Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Page B

ofhome 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