard her, in his mind, whispering.
“There is no need to run. Come to my bed. Sleep, and I will take you into my arms forever.”
But the vision he had carried these long years was too strong, the call of the cold tavern with warm ale too alluring. He shook his head and stood his ground.
“So be it. But I shall ask again. Think on it.”
She turned and addressed the crowd.<
br />
“Bring him food and water,” the Witch Queen said. “And prepare the Corridor. The challenge will begin in two hours.”
There was one final cheer, somewhat muted as the crowd jostled for position to leave the arena, eager for the choicest seats for the spectacle to come. Garn sat down in the dust and drying blood of the killing ground and dreamed of home until his meal—one way or another, the last he would eat as a Pit fighter—was brought to him. The salted pork was succulent, the water clean and pure, and when the allotted time came round he felt strong again, in body and in will. When he stood he thought he had been left alone in the small amphitheatre that surrounded the fighting pit, but once again he felt the tickle in his mind, and heard her soft voice.
“Come to my bed. Sleep, and I will take you into my arms forever.”
He looked up at the throne. She was still there, but the bitches were gone to wait for him in the place beyond. The witch nodded once and waved a hand. There was a grating of metal on stone and the massive iron gate immediately beneath her throne opened with a squeal that echoed round the empty amphitheatre.
Garn stood and lowered his gaze to view what lay beyond the opened gate. From his vantage it looked like a long tunnel with the sun showing at the far end. But he knew it was a trick of the light. It was a corridor, built so long ago than no one in Jonta knew its provenance, but only that it was ten miles long, lined on both sides with tall banks of seats where spectators could watch the pursuit. Vendors would already be selling bread, wine and Janax tea to the gathering throng who were about to see something that only happened once or twice in a lifetime. A gladiator was going to run the corridor; and from the growing clamour and raised voices drifting through from beyond, it sounded like the whole city had come to see him.
“There is still time,” she said, aloud this time, though barely above a whisper. “Climb up here with me and we can be off. I have new pleasures to show you.”
Garn didn’t look away from the view through the gate. He could not look her in the eye for fear of losing even a fraction of his resolve.
She saw that he was resolute.
“I wish you luck,” the witch said. “But I fear my bitches will be feasting well tonight. I shall miss you in my bed.”
Garn smiled, but still did not look at her.
“I shall dock their tails and bring each to you,” he replied and widened his grin.
She turned and left, leaving Garn alone in the auditorium. He’d dreamed of this moment, often wondering what he would feel. In truth, all he felt was eagerness and anticipation; he wasn’t about to let this chance slip away. But first he divested himself of his armour. It was needed against the heavier weapons used in the Pit, but would only weigh him down on the chase. He eyed the bloody sword on the ground, but he’d been told the rules often enough.
The runner cannot bring weapons into the corridor—only his wits.
Clad only in a cotton shirt, his leather kilt and soft sandals, he walked through the gate and into a wall of noise. As soon as he made his appearance the chant went up—his name, shouted out by thousands, as it had been for months now, getting steadily louder as he approached this day, this destiny. He raised a hand in acknowledgement and the noise went up to an ever-higher level. Firebrands were already lit along the length of the run, a twin line of flame showing him the way to his freedom.
And the bitches, desert women bred to run, were already in their positions, waiting. They had swapped their silks and damasks for supple leather and soft boots, and they stared at him as if he might be lunch. They had all tied their waist-long hair in long braids that draped around their shoulders like black snakes. Garn had never been swayed by their pretence at softness, so their attempts at intimidation did not reach him at all. He’d known all along the witch’s assassins... bodyguards... whatever she liked to call them, were little more than trained animals in women’s skin. Bred mute, bred for speed, bred for running.
And Garn was to be the quarry.
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.
Samurai and Other Stories Page 7
