David Robbins - Spartan Run

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 reserved 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!”

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.