Gideon was next in line. He was a short, stocky man with black hair and brown eyes. He wore his hair down to his broad shoulders and braided in a single tail. His square features were tense but firm. He wore a green wool shirt and brown trousers. A large military-style knife was strapped to his left hip. He clasped an Uzi Carbine in his left hand.
There was only one Triad remaining.
Crockett was the head of Zulu Triad. A lean, wiry man with high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and keen brown eyes, he wore buckskins and carried a Remington Model Four Auto Rifle. A bandolier of cartridges crossed his chest from left to right. “I hear we’re going to have some visitors,” he casually mentioned as Spartacus came abreast of his position in line.
“That we are,” Spartacus said.
“Don’t those Civilized Zone types know it’s not polite to pay a visit uninvited?” Crockett asked sarcastically.
Spartacus kept walking.
The next Warrior was Samson. He was one of the few men in the Family with a build almost as powerfully developed as Blade’s. He had light brown hair and brown eyes and his hair was worn long, draping to the center of his back. Like his Biblical namesake, Samson had never allowed his hair to be touched by a scissors or razor. He wore a camouflage outfit constructed by the Weavers. On either hip, snug in their carefully crafted swivel holsters, were a pair of Bushmaster Auto Pistols. In Samson’s right hand was a Bushmaster Auto Rifle. He used the Bushmasters for two reasons; they were deadly pieces, and their ammunition was interchangeable.
Finally, Spartacus came to the last Warrior.
This one was unique.
This one was a woman.
In the hundred-year history of the Family, there had been four female Warriors. Only five months ago. the previous female Warrior had been slain in savage combat. The current woman Warrior was named Sherry, and she was exceptional in two ways. First, she was from outside the Family, a Canadian, the first non-Family Warrior ever appointed. Second, she was Hickok’s wife, a matter of considerable importance to Spartacus.
He knew she was a new addition to the Warrior ranks and quite inexperienced. She would need looking after.
Sherry was a statuesque blonde with striking green eyes. She was tall, about six feet, and almost skinny, with a slim waist and small feet. Not particularly fastidious concerning her clothing, she wore a brown, patched blouse and baggy green pants a size too large. She had a stately demeanor, a high forehead, full cheeks, and thin lips. A Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum was in a holster on her right hip.
Spartacus nodded at Sherry and walked back to the middle of the line.
He scanned them, his expression earnest and grim. “All of you know an enemy force is approaching the Home,” he began. “We are undermanned because six of our fellow Warriors are absent, but we can rely on the assistance of the rest of our Family and we’ll have help from the Clan. As soon as I know how many fighters we have at our disposal, I’ll divide them up and give them their assignments.” He paused. “As far as we are concerned, we have a slight tactical problem. We have four walls to cover, and only three Triads on duty. Consequently, I’ve decided to oversee the defense of the western wall myself—”
“Just you alone?” Seiko interrupted.
“And my share of the other combatants,” Spartacus replied.
“Is such a course of action wise?” Seiko asked, pressing the issue.
“We have no choice,” Spartacus responded. “If any of you find your walls are not being attacked, you are free to render help where necessary.”
Seiko frowned, but didn’t say anything else.
“As I was saying,” Spartacus resumed, “Seiko and Shane will direct the defense of the north wall. Carter, Ares, and Gideon will handle the defense of the south wall.” He looked at Crocket. “You, Samson and Sherry will have the east wall. Any questions?”
Crockett stepped forward. “Since the only way they can get into the Home is through the drawbridge, wouldn’t it make more sense to concentrate the Warriors on the west wall? Why go it alone?”
“I won’t be alone,” Spartacus reminded him. “I’ll be dividing up the other combatants and assigning them to each wall.”
“I wish Hickok was here,” Shane absently interjected.
Spartacus noticed Sherry glance at the drawbridge, her face troubled.
“How soon will we know the enemy strength?” Ares inquired.
“Soon,” Spartacus promised. “I’ll be sending out a scouting party shortly.”
The November wind was picking up.
“A few other items,” Spartacus mentioned. “I know each of us tends to prefer certain weapons over others, and you can use your favorites as you see fit. But each of you will go to the armory and, if you don’t already have one, get an automatic rifle or machine gun and all the ammunition you can carry.”
“When should we report to our posts on the walls?” Shane asked.
“As soon as you’ve picked your weapons,” Spartacus instructed him.
“Any questions?”
No one spoke.
“Hop to it!” Spartacus directed them.
The eight Warriors wheeled and headed toward A Block, the armory.
Spartacus saw four men approaching from the north.
The first man was of average height, and he was wearing tattered jeans and a blue shirt. He had fine brown hair, parted on the left and styled so it draped over his ears. His eyes were a sharp blue. In his 30s, he still retained a youthful appearance. There was a distinctive cleft in the center of his upper lip, and he had been graced with a classic square jaw. He was the type of man you knew you could trust at first glance. His name was Zahner, and he was the head of the Clan.
On Zahner’s right walked a giant black man. He wore green fatigue pants and a fatigue jacket, both taken from dead soldiers in the Twin Cities. His features were prominent: a large forehead, a wide nose, and thick lips. He wore his hair in a curly Afro. In his hands was an M-16. His name was Bear, and he was one of Zahner’s lieutenants.
Keeping pace on Zahner’s left was his other lieutenant, a man dressed in conservative black clothing, except for a thin white collar around his neck. He was on the lean side. The lower half of his face was covered by a bristly brown beard. He was known as Brother Timothy.
The fourth man was a few feet behind the trio of Clansmen. This one was tall, and he moved with the grace and controlled power of a mountain lion. He wore buckskins, and they fit his tall frame as if he had been poured into them. A .44 Magnum Hombre single-action revolver was in a holster on each hip. His brown shoulder-length hair swayed as he walked.
The man was called Boone, and he was one of the Cavalry, second in command to Kilrane himself. Because six of the Warriors had left the Home as part of the invading force, Kilrane had decided to leave Boone and 20 other riders at the Home to compensate for the Warriors being undermanned.
Spartacus didn’t waste any time. “Are all of your people inside the Home?” he demanded.
Zahner stopped, nodding. “All of the Clan are accounted for.” He frowned. “We were working on repairing the dilapidated buildings in Halma, getting them ready for the winter. We’ll never finish them before the first snow now.”
“We’ll help you after this is over,” Spartacus promised.
Bear snorted. “I heard of lookin’ on the bright side, hut vou’re crazy, Sparty-baby! Ain’t you heard the news? There’s thousands of them suckers out there!”