Hard to Be a God Read Free Page A

forgot,” Pashka said hastily. “Actually, I was sent by Arata the Beautiful. He promised me a hundred gold pieces for your heads.”
    Anton slapped his knees. “What a liar!” he exclaimed. “Like Arata would ever get involved with a villain like you!”
    â€œMaybe I should stick a bolt in him after all?” Anka asked bloodthirstily.
    Anton laughed demonically.
    â€œBy the way,” said Pashka, “your right heel has been shot off. It’s time for you to bleed to death.”
    â€œNo way!” Anton objected. “For one thing, I’ve been constantly chewing on white tree bark, and for another, two beautiful barbarians have already dressed my wounds.”
    The ferns rustled, and Anka came out onto the trail. Her cheek was scratched, and her knees were smeared with dirt and grass. “It’s time to dump him into the swamp,” she announced. “When an enemy doesn’t surrender, he’s destroyed.”
    Pashka lowered his arms. “You know, you don’t play by the rules,” he said to Anton. “You always make Hexa seem like a good man.”
    â€œA lot you know!” said Anton, coming out onto the trail as well. “The saiva means business, you dirty mercenary.”
    Anka gave Pashka back his rifle. “Do you always let loose at each other like that?” she asked enviously.
    â€œOf course!” Pashka said in surprise. “What, are we supposed to yell
‘Boom-boom’? ‘Bang-bang’?
The game needs an element of risk!”
    Anton said nonchalantly, “For example, we often play William Tell.”
    â€œWe take turns,” Pashka caught on. “One day the apple’s on my head, the next day it’s on his.”
    Anka scrutinized them. “Oh yeah?” she said slowly. “I’d like to see that.”
    â€œWe’d love to,” Anton said slyly. “Too bad we don’t have an apple.”
    Pashka was grinning widely. Then Anka tore the pirate bandanna off his head and quickly rolled it into a long bundle. “The apple is just a convention,” she said. “Here’s an excellent target. Go on, play William Tell.”
    Anton took the red bundle and examined it carefully. He looked at Anka—her eyes were like slits. And Pashka was enjoying himself—he was having fun. Anton handed him the bundle. “‘At thirty paces I can manage to hit a card without fail,’” he recited evenly. “‘I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am used to.’”
    â€œâ€˜Really?’” said Anka. She then turned to Pashka: “ ‘And you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?’”
    Pashka was placing the bundle onto his head. “‘Some day we will try,’” he said, smirking. “‘In my time, I did not shoot badly.’”
    Anton turned around and walked down the trail, counting the steps out loud: “Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …”
    Pashka said something—Anton didn’t catch it—and Anka laughed loudly. A little too loudly.
    â€œThirty,” Anton said and turned around.
    At thirty paces, Pashka looked incredibly small. The red triangle of the bundle was perched on top of his head like a dunce cap. Pashka was smirking. He was still playing around. Anton bent down and started slowly drawing the bowstrings.
    â€œBless you, my father William!” Pashka called out. “And thank you for everything, no matter what happens.”
    Anton nocked the bolt and stood up. Pashka and Anka were looking at him. They were standing side by side. The trail was like a dark, damp corridor between tall green walls. Anton raised the crossbow. The weapon of Marshal Totz had become extraordinarily heavy. My hands are shaking, thought Anton. That’s not good. He remembered how in the winter Pashka and he had spent a whole hour throwing snowballs at the cast iron pinecone on the