Spartan Run

by David Robbins

A lightning streak of green sped from the bow into the soldier, the arrow penetrating his flesh at the base of the throat, the three-edged hunting tip tearing clean through his neck and bursting out of his body next to his spine. He clawed at the shaft, his lips curled in a snarl, then sagged onto the dashboard.

  The SEAL narrowly missed the jeep. Blade drove around the smaller vehicle and brought the van to a stop. He looked in the mirror, gratified to see there wasn’t a soul stirring, then faced forward and scrutinized the damage caused by the SEAL’s rocket. both of the first pair of jeeps had been obliterated. Now that the dust had settled, the smoldering wreckage and twisted frames lay like rotted carcasses in the middle of the road.

  Teucer eased inside and rested his bow on his lap. “We cut that one close,” he commented.

  “At least we took care of their only vehicles,” Blade said. “Dercyllidas’s troops will have a fighting chance.”

  “Evidently you spoke too soon,” Rikki spoke up.

  “Why?”

  The martial artist nodded to the north. “Get set for round two.”

  Blade shifted, surprised to behold a pair of motorcycles, large dirt bikes actually, roaring from the direction of the barracks where Agesilaus’s bodyguard contingent lived. “No one said anything about them,” he said, and gunned the engine, bearing to the east.

  “Both the riders are holding objects in their right hands,” Rikki announced. “Hand grenades, I believe.”

  “Teucer, try to nail one,” Blade directed.

  “Where’s a cannon when you need it?” the bowman muttered.

  The Spartan bikers raced onto the gravel road and took off in pursuit of the van, their red cloaks billowing, their helmets gleaming.

  Teucer eased out the passenger window once more, twisting so he could watch the dirt bikes approach. He nocked another hunting arrow to the string, straightening his left arm, and hugged the transport’s side, keeping his body flat in the hope the Spartans might not notice him until it was too late.

  On they came, their tires kicking dirt into the air, the bikes growling as they shifted.

  The bowman forced himself to relax, to stay loose. One of the first courses taken by every Warrior was entitled Elementary Combat Psychology, and the Elder responsible for teaching the material had continually emphasized the fundamental importance of remaining calm in a crisis. Adrenaline might add strength to panicked limbs, but the hormonal rush could also cloud the reasoning process and impair overall effectiveness. A calm state of mind, therefore, was critical to Warrior survival.

  As the Elder had repeatedly emphasized, self-control and self-composure were the keys to becoming an exceptional fighter and a valued defender of the Home and the Family. Of the two traits, the Elders stressed self-control the most. Without it, self-composure was impossible to attain. “Know thyself” had been carried one step further. “Master thyself” became the basic precept for novice Warriors, and only those who achieved a supreme degree of self-mastery were placed on the active-duty roster.

  Even then, the diversity among the Warriors surprised Teucer. The range of personalities ran the full spectrum. There was Blade, the devout Family man, a natural leader of men if ever there was one, whose steely body reflected the steely mind within. There was Rikki, a man who lived and breathed the martial arts, who spent every waking moment honing his skills, who dedicated his entire being to becoming the perfected swordmaster. There was Hickok, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter, who had a reputation as a consummate killer, the man who faced trouble with a smile on his lips and a pair of blazing pearl-handled revolvers. And there was Yama, the Warrior who had taken his name from the Hindu King of death, the Warrior considered by his peers to be the best all-around fighting man at the Home, the Warrior who could do virtually everything exceptionally well and who had transformed his personal combat techniques into a fine art.

  Then there’s me Teucer thought. The Warrior who is a poet at heart.

  The man who would rather spend an afternoon reading Byron than slaying scavengers. The man who had almost decided not to become a Warrior because he disliked the spilling of blood. Oh, sure, Teucer loved archery, and no one else could handle a bow with such skill and finesse. But his lifelong devotion to archery stemmed from his keen appreciation of the craft’s aesthetic qualities; he shot a bow for the mere sake of shooting. To him, the flight of an arrow qualified as poetry in motion. And striking a target dead center was akin to a religious experience. Back when he’d been twelve years old he’d read Zen in the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel, and his life had never been the same.

  On his sixteenth birthday, at his Naming, he’d selected the name of the famous Greek bowman who had fought so valiantly during the siege of Troy. He’d been tempted to pick the name of several other famous bowmen; Robin Hood, especially, had appealed to him. But since The Iliad had always been one of his favorite books, and since he’d always been fascinated by the exploits of the best bowman in the Achaean force, he’d finally settled on Teucer.

  Now he was about to demonstrate once again the expertise that had earned him the respect of every other Warrior, the archery skill few men could ever hope to match. He saw one of the Spartans bearing down on the rear of the SEAL, evidently planning to race in close and toss a grenade, and he forced himself to stay still until the soldier came within 15 feet of the bumper. At the moment the Spartan pulled the pin and lifted the grenade overhead to toss it, Teucer leaned out, pulled the string on the 75-pound pull compound bow back to his ear, and loosed the shaft.

  The green arrow was a blur as it flew straight and true, the hunting point boring into the Spartan’s chest, the impact jerking him backwards.

  He lost his grip on the handlebars and toppled off the bike. At the very moment he struck the gravel the grenade detonated with a brilliant flash.

  By then the transport had traveled another 40 feet.

  The whomp of the concussion blasted a gust of hot air and stinging dirt particles into Teucer’s face, and he squinted and held on tight to the edge of the window. One down, but where was the other rider? Teucer knew the second Spartan could toss a grenade at any second. He also knew he couldn’t finish the man off if the soldier stayed on the far side of the van.

  With the Commando and the AR-15, the Warriors had no way of nailing their foe. So there was only one thing to do. He slung the bow over his left arm, twisted, and reached overhead, straining his arms to the limit until his probing fingers touched the narrow, thin railing that ran around the entire roof. He gripped the rail, took a deep breath, and hauled himself out.

  “What are you doing?” Blade called out.

  As much as he would have liked to respond, Teucer had more pressing concerns. His legs dangled and banged against the SEAL’s body, and his shoulders were focal points of sheer torment. He must reach the roof, and rapidly.

  “Teucer?” Blade shouted.

  The bowman grunted and pulled his body gradually higher. While he possessed a muscular build, he wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as Blade.

  Nor, for that matter, could he match Rikki in strength. The martial artist might be small, but he was all muscle.

  “Teucer!” Blade roared.

  Unable to respond, gritting his teeth against the pain, fighting the wind and the bucking of the transport, the bowman inched high enough to put his feet on the bottom of the window. The added support elicited a sigh of relief, and for a few seconds he clung there, gathering his energy.

  From the rear rose the roaring of the motorcycle.

  Teucer resumed his climb, bracing his elbows on the top and using his arms for added leverage. In moments he succeeded in drawing his legs onto the roof, and he simply slid onto his stomach and rose to his knees.

  To his immediate left was one of the solar panels.

  The noise of the dirt bike grew louder and louder.

  Turning carefully, Teucer rose to a crouch and made his way to the back of the van. He kept low and risked a peek, unslinging the b
ow as he did.

  Thirty feet away rode the second Spartan. From the grim set of his features, it was obvious he intended to ram the grenade right down the SEAL’s exhaust pipe.

  Teucer slid an arrow from his quiver and notched it. He counted to three, calming his nerves, then straightened and in a fluid motion whipped the bow up, pulled the string, and released.

  The Spartan spotted the man in green at the last instant. He looked up and automatically tried to swerve to the right. The cycle had just started to turn when the arrow caught him in the mouth, the metal point drilling through his front teeth, through his tongue, and deep into his throat. He grabbed at the protruding shaft, lost all semblance of control, and went down in a crash with the bike.

  Almost immediately the SEAL began to slow.

  Teucer grasped the rail and waited until the van came to a halt before he hastily climbed down the metal rungs at the rear. He hastened around the corner and almost bumped into a peeved giant.

  “Were you trying to get yourself killed?” Blade demanded.

  “I needed the exercise.”

  “Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again without ample cause.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Blade proposed “We’ll return to the barracks and consult with General Leonidas.”

  “Not yet we won’t,” stated a soft voice behind him.

  Blade pivoted to find Rikki standing near the open door, the katana already out. “Why not?”

  “See for yourself,” Rikki replied, and nodded to the north.

  Dreading the worst, Blade looked and discovered eight Spartans bearing down on them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “They’re coming out of the woodwork!” Blade snapped, and drew both Bowies.

  “At least these are on foot,” Rikki noted.

  All eight soldiers had their short swords drawn. None carried a firearm.

  They charged in ranks of twos, and one of the men voiced a challenge when they drew within 30 feet. “Who are you? What’s the meaning of this?”

  Blade stepped forward, hopeful further bloodshed could be avoided once he explained the situation. These eight must have been en route either to or from the barracks, and must have witnessed the battle with the troopers on the dirt bikes. Blade mustered a smile and motioned for them to halt.

  The speaker held up his sword arm and the Spartans stopped. “I’m Sergeant Thoas. You will lay down your arms and place yourselves in our custody.”

  “We will not,” Blade responded.

  “Then we will take you by force,” Thoas warned.

  “At least hear me out. We were justified in killing those men.”

  “Since when is an outsider justified in slaying a Spartan?”

  “Since the civil war started.”

  Sergeant Thoas cocked his head. “What are you talking about, stranger?”

  “Then you haven’t heard,” Blade said. “King Agesilaus tried to kill King Dercyllidas a short while ago.”

  “What?” Thoas exclaimed, and glanced at the man next to him.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Blade asserted. “We were at the palace when the attack took place. Dercyllidas is now at the barracks where his bodyguard is housed. I have no idea where Agesilaus might be.”

  “And how do you fit into the scheme of things?”

  “We’re representatives of the Freedom Federation here to offer Sparta membership in our alliance. We’ve been caught in the middle of the dispute between your kings. We’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You certainly are,” Thoas concurred. “And will you remain neutral during the conflict?”

  Blade pointed back at the last rider Teucer had slain. “Those were Agesilaus’s men. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes it does.”

  “Then you can see there’s no reason for us to fight.”

  “Wrong,” Sergeant Thoas stated.

  “What?”

  The noncom gestured at his companions. “We’re Agesilaus’s men also.”

  Teucer snorted. “When it rains, it pours.”

  “Please,” Blade said. “We have no quarrel with you.”

  “Nor we with you.”

  “Then why go through with this? It makes no sense.”

  “It’s clear you don’t understand the Spartan way. We were personally picked by King Agesilaus to be part of his bodyguard. He bestowed a great honor on us. In return, we pledged our loyalty. We promised to defend him to our dying breath, to follow his orders implicitly no matter what they might be.”

  “But what if those orders are all wrong? What if you serve a madman?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ve given our word, and a Spartan always keeps his word.”

  Blade frowned. “It’s not giving your word that’s so important. It’s who you give it to.”

  “Not for a Spartan.”

  “Why don’t you just go your way and forget we ever bumped into each other?” Blade suggested. He’d already spilled enough Spartan blood for one day. In light of the rigid Spartan system, he tended to regard all their soldiers as mere pawns. They were superb warriors; of that there could be no doubt. But the Spartans had been conditioned to obey their superiors without question. Independent thoughts and actions were strictly forbidden. In the final analysis, the Spartan system bred perfect fighting machines.

  One of those machines now shook his head a trifle wistfully. “I wish we could, but now that I know the situation I.m bound to my oath to slay you.”

  “Why not just report to your barracks? No one will ever know.”

  The sergeant tapped his chest with the hilt of his sword. “I’d know. And I couldn’t live with the shame of knowing I’d failed my king and violated my vow.”

  Unexpectedly, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi took three strides and addressed the noncom. “I knew a Spartan once, a fine man who went by the name of Thayer. He told me that it wasn’t his real name, that he’d lost the right to use his real name when he was banished from Sparta. Perhaps you knew him?”

  “There have been a few soldiers who were banished in recent years,” Thoas replied. “Most were men of distinction. Describe this man.”

  “He was a tall man, about six feet eight or nine.”

  “Ahhh,” Thoas said. “Very few Spartans have been that tall. You must be referring to Captain Sarpedon. He was an officer in the royal bodyguard, in King Agesilaus’s contingent to be exact. One day a few Helots decided they were going to repay the king for the death of someone in their family. They gathered together about, forty malcontents and tried to slay Agesilaus while he slept. Sarpedon was on duty at the time.”

  Rikki nodded. “The details of your story match with his.”

  “As I recall, Sapredon’s son was also in the guard detail. When his son was killed, Sarpedon left his post at the king’s door and ran to the boy’s side.”

  “And for such a natural act, Sarpedon was banished from Spartan and his name removed from the plague of distinction that commemorates exceptional Spartans. He told me all about it.”

  “King Agesilaus banished him,” Thoas disclosed. “Personally, I disagreed with the punishment, but there was nothing anyone could do. The judgments of the kings are final.” He sighed. “King Agesilaus delights in banishing officers for the slightest of infractions.”

  “And this is the man you’re willing to die for?” Blade inquired.

  “I have no choice.”

  “Yes, you do,” Rikki said. Sergeant Thoas regarded the man in black quizzically. “Explain, please.”

  “I grew to know Captain Sarpedon very well before he died,” Rikki said.

  “Thanks to him, I was granted certain insights into the Spartan character. I won’t claim to comprehend the Spartan way completely, but I believe I know enough to make you a sound offer.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “You and I will fight, one on one. If I win, we’ll be permitted to go our way wit
hout interference. Should you win, we’ll let you take us into custody without resisting.”

  “We will?” Teucer interjected.

  “This is a most unusual offer,” replied Sergeant Thoas. “What makes you think I’ll accept?”

  “Because I know a Spartan never refuses a challenge and never tolerates an insult to his honor. So I challenge you, Thoas, here and now. And if you refuse, you will have shamed yourself in the eyes of all your men.”

  Blade took a step and placed his right hand on the martial artist’s shoulder. “Now wait a minute. I haven’t agreed to this.”

  Rikki looked over his shoulder. “Would you rather we take all of them on?”

  “No,” Blade admitted. He stared at the open SEAL door, estimating the odds of all three of them getting inside before the soldiers could reach them. The chances were slim. So either he agreed to his friend’s proposal or they fought with all eight Spartans.

  The noncom chuckled. “You present a most devious challenge, little one. You’re pitting my personal honor against my duty to my king.”

  “This is a way for you to satisfy both.” Rikki said.

  “And I’m almost tempted to accept your challenge,” Thoas responded.

  “But to a Spartan, duty must always come first.” He turned to his fellows.

  “Slay them.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the members of the patrol attacked.

  His katana gleaming in the sunlight, Rikki moved forward to meet them. He held his sword in the middle position, the chudan-no-kumae, and braced for the onslaught of the two foremost Spartans, Sergeant Thoas and one other.

  They never reached him.

  An arrow whizzed past Rikki and struck the noncom in the throat, and a second shaft an instant later caught the other soldier in the center of the chest. Both men went down.

  The next pair hardly missed a beat. Rikki let them come at him, let them part and spring at him from the right and the left, let them think they had the upper hand, the edge, as it were, of numbers and size, and then he showed them a different edge, the only one that mattered to a practitioner of kenjutsu, to a man who subscribed to the code of bushido.