David Robbins - The Fox Run

“How many did we get?” someone asked.

“We killed eleven and took one alive,” Hickok answered. “But what’s of more concern to us is the damage they inflicted. Four of our Family were killed, nine injured, and…” He paused, reluctant to continue. “And eight of the women were taken captive.”

A young woman of seventeen started crying. “Where’s my mom?” she asked Hickok. “Where’s Lea?”

The gunman experienced a lump in his throat. “We’ll find her, Cleopatra. Don’t worry.”

“Is that a promise?” she inquired, tears streaking her face.

“That’s a promise,” Hickok responded, a harsh edge to his voice. “The women,” he said, speaking louder so those in the back of the group could hear him, “were the primary target.”

“Why?” a man wanted to know.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hickok retorted.

“Do we know where the women were taken?” a woman demanded.

“We’ll know shortly,” Hickok assured her. “Any more questions?”

There were none.

Plato stepped forward. “Take time to rest and eat. We will hold another Family conclave when the sun is directly overhead. Plans must be made to add new members to our Warrior ranks and revise our defense strategies.

Don’t fear for our female friends and loved ones! We will be sending Warriors to retrieve them.” Plato faced Hickok. “Where is our prisoner being restrained?”

“The one Geronimo caught is in there,” Hickok replied, jerking his right thumb at E Block.

“Let’s question him.” Plato led the way into the building. Hickok and Geronimo followed.

Just inside the doorway, bound hand and feet, propped on his knees, was the captured Troll. E Block was the Family library, the main source of diversion and entertainment. Kurt Carpenter had personally selected the thousands upon thousands of volumes lining the cramped shelves.

Standing immediately behind the Troll, katana in hand, was Rikki.

“Has he spoken?” Plato asked Rikki.

The head of Beta Triad simply shook his head.

Plato studied their captive. The man was young, maybe in his twenties, with brown hair worn long, falling to the center of his back, and an unkempt heard. His brown eyes glared defiantly up at them. His attire was unusual, even by Family standards, consisting of a loose-fitting tunic, covering him from his neck to his knees, and a large cloak or robe and sandals. Both the tunic and the cloak were constructed from bear hide. He was filthy and his body reeked.

“I understand you are called a Troll,” Plato stated, hoping to elicit a response.

He was successful.

The Troll spat on him.

Before Plato could intervene, Hickok backhanded the Troll on the mouth, knocking him to the concrete floor.

“Please.” Plato grabbed Hickok’s right hand. “We mustn’t descend to his level.”

“It’s the only level he’ll understand,” Hickok snapped.

The Troll giggled, rising to his knees again.

“Where are your fellows taking our women?” Plato asked him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the Troll answered, leering at them.

“If you tell us,” Plato told him, “we’ll release you.”

“A Troll never rats, you old bag of bones!”

“We must know,” Plato insisted.

“I’ll never say a word,” the Troll confidently stated.

“Yes, you will,” said a new voice.

Blade was standing in the doorway, naked from the waist up, his skin caked with patches of blood. The Healers had tended to a gaping gash in his head, caused by the edge of a hatchet. Just a shade lower, and he would not have recovered.

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothing, asshole!” the Troll declared, grinning at Blade.

Blade slowly entered E Block. He drew his right Bowie.

“Blade, don’t!” Plato exclaimed.

This time it was Hickok who clamped his good hand around Plato’s narrow left wrist and held fast. “Sorry, Plato. Can’t let you interfere with my pard,” he apologized.

Blade reached the Troll. His lips were compressed, a thin line of restrained rage, his features hard, his grey eyes glaring.

“If I were you,” Hickok advised the Troll, “I’d speak up real quick like.”

“You don’t scare me,” the Troll arrogantly countered.

Blade used his left hand to grip a handful of the Troll’s hair above his right ear. He began cutting the hair close to the scalp. The Troll bucked and attempted to pull loose, but Rikki seized him by the shoulders and pinned him in place.

“What are you doing?” the Troll demanded, his tone tremoring.

Blade finished cutting the hair. “I am going to ask you this only once,” he said quietly. “Where are the Trolls based?”

“Blade, don’t!” Plato reiterated, sensing what was coming.

“Kiss off, bastard!” the Troll roared at Blade.

Calmly, precisely, Blade slashed the Troll’s right ear off.

The Troll screeched at the top of his lungs, pain staggering his senses, heaving against his bounds and striving to rise. Rikki maintained his iron grip. Jagged folds of flesh hung where the ear had been. Blood seeped down his side.

“You prick!” the Troll bellowed at Blade. “Prick! Prick! Prick!”

“You have to admire his vocabulary,” Geronimo commented.

Blade crouched and pressed the bloody point of his Bowie against the Troll’s crotch.

The Troll froze, his eyes widening in abject fear.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Blade said softly, “I’m going to ask you some questions. If you don’t answer them, if you pause to so much as sneeze, I’m going to push my knife clear through your balls. Do you understand?”

The Troll nodded, his body quaking uncontrollably.

“Good.” Blade applied slight pressure to the Bowie. “Where are the Trolls based?”

The Troll tried to speak, his lips twitching, his throat bobbing.

“I can’t hear you,” Blade goaded him.

“F… F… Fox,” the Troll blurted.

“Fox?” Blade repeated. “Where or what is Fox?”

“There is, or was, a town called Fox on the map of Minnesota,” Plato recalled. “East of here a ways.”

The Troll quickly nodded his head, his hair flying. “That’s it! That’s the place!”

“How did you get here?” Blade inquired.

“What do you mean?” The Troll required an elaboration.

“On horses, some mechanical means, or foot, what?”

“On foot. What’s a mechanical means?” The Troll appeared confused.

“Why did you attack us?”

The Troll almost grinned, but caught himself in time. His eyes rested on the gleaming Bowie and he gulped. “We wanted to get as many of your women as we could.”

“Why?”

“We’re always running out of them.”

“Running out of women?” Now Blade was the one who was puzzled.

“Why?”

“They’re always dying on us. Can’t hack it, I guess.”

“But why come here? It took a lot of effort to scale our walls. You must have had some idea of how many of us there were, and you must have known we were well armed. Why risk it? Aren’t there any other women left out there?”

“Not in our area,” the Troll answered. “We’ve already raided everywhere else we knew of.”

“How did you know about us?” Blade wanted to know.

“Oh, a long, long time ago one of us got hold of one of your women.”

Blade eased the Bowie a fraction into his groin. “You’re lying. None of our women were ever taken by Trolls. I would know.”

“I’m telling the truth, man! I’m telling the truth!”

“When was this woman allegedly taken?” Plato questioned the Troll, his interest aroused.

“Let me think…” The Troll bit his lower lip, nervously watching the Bowie. “It was some time back. Six? No! It was seven seasons ago.”