Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Page A

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