David Robbins - The Fox Run

“Did you see all the guns they had?” Trent was saying.

Galen nodded.

“I didn’t think there were that many guns left,” Trent continued. “Guns are so scarce. Where do you suppose they got so many?”

“Beats me.” Galen shrugged. “Maybe the next time we hit ’em, we should steal guns and forget the women.”

“There’s an idea.” Trent smiled. “Tell Saxon about it when we get back.”

“You want to get me killed?” Galen stopped his wiping and stared at the younger Troll.

“Killed?”

“You know damn well,” Galen growled, “Saxon don’t like no ideas unless they’re his. He’d bust my head for sure.”

“Sorry,” Trent apologized sheepishly. “Didn’t think.”

“Well, you better use your head around Saxon,” Galen warned. “I’ve seen him kill people who looked at him the wrong way. He gets in these strange killing moods, and you’d better watch him when he’s in one of ’em. Mark my words.”

“I will,” Trent said earnestly.

Joan silently removed her pocketknife from her back pocket and opened the small blade. It was now or never. The Trolls were abreast of her position, still unaware of her proximity. If she could strike swiftly, the element of surprise would work in her favor. Maybe she could get them both before they could react. She paused, recalling instruction Hickok had imparted when she was training to become a Warrior. “If you’re feeling tense,” the gunman had stated, “and you have the time, take just a second to relax. Take a deep breath and clear your head. Nervousness never helped anyone in a death fight. I learned an important point studying books on the gunfighters of the old West. The best gunfighter, the one who survived the most gun-fights, wasn’t always the fastest. It was the calmest, the one with the steadiest nerves. Remember that.” She had.

Now it was time to put her training to use.

Trent was nearest, stooped over, obscuring tracks. His axe was in his left hand; he was dusting the trail with his right.

Joan leaped to her feet, crashed through the bush, and lunged.

Someone had trained the Trolls well.

Trent saw her coming out of the corner of his right eye. He dropped the grass, straightening, his hands bringing up the axe. He never made it.

Joan swept her right hand up, the three-inch blade shining in the sunlight, and buried the knife to the hilt in Trent’s left eye.

Trent screeched, grabbing for his punctured eyeball, falling backwards.

Joan spun, facing Galen.

The older Troll was already armed, braced for her. He was holding not one, but two gleaming long knives in his hands. Each blade was over six inches long. He gave the impression of someone familiar with their use.

“Well, if this ain’t a surprise,” Galen said to her. “The bitch herself! How’d you get away?”

Joan ignored him, searching for anything she could utilize to defend herself.

“Look what you did to poor Trent!” Galen stared at his hapless companion; Trent had yanked the blade from his eye and was flopping on the ground, screaming and hollering, blood all over his face and chest.

There was nothing Joan could use. Where was the axe?

“Now you’re going to get yours,” Galen assured her, glaring. “Bitch!” He charged, the knives extended, his arms outspread.

Joan remembered her Tegner.

As Galen closed in, intent on a cross slash, Joan dropped to the earth, landing on her right side, her legs clamped together and already in motion, sweeping in a half-circle, catching the Troll behind his knees and toppling him forward.

“Damn!” Galen exclaimed as he landed on his clenched fists and his knees, retaining his grip on his knives. He glanced at the woman next to him.

In that instant, Joan brought her right elbow back and out, slamming the bony edge into Galen’s mouth. She immediately rolled away, beyond the range of his knives, and jumped to her feet.

Galen heaved erect, spitting blood and two teeth from his lower gum.

His eyes glared his rage.

Joan waited for his next move, hoping his fury would get the better of him.

It did.

Galen came in recklessly, swinging his knives, neglecting skill and technique, only wanting her dead.

Joan dodged to her left, but not quick enough. The tip of one of the knives tore into her right shoulder, not deep, but she felt a burning sensation and her blouse darkened with her blood.

Galen laughed and bore in again, the knife in his right hand now crimson.

Joan’s feet hit a fallen branch and, before she could recover her balance, she found herself flat on her back with Galen standing over her, prepared for the kill.

She kicked him in the balls.

Galen gasped, but he stayed on his feet, the tunic absorbing most of the shock of the blow. He dived, sweeping the knives down, aiming for her chest.

Joan grabbed for his wrists as he landed on her body. She knew she couldn’t hold him for long; the Troll was wiry and strong, the result of years of hard living. His fetid breath assailed her nostrils as he leered at her, his eyes inches from hers. Blood fell from his mouth onto her face.

The knives were getting closer to her straining bosom.

Funny how the mind could work sometimes. Her thoughts flashed on Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. “When you’re in a fight,” he had told her, “there are no rules. It’s you or the enemy. Do whatever you must to come out on top.”

She vividly recollected the lesson and instantaneously obeyed.

Galen sensed success; he was laughing, loudly.

Despite her revulsion, Joan opened her mouth and bit down as hard as she could on Galen’s nose, her teeth penetrating the soft skin, tearing into it and ripping it off, the cartilage crunching.

Galen howled, pulled free, and stood.

Joan scrambled to one side, her fingers contacting something long and hard. She glanced down.

The axe.

Galen was backing away, blood pulsing from his ruined nose, pain making him careless. He took his eyes from the woman.

The axe arced down and embedded itself in his skull, the keen blade splitting his cranium like a sword through a melon, the blood and cranial fluid splashing outward. The Troll blinked twice, dead on his feet. He fell slowly, the axe still in his head.

Joan stared at her fallen opponent, catching her breath. He had come so close!

Trent was lying still, unconscious but alive, his chest rising and falling.

Joan knew she would need to finish him off. She moved toward him, then stopped, bothered by a peculiar feeling in her mouth.

What?

Joan spat, and watched horrified as Galen’s nose dropped to the ground.

She felt her stomach toss and doubled over, retching.

Maybe, she reflected in her misery, this Warrior business wasn’t all she had cracked it up to be.

She finished vomiting and actually smiled.

Hickok would be proud of her.

Where the hell was he?

“Where the heck are we?” Hickok asked. One moment he was reading the Operations Manual, the next the motion of the transport affected him and lulled him to sleep. He was angry at himself for dozing off.

“About ten miles east of the Home,” Geronimo informed him.

“Have a nice nap?” Blade grinned.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep!” Hickok said.

“We all had a long night,” Blade reminded him. “If I wasn’t slightly nervous driving this thing, I might be tempted to catch forty winks too.”

“As for me,” Geronimo chimed in from the back seat, “Indians are famous for their iron will and superb endurance. I may need a catnap in five or ten days.”

Hickok fondly gazed over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you one thing about Injuns, pard. They are the best tellers of tall tales you’ll find anywhere.”