Samurai and Other Stories (9 page)

“I am the
Dubh Sithe
,” he shouted. “And we are gathered tonight to open the way... with music.”

From far off came the sound of a solo fiddle.
 

“... with magic... “

He spread his arms wide, clenched his fists, and when he opened them again two crimson birds, each the size of a large gull, rose from his palms and fluttered away towards the roof of the tent.

“But mostly... with blood.”

He snapped the fingers of his right hand, and the red birds
burst
as if they had been shot. An arc of blood sprayed towards the front row of seats. Even as the audience cowered away, he waved his hand, and instead of being drenched, softly falling rose-petals showered around us like red snow.

He dropped the cape, revealing the garb of a kilted highlander in battle-ready dress beneath. We clapped and yelled in appreciation as he drew a long sword from its scabbard and began a series of stylized, almost balletic, moves across the stage.

“I have come far to be here with you, my brothers of old,” he said. “From miles across the sea your pain and suffering has been heard. The rocks speak to their brethren, even as you hew and cut. You are not alone. Scotsmen are
never
alone. Not when we have the auld tunes.”

The fiddle started up again in the distance, fluttery, like a little bird in flight.
 

Another collective sigh ran through us, like wind in a field of wheat. The Scotsman smiled and spoke over it, his voice low but carrying over the crowd.

“I promised to heal what ails you. And I will keep to that oath. But first, in the grand tradition, we will have a volunteer from the audience.”

Malone stepped forward. I was looking straight at him at the time, and it looked like he had moved before even thinking about it. A momentary confusion showed in his face, but his features were grim and set hard as he stepped onto the stage.

“See,” the Scotsman said. “A volunteer, at the first time of asking. What would you have me do with him? Shall I cut him in half?”
 

He raised the sword and made a mock swing, stopping just short of Malone’s ample belly. As one the crowd cheered. That did not improve Malone’s mood. He looked fit to burst as he turned to the Scotsman.

“What is your purpose here?” he said, his voice high, almost a shout.

The Scotsman merely smiled. “I have already said. I have come from the auld Homeland, come to heal what ails these good people.”

He swung the sword in the air above his head. The Irishman flinched, but when the Scotsman’s hands came down he had the fiddle in one hand and a bow in the other. He put it to his chin and started to play, the tune coming from the far distance at first, but getting closer, ever louder. The ground beneath us seemed to swell and
thrum.
As one, we began to sway.

A loud Irish voice broke the spell.

“Enough of this mummery.”

He made to reach for the fiddle but the Scotsman danced away, still playing, mocking Malone and teasing him by throwing notes and phrases full in the Irishman’s face. The tent seemed to melt and flow and we danced in time, lost in a place where there was no hurt, no tiredness, only blessed peace.

We were dropped back into grim reality by the blast of a single gunshot. The fiddle blew apart in a cloud of splinters, and a red hole appeared at the Scotsman’s neck. He was dead before he hit the ground. Malone stood over him, his Colt still smoking in his hand.

I do believe the crowd might have lynched Malone that very night had he not held such clout over us that we depended on him for almost everything from employment to food. As it was the tent was in uproar until he fired another shot over our heads.

“Go home,” he shouted. “All of you. And I want you all at work as usual on the morrow.”

We went, with the sound of the gunshot ringing in our ears.
 

For the rest of the evening I thought of little but the sound of the fiddle and the tune that had seemed both so strange yet so familiar. The air played in my head even after I lay down abed. So when I heard the strain of a fiddle starting up, I was unsure for long seconds whether I was awake or asleep.

But this was no pastoral tune. Yes, it spoke of the auld country, but now it held a martial air that spoke of battles against tyranny, of blood feuds and scores settled. The auld country called... and we answered.

When I walked out into the street I found all of my neighbours already there. We followed the sound of the fiddle, dancing to its tune all the way to the small cemetery at the rear of the church.
 

As we shuffled into the hallowed ground the tune finally faltered and fell silent. I was first on the scene, which is why it has fallen on me to relate this tale. The sight I saw will be forever etched on my memory.

It was obvious that Malone had started to dig an unmarked grave for his
victim.
A shovel sat on the ground beside a pile of disturbed earth. Two bodies lay there. The Scotsman was still just as dead, the red hole gaping at his neck. But he had a broad smile on his face.
 

The reason for the smile was also obvious.
 

The mine-owner Malone lay beside him, a black tongue lolling from a wet mouth. He had been garrotted... almost beheaded.
 

Two fiddle strings were wrapped tight around his neck.

THE TOUGHEST MILE

-The First Mile -

He felt joy in the kill for the first time since his capture.
 

The gathered crowd roared as he
struck
the bear through the throat with a backhand swipe of the short sword. Blood sprayed over the nearest spectators, sending them into a braying frenzy. Garn scarcely noticed. He had already turned to the high podium where the witch sat, green eyes studying him coldly. Her bitches were grouped at her feet, all ten feigning disinterest. He knew from long experience that if he took one step closer, they would be at his throat before he could swing his blade.

Garn showed the witch the bloody sword, then threw it to the ground at his feet. He raised his hands high and the crowd cheered. After three years of fighting in the Pit, he had won his right to the challenge.
 

The Witch Queen did not seem happy at the outcome, but the law was indisputable:
If you can survive one hundred duels, you will have a chance to walk free, no longer a thrall. Merely pass the challenge.
Garn was the first in many years to survive long enough to take advantage of the offer. It had always been the thing foremost in his mind, even as he left his dead—man and beast alike—in a bloody wake on the sand of the Pit. It had not come without cost. In only his third fight he lost the smallest two fingers of his left hand to a wolf. In his sixtieth fight a fire-salamander had seared a burn that bit to his thighbone and brought a dull ache every cold night. And the bear, the last opponent thrown at him, had nearly got him. He’d only just managed to duck a swipe from a huge paw that would have taken his head off. The beast’s claws only grazed him, leaving two bloody ridges across his scalp.
 

He’d ridden his luck many times, driven by the vision he held in his head of home, a dear green place far from the heat and sand of the pits. It had sustained him through many a dark night: the shutters rattle loudly against the window frame, and from the docks of Aer beyond he can hear rigging rattle and masts creak. The wind is an autumn southerly, whistling in over the Sleeping God’s Pizzle, bringing with it the tang of salt spray and the faint but unmistakable stench of decaying whale meat. The ale is warm, and the woman on his lap 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 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.