Of all the Warriors, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had always been the most devoted to the martial arts. His mild-mannered father, a former warrior who’d gone on to become a distinguished Elder, had been a black belt in karate.
Naturally, his father had delighted in teaching the way of the warrior to him, and had encouraged his avid interest. By the time he turned six, Rikki could perform flawless kata. By the time he turned ten, he was regarded as the best martial artist in the history of the Family.
During his teens he worked diligently at increasing his knowledge and skills. Eventually, he qualified for Warrior status. One of the most memorable moments in his life came when the Elders decided to bestow the katana on him.
Out of the hundreds of hundreds of weapons in the vast Family armory, all of which had been personally stockpiled by the Founder prior to the war, there had only been the one genuine katana. There were firearms galore, as well as various miscellaneous weapons, racks upon racks of them: rifles, shotguns, revolvers, pistols, submachine guns, bows, spears, knives, and many, many more. None of them had interested Rikki.
He’d always wanted the katana.
Forged in Japan hundreds of years ago by a master craftsman, the sword had been initially owned by a famous samurai. Thereafter, from generation to generation, the sword had passed from father to son until, in the modern era, one of the samurai’s materialistic descendants had sold it at an auction to a private collector. Years later, while making a film in Japan, Kurt Carpenter had bought the sword.
In ancient times, a katana had been considered an extension of the heart and soul of its samurai wielder. After the collapse of Japan’s feudal system, when the code of bushido had become discredited by those in positions of authority who were trying to force the Japanese people to adopt modern ideals and a “better” way of life, the samurai had supposedly died out. Although they were officially suppressed, many samurai had simply gone underground, and until World War Three there had been secret samurai societies in existence, practicing the honored precepts of their illustrious ancestors.
Although the samurai supposedly had ceased to exist, their cherished sword had not. The level of craftsmanship had ensured the katanas would last for countless decades. Made of high-carbon steel, each blade had taken months to be constructed. The skilled smiths had applied layer after layer of carefully forged metal until the weapons they produced could cut through heavy armor. Such a sword rarely broke, rarely even became nicked, and retained its razor-sharpness indefinitely.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi felt supremely honored to possess his katana. As a man who believed in the code of conduct of the samurai, the way of bushido, he exalted ideals largely abandoned by the descendants of the original proponents. As a Warrior, he lived the way of the warrior.
Now, as the pair of Spartans came at him, their short swords arcing at his body, Rikki demonstrated the peerless swordsmanship that had earned him the right to carry the katana. He moved and shifted with deceptive ease and economy of movement, parrying a swipe by the trooper on his left that would have taken off his leg, then pivoting to counter a swing at his neck.
Even as he countered the neck stroke, Rikki took the offensive. He slid the katana off the short sword and executed a hidari-men, an oblique slash at the Spartan’s left temple. The katana’s edge bit into the man’s bronze helmet, and the softer metal parted as readily as butter. Rikki drove the blade several inches into the head, then pulled it out and spun, reversing his grip on the hilt, and spearing the tip under his left arm straight into the chest of the first soldier, who was about to aim a blow at the nape of his neck. Still in motion, Rikki yanked the katana free and skipped backwards, ready to continue if necessary.
It wasn’t.
Both Spartans crumpled.
The remaining four were trying to overwhelm Blade.
Rikki went to the giant’s aid, wondering in the back of his mind where the bowman might be, and called out to attract attention. “Try me!”
Two of the soldiers whirled and instantly came at him. Like all of the Spartans, their swordsmanship was superb. Had they been confronting a typical foe, they would surely have prevailed.
But the martial artist wasn’t typical.
Eager to end the fray, Rikki terminated the shorter of his foes with a throat cut. He turned to confront the other man, and at that moment the unforeseen occurred. His left foot slipped on a patch of blood, throwing him off balance, exposing his chest and head. He saw it coming.
The second Spartan’s sword whistled through the air at his face.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blade had downed one of his adversaries, and was blocking a terrific blow aimed at his abdomen, when he glimpsed Rikki’s predicament out of the corner of his right eye. He leaped backwards and whipped his right arm overhead, about to throw the knife, but he was already too late.
An arrow caught the Spartan about to slay Rikki squarely in the center of the back, and the soldier arched his spine and stiffened, his arms flinging outward. Before he could hope to recover, to continue fighting, another arrow struck him within an inch of the first. He turned slowly, his mouth set in a defiant snarl, and fell.
The distraction almost cost Blade his own life. His opponent tried to take his legs off at the knees, and he barely deflected the short sword in time. The blades clanged loudly and continued to clang as Blade parried more strikes. The greater reach of the short sword compelled him to retreat as he fought, and in just a few long strides he bumped into the SEAL. The Spartan drove his weapon at the giant’s stomach. Blade countered with his right knife, then sliced his left Bowie across the soldier’s extended wrist, severing tendons and muscles and drawing a spurt of blood.
Grimacing, the Spartan backpedaled.
The Warrior wasn’t about to close again. Why risk impalement when he finally had the opening he needed? His arms a blur, he raised both hands above his head and surged them down again, releasing both hilts at the proper moment.
The twin knives covered the intervening space in a millisecond, and both sank into the soldier with distinct thuds. His face contorted in agony, the Spartan made one last effort to stab the giant, but collapsed in mid-stride.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was standing over the soldier who’d taken the arrows in the back, his features reflecting sadness.
“Are you okay?” Blade asked, moving to his fallen foe and wrenching the Bowies out. He proceeded to wipe them on the trooper’s cloak.
“This man was brave,” Rikki said. “All Spartans are brave. It’s not fitting for such courageous fighters to be shot in the back.”
“It was him or you,” Teucer declared. He stood next to the open door. “I didn’t have time to ask him to turn around.”
“I know,” Rikki responded, and frowned. “You did what you had to do.”
Blade rose and slipped the Bowies into their sheaths, then regarded the dead Spartans for a moment. “I take no joy in killing them,” he commented.
“Is there ever joy in slaying others?” Rikki inquired.
“Sometimes.”
“Oh?”
“When I killed a drug dealer in Miami, I felt a certain joy. There have been other instances, and I’m not about to list them all now. But I’ve learned we can’t always remain detached from our work. Sometimes the act of exterminating evil can be personally gratifying,” Blade observed.
“But these Spartans weren’t evil. They were simply misguided,” Rikki stated.
“More’s the pity,” Blade agreed, and walked over to the bowman. “How did you get over here? The last I saw, you were next to the rear bumper.”
“A bow isn’t much use at infighting. I needed to put a little distance between those short swords and me, so I scooted to the front as they charged,” Teucer detailed and grinned. “Besides, someone had to prevent them from getting inside after someone else conveniently left the door wide open.”
“You did well. This might be your first official mission away from the Home, but you’re performing as we
ll as any of the more experienced Warriors,” Blade said.
“Thanks.”
Blade gazed to the north and saw several citizens near an ornate building. They were staring at him in transparent hostility. “Let’s get going before more soldiers show up.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Teucer said, and climbed inside.
“Perhaps we should simply leave Sparta,” Rikki suggested, moving toward the front of the transport. “After all, do we really have the right to interfere in their internal affairs? Wouldn’t the wise course be to stay neutral and let them decide the outcome?”
“And what if Agesilaus wins? We lose any chance of Sparta joining the Federation.”
“I know,” Rikki said, and paused. “We’re caught between a rock and a hard place, as the saying goes.”
Blade studied his friend. “You admire them a lot, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rikki confessed.
“So do I. And because I respect them, I’m not about to run off and leave them at the mercy of Agesilaus. They deserve better than to be ruled by a petty dictator,” Blade said.
Rikki simply nodded and hurried to the far side of the van.
So now what? Blade asked himself as he took his seat. He intended to offer his services to General Leonidas. Would the Spartan accept? If so, defeating Agesilaus would be easy. The SEAL’s firepower could devastate the madman’s bodyguard contingent. He doubted, though, whether Leonidas would agree to such a proposal. If the general was anything like Captain Chilon, he would insist on conducting the battle the traditional way, using swords and spears instead of guns and other armaments.
“Look,” Teucer declared, and leaned forward to point to the east.
Blade looked up.
Not 60 yards away was a lone Spartan, a lean man naked except for a red loincloth. He was running at breakneck speed along the grass bordering the road, heading in their direction.
“What’s his big rush?” Teucer wondered.
“Who knows?” Blade replied absently. He started the engine and performed a tight U-turn.
“Let’s hope King Dercyllidas is still alive,” Rikki remarked.
The reminder prompted Blade to floor the accelerator. They rode in silence until they came within sight of the two barracks, and then it was the bowman who shattered their individual reflections. “Dear Spirit! Will you look at that!”
Facing each other across the road, approximately 50 paces separating them, were the respective royal bodyguard units, each arrayed in phalanx formation.
Blade slammed on the brakes.
“They’re getting set to go at it,” Teucer said. “We could mow down Agesilaus’s men before they knew what hit them.” He didn’t sound too enthused by the idea.
Scrutinizing both contingents, Blade saw that neither displayed any movement. They were just standing there, either waiting for orders or for the other side to make the first move.
“We mustn’t be hasty,” Rikki advised.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” Blade stated, and picked up speed, glancing from unit to unit. None of the Spartans bore firearms. Each soldier carried a long, glittering spear and something new, a large circular shield that covered each man from mid-thigh to the shoulder. On the front of every shield was depicted a strange symbol that vaguely resembled the capital letter A, but lacking the center line.
Neither formation broke ranks as the transport drove between them.
The Spartans might as well have been statues.
Blade took a left at the side street and drove to the barracks of Dercyllidas’s contingent, stopping near the dorm doors. No sooner had he turned the ignition off and left the SEAL than two Spartans emerged.
General Leonidas and Captain Chilon walked side by side, both with grave expressions. Each, perhaps unconsciously, had a hand on the hilt of his sword.
“We saw part of your fight,” Chilon said. “Did you destroy the two motorcycles?”
“Agesilaus won’t be using them against you,” Blade replied as Rikki and Teucer joined them.
“How is King Dercyllidas?” the martial artist inquired.
“Stable,” General Leonidas disclosed. “The doctor is with him now. Our liege was fortunate. The dagger came close to puncturing a lung, but he’ll live.”
“Your physician got here quickly,” Rikki commented.
General Leosidas pointed at a cluster of buildings to the east of the training field. “He lives in one of those. Each king selects a doctor who agrees to serve as the official Aesculapian for the bodyguard and is housed at government expense nearby. We sent a runner for him the minute you departed.” His gaze strayed to the gravel road. “And here comes another runner now, only he’s not heading here.”
Blade shifted and spotted the same lean man in the red loincloth he’d seen earlier approaching from the east. “How do you know?”
“All runners wear a red loincloth. And since he’s on the opposite side of the road, he’s undoubtedly delivering a message to General Calchas, the commander of Agesilaus’s contingent.”
“You should stop him,” Blade suggested.
“Whatever for?”
“He could be bearing an order for Calchas to attack.”
Leonidas shrugged. “So be it. The sooner the battle is over, the sooner all Spartans can breathe easier. I would rather engage Calchas now while my men are prepared.”
“Is that why your troops are in formation near the road?”
“Yes. Both sides are awaiting the command to attack. King Dercyllidas is unconscious and not to be disturbed until morning or we would have done so by now.”
“Why can’t you lead your men?” Blade asked.
“I will when the king instructs us to wipe out Agesilaus’s forces.”
“And in the meantime you stand around and do nothing? Haven’t you heard that the best defense is always a good offense?”
“I believe in the same strategy, but my hands are tied. Unless attacked, I must await Dercyllidas’s directions.”
Blade opened his mouth to tell the Spartan he was being foolish, then changed his mind. Antagonizing the man would be counterproductive.
Instead, he decided to make his offer. “We could rout Agesilaus’s men for you.”
General Leonidas glanced at the giant. “Using, your vehicle, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Need you ask? Spartans have a code of honor, and I won’t violate that code under any circumstances.”
“Not even if doing so would save the lives of your own men?”
“A Spartan has no fear of dying. To be slain in combat is the ultimate honor, and those who perish on the field of battle have their names duly enshrined on the plaque of distinction to commemorate their bravery and loyalty for all eternity,” Leonidas said.
“I wish you would reconsider.”
“Never. And I formally request, man to man, that you don’t interfere once the battle is joined.”
“And if your side is defeated?”
“Then such is the will of the Creator. But don’t count us out yet. My troops are every bit as skilled as those under General Calchas.”
Blade frowned and placed his hands on his hips, annoyed at the senior officer’s obstinate attitude. While he found much to admire in the Spartan character, their stubborn persistence in adhering to tradition at all costs was extremely aggravating.
“Don’t look so upset,” Leonidas said. “Surely a fighting man such as yourself can appreciate our military philosophy.”
“Yes and no.”
“Where do we fall short?”
“You won’t take advantage of all the forces at your disposal. As a result, if Agesilaus triumphs, Sparta will be thrown back into the equivalent of the Dark Ages. The leaders of the Federation will be severely disappointed.”
“Ah, yes. The Federation. Captain Chiton has been telling me about it. I think the idea has merit, and I’ll push for Sparta to
join once this conflict has been resolved.”
“Excuse me,” Teucer interjected. “I’d like to ask a question.”
“Go ahead,” General Leonidas said.
“I couldn’t help but notice all those archers on the dais at the Royal Palace, and as a bowman I’m naturally interested in such things,” Teucer mentioned. “Why were there archers guarding the king? Why not soldiers armed with machine guns?”
“Years ago there were men posted in the audience room who were armed with automatic weapons. Then one day three Helots tried to assassinate one of the kings. The guards opened fire, and in the act of slaying the Helots they accidentally hit a half-dozen bystanders. A machine gun is impossible to control in a crowd. No matter how good a marksman a man might be, he can’t prevent stray rounds from striking those who are standing near the target,” Leonidas said. “After that regrettable incident, the decision was made to employ archers on the dais.
There are also riflemen concealed behind the walls.”
“There’s something I’d like to know,” Blade said. “Who started Sparta?”
He hoped to elicit more information about its origin.
“There were seven men, all college professors, who worked at the same prestigious university back East before World War Three. When all hell broke loose, they gathered their families and fled. Eventually they met up with the remnants of a National Guard unit and they all decided to hide out in this secluded area,” General Leonidas related. “After the U.S. government collapsed, there were hordes of looters and killers roaming the land. The only safe place for the professors and the Guardsmen was right here, so they resolved to start over, to build new lives for themselves.”
“But why did they select a system of government similar to ancient Sparta?” Blade asked.
“One of the professors, a history teacher, suggested the idea. They realized only the strong would survive in the postwar era, and there were few people as strong as the Spartans. They held meeting after meeting, and finally agreed to start their own town and to form their own government. Using the Spartan constitution as a model, the professors created a book of laws for all of their followers. Inevitably, I suppose, the seven became known as the Lawgivers.”
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