Spartan Run

by David Robbins

  At the word “coward,” Agesilaus went livid. He hissed and took a step toward the prisoner, his hands upraised, about to strike.

  Blade braced for the attack, his plan of action already thought out. If he could get his arm around the would-be tyrant’s neck, he might be able to reach the SEAL. None of the Spartan would do anything to endanger their ruler’s life, and a simple threat to snap the power monger’s neck should do the trick.

  Suddenly Agesilaus halted, a crafty gleam lighting up his eyes, and lowered his arms. “Damn, you’re good. You almost tricked me.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blade said innocently.

  “Sure you don’t,” Agesilaus snapped, and pointed at the targets 50 yards distant. “You can see that bales of hay have been arranged in a row from north to south as backing for the targets used by our archers and shooters. Your first challenge involves a test of speed. You’ll run along the track until you are even with the bales, then move off it and wait for the signal. When I give the word, you’ll race from one end of the bales to the other, passing directly in front of the targets. Should you survive, you will return to the track and continue.”

  “Will I be dodging automatic weapons fire?” Blade asked caustically.

  “No. Arrows,” Agesilaus said, and glanced at a nearby Spartan.

  “Lieutenant, move your squad into position.”

  The officer nodded and promptly led nine other soldiers, each armed with a bow, out onto the field. They jogged to within 30 feet of the bales and arranged themselves in a corresponding row, each archer standing directly in line with one of the targets.

  “After the test of speed comes the test of skill,” Agesilaus went on.

  “You’ll run until you reach the area where the dummies are set up for the soldiers to practice their swordsmanship. Four men will be waiting for you there.” He indicated a quartet standing to his right and and they sprinted off. “Should you vanquish each and every one, then you’ll return to the track and complete your circuit.”

  “Pardon me, King Agesilaus,” General Agis interjected. “Isn’t it traditional for the test of skill to pit one runner against only two opponents?”

  “Yes, but I’m making an exception in this case. I wouldn’t want our huge friend to become bored.”

  Agis frowned but said no more.

  “And now we come to the last test, the test of endurance,” the ruler said. “You see, not only must you complete a circuit of the track, but you must do so without being wounded.”

  “And if I am?” Blade inquired, surveying the track solemnly.

  “Then the riflemen posted around the perimeter will open fire and riddle you with bullets,” Agesilaus stated, grinning maliciously.

  The Warrior glanced at a soldier who was holding his Bowies. “Am I permitted to carry weapons? I’d like to take my knives.”

  “You must be joking.”

  General Agis and Major Xanthus looked at one another, and the head of the secret police voiced an objection. “It’s traditional for the runner to be permitted to carry a sword, your highness.”

  Agesilaus stared coldly at the officer. “I had no idea you were such a stickler for tradition, my dear general.”

  “More than you know, sir.”

  “In any event, the traditions you desire to uphold apply exclusively to Spartans, not to outsiders.”

  Agis jerked his right thumb at the giant. “He should at least be given a fair chance. That’s the decent thing to do.”

  “Tradition and decency,” Agesilaus said sarcastically. “You’re a virtual pillar of moral behavior.”

  “Spartans are renowned for their fairness, my lord,” Agis noted. “We wouldn’t want word to get around that we had put an outsider to a rigged test, would we?”

  The king’s nostrils flared and his lips compressed. “Rigged? Who would dare accuse me of such an act?”

  “Certainly not I,” General Agis said with a slight bow. “But you know as well as I do how tongues can wag. Even if the accusation was untrue, the story might still spread.” He paused. “Why add fuel to the fire, if you get my meaning?”

  “I get it, all right,” Agesilaus stated harshly. He stared at the Warrior for a moment, nervously gnawing on his lower lip. “Very well!” to spat.

  “The prisoner may take his knives. Never let it be said I’m an unjust man.”

  The soldiers holding the Bowies took a pace toward the giant, intending to hand them over.

  “Not yet, you ninny!” Agesilaus barked. “You’ll wait until he has gone ten yards on the course, then give them to him. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Blade queried.

  Agesilaus’s brow knit. “Not that I know of.”

  “If I survive this Marathon of Death, what do I win?”

  “Your life.”

  “Not good enough.”

  The monarch snorted. “Don’t presume to dictate terms to me.”

  “I want your promise of safe passage out of Sparta for my friends and myself.”

  Agesilaus cocked his head and made a show of squinting up at the sky.

  “The sun must be affecting your judgment.”

  Blade folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not budging until I have your word.”

  “I’ll have you shot where you stand.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Bewilderment and anger fought for dominance on the ruler’s visage, and anger won. “Don’t think I won’t! Are you prepared to die right here and now?”

  “Yes.”

  Agesilaus did a double take. “You’re bluffing, outsider.”

  “Try me,” Blade said, and be meant every word. He wasn’t about to run the course simply to provide sadistic amusement for the monarch. A pledge of freedom, given in front of witnesses, would be an ideal incentive to see it through. Besides, he told himself, if Agesilaus did give the order to have him shot, he’d try and reach the bastard before the slugs brought him down and snap the man’s neck.

  “What harm can such a promise do, your majesty?” General Agis commented. “The odds of him surviving are extremely slim. And even if he does, good riddance to him and his intervention in Sparta’s internal affairs.”

  “You have a point,” Agesilaus said, although his tone betrayed marked skepticism. “Do I have your word?” Blade pressed him.

  Hissing through clenched teeth, Agesilaus nodded. “Yes, outsider. You have my promise that you and your companions will be permitted from Sparta should you survive the tests.”

  “I can’t ask for more,” Blade said sweetly, and glanced at Agis. Why was the officer befriending him?

  “Let’s get this underway,” Agesilaus declared. He clapped his hands once, then motioned for the giant to start running. “Off you go, and I hope I never have the displeasure of talking to you again.”

  Blade jogged slowly forward, the soldier bearing his knives keeping pace on his left. He glanced at the archers, the swordsmen, and the riflemen, and wished he could use the Commando instead.

  What to do?

  What to do?

  Teucer repeated the same question over and over again in his mind.

  Blade had been gone over half an hour. He was under strict orders to leave and go find Rikki. But how could he just up and drive off, leaving Blade to an unknown fate? What if the giant was in trouble? He’d never forgive himself if Blade died.

  What the hell should he do?

  He’d slid into the driver’s seat as soon as Blade disappeared inside the palace, and now he anxiously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and stared apprehensively at the keys in the ignition. There was another reason he didn’t like the idea of driving off; he lacked confidence in his ability. As part of Blade’s new policy to give every Warrior going on a run lessons in how to handle the transport, he’d spent several hours familiarizing himself with the operation of the SEAL. He’d even taken the van on several hour-long chaperoned pr
actice jaunts and learned the basics of steering, braking, and negotiating rugged terrain. But he still got a case of the willies at the mere thought of driving any great distance by himself.

  Damn these Spartans!

  Teucer leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He could use a few hours of sleep, but he dispelled the urge. First things first. The way he saw the situation, he had three choices. He could obey Blade and go rescue Rikki. He could defy the head Warrior and try to find Blade. Or he could sit there and do nothing.

  What wonderful options.

  He opened his eyes again, then stiffened.

  Spartans were pouring from the palace. Ten, 15, 20 of them in rows of two. They quickly descended the steps and fanned out around the SEAL, training their M-16’s and UZIs on the tinted plastic.

  Teucer knew he was safe. It would take an industrial diamond drill to penetrate the transport’s nearly impregnable body, and he doubted very much that the Spartans possessed such a device. Once before, about three years ago, the nefarious Technics had used just such a drill to bore a small hole in the side so they could slip a hanger in and unlatch the lock. That was the only time the SEAL had ever been breached.

  Two more soldiers emerged, one of them holding an object in his right hand.

  Teucer leaned forward, trying to get a good look at the item. The pair were halfway down the steps before he succeeded, and recognition caused him to clutch the steering wheel in dismay.

  The Spartan held a bundle of dynamite.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I positively refuse.”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi did not allow his frustration to show. Instead, he persisted in his attempt to convince the general. “I accept full responsibility for whatever happens.”

  “Which is all well and good for you,” Leonidas stated while watching his men organize into rows four deep down the entire length of the center aisle. “But your safety is in my hands. King Dercyllidas would be upset if harm were to befall you. Part of the reason for this struggle, as Captain Chilon explained it to me, is Sparta’s opportunity to join the Freedom Federation. Dercyllidas very much wants to join. Agesilaus, the isolationist, doesn’t. If you were to be injured or killed, the blame would fall on Sparta and King Dercyllidas’s dreams of joining would be ruined.”

  He paused. “I can’t allow that to happen.”

  The Warrior glanced at the north doors, not 15 feet away. “Isn’t there anything I could say that would change your mind?”

  “No,” Leonidas stated emphatically. “You’ll remain in here when we launch our attack.”

  “But the plan is my idea.”

  “For which I sincerely thank you.”

  “Allow me to talk to Dercyllidas.”

  “You heard the physician. The king isn’t to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency. An extreme emergency,” Leonidas stressed.

  Their conversation was punctuated by the arrival of Chilon and Pandarus, both of whom stood at attention to report.

  “A guard of twenty men has been designated to stay with the king, General,” the former stated.

  “And the troops are almost ready, sir,” chimed in the latter.

  “Excellent,” Leonidas said.

  Rikki pointed at a rack of automatic weapons on the east wall. “You could win the day easily if you used those.”

  “You know better,” the general responded, gazing out a window. “We’ll do this the Sparta way or not all.”

  “Will you be leading your men?”

  “Of course.”

  “In your condition?”

  “I sustained a slight injury, nothing more.”

  “You took a spear in the shoulder.”

  Leonidas gingerly moved his left arm. “This scratch won’t keep me out of the battle. And the way I look at it, I’m living on borrowed time anyway.”

  “How so?”

  “Remember our discussion about injured Spartans? My men should have left me on the battlefield. I failed them, failed my king, and failed myself.” Leonidas frowned. “I have much to atone for.”

  Rikki stared at the ranks of soldiers. The last of the men were taking their positions in the assault column. He rested his left hand on the hilt of the katana and bided his time.

  General Leonidas stepped in front of the first row. “We lost once today,” he stated in a firm but not overly loud voice. “Now we have a chance to make amends and demonstrate to our king that we’re worthy of his trust.”

  He slowly drew his sword. “Let’s acquit ourselves as only Spartans can.

  Your new orders for the day are simple: Give no quarter. Once we are outside, we will not retreat. Either we triumph or we all die as Spartans should.”

  The two captains took positions directly behind their superior officer.

  Leonidas faced the doors, where two soldiers were awaiting the command to fling them open. “Spartans! Swords!”

  As one, in a ringing display of precision, the troopers drew their weapons. “Now!” Leonidas cried.

  An instant later the doors were flung wide. Thirty feet away was the 40-man formation Calchas had posted to guard the entrance.

  “Charge!” Leonidas shouted, and started forward.

  The moment Rikki had been waiting for arrived. None of the Spartans were paying attention to him. He could do as he pleased without intervention. The katana leaped from its scabbard as he darted over and joined the column, stepping into place next to Captain Chilon.

  The officer glanced at him and smiled.

  With Leonidas at the forefront, the column poured out the doorway and charged the formation.

  Rikki heard one of the enemy soldiers shouting, but the words were indistinct in the rush of the moment. His total attention was focused on the formation, on the spears and shields toward which he raced at full speed. Lacking a shield of his own, he would have to counter the long lances of his foes in another manner. In three seconds he was close enough to see the pupils in the eyes of Agesilaus’s men, and he raised his katana.

  Two spears swung toward him.

  The Warrior’s arms were a blur as he swung the gleaming katana down, first slashing to the left, then reversing direction and swinging to the right, the steely edge of his ancient weapon cleaving both spears in half.

  Knowing he would be at a disadvantage if he attempted to batter through their shields, he automatically opted to force them to lower their guard by angling his compact form downward in an overhand cut, aiming at their legs. The katana bit into their flesh below the knees. Both Spartans buckled, their shields dropping as their legs gave way.

  Rikki had them. He slew both with a single horizontal cutting motion that sliced open both their throats. They fell, spewing their life’s blood, and he waded into the thick of the formation. There were Spartans in front of him, Spartans to the right, and Spartans to his left. He swung and parried, thrust and stabbed, fighting by instinct, pressed on all sides.

  Crimson drops splattered his face and clothes, but he paid no heed. He mustn’t think, mustn’t allow himself to be distracted for a millisecond, because distraction meant instant death. He had to swing and swing and swing. Up and down. From side to side. Slicing through spears and foes alike. Never stopping, never permitted the luxury of a breather, transformed into an emotionless killing machine.

  Cut to the right.

  Cut to the left.

  Sweat caked his brow, but he paid no attention. His clothes became damp, but he hardly noticed. His shoulders ached and his hands stung from the impact of metal on metal, but he ignored the discomfort.

  In all his years, in all the combat he had seen, Rikki had never known anything like this. Unlike individual clashes, where the fighters could take a measure of each other and their personalities figured as prominently in the outcome as their expertise, in a mass battle there was no personalities, only automatons who fought and fought until they lived through the conflict or lost their lives. There was no middle ground.

  The katana became coated wit
h blood. Blood dotted Rikki’s martial arts uniform, custom-made for him by the Family Weavers. Blood formed in puddles on the earth and drenched the red uniforms of the slain Spartans.

  Blood was everywhere, as if the universe itself had sprung a crimson leak at that particular spot. The tangy aroma of blood filled the air, and the salty taste of blood touched the lips.

  Rikki downed five of the enemy. Eight. Ten. He lost count early, and still the battle waged. For the most part the Spartans died in grim silence.

  A few gasped. One of two cried out, more in surprise at their own demise than out of fear.

  On and on it went.

  And abruptly, to his amazement, Rikki found himself in the clear, temporarily free of soldiers. He looked around and saw bodies littering the field, piled in heaps. Spartans were still fighting, many in man-to-man contests. He realized that all of Leonidas’s men were out of the barracks, and that all of Calchas’s men had converged on the north end of the barracks to do battle.

  Calchas.

  Even as he entertained the thought, Rikki saw a stocky soldier bearing down on him. The man had a dent in his helmet and blood dripping from his sword. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his shield.

  “Outsider!” Calchas bellowed, halting several yards off.

  “General,” Rikki responded.

  “You and your friends are to blame for this’” Calchas declared bitterly.

  “You and your accursed Federation.”

  “I don’t know what lies Agesilaus has been feeding you. We came here in peace.”

  “You’re the liar! And you shouldn’t have come here at all, because you’re never going to leave.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The general drew himself up, his eyes flashing sheer spite, and attacked.

  Rikki never gave ground. He met the assault calmly, passionately, his katana matching the officer’s short sword blow for blow. The Spartan’s anger worked in Rikki’s favor. After half a minute the officer struck in a frenzy, apparently frustrated by his failure to penetrate Rikki’s guard, the swings much wider than were prudent. Rikki countered three of them. On the fourth swipe he made as if to block it, then let the short sword swish past his head as he reversed his own stroke and buried the katana in the general’s chest.