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
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
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