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.
As he cut the chasers’ braids he looked back down the corridor. There was another chaser just in sight, but he had enough time to collect his prizes. He tied the braids to his belt and took stock. He had a small wound on his shoulder, little more than a scratch, but the one at his side was more serious. It still bled, and when he prodded his finger at the hole it flared in white-hot pain.
I cannot run with the wound bleeding like this.
He walked over to the nearest firebrand and lifted it from its slot.
The crowd roared in approval as he rolled the brand in the sand then touched the still glowing tip to the wound, cauterising the site. He smelled burned hair and flesh. When he touched the area, there was no sign of blood. The pain was excruciating, but he knew how to handle that. He pushed it away until it was a ball in a far corner of his mind. It shouted for attention as he started to move and shouted louder as he broke into a run. But his instructor had taught him well.
Pain is inevitable. Suf
fering is optional.
He was moving as well as ever as he passed the marker.
-The Seventh Mile -
He thought he was strong, in mind and body. But despite his wounds it was his thoughts that started to betray him now. His instructor would have him focus on nothing but the goal, all else subservient to that one thought. But despite himself, Garn could not escape the witch in his mind—her soft yet hard body, those green eyes in which it was possible to get lost for an age and forget the trials of the pit. The thought that he might never again share the royal bed brought regret.
And with that regret, his mind betrayed his body. Barely midway between the markers he felt the first sign of the draining tiredness of fatigue. He started to plod, as if treading through water, and each step became a greater burden. The crowd sensed him weakening and took to chanting his name with increased fervour. The sound rang in his ears, echoing the length of the corridor. Garn tried to take heart from it, in the same way as he had used the crowd to his advantage during his many fights in the pit, but it got harder with every step.
I cannot go on like this. I will be run down like a wounded deer.
Indeed, he was starting to feel like an old stag; his defiance was the only thing keeping him upright in the face of an implacable foe armed with more speed and superior weaponry. And with that came a memory of cornering a huge buck, of his brother Finn rushing forward—only to be impaled on the antlers of a resurgent beast.
I must use the cunning I learned that night.
He slowed, first to a walk, then stumbling, almost falling. He made a show of dropping to one knee. The crowd groaned, but Garn took the opportunity for a look behind him. The chaser was thirty paces behind, and showing no signs of hanging back.
This one wants the kill for herself. That shall be her undoing.
Garn made to stand, but fell into another stumble, leaving his back exposed and risking everything to his reflexes. The chaser leapt, the crowd roared, and Garn spun, the knife coming up to where the bitch’s rib cage should have been waiting. But this one had wiles of her own. His knife caught her arm and sliced a deep wound there, but in the same movement she had fallen to the ground, rolled, and cut a groove across the back of his left leg, a hair’s-breadth away from hamstringing him completely. His leg gave way beneath him and he fell heavily, trying to roll aside, but not fast enough. Her blade bit deep again, this time taking him through the muscle of his left bicep. Before she could withdraw the knife he rolled further away, attempting to drag the weapon from her grasp while it was still embedded in his arm. But she proved tenacious, rolling with his pull and punching him so hard on the side of his head that his vision started to go. Instead of going with the blow Garn grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. He slammed his forehead into her face, cracking against her nose, and she fell to one side. Once more he rolled, this time pressing his weight on top of her, pinning her to the sand.
She spat a glob of blood in his face and tried to chew at his cheek. He head-butted her again, twice for good measure. She stayed down as he strangled her with her own braid.
He was gentle with her when he cut her pleat, and he said a prayer to the Gods as he attached it to his kilt.
She was brave. Give her a place at the table. I would see her again.
The roar of the crowd was the loudest yet as he stood and looked back down the corridor. Two of the last three chasers stood thirty paces away, watching him keenly. He tested his weight on his left leg. He could stand, maybe even walk, for a time, but there would be no more running. He flexed his injured bicep and got a flash of pain, but nothing that would stop him using the arm if he needed to.
I am alive, I have weapons, and three miles to go. I will have my freedom.
He turned his back on the chasers and started to walk, limping at first, then with more stability as he gained confidence that his leg would not fold beneath him. He passed the next marker with his name echoing along the length of the corridor.
-The Eighth Mile -
He walked the full mile, getting ever slower as his wounds started to tell and his fatigue grew ever deeper. The chasers, three of them together now, followed twenty paces behind.
Garn smiled.
Almost there.
-The Ninth Mile -
As he passed the second to last marker the chasers moved up to take closer order, keeping ten paces behind him. He paid them no mind. Either they attacked or they didn’t. Either way, he was prepared.
Now we draw near to it. I will bide my time, and let them decide.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.
He had been staring at his feet for some time, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. His mind was far away, in the cold dockside bar in Aer in winter, with a snell wind whistling over the Sleeping God’s Pizzle, a tankard of warm mead in his right hand and a wench in his lap.
Even in that well played dream the girl had green eyes.
His various wounds burned fiercely. He had lost blood—not too much to disable him, not yet, but he was a far weaker man than he had been at the start of this journey. Looking up, he saw a brighter flame at the end of the corridor—the marker for the finish.
She will be there, waiting. Those green eyes will be watching for me to come to her. I will not disappoint the witch.
He summoned up the last of his energy and broke into a stumbling run.
The crowd roared his name.
The chasers followed.
-The Tenth Mile -
He was less than four hundred yards from the flame when he fell. He’d been right; the witch was there, waiting. He did not have to see those green eyes to feel their gaze on him, to lose himself in their depths.
Rest, the eyes said. Sleep, and I will take you into my arms forever.
His legs gave way and he tumbled to the ground. His eyes started to droop closed.
The chasers moved in.
But a fighter’s instinct was not so easily quenched. They thought him down and came on in a line, the fastest first. That was their undoing. Still lying flat on the ground he swung out a foot and swept the legs from the first. She fell beside him and he planted the flensing knife in her throat before she knew what had happened. The second aimed a thrust at his eyes. He kicked her in the middle, the shock running through his whole body.
Before he could follow through, the third was on him. He rolled away just in time to avoid a thrust that would have skewered him. He took another risk, throwing the flensing knife—his main weapon—at the third attacker. He was already moving, not waiting to see the result. The one he’d kicked was trying to rise. He kicked her again and stepped on her throat, crushing her larynx and breaking her neck with one stomp.
One to go.
He turned towards where the third attacker should be.
She sat on her knees, the flensing knife protruding from her left eye, the other staring at the dead lands beyond.
I am free.
He had one more task before finishing. He took the braids of the downed women and, untying the others from his belt, he staggered across the last yards that separated him from his prize.
-The Toughest Mile -
She was waiting for him beside the flame that marked the end of the challenge, in front of a massive wooden gate. She looked him up and down. The crowd fell quiet. The only sound was the crackle of firebrands and the heavy rasp of Garn’s laboured breathing.
“Was it worth it?” she said softly.
He said nothing, merely dropped the ten bloody braids at her feet.
She lowered her voice to a whisper so that only he could hear. “Sleep and I will take you into my arms forever.”
His gaze never left her eyes as he spoke.
“There is a cold tavern on a far dock that has a flagon of warm mead and a warmer-still wench waiting for me. She has been waiting too long.”
He smiled coldly when he saw the anger flare in her eyes, all joy tempered by a
sadness in his own heart at having done it. But his freedom was close now. He must not waver.
He looked her in the eye, daring her to refuse him.
She sighed, waved a hand, and the gate opened. The crowd chanted his name in time with his paces as Garn walked out of the corridor, a free man.
It was a mile to the edge of the city, and the whole way he thought of nothing but her deep green eyes.
THE HAVENHOME
Taken from the personal journal of Captain John Fraser, Captain of the Havenhome, a cargo vessel. Entry date 16th October 1605.
My dearest Lizzie.
Today has been the worst day of my life. As I sit here, warm in my cabin, whisky at hand, I can scarcely believe the deprivations suffered by the brave people of this far flung outpost. I should have stayed at home like you asked. You would have kept me warm. If only I’d done as you asked, then I might have been spared the terrible sights that met us at landfall.
We had no thought of winter when we left home port. Do you remember? It was a bright Scottish summer’s day. You cried as we parted, and the sun made rainbows of your tears. I can still see you now, standing on the dock, waving us off. How I wish I could look at you, just one more time, one more time to warm my heart against the cold that has gripped us all.
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