David Robbins - Madman Run

A faint glow rimmed the next door.

Blade motioned for his friends to be ready and tried the knob. Unlike other doors, this one was locked. He stepped back, drew up his right leg and planted his boot next to the knob. The wood held firm.

“Allow me, pard,” Hickok said, moving across the corridor. He lowered his shoulder and ran straight at the door, striking it with a resounding thud that knocked him onto his posterior. The panel shuddered but wasn’t even cracked.

Geronimo clucked a few times. “I could have told you that wouldn’t work.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hickok responded indignantly, rising.

“Yep. You should have used your head.”

“How about if I use these?” the gunfighter retorted, and both Colts leaped into his hands. Two shots thundered simultaneously, and the wood above the lock splintered and blew apart. He stepped over and tapped the door with a gun.

Even Blade had to grin when the door swung inward. He entered and halted just over the threshold, astounded by the extraordinary furnishings.

“Wow!” Hickok said. “What is all this?”

“It’s a weapons room,” Geronimo speculated.

Mounted on every wall and displayed in numerous cases were scores of weapons—swords of every size and type; axes and pikes; dirks, daggers and knives; lances and shields bearing various crests; maces and spiked clubs. Ringing the room at ten foot intervals were complete suits a medieval armor braced by supporting stands. Occupying the middle of the floor were five tables bearing additional ancient arms.

Hickok walked over to the suit of armor and ran his fingers over the polished metal. “Where’s Sir Galahad when you need him?”

“I’m impressed, Nathan,” Geronimo said, moving to the first table. “I thought your knowledge of history was strictly limited to the Old West.”

“I’ve gone through the same schooling courses you have,” Hickok replied. “I’m not ignorant, you know. I remember readin’ all about those Knights of the Oval Chamber Pot.”

“They were the Knights of the Round Table, nitwit.”

“Whatever.”

Blade stood to the left of the doorway and admired the collection.

Someone, undoubtedly Moray Morlock or one of his ancestors, must have spent a fortune to accumulate such fine, authentic weapons. Perhaps the Morlock clan collected diligently for generations.

The gunfighter knocked on the breastplate and asked, “Is anyone home?”

Geronimo chuckled. “What would you do if it answered?”

“Head for the hills.”

“We should keep looking for Morlock,” Blade said, motioning at the corridor.

“What’s the big rush?” Hickok responded, stepping to the next display of body armor, a huge suit suitable for the Biblical Goliath. “There might be something here we can use.”

Blade was about to argue but changed his mind. Technically, he had no authority for bossing the gunfighter around, and he’d rather save his energy for when it was really needed. He absently glanced at the door, at the shattered wood above the lock, then at the source of the light, a lantern resting on a case near the huge suit of armor.

Something about the door and the lantern bothered him, but he couldn’t determine the cause. So what if one of the clan left a lantern in the room earlier? So what if the door had been locked? Morlock probably didn’t want them to get their hands on any of the weapons.

Geronimo had picked up a weapon resembling a short lance topped by a spike and an odd hatchet. “What were these called?”

“Thingamajigs,” Hickok said.

“Thank you, Mr. Middle Ages expert.”

“It’s a halberd,” Blade told them. “They were used in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries by knights and foot soldiers alike.”

“No wonder you always got A’s in school,” Hickok said. “You have a knack for recallin’ all the diddly details that no one else does.”

“You remember them,” Blade stated. “You just pretend you don’t so you can act dumb.”

Geronimo looked up. “Why would he want to act dumb when it’s his natural state?”

“Same to you, turkey,” Hickok said. He started to reach toward the visor on the huge armor.

Blade stared at the door again, jarred by an unsettling thought. What if the latern was there because someone had been using it? And what if the door had been locked from the inside, not the outside? He turned to voice his concern to the others.

The gunfighter rapped on the visor and repeated the same question. “Is anyone home?”

From within the armor came a guttural reply that shocked all three youths. “Yes.” And with that, the knight attacked.

Hickok was the first to fall. Dumfounded by the development, his lightning reflexes were unable to prevent the knight’s right gauntlet from striking him a heavy blow on the left temple. He crumpled with his hands almost to his Colts.

“Nathan!” Geronimo cried and rushed in with the halberd upraised, neglecting to use his rifle in his concern for his friend.

The knight shifted to meet the Blackfoot. When the halberd arched toward his helmet, he blocked the blade with his right vambrace and delivered a left fist to Geronimo’s jaw that felled the youth in his tracks.

Leaving only Blade. Too late he’d noticed there was no supporting stand bracing the huge suit. He released the candle and jammed the Marlin to his shoulder. “Don’t move!” he warned.

But the knight paid no attention. He clanked to one side and lifted a mace from the wall. Pivoting, his armor creaking loudly, he advanced and elevated the weapon.

“Your armor won’t protect you from a bullet,” Blade said and then wondered why he bothered. The person in that suit was an enemy. Hickok and Geronimo were already down. What did it take to get him to do what had to be done?

“Kill,” the knight declared gruffly. “Kill.”

Blade sighted on the knight’s visor and touched the trigger. “Try this on for size,” he said and was about to fire when intervention from an unexpected source ruined his aim.

Endora Morlock materialized out of nowhere and batted the barrel upward with her arms just as the Marlin boomed. “No!” she shouted, trying to pull the rifle free.

Angered by her interference, Blade faced her and tried to tug the Marlin from her desperate grip. “Let go,” he demanded.

“No,” Endora replied passionately. “Don’t hurt him.”

The scraping of metal joints almost at Blade’s left side made him look and jump back, relinquishing his hold on the Marlin to preserve his life. A heartbeat later the mace cleaved the air at the spot where he’d stood.

“Kill,” the knight vowed and turned ponderously to keep the youth in the limited field of vision afforded by the slots in the visor.

Blade retreated a yard and assumed an on-guard stance. His Bowies would be useless against armor designed to render its wearer impervious to edged weaponry.

Endora grabbed the knight’s elbow. “Leave him alone, Elphinstone!”

“Go away,” the brute snapped, jerking his arm loose. “Must kill bad man.”

“He’s not bad. Please, Elphinstone. Don’t fight him.”

“Must fight. Father says must kill.”

Endora darted around in front of her brother, her face a study of emotional turmoil. “Please,” she begged again. “For me, Elphie. For me.”

The visor fixed on her earnest visage, and Elphinstone’s dull eyes met her beseeching eyes. “For you?”

“Yes. I don’t want either of you to be harmed.”

“Bad man hurt me.”

“But there’s no reason to keep on hurting each other.”

“Bad man kicked and hit me.”

Endora placed her right hand on the breastplate. “We’ve always been close, Elphie. There’s always been just the two of us. You know how much you mean to me. Please don’t fight this man any more.”