With a united effort, the Imperial Assassins were able to lift the first section over the rim of the pit and slide it aside.
“The other one!” Samuel goaded them. “The other one!”
Blade rose to his feet, drawing his Bowies. He began backing away from the plastic section restraining the incensed feline.
The second section slowly climbed upward as the Assassins strained to clear the pit.
Beelzebub snarled and clawed at the plastic sheet.
Blade clutched his Bowies and waited.
The second section was a foot above the dirt floor.
Beelzebub pawed at the receding edge of the sheet, growling.
Blade’s mouth felt dry. He struggled to compose his whirling thoughts.
Be calm! he told himself. You’ll lose it if you can’t concentrate! He had to forget this thing was responsible for slaying his father. His acute hatred would impair his skill, would make him fatally careless. Concentrate! his mind screamed. Concentrate!
The second section was four feet above the floor.
Beelzebub watched the plastic sheet, fascinated by its ascent.
“Kill him!” Samuel shouted down. “Kill him!”
The Assassins raised the second section above the lip of the pit and deposited it near the first.
“Kill him!” Samuel cried.
Beelzebub finally focused on the human in the pit. It rose on all fours and roared.
“Kill him!”
Blade inched backwards. His body made contact with the pit wall.
“Kill him!”
He was trapped! There was nowhere else to turn.
“Kill him!”
Beelzebub hissed and charged.
Blade met the rush head-on. He drew his right Bowie back and plunged its keen blade in Beelzebub’s chest as the creature pounced. The force of the cat’s attack drove Blade into the pit wall. His breath was expelled from his lungs in an audible whoosh. He grunted and recovered, slicing his left Bowie into Beelzebub’s thick neck as the deviate slashed and raked with its six-inch claws.
Beelzebub shrieked and snarled, trying to bury its teeth in the human’s throat.
Blade knew his arms and legs were being torn to ribbons. He had to break free or the loss of blood alone would be his undoing. He jammed his right elbow into the cat’s neck, pressing those razor teeth from him, and swept his left Bowie up and in, hoping his hasty aim would hit the mark.
It did.
The Bowie stabbed into Beelzebub’s right eye.
Roaring in shock and agony, Beelzebub bounded to the left. Its right eye was split open, streaming a greenish-red fluid down its furry cheek and over its chin.
Samuel II was gaping at the fight in amazement, unable to believe his champion was hurt.
The 17 Imperial Assassins ringed the pit, watching expectantly.
Blade staggered aside, putting distance between the cat and himself.
Blood was pouring from his arms and legs; fortunately, the deviate had missed his abdomen.
Beelzebub crouched along the far wall, licking its face.
Blade gripped his Bowies tightly and stopped. What would be the best killing stroke? To the neck? To the heart? To the head? The cat wasn’t—
Something sharp lanced into Blade’s right shoulder. He twisted to the right as a lancing spasm tore through his arm.
What?
Samuel was laughing.
Blade grit his teeth and glanced at his right arm. A throwing knife was sunk to the hilt in his shoulder. He looked up at the pit rim.
Samuel II was patting an Assassin on the back.
Now what? Was Samuel expecting him to fight Beelzebub and the Assassins simultaneously? Blade slid his left Bowie into its sheath, reached across his broad chest, and wrenched the throwing knife from his shoulder. His right arm became a river of blood.
Samuel leaned over the edge of the pit. “What’s wrong, Warrior?” he baited Blade. “Where’s your vaunted proficiency now? I was misled. My men told me you were deadly, someone to be feared. Yet all I see is a pathetic muscle-bound clod!” He giggled, rubbing his boney hands together. “Did you really think you could defeat me? Me?”
Blade saw Beelzebub crouching for another spring. Taking on the deviate and the Assassins at the same time was impossible. He needed a distraction, something completely unexpected, something to divert the Assassins while he dealt with the cat.
But what?
Samuel’s smirking visage provided the answer. He was still leaning over the pit, reveling in his impending victory.
“You’re forgetting one thing!” Blade shouted, keeping his eyes on Beelzebub.
“What’s that?” Samuel replied, scoffing.
“An old saying we have in the Family,” Blade stated, dropping his left arm to his side.
“Well, what the hell is it?” Samuel demanded.
Blade slowly smiled. “Never count your chickens until they’re hatched.”
“I don’t get the point,” Samuel said, puzzled.
“You will.” Blade’s left arm flashed upward. The throwing knife streaked straight and true, the result of innumerable hours spent in practice.
Samuel’s eyes widened in startled wonder as the throwing knife penetrated his throat and stuck fast. He gagged, dribbling blood from his mouth, and reached for the knife in an attempt to draw it out. His body quivered, then pitched headlong into the pit.
Just as Beelzebub charged again.
Blade ducked to his right, avoiding those raking claws, and the cat reached the wall and whirled to confront its foe.
Samuel’s body thumped to the dirt floor a foot to the left of the deviate.
Beelzebub spun, automatically facing in the direction of the sound, thinking the noise was produced by another opponent.
Blade made his move. He leaped, diving for the cat, his arms outstretched, the Bowies angled outwards. Before Beelzebub could react, Blade was on him, plunging the Bowies home. The left Bowie drove into the cat’s right ear, even as the right speared into its left eye.
Beelzebub went into a frenzy, its body contorting and writhing, jerking spasmodically, wildly jerking and twisting in every direction.
Blade was tossed from the uncontrollable deviate, unable to withstand the animal’s death throes. He felt his head smack against a hard surface, and the world reeled before his eyes. Vertigo engulfed him and he fell to his knees.
Get up!
On your feet!
His mind was screaming at him to stand! The Assassins would use him for a pincushion if he didn’t get to his feet! Blade struggled to stand. He heard a loud cry arise overhead, followed by the clanging of metal upon metal. A machine gun burped. He shook his head, his vision clearing.
Beelzebub was lying on the floor, flat on its stomach, the Bowies protruding from its head, dead.
There was a confused blur of activity on the rim of the pit. Swords swinging. Guns blasting. Yelling.
Blade thought he saw Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cut an Assassin from chin to navel with his katana. And wasn’t that Yama, scimitar in hand, taking the arm off another man in black? His mind was rambling. What had he hit his head on?
One of the Assassins jumped to the pit floor. He raised his sword and closed on the Warrior.
The last sight Blade saw before losing conscious was that of a brown, furry form leaping onto the Assassin and bearing him to the ground.
Who the…
Chapter Twenty-One
Day four of the siege.
Dawn.
Hickok stood on the bank of the moat directly across from the opening in the west wall. He surveyed the pile of bodies lining the bank, then glanced to his right and left. Formed in a skirmish line were 25 defenders in each direction—50 fighters in all. It would have to be enough.
The rest was up to Spartacus.
“How much longer do you think it will be?” Sherry asked. She was standing to the gunman’s left. Her left shoulder was bandaged.