David Robbins - Denver Run

Beelzebub shrieked and snarled, trying to bury its teeth in the human’s throat.

Blade knew his arms and legs were being torn to ribbons. He had to break free or the loss of blood alone would be his undoing. He jammed his right elbow into the cat’s neck, pressing those razor teeth from him, and swept his left Bowie up and in, hoping his hasty aim would hit the mark.

It did.

The Bowie stabbed into Beelzebub’s right eye.

Roaring in shock and agony, Beelzebub bounded to the left. Its right eye was split open, streaming a greenish-red fluid down its furry cheek and over its chin.

Samuel II was gaping at the fight in amazement, unable to believe his champion was hurt.

The 17 Imperial Assassins ringed the pit, watching expectantly.

Blade staggered aside, putting distance between the cat and himself.

Blood was pouring from his arms and legs; fortunately, the deviate had missed his abdomen.

Beelzebub crouched along the far wall, licking its face.

Blade gripped his Bowies tightly and stopped. What would be the best killing stroke? To the neck? To the heart? To the head? The cat wasn’t—

Something sharp lanced into Blade’s right shoulder. He twisted to the right as a lancing spasm tore through his arm.

What?

Samuel was laughing.

Blade grit his teeth and glanced at his right arm. A throwing knife was sunk to the hilt in his shoulder. He looked up at the pit rim.

Samuel II was patting an Assassin on the back.

Now what? Was Samuel expecting him to fight Beelzebub and the Assassins simultaneously? Blade slid his left Bowie into its sheath, reached across his broad chest, and wrenched the throwing knife from his shoulder. His right arm became a river of blood.

Samuel leaned over the edge of the pit. “What’s wrong, Warrior?” he baited Blade. “Where’s your vaunted proficiency now? I was misled. My men told me you were deadly, someone to be feared. Yet all I see is a pathetic muscle-bound clod!” He giggled, rubbing his boney hands together. “Did you really think you could defeat me? Me ?”

Blade saw Beelzebub crouching for another spring. Taking on the deviate and the Assassins at the same time was impossible. He needed a distraction, something completely unexpected, something to divert the Assassins while he dealt with the cat.

But what?

Samuel’s smirking visage provided the answer. He was still leaning over the pit, reveling in his impending victory.

“You’re forgetting one thing!” Blade shouted, keeping his eyes on Beelzebub.

“What’s that?” Samuel replied, scoffing.

“An old saying we have in the Family,” Blade stated, dropping his left arm to his side.

“Well, what the hell is it?” Samuel demanded.

Blade slowly smiled. “Never count your chickens until they’re hatched.”

“I don’t get the point,” Samuel said, puzzled.

“You will.” Blade’s left arm flashed upward. The throwing knife streaked straight and true, the result of innumerable hours spent in practice.

Samuel’s eyes widened in startled wonder as the throwing knife penetrated his throat and stuck fast. He gagged, dribbling blood from his mouth, and reached for the knife in an attempt to draw it out. His body quivered, then pitched headlong into the pit.

Just as Beelzebub charged again.

Blade ducked to his right, avoiding those raking claws, and the cat reached the wall and whirled to confront its foe.

Samuel’s body thumped to the dirt floor a foot to the left of the deviate.

Beelzebub spun, automatically facing in the direction of the sound, thinking the noise was produced by another opponent.

Blade made his move. He leaped, diving for the cat, his arms outstretched, the Bowies angled outwards. Before Beelzebub could react, Blade was on him, plunging the Bowies home. The left Bowie drove into the cat’s right ear, even as the right speared into its left eye.

Beelzebub went into a frenzy, its body contorting and writhing, jerking spasmodically, wildly jerking and twisting in every direction.

Blade was tossed from the uncontrollable deviate, unable to withstand the animal’s death throes. He felt his head smack against a hard surface, and the world reeled before his eyes. Vertigo engulfed him and he fell to his knees.

Get up!

On your feet!

His mind was screaming at him to stand! The Assassins would use him for a pincushion if he didn’t get to his feet! Blade struggled to stand. He heard a loud cry arise overhead, followed by the clanging of metal upon metal. A machine gun burped. He shook his head, his vision clearing.

Beelzebub was lying on the floor, flat on its stomach, the Bowies protruding from its head, dead.

There was a confused blur of activity on the rim of the pit. Swords swinging. Guns blasting. Yelling.

Blade thought he saw Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cut an Assassin from chin to navel with his katana. And wasn’t that Yama, scimitar in hand, taking the arm off another man in black? His mind was rambling. What had he hit his head on?

One of the Assassins jumped to the pit floor. He raised his sword and closed on the Warrior.

The last sight Blade saw before losing conscious was that of a brown, furry form leaping onto the Assassin and bearing him to the ground.

Who the…

Day four of the siege.

Dawn.

Hickok stood on the bank of the moat directly across from the opening in the west wall. He surveyed the pile of bodies lining the bank, then glanced to his right and left. Formed in a skirmish line were 25 defenders in each direction—50 fighters in all. It would have to be enough.

The rest was up to Spartacus.

“How much longer do you think it will be?” Sherry asked. She was standing to the gunman’s left. Her left shoulder was bandaged.

“Soon,” Seiko answered. He was five feet to Hickok’s right. “Very soon.”

Spartacus and Ares, as well as 138 other defenders, were absent from the line. So was Shane.

“I pray your plan works,” Seiko said to Hickok.

“You and me both, pard,” the gunman responded. He licked his lips and listened for the inevitable sound signaling the onslaught.

During the preceding evening Brutus had regrouped his forces, moving almost all of his troops into the forest on the west side of the Home. Only a handful remained to the north, east, and south, enough to serve as lookouts in case the defenders attempted to escape. The night had been moonless and tranquil, and shortly before dawn the sentries had joined their comrades in the trees.

“Don’t fire until I give the word!” Hickok reminded them.

Brutus wasn’t wasting any time. The section of the rampart above the ruined drawbridge suddenly exploded in a shower of brick and dust.

“Get ready!” Hickok shouted.

Two more rounds hit the west wall near the ruined drawbridge, widening the rift even further.

Hickok wondered what type of artillery they were using. He couldn’t hear the shattering blast of a cannon and their tank was now a home for the fish in the moat. So what was it? What could easily fire a projectile 150 yards, and with such relative silence.

Another shell smacked into the west wall.

The gunman mentally reviewed the military books in the Family library. He ticked off a list: siege artillery, howitzers, mortars, rocket laun—! Hold it! A mortar would fit the bill. The 81-millimeter mortar could fire a 12-pound shell close to 2500 yards.

More and more rounds were striking the west wall, sending large chunks crashing to the ground or into the moat.

Hickok nodded. Brutus was using all four mortars on the west wall.

Good. The bastard’s predictability would be his downfall.

The barrage lasted for half an hour. The 53 defenders on the inner bank were untouched by the zinging debris. The gap in the center of the wall widened and widened.