Tarashana by Rachel Neumeier (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📗

the shrub had rooted, pressed my hands flat on the rocky soil, and pulled myself up the last little distance.

The assassin was not so far ahead now. I had cut off some of the distance between us. He had not heard me. I began to run, pushing myself hard. I stooped as I ran, to pick up a fist-sized rock, and then another one the same size.

He turned to look behind him. I saw him begin to turn, I saw the movement of his shoulders, and threw the first rock. It hit his back—I had meant to hit his neck or head, but I hurried my throw. The distance was too great for the blow to hurt him much, but it surprised him and made him stagger. I threw the second stone and hit his leg, and stooped for a third without pausing and threw that. And missed entirely, which was embarrassing, but he had fallen to one knee when the one hit his leg. It took him half a breath to recover and regain his feet, and by that time I was close enough that the fourth rock almost made him fall. Though he was up again at once and running, I had closed more of the distance. But now he was running hard and I did not see any more rocks of a good size to throw.

Before us, not far, stood a grove of trees, oaks, not the great trees that grow further south, but the kind with jagged leaves that grow where the land is dry. In their shade, a horse was tethered. The land ran down more smoothly past that place, still rocky and too steep for fields or pastures, but obviously not too difficult for a horse. I tried to run faster, but I was already pushing myself as hard as I could. The assassin was gaining with every step. He would come to that place too much before me.

I drew my knife. It was too far to throw a knife, and I knew that, but I had nothing else. I kept the knife in my hand, never wise when one is running, but I did it. I could count the oaks—there were seven—and I could see that the horse was a bay mare, small for a Lau horse, and nervous because men were running directly toward her. She sidled and tossed her head, pulling against the reins that tethered her.

The assassin reached her and seized her reins, pulling her loose. She swung around, turning in a circle, too frightened to stand for him to mount. That cost him a moment. He dragged her to a halt and got one foot in the stirrup, and I threw my knife as hard as I could. It hit the mare high in the rump and spun away. The cut was nothing, but she reared, squealing and crow-hopping. She spun in a tight circle as the man dragged at the reins, and reared again, tore herself free, and bolted, leaving the man flat on the ground.

He staggered to his feet, but the effort took him several tries and then a flung stone knocked him down again. He managed to get up once more, but then I was on him at last.

He fought me. He fought hard, but he did not really know how to fight. He was not strong enough to fight me anyway, and then he might also have been dizzy from the mare throwing him down or from that last rock, which had struck his head. But he would not stop. He had a knife and I did not, having thrown mine at the mare, but even so he could not really fight me. I felt sick from running a long way in the heat, and I was much too angry to care whether I hurt him. But I did not want to kill him. I wanted to throw him down before Aras, for Aras to do with as he wished. So I hit him hard, on his side below the arm, where the nerves run. He dropped the knife, crying out—that is a blow that will blind a man with the pain for a breath or more, and cripple the arm for some little time afterward. He curled away from me, panting, but he also fumbled for the knife with his left hand and tried to kick out. Completely out of patience, I flung him over onto his back and hit him a fingerwidth below the ribs, hard enough to stop his breath.

That ended it. He lay fighting to breathe, opening and closing his mouth, which would not help. Before he could recover, I shoved him roughly over so that he lay face down. I pulled his shirt off—he struggled at that; he was without doubt stubborn. I grabbed the back of his neck hard enough to hurt him and pinned him down, and got his shirt off him, and used it to tie his wrists behind his back. Then I dragged him up and leaned him against the nearest tree and had time, finally, to look at him.

He was much younger than I had expected. I saw that first. He was my age. His beard was sparse, as it is for Lau of that age. Twenty summers, twenty and one, twenty and two, near that. He was thin. As I had taken his shirt, I could see how thin. The Lau are a slender people, but this went beyond that. I thought he had not eaten enough for a long time. He was not what I had expected. I did not know what kind of man I had expected, but not a young man like this.

He gasped and shuddered, trying to breathe. I was breathing hard too, because of running so hard in the heat, but it was worse for him because of the way I had hit him. I had crouched in front