Spartan Run

by David Robbins

  Calchas stiffened and released his weapon, then staggered backwards, pulling loose from the Oriental blade. “Damn you!” he snarled defiantly, and pitched onto his face.

  Rikki glanced at the melee all around him and discovered the conflict was winding down.There were fewer Spartans fighting. Someone nearby, he didn’t know who, began to yell stridently.

  “General Calchas is dead! General Calchas is dead!”

  More of the somber struggles ceased. Soldiers stopped their deadly contests to gaze in the direction of the slam officer and the man in black standing over him.

  From out of the intermingled forces came General Leonidas, his features a study of fatigue, the bandage on his shoulder stained red. He walked over to his dead nemesis, then stared at the Warrior. Finally, he turned and raised his sword. “Hear me, men on both sides! With General Calchas gone, there is no longer any reason to continue our conflict. I call on all of those who have served so valiantly under him to sheath your swords and convey his body back to your barracks. Those under my command are not not interfere, I give you my word.”

  Rikki waited hopefully for a sign that Calchas’s troops would accept the offer. He’d had enough of blood and gore for one day; for many days, in fact. But a rabid shout from a member of the opposing contingent dashed his hopes on the uncompromising rocks of reality.

  “For Agesilaus! Victory or death!”

  And suddenly the battle was joined again.

  The Warrior turned to confront a new foe, knowing he’d been unduly optimistic. For a moment there he’d forgotten who these men were, Spartans.

  “You can take them now,” the soldier announced, his arms extended to hand over the Bowies.

  Blade grabbed his knives on the run. Almost immediately the soldier dropped behind him, and he stared at the site of the first test, studying the placement of the bales and the positions of the archers. How could he possibly hope to evade ten skilled bowmen? Given his size, he’d be hard to miss.

  There were two factors working in his favor, though. First, the archers were 30 feet from the targets. Arrows weren’t like bullets. They couldn’t travel such a distance almost instantaneously. If the bows were as powerful as they appeared, then the shafts would cover the span in a second and a half to two seconds. Not much of a margin, but it would have to suffice.

  The second factor was his speed. None of the Spartans were aware of how fast he could run. Next to Rikki, he was the fastest man in the Family.

  He slid the Bowies into their sheaths, glad to have them back. Soon he came in line with the bales and veered from the track to take the required position. He stood next to the last target in the row and glanced to the west at the monarch.

  The archers all nocked arrows and prepared to fire.

  King Agesilaus didn’t waste any time. He cupped his hands to his lips and bellowed, “Begin the first test!”

  Taking a deep breath, Blade sprinted forward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sight of the dynamite galvanized Teucer into action. He twisted the key and the engine purred to life. Simultaneously, from the Spartans ringing the transport poured a hail of lead, the rounds striking the bulletproof plastic and zinging off.

  In their attempt to shatter the green body the soldiers made a grave mistake. With so many of them so close to the SEAL, and all firing from such short range, the inevitable transpired. Three of them were struck by ricochets and went down.

  By then the bowman had the transmission in reverse. He saw the Spartan bearing the dynamite racing down the steps and floored the accelerator. There was a thump behind him, and the transport bounced into the air, as if going over a curb. Instead, when he glanced forward, he spotted the crumpled form of a crushed trooper who hadn’t moved out of the way fast enough.

  The withering fire from the remaining Spartans persisted, they ran after the van, the man with the explosives shouting instructions. Teucer had them all in front of him. He slammed on the brake pedal, reached over to the toggle switches, and activated the machine gun.

  The big fifties made mincemeat of the soldiers. They were perforated repeatedly, thrashing and jerking, then flung to the ground. The man carrying the dynamite made a futile effort to light the fuse, but several slugs bored through his skull and dropped him on the spot.

  Teucer turned the SEAL about and exited the public square, bearing to the west, finally having made up his mind. He could take a hint as well as the next guy. Since Blade had explicitly commanded him to seek out Rikki, that’s exactly what he would do. The gravel road was deserted and he made good time. After a mile he spotted a solitary figure far ahead, a lone man in a red loincloth running on the north side of the road.

  A messenger.

  The bowman recalled the comments made by General Leonidas, and slowed. If he was right, the runner must be in the act of conveying a message from General Catenas to Agesilaus. Obviously the communication must not get through.

  Should he blow the man up?

  No, Teucer decided, shaking his head. Such a drastic step would be a waste of firepower. Discretion called for taking the runner prisoner and conducting an interrogation to discover the message. But how should he accomplish the task? Simply pulling over and pointing an arrow at the guy might work; it also might make the runner take off. He had to be clever.

  What to do?

  Only 40 yards later the answer came to him, and he abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. Next he leaned across the console and extended his arm fully so he could unlock the passenger door and open it a crack.

  Now he was all set.

  The messenger came on at a strong clip, arms and legs pumping, his gaze riveted on the ground in front of him in total concentration.

  Grinning, the bowman slid into the passenger seat and waited, placing the compound bow in his lap. The information the man bore might be critical to Dercyllidas’s cause. He thought about the runner he’d seen earlier and wondered if this was the same man. Because he foolishly hadn’t paid all that much attention, he didn’t know for sure. Another fact about the messenger struck him.

  Strange people, these Spartans.

  Since General Leonidas knew that orders and other information were relayed from the Royal Palace to the barracks by means of professional runners, and since the officer knew Agesilaus would undoubtedly use such a means during the course of the civil war, why hadn’t Leonidas simply posted troopers along the road to ambush the messengers? Was it another of their strange traditions, like only using swords and spears against other Spartans?

  The bowman’s musing was disrupted by the approach of the runner, who now had only 50 feet to cover. He calculated the man in the loincloth would pass within a foot or two of the SEAL, close enough for him to get the job done.

  Keep on coming, speedy.

  Teucer gripped the handle and tensed his right arm, gauging the distance carefully. He froze when the runner glanced up and stared at the van. Would he stop? Were his suspicions aroused? But the man never slowed down.

  Perfect.

  Sprinting at full speed, his body coated with sweat, the Spartan came alongside the transport.

  Teucer was ready. He shoved the door wide at just the right moment, causing the runner to crash into the steel-like plastic with a resounding thud. The door swiveled on its hinges, and the messenger was knocked flat on his back, dazed, the breath forced out of him by the impact.

  Clutching his prized bow, Teucer jumped down and notched an arrow.

  He stepped up to the stunned runner and aimed the tip of the shaft between the Spartan’s eyes. “Surprise, surprise, friend. I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

  “You fool!” the man snapped, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

  “It’s against the law to interfere in any manner with a royal messenger.”

  “Those laws only apply to Spartans. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m wearing all green, not red.”

  “Who are you? What do you wa
nt?”

  “I want answers.”

  The Spartan scowled and glanced at the SEAL. “I knew I should have given that vehicle a wide berth, but I was anxious to get back to the palace and report. My shift is almost over.”

  “Spare me your sob story. And don’t change the subject,” Teucer admonished. “I want to know the message you carry.”

  “I’m not carrying any.”

  Teucer leaned over the runner, holding the arrow point a fraction of an inch from the other man’s nose. “At this distance the shaft will penetrate all the way through your head. Which is it going to be? Answers, or your death?”

  “I prefer to die.”

  “Suit yourself,” Teucer said, and shrugged for effect. He pulled the bowstring back a quarter-inch farther.

  The prospect of imminent dead brought a worried look to the messenger’s face. “If I were to reveal the information you want, King Agesilaus would have me shot.”

  “Who’s to know?” the bowman rejoined.

  “I can’t,” the man said, although his tone lacked complete conviction.

  Teucer frowned. “I haven’t got all day. Either tell me now or die.”

  Conflicting emotions caused by the messenger’s sense of duty and his desire to live fought an abbreviated war on his countenance. “I have a wife and children,” he blurted out.

  “I’m sure your widow will be gratified to know that you were thinking about her at the very last.”

  The contending emotions intensified, the Spartan’s lips a thin line of frustration, when suddenly he blurted out, “All right!”

  “You’ll talk?” Teucer said, wary of a trick.

  “Why not? I don’t owe Agesilaus a thing after he assigned me to this lousy detail over my objections.”

  “You didn’t want to be a messenger?”

  “Hell, no. I was content in the regular army. Then he spotted me at the Games, taking part in the foot races, and decided he wanted me as a runner.”

  “It sounds like something Agesilaus would do.” Teucer tactfully observed. “He’s treated you like dirt. Here’s your chance to get even. Tell me the message you’re supposed to relay.”

  “I was sent from the Royal Palace with orders for General Calchas, and now I’m taking his reply back.”

  “What were the orders?”

  “To burn down Dercyllidas’s barracks within the hour.”

  Teucer thought of Rikki. “And the response from General Calchas?”

  “He intends to try and convince Leonidas to surrender. If that doesn’t work, Calchas will torch the barracks.”

  The bowman slowly let up on the string and took a stride backwards.

  He had to reach the barracks and warn the martial artist and Dercyllidas’s men. “All right. Stand up and continue on your way. And don’t worry. I’ll never tell a soul about this.”

  “Thanks,” the messenger stated gratefully, rising with an effort. He skirted the door and made toward the east without so much as another look at the Warrior.

  So there were a few dissidents in the Spartan ranks, Teucer reflected as he quickly climbed into the SEAL and slammed the door. He moved behind the wheel, deposited the bow and arrow on the console, and started the vehicle. He’d begun to think of all the Spartans as infallible machines. The discontented runner had been the proverbial exception that violated every rule.

  Concern for Rikki’s safety dominating his mind, the bowman peeled out and raced off. There was no longer any doubt about his decision. Rikki needed help. Blade would have to wait until after he rescued their companion. Then, and only then, would he return to the palace and seek the head Warrior. He just hoped that in the meantime the giant stayed out of trouble.

  How long had it been?

  An eternity? Two eternities?

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi stood alone on the blood-drenched battlefield and surveyed the carnage in disgust. What a waste of brave men! He wearily shifted his attention to the two figures approaching from the east.

  “It’s over,” General Leonidas declared wearily. “We’ve won.”

  “But at what a cost!” Rikki responded, sorry he had ever suggested the plan.

  Captain Pandarus gazed at a nearby body. “Every last one of Agesilaus’s bodyguard has been killed. They fought valiantly to the very end.”

  Rikki knelt and went to work wiping his katana clean on the cloak of a dead adversary. “I’ve never known men who died so willingly in the name of duty. They let themselves be slaughtered without a single request for mercy.”

  “They were Spartans,” Leonidas stated proudly.

  “Have you seen Captain Chilon?” Rikki asked.

  Pandarus nodded. “We were fighting side by side when he took a sword in the chest. He managed to slay the man who had killed him with his dying breath.”

  Sadness softened the Warrior’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. I liked him.” He looked up at the general. “What will you do now?”

  “Carry out King Dercyllidas’s orders. We’ll regroup and march on the Royal Palace. I won’t rest until Agesilaus is dead.”

  Rikki straightened and stared out over the crimson sea of corpses.

  “You’re not the only one.”

  Blade heard an arrow thud into a bale behind him as he bounded toward the far end of the row. He passed another target and felt a slight tugging sensation on the back of his black leather vest a fraction of a second before a second shaft smacked into the hay. Two down, eight to go.

  He abruptly dived and rolled, and narrowly missed being impaled by the third shaft. The archer had shot low, aiming for his waist. Surging erect, he weaved and dodged, his legs flying.

  Another shaft nearly clipped his nose. Blade wrenched rearward at the last instant, then ducked under the arrow and sped onward. Four down, six to go.

  Inspiration struck, and he abruptly halted. The fifth shaft whizzed by his chest and sank several inches into a bale. He went around it, going all out, knowing he was only halfway to safety.

  The remaining five bowmen were all aiming carefully. Blade leaped into the air, sailing in a graceful arc as if diving from a high rock into a lake, his ears registering the clean hit of the sixth arrow somewhere below him.

  He tucked his arms to his chest and his chest to his legs and flipped, a gymnastic feat he had performed many times in his youth. The seventh shaft brushed his hair. Uncoiling, his body a streak of motion, Blade landed lightly and dashed to the south.

  Three more to go.

  Again he threw himself to the grass, expecting to hear yet another arrow strike the bales, but nothing happened. He rose and hurtled toward the final bales, glancing at the archers as he did, and was astonished to discover that none of them were paying the slightest attention to him.

  They were all staring in the direction of the palace. Mystified, he continued to the very end of the row before he halted. Only then did he face in the same direction. A second surprise greeted his gaze.

  King Agesilaus and his bodyguards were hastening toward the bales, the ruler gesturing angrily and shouting, “No! No! No!”

  Now what? Blade wondered, waiting patiently and conserving his energy. He inhaled deeply, grateful to be alive.

  The archers lowered the bows. From their expressions, it was evident they were as perplexed as their intended target.

  Agesilaus merely glared at the bowmen as he brushed past them, and drew to within a dozen feet of the giant before he halted. “I knew it!” he declared bitterly. “I knew you would cheat!”

  “Cheat?” Blade responded in bewilderment.

  “Don’t deny it, outsider! You cheated, and now I have every legal right to carry out your execution.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “How did I cheat?” Blade demanded. “Or is this a charge you’ve trumped up so you can kill me and be done with it?”

  “You dare!” Agesilaus snapped. “You insolent swine. No one accuses me of being a liar. You did violate the rules and you know it. My instructions were to r
ace from one end of the bales to the other.”

  “Which is exactly what I did.”

  “Like hell! You were supposed to run, moron, not indulge in all that leaping and diving and spinning.”

  “You should have been more specific. How was I supposed to know?”

  “Don’t plead ignorance. You were well aware of the rules,” Agesilaus stated.

  “Perhaps he wasn’t, your highness,” interjected a familiar voice.

  Blade glanced at the Spartans on both sides of the ruler and saw General Agis to the right. Strangely, Major Xanthus had disappeared.

  The king pivoted, his countenance radiating spite. “Are you presuming to disagree with me again?” he asked the head of the secret police.

  “Not at all, sire. I merely point out that he might not have realized he had to run the whole distance. As you wisely noted, he’s an outsider. He’s completely ignorant of our customs, laws, and general rules of conduct.”

  “Are you saying I should forgive him?”

  “Why not, your majesty? The greatest Spartan kings have always been renowned for their compassion. The ability to wield power is only one of the many attributes a wise monarch cultivates,” General Agis said.

  “I know all that,” Agesilaus spat. “You don’t need to lecture me on the proper demeanor of a monarch.”

  Agis smiled. “Of course not, sir.”

  The power monger studied the Warrior for a moment. “Perhaps I was a bit rash. It would be foolish to expect someone who possesses inferior mental, capacity to comprehend Spartan ways.”

  “Then we can simply continue with the Marathon?” Agis asked.

  “Not quite.”

  “Your highness?”

  “Since he failed to adhere to the rules, he can start over.”

  Blade stiffened. “Start at the beginning?”

  Agesilaus smirked and nodded. “You’re not as dumb as you appear to be.”