Spartan Run

by David Robbins

  King Dercyllidas’s contingent reached the building and poured inside, fighting a rearguard action all the while.

  Blade expected General Cakhas to order an all-out assault on the building, to crush the opposition while his forces enjoyed the initiative, but to his surprise Calchas’s troops began to pull back.

  Teucer was equally perplexed. “What in the world is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Blade admitted. “But we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Rikki is somewhere in the barracks, and as long as Calchas doesn’t try to overrun the Spartans inside, he should be safe.”

  “You hope.”

  The last of Dercyllidas’s troops retreated inside and the wide doors were slammed shut.

  Outside, a stocky Spartan was organizing the victorious contingent into proper order, commanding them to fall in, his crimson coated sword waving in the air.

  “That must be General Calchas,” Teucer guessed.

  “What’s he up to now?” Blade wondered.

  In practically no time at all General Calchas had his men formed into ranks and issued further instructions. A third of his men were deployed to the right, a third to the left, and they hastened in practiced order to do his bidding, aligning themselves in a row from north to south and linking up at the rear of the building, completely surrounding the structure.

  “No one will be able to get in or out,” Teucer said bitterly. “Rikki is trapped in there.”

  “We’ll find a way to rescue him.”

  “We’d better,” Teucer replied, and smacked the dashboard in anger.

  “First we’re captured, then we have to contend with a psycho, and now this. Nothing has gone right since we got here.”

  “Which is par for the course,” Blade said. “Try and look at the bright side.”

  “What bright side?”

  “For whatever reason, Agesilaus’s men seem to be ignoring us.”

  The bowman nodded at the Spartans. “Looks as if you spoke too soon.”

  Blade looked and saw a dozen soldiers racing toward the SEAL. None, as far as he could tell, carried grenades or other explosives, but he drove toward the gravel road anyway, easily outdistancing them, and stopped at the junction.

  “What’s the plan?” Teucer inquired.

  “I wish I had one. We’ve been playing it by ear so far, letting the madman and his bodyguard make all the moves. I think it’s about time we turned the tables.”

  “How?”

  “We carry the fight to Agesilaus,” Blade proposed, staring at the barracks. “Rikki should be safe for the time being, a few hours at the least, which is more than enough for us to locate Agesilaus and kill him.”

  “We’re going to drive off and leave Rikki?”

  “Can’t be helped. Agesilaus is the key to the conflict. Without him, his bodyguards aren’t obligated by their oath of loyalty. His death will bring peace.”

  “And how do you propose we take care of him? He’s not going to let us anywhere near his royal person,” Teucer said, emphasizing the last two words sarcastically.

  “There has to be a way,” Blade stated. He cast an anxious glance at the barracks and the ring of soldiers encircling it, then took a right and headed toward the center of the city. If his scheme succeeded, scores of lives would be saved and Sparta’s admittance to the Freedom Federation was virtually assured. If he failed, not only would the Federation lose a potential ally, he’d likely lose one of his best friends.

  There were few pedestrians in sight. The smoldering jeeps and the smashed motorcycles were still where they had been destroyed, and the eight dead members of the Spartan patrol still lay where they had fallen.

  “Odd that no one has removed those bodies,” Teucer mentioned as they drove past.

  “My guess would be that most everyone has taken shelter indoors for the time being. The average person wouldn’t want to be abroad in the midst of a civil war. Even the regular army troops and the secret police are staying out of the way.”

  “Just so they stay out of our way.”

  The farther they traveled, the fewer people there were. By the time they came to the center of Sparta, the city a ghost town.

  “This is spooky,” the bowman said.

  Blade nodded in agreement and focused on the Royal’s. Not a single guard was in evidence. Even the square was deserted. He stopped just outside it and scanned in all directions.

  “If King Agesilaus is in the palace, why aren’t there any guards?”

  Teucer queried.

  “They could be inside.” Blade drove the transport to the base of the steps, parked, and palmed the keys.

  “I still don’t see anyone.”

  “There must be someone home,” Blade said, glancing at the spot where they had fought the guards. “All the bodies are gone.” He cautiously opened his door.

  “Am I going with you this time?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure it’s wise?”

  “No, but we can’t risk both of us being captured or worse. You stay with the SEAL until I get back. If I’m not back in half an hour, take the SEAL

  and go bail Rikki out of the jam he’s in.”

  “All by my lonesome?”

  Blade’s expression hardened. “If I don’t make it back, then all agreements are off. Use the full firepower of the van if you have to, but save Rikki.”

  The bowman nodded. “All right. But you know I’ve only had a few driving lessons. I’m liable to wreck the SEAL.”

  Smiling, Blade handed over the keys. “Take care.”

  “May the Spirit be with you.”

  Slipping out, Blade depressed the lock and closed the door. He crouched alongside the front fender, scrutinizing the colonnades, then dashed up to the huge door. Suspicion flared when he found the door slightly ajar. His every instinct told him to turn around and get out of there, but he disregarded the feeling and pushed. Ever so slowly, and without making the slightest sound, the door swung inward.

  Blade tentatively stepped into the great hall. Once again there were no Spartans. Had the entire palace been evacuated? He moved toward the audience chamber. He went by several closed doors and eventually came to an open one. A sideways look riveted him in place.

  Lying in two rows within the room, their red cloaks used to cover their bodies, were the Spartans who had been slain during the fight outside.

  What about their weapons? He entered and lifted the cloak of the first corpse to discover an empty scabbard hanging from the man’s belt.

  Too bad.

  He could use a submachine gun, preferably his Commando.

  Blade let the cloak fall and turned to leave, his eyes straying to the left wall, to the rack in the corner, and he smiled.

  Bingo!

  The rack contained M-16’s, UZIs, and assorted other automatics. He went over and inspected the collection, and was disappointed to find the Commando and Rikki’s AR-15 weren’t among them. Selecting an M-16, he checked the magazine, which turned out to be empty, then noticed a drawer under the rack. A quick tug exposed enough ammunition to start a war, and he picked up a box of 5.56-mm bullets. Working swiftly, he inserted 20 into the magazine, cocked the rifle, put the selector on safe, and slid the magazine back into the feedway until he heard a distinct click.

  Voices suddenly sounded outside.

  Blade quickly pulled the charging handle all the way to the back and released it, then flicked the selector to semi. He moved to the doorway and stood to the left of the jamb, listening.

  “—be mad as hell because we’re so late.”

  “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Try telling him that.”

  The Warrior estimated the speakers were drawing close position. He waited, hearing their footsteps, and they walked past he slid from concealment and trained the M-16 on the backs of two Spartans. “Hold it!” he ordered. “Drop your swords!”

  Both men whirled, their shock almost instantly controlled and replaced by reserve
d defiance. They reluctantly obeyed.

  “Who are you?” one of them demanded.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Blade growled. “Are you two with King Agesilaus’s bodyguard?”

  “No,” answered the first man. “We’re not with either wait. I’m Major Xanthus.” His green eyes narrowed. “And you, if I’m not mistaken, are the outsider named Blade, the one who appeared before the kings earlier today.”

  “Yes. Little did I know I’d become embroiled in a power struggle. Whose side are you on?”

  “Neither,” Xanthus answered. “The issue will be settled by our two monarchs.”

  Blade looked from one to the other. “If only I could trust you.”

  “We won’t try to harm you,” Major Xanthus said. “Not unless you interfere in the confrontation between our kings,” the other one stated.

  Blade studied the man, who stood a shade over six feet and sported a full brown beard tinged with steaks of gray. “And who might you be?”

  “My name is unimportant, but my advice is critical. You mustn’t interfere or you’ll lose important support from many who believe Sparta should join your Federation.”

  “You know about that?”

  “All Sparta knows about the offer.”

  “Surely you know that if Agesilaus wins, Sparta won’t be able to join.”

  The bearded man nodded. “Sparta’s fate is in the hands of God.”

  “We have a saying at my Home: Never presume to rely on the Spirit to do that which you’re too lazy to do yourself. Relying on God is all well and good, but don’t expect Him to do your work for you.”

  “But that’s my point. The struggle is Sparta’s problem and will be decided by Spartans.”

  Blade sighed. “I wish I could afford to stand by and do nothing, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?” the bearded man inquired.

  “I take it you haven’t heard the news. General Leonidas led his troops against General Calchas’s men, and Leonidas came out on the losing end.

  Right this minute Calchas has the barracks where King Dercyllidas is being tended completely surrounded. It’s only a matter of time before General Calchas mounts an assault on the building.”

  The officers exchanged startled glances.

  “Leonidas lost!” exclaimed Major Xanthus.

  “Are you certain of this information?” asked the bearded man.

  “I was there,” Blade informed them grimly, and was about to elaborate when he saw the major look past his shoulder. From behind Blade came a harsh shout.

  “You there. Don’t move or we’ll shoot!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rikki-Tikki Tavi raced into the long barracks and saw the four soldiers he was chasing 30 feet in front of him. On each side extended a row of double bunks, dozens upon dozens of them. At the foot of each rested a red footlocker. In racks mounted, on both walls were scores of weapons, primarily guns.

  “Someone is after us!” shouted the last soldier in line.

  “Stop him!” came the command from the front.

  Immediately, the Spartan spun and blocked the aisle, his sword held at chest height.

  Rikki never slowed. He was determined to stop the assassins before they reached King Dercyllidas, and he raised his katana in the ready posture as he closed. “Surrender!” he declared.

  The Spartan laughed.

  There was no time for fancy swordplay, no time for elaborate thrusts and parries, no time to go easy on the trooper, no time for anything but the exquisitely deadly art of kenjutsa. Rikki approached to within five feet of the Spartan, feinted to the left, and when the soldier blocked the strike, speared his katana under the sword and deep into the man’s chest.

  Complete astonishment filled the Spartan’s face. His lips curved upward and he gave a slight nod. “Well done,” he said in appreciation, and died.

  Rikki yanked the katana out and hastened along the aisle. A doorway appeared ahead, and he raced to it as fast as his legs would fly. In the next long room was more of the same: bunks, footlockers, and racks of weapons. The three Spartans were halfway to the next door, and one of them glanced back and abruptly halted.

  “He got past Deiphobus! I’ll take care of him!”

  The Warrior closed the gap. If just one of the death squad reached the king, the result would be disastrous. As much as he would like to match his katana against the next soldier’s short sword, he couldn’t waste a single precious second. He transferred the katana to his left hand and reached behind him with his right, his slim fingers opening the brown pouch he always kept strapped to the small of his back. In it he carried his yawara, kyoketsusgogei, and four shuriken. He extracted one of the throwing stars, drew to within two yards of the soldier, and threw it.

  The glint of whirring metal alerted the Spartan to the fact an object was streaking straight at him, although he had no idea what the thing might be. Automatically he brought his sword up to deflect whatever it was, but he misjudged both the object’s size and speed.

  Unerringly on target, the shuriken struck the soldier at the base of the throat and sliced several inches into his soft flesh, severing vessels. Blood sprayed out, splattering on his chin and chest. He gagged, released his sword, and clutched at his neck. His eyes acquired a bewildered quality as he sank to his knees, wheezing.

  Rikki finished the Spartan without stopping, using the katana to finish the job the shuriken had started.

  The last two Spartans were almost to the next door.

  No! Rikki almost yelled, his arms and legs pumping. The door was closed, and he intuitively perceived that King Dercyllidas lay behind it. He couldn’t possibly prevent the soldiers from reaching the ruler first.

  He’d failed!

  One of the soldiers shoved the door wide and both men dashed inside.

  Rikki frowned in disapproval of his performance and chastised himself for not trying harder. A flurry of activity took place within the next room, and he detected the swinging of swords and the sounds of a struggle. A moment later one of the men he’d been chasing staggered out, his face split, his mouth, moving soundlessly, then pitched to the floor. Rikki halted.

  More Spartans poured through the doorway, ten of them in all, and they warily approached the man in black. The soldier leading them held up his right hand and they all stopped.

  “You’re one of the outsiders.” he stated bluntly.

  “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, at your service.”

  The soldier looked past the Warrior at the slain assassin. “You’ve been trying to protect our king. Why?”

  “My friends and I want King Dercyllidas to live.”

  At that moment, from the north end of the building, came a shout diminished by the distance. “Rikki! Can you hear me?”

  “Who is that?” the leader asked.

  “My friend Blade.”

  The giant shouted again. “Leonidas has lost! We’ve got to leave!”

  “Leonidas has lost?” the man at the front repeated, and the Spartans began talking among themselves, expressing their disbelief at the news.

  Rikki opened his mouth to reply to Blade when he heard another yell.

  “We’ll be back. Count on it!”

  His friends were leaving? Rikki turned and called out, “I’m coming!”

  “Hold it!” the lead soldier snapped.

  The Warrior halted.

  “I can’t let you leave just yet, not until I’m certain you can be trusted. I’m Captain Pandarus, and I must ask that you surrender your sword and place, yourself in my custody until our superiors decide your fate.”

  Rikki pointed at the trooper he’d disposed of. “What does it take to earn your trust? If I wasn’t on your side, would I have tried to prevent your king from being assassinated?”

  “No,” Pandams conceded. “But I still can’t permit you to depart. I have my duty to perform.”

  “And I must rejoin my companions,” Rikki stated, and began to retrace his steps. He heard the soldiers pounding in p
ursuit and increased his speed, confident in his ability to outdistance them. He was the fastest runner at the Home and he had yet to meet his match.

  “Stop!” Captain Pandarus cried.

  Rikki had no intention of obeying. He drew closer to the dead assassin and tensed in preparation for leaping over the body instead of skirting it.

  “Stop or else!”

  Or else what? Rikki wondered, and glanced back to see if they were about to shoot him or hurl a spear. Neither was the case, so he faced front an instant before he leaped. Under ordinary circumstances he would have cleared the corpse with ease, but in his haste he neglected to look down at the floor. He jumped, and didn’t realize he’d stepped on slick blood until his legs swept out from under him and he crashed onto his back.

  The Spartans!

  Rikki shoved to his feet, his left palm contacting a sticky, slippery substance, and he was almost erect when it seemed as if a two-ton section of the ceiling slammed onto the top of his head. The room danced and he sagged, struggling to retain his awareness. Another chunk of ceiling crashed onto him, and an inky vertigo engulfed his senses. He was only barely conscious of his head striking the floor.

  The excruciating pain awakened him.

  Rikki lay still, flat on his back, his eyes closed and took stock of his condition. Waves of agony pounded at the inside of his skull. He gritted his teeth and inhaled softly through his nostrils, endeavoring to compartmentalize the anguish. But the pain resisted and tried to swamp his consciousness, almost like a living creature that was trying to devour him from the inside.

  Remember the Zen teachings, Rikki reminded himself. All created beings knew pain and grief at one time or another. Humankind only learned wisdom from tribulation. One of the greatest of afflictions was never to know hardship. The one who knows that pain is universal is at peace even though adrift in a world of pain.

  Embrace the pain.

  Become one with it.

  And in the process, dominate it with the sheer force of indomitable human will.

  Rikki relaxed his body and accepted the pain, allowing his consciousness to adjust to its presence. Slowly he came to control the sensation, to master the agony instead of letting it master him. As he did, he perceived sounds all around him, the murmur of muted conversations.