Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle

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.
    “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