David Robbins - Memphis Run

The prospect brought a smile to his lips.

Absence, so the adage went, made the heart grow fonder. In this instance he agreed. He missed his wife and son unbearably, and he was aware that Hickok and Rikki missed their loved ones equally as much.

When people were separated from those dearest to their hearts, he mentally noted, the separation accentuated their love like nothing else could.

What in the world was he doing?

Blade shook his head, irritated with himself. Now was hardly the time to dwell on his family. First things first. First he had to rescue Rikki from the Hounds, then journey over a thousand miles through the hostile Outlands, warding off mutants and scavengers every mile of the way.

Oh.

Was that all?

“Damn!” General Thayer muttered. “Not again.”

“So what have we here General?” demanded the sole occupant of the chamber in a high-pitched voice.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, standing on Thayer’s right, scrutinized the spacious room, taking his bearings. A huge chandelier supplied ample lighting. All four walls were covered with large, colorful posters of men and women, some singly, others as part of a group, and the majority were playing musical instruments. The musicians displayed a preference for black leather clothing. A soft, thick green carpet covered the floor. In the middle of the chamber a dais had been erected, a circular platform consisting of four polished mahogany steps and a magnificent gilded throne.

“Don’t be bashful, my dear Thayer,” said the man seated on the throne.

“Come. Come.” He gestured, beckoning them to approach.

“I don’t believe it,” Sergeant Boynton exclaimed softly.

Rikki was likewise surprised, and he studied the man as he advanced.

The King was a model of contrasts. On the one hand, he was a strapping, muscular man well over six and a half feet tall, with short black hair, a trimmed mustache, and a Vandyke beard. On the other, he was wearing totally incongruous attire: red, spiked, high-healed shoes; black, fishnet stockings; and a lacy, slinky red dress. Thanks to excessive makeup, his lips were a bright red, his cheeks pink.

General Thayer halted at the base of the dais and saluted. “We have a prisoner for you, sir.”

“So I see,” the King stated, resting his chin in his right hand and inspecting the Warrior. “Where did you find him?”

“We were on a routine patrol southeast of the city,” General Thayer detailed. “He walked into an ambush we set.”

The King smiled at Rikki. “You’re a bit on the small side, but maybe you’re big where it counts,” he said, and winked.

Rikki, for one of the very few times in his entire life, was dumbfounded.

“Was he alone?” the King asked.

“No, sir. There were two men and a child, a girl, with him,” General Thayer answered.

His forehead creasing, the King made a show of looking around the Throne Room. “How odd. I don’t see any of them.”

“They escaped,” General Thayer said sheepishly.

The King suddenly straightened, his green eyes locked on the Spartan.

“Oh? Such inefficiency is inexcusable.”

“I know,” General Thayer admitted.

“Did we sustain any casualties?”

General Thayer mumbled a response.

The King leaned forward. “I’m sorry. My hearing must be going. I didn’t catch that.”

Thayer squared his shoulders and looked up. “Yes, sir. We lost twenty-nine men.”

Rikki saw the King’s face flush scarlet, and for several seconds it appeared as if the King was about to explode. Instead, the ruler’s eyes narrowed and he spoke icily.

“Twenty-nine?”

“Yes, sir,” General Thayer said. “But don’t worry. I’ve sent a platoon to deal with the other two men and the girl.”

“Why should I worry, my darling general?” the King asked. “Just because three years of hard labor were required to muster one hundred and twenty volunteers into my army? Just because, in one day, in one fight with three men and a child , you have succeeded in allowing almost one-fourth of the Hounds to be wiped out? Is that sufficient cause to worry?”

General Thayer did not respond.

The King rose slowly, his fists clenched. “I’ll worry if I damn well want to worry!” he snapped. “I will not allow my timetable to be disrupted by your carelessness!”

Thayer stared at the floor.

“Look at me!” the King bellowed.

The Spartan complied.

“When I appointed you as my commander in chief, I assumed I was appointing a man of competence. After all, you were a highly ranked official in Sparta.” The King paused, glowering. “I even overlooked the report of your breach of Spartan discipline. And what do I get for my compassion? An incompetent who can’t defeat three men and a little girl!”

“They’re the ones from St. Louis,” General Thayer declared.

“What?”

“The pair we heard about,” General Thayer said quickly. “The two who beat the Leather Knights. This is one of them.”

Cocking his head, the King scrutinized Rikki. “He is? Why didn’t you say so before?” He descended the dais to the bottom step and stood in front of the Warrior. “You don’t strike me as being very formidable.”

“He is, sir. Take my word for it,” General Thayer said.

“What’s your name?” the King demanded.

“Rikki,” the martial artist answered.

“And where are you from?”

Rikki kept silent.

“He won’t tell us a thing, sir,” Thayer stated.

Rikki gazed at the bushy black hairs bristling over the King’s chest and protruding from the top of the red dress, his features impassive.

The King unexpectedly smiled. “There’s no need to be obstinate with me, little man. We can be friends.” He reached out and traced his right forefinger along the Warrior’s chin.

And Rikki suddenly understood an earlier comment by General Thayer:

“The Hounds bring one of the locals here, and the King, as he likes to put it, vents his biological urges. The type depends on his mood.” The type depends on his mood .

“If you’ve fought the Leather Knights, then your enemies are my enemies,” the King was saying. “The Knights have been a thorn in my side for too long. I intend to bring them to their knees. We can work together.”

“No,” Rikki said.

The King blinked rapidly in disbelief. “No?”

“No.”

“You’re refusing my generous offer before I’ve fully explained my terms?” the King snapped.

“I will not assist you,” Rikki stated.

“But the Knights are your enemies,” the King reiterated.

“You’re mistaken,” Rikki informed him.

The King placed his hands on his hips. “You have fought them before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Rikki responded. “But one fight does not mean they’re my enemies. Temporary adversaries, would be more like it. The perfecting swordmaster embraces everyone in friendship, unless he is greeted with hostility. The Leather Knights were once my foes, but they might receive me cordially were I to pay St. Louis a visit now.”

Grinning broadly, the King gazed at Rikki in amazement. “The perfecting swordmaster—!” he said, and laughed heartily.

“I’ve never seen anyone use a sword like he does,” General Thayer commented.

The King glanced at the general’s right side. “Is that his sword?”

“Yes, sir.”

With an imperial air, the King extended his left hand.

General Thayer drew the gleaming katana and gave the sword to the ruler.

“Superb. Simply superb,” the King remarked, hefting the katana. “Such intricate craftsmanship. Where did you obtain this?”

“It was bequeathed to me by those I’m pledged to protect,” Rikki detailed.