David Robbins - Spartan Run

“I’m not,” Blade said. “I’d like to talk about the Spartans, if you don’t mind. We’ve traveled hundreds of miles to present an offer to them, and I’d like to know a little more about them before we make contact.”

“What kind of offer?”

“To join the Freedom Federation, an alliance of seven factions dedicated to fostering the remnants of civilization.”

Johnson sat forward, his forehead furrowed. “Really? I had no idea there was such a thing. We’ve always believed the rest of the country is in ruins, and that savage bands roam the countryside killing everyone they meet.”

“It is that bad in most of the country,” Blade admitted. “But the leaders of the Federation hope to eventually turn things around, to eliminate all the scavengers and the raiders, to make the country a safe place to live in once again. The goal won’t be achieved overnight. Decades might be required, but one day peace will reign again.”

The farmer smiled wistfully. “Listening to you, I almost believe it’s possible.”

“Your daughter told us the Spartans might try to put us in chains. How do you think they’ll react to our proposal?”

“There’s no telling. I’m just a Helot, mister. I farm for them. Affairs of state are way out of my league,” Johnson said, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can tell you that one of the kings might be receptive to your offer. King Dercyllidas is a reasonable sort. At least he doesn’t like to lord it over the Helots as King Agesilaus does.”

“Dercylliadas and Agesilaus? I’m not an expert, but those names sound Greek.”

“They are. The Spartans all have Greek names, just like the ancient Spartans. In fact, they take their names from a list compiled by the Lawgivers who founded Sparta during the war. If a Spartan should fall into disgrace, he is stripped of his rank, his name, and his cloak and banished from Sparta for life.”

“Fascinating,” Blade said. “And it’s encouraging to learn one of the kings will listen to us. All I want is a chance to present our case, and then we’ll leave.”

“I’ll be honest with you. You’re taking a great risk.”

“It can’t be helped. And I doubt the Spartans will harm us once they learn the Federation would take appropriate action. They wouldn’t want a war on their hands.”

Johnson made a snorting noise. “You don’t know the Spartans, friend. They live for war.”

Blade was about to respond when a loud thump came from outside. He glanced at Rikki. The martial artist promptly went out.

“Is something wrong?” Johnson asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade said. He rose and stepped to the doorway, staring through the screen at the empty lawn. “Rikki? Teucer?”

There was no reply.

Alarmed, Blade shoved on the door and took a stride, and as he did a sharp object touched his neck and a low voice growled a warning.

“Don’t move, big one, or you’re a dead man.”

Blade froze. A muscular arm came around his left side and the Commando was pulled from his shoulder. A man stepped into view, moving in front of him, a strapping man attired in the most unusual military garb he’d ever seen.

For starters, the man wore a burnished bronze helmet completed with a dyed horsehair crest. A one-piece outfit snugly covered his sinewy physique. Boots adorned his feet. And clasped at the neck, flowing over both broad shoulders, was a light cloak that reached almost to his knees.

Strangest of all was the fact that the crest, outfit, boots, and cloak were all red. A black belt encircled his waist, and from it dangled the scabbard to the short sword he held in his right hand. Slung over his left shoulder was an Uzi.

The Warrior glanced to the right and saw Teucer prone on the ground, unconscious. At the edge of the porch stood Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, hands in the air, covered by two more men in red bearing Uzi submachine guns. Blade looked to the left and discovered three more men with their weapons leveled.

“What’s your name, big one?” demanded the man who’d taken the Commando.

“Blade.”

“I’m Captain Chilon of Spartiate Company C. You will consider yourself my prisoner until such time as may be decreed otherwise.”

“We come in peace,” Blade said.

“That has yet to be established. Kindly place your knives on the porch.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Blade responded in a firm tone. “No.”

“You will place your knives down now,” Captain Chilon directed. “When I give an order, I expect to be obeyed.”

A sharp retort almost issued from Blade’s mouth, but he decided to try diplomacy instead of antagonizing the Spartan. “With all due respect, I must decline. Warriors are duty-bound to retain their weapons at all costs.”

The captain’s eyebrows knit. “But I took your submachine gun.”

“Correction. I let you take the Commando, to buy time until I could ascertain the situation. Had you grabbed one of my Bowies, it would have been a different story. And now that I know all of you are Spartans, I have nothing to fear by refusing to turn them over.”

“You don’t?” Captain Chilon asked in surprise.

“No. Not if everything I’ve heard about the Spartans is true. Your people are fearless fighters, renowned for their discipline and dedication. Such men wouldn’t kill others in cold blood,” Blade stated with somewhat more assurance than he felt. He hoped subtle flattery would have the desired effect. If not, his next move would be to employ his Bowies.

The officer smiled and lowered his sword. “Your wit, big one, has disarmed my objections. By your bearing I can tell you’re a brave man, and Spartans respect bravery.” He paused. “But tell me. What are you doing in our domain?”

“I’m an official representative of the Freedom Federation,” Blade explained yet again. “I’ve been sent to present a proposal to your kings.”

“You’re ambassadors of some sort? Very well. We’ll escort you to the palace. You may keep your other weapons, but not any guns.”

“Thanks,” Blade said, glancing at Teucer. “I must check on him.”

“He’s fine,” the Spartan stated. “One of my men gave him a tap on the head.” He glanced at the two soldiers on the right. “Simoeis, revive the bow carrier.”

“Immediately, Captain.”

The screen door opened and out stepped Harry Johnson. “Hello, Captain,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“Mr. Johnson,” the officer replied, sliding his sword into its scabbard.

“Have these men harmed your family in any way?”

“No. They’ve treated us decently.”

Rick Grennell materialized in the doorway, hatred contorting his visage. “They damn sure didn’t treat me decently! The bastards cut me!”

He stormed outside and pointed at Rikki. “That one there used a fancy spiked thing.”

Captain Chilon stared at the bandaged arm, then at Blade. “Attacking a Helot is a serious offense.”

“He attacked us first,” Blade explained. “We had no choice. Afterward, we treated his arm.”

“You applied the bandage?”

Blade nodded at the martial artist. “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi did. He’s quite skilled at rendering first aid.”

“Let me get this straight,” Captain Chilon said. “First the small one wounded Grennell, then he took the time to bandage him?”

Blade nodded.

“It doesn’t matter whether the son of a bitch helped me or not,” Grennell snapped. “The important point is that he cut me in the first place. I want to press charges.”

“I’m not certain of your legal standing in this respect,” Chilon stated.

“These men, being outsiders, fall under the special laws set down by the Lawgivers.”