Page 202 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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to try to overwhelm the old.

Another four steps. His mind began to tell him the old pain was old. It had
been with him for an age, not simply half-an-hour or so. His mind began to
welcome the eternal throbbing, the pulse of the fire that consumed him, and
James Bond OO7 - printing disableddepths of despair, measured in the thousand sharp objects cutting James Bond OO7 - printing disabled
through the
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into his body and drawing out his lifeblood, he saw the way ahead. Slowly
now his mind had begun to triumph over the exquisite torture racking him.
His strides lengthened; somehow he was actually running, head down,
forcing his riven body through treacly air, for it was as though what he

breathed had solidified, surrounded him, and was trying to force him back.
There was no sense of time now, just the determination to ride it out, to get
to the finish, to reach a point where the pain would cease.
He felt encased in blood and sweat, so that he was constantly using the back
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of his hand to clear his eyes. People still surrounded him and the drumming
began to get louder and louder, filling his head, then his whole being.
Quite without warning, the drumming stopped. Silence followed, with only
his heavy breathing and the quick thump of his heart in his ears to tell him he

was still alive. Then, a few paces away, he saw the white rock and his bow
and arrow lying ready.
With a mighty leap forward he seemed to gather strength from somewhere,
launching himself at the weapons. One hand grasped the bow, the other caught

hold of the arrow.
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His vision blurred and he knew his knees were buckling under him, but his
sight cleared enough to position the arrow against the bowstring, to pull back
on the pressure of the string and lift himself to his full height, turning in the

direction where instinct told him his target waited.
Brokenclaw, covered in blood, his huge body fighting to stay upright, was
already drawing back the bowstring carrying his arrow until the bow was at
arm’s length and the missile wavered in Bond’s direction.

Bond could not get his feet into place. He could not maintain the stance. He
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knew that Brokenclaw had won; he even thought the arrow was already
launched, and at that moment, his legs gave way and he fell to his knees.
Brokenclaw’s arrow hissed inches above his head, thudding into the earth

behind him.
One more push, one more reach into whatever reserve of strength remained.
He straightened, found his eyes clear of sweat, saw his target, swaying but

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