But what?
The smallest wolverine was savoring its feast, ripping chunks of bloody, dripping meat from Angela’s body and wolfing them down. It was lying with its back to Blade and Jenny, engrossed in its feeding, not considering them much of a threat.
Blade’s mind whirled. How heavy was the last wolverine? Maybe thirty pounds, maximum. The pen walls were ten feet high. He could do it, but speed was essential!
“Blade?” Jenny absently repeated.
Blade ran to the wolverine and stooped over, his powerful hands encircling the ten-inch tail.
Runt grunted in surprise as his tail was clasped in a vise of iron and he was hauled from the arena floor.
Blade surged upward, spinning his body, his momentum carrying the bewildered wolverine in a wide revolution. He spun and spun, gathering speed, the surrounding pen a blur as he dug his heels into the ground, his arm muscles bulging.
“Look at that!” a young Troll yelled.
“What’s he doing?” another asked.
Saxon was vainly endeavoring to sight his revolver on the man, but he was reluctant to fire for fear of striking Runt.
Blade angled his body closer to the western wall of the pen. He needed to be as close as he could get to the wall when he gave the Trolls the shock of their lives.
Some of the Trolls, those nearest the edge of the bleachers, perceived their dilemma and attempted to back away from the arena. Those standing in the rear rows, however, were pressing forward, striving for a better look, ignorant of the activity in the pen.
Blade was at his limit, going as fast as he could go. He arched his broad back and elevated the wolverine as high as he could swing it, then released his hold on the tail.
To the complete consternation of the startled Trolls, Runt came sailing over the pen wall and landed among them in the bleachers.
The Trolls went crazy, screaming and screeching and falling over one another in their precipitate haste to remove themselves from the immediate vicinity of the thrashing, snapping wolverine.
Runt, enraged because of his interrupted repast, was biting and clawing everything in sight.
The Trolls broke, en masse heading for the swinging doors and escape.
With one notable exception.
Saxon, his revolver in his right hand, jumped from the bleachers into the arena below, his smoldering eyes and compressed lips indicative of his simmering fury. The man was holding the woman Jenny, hugging her close and whispering words in her ear. Saxon came up behind them and stopped eight feet away. He pointed his revolver at the man’s back.
Blade heard the click of a hammer being drawn and he spun, his left hand going for the remaining Vega.
“Better not,” Saxon grimly advised, “or you’re dead.”
Blade froze, his fingers inches from the automatic.
“Slowly take the gun from the holster,” Saxon directed. “Use two fingers and hold it by the butt. Very carefully,” he stressed.
Blade complied, dangling the Vega between his thumb and forefinger.
“Toss it,” Saxon ordered, wagging his gun to their right, “as far as you can.”
Blade threw the Vega. Jenny was still in shock, staring at Angela’s grisly remains.
“Think you’re pretty bright, don’t you?” Saxon asked.
Blade shrugged.
“Well, you’ve reached the end of your rope,” Saxon declared. “I’m going to personally finish you off.”
“I’m scared,” Blade taunted him, wondering if the giant would simply shoot him and be done with it.
“You will be,” Saxon promised, “by the time I’m done with you.” He smiled and holstered his revolver.
“You planning to crush me with your bare hands?” Blade asked derisively.
“I see you like big knives.” Saxon nodded at the Bowie on Blade’s right hip. “You used the other one real good on Wolvie.”
“Wolvie?”
“The second wolverine you wasted,” Saxon explained.
“Hope it upset you,” Blade goaded him.
“It did,” Saxon grudgingly admitted. “But like I was saying. You like big knives. I like big knives.” His right arm disappeared under his cloak and came out bearing the machete. “So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You use your big knife, there, and I’ll use mine. Fair enough?”
Blade drew his right Bowie. “You surprise me,” he conceded.
“I’m not a damn backstabber,” Saxon said angrily. “I like to see the fear in their eyes when I snuff ’em.”
Blade took several steps toward the massive Troll, who towered over him by at least a foot.
“By the way,” Saxon said, playfully twirling the machete in his palm, “what’s your name?”
“They call me Blade.”
“Saxon,” the Troll stated. “Now let’s get to it. I can’t wait to slice you into itsy-bitsy pieces.”
So saying, the giant closed in.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hickok fired as he ran, aiming for the head, closing the distance, intent on reaching Joan’s side before she was overwhelmed by the surging Trolls.
She had dropped to her knees as the doors opened, the Commando chattering, the heavy bullets shredding the Troll ranks, flesh bursting and blood spurting as the astonished Trolls absorbed the initial onslaught.
“What do we do?” Clyde asked Geronimo. They were still at the corner of the last building. “We didn’t count on this!”
“You do what you want,” Geronimo told him, and charged from cover, the Browning booming.
The flabbergasted Trolls recovered quickly and tactically responded to this unexpected ambush; they spread outward, deploying their forces to the right and left of the swinging doors. Stacks of bodies piled directly in front of the doors as Joan mowed down the Trolls still spilling forth from the bedlam inside.
Hickok concentrated on any Trolls posing a threat to Joan. He saw a grizzled Troll raise a rifle to his shoulder, aiming at her, and he snapped a shot into the Troll’s brain. Another Troll ran at Joan, a sword upraised.
Hickok shot him twice.
Geronimo, coming up fast, noted Hickok’s efforts to protect the woman he loved. He also noticed the gunman was heedless of his own safety; a Troll with a bow took a bead on Hickok, and Geronimo exploded his chest with a blast from the shotgun.
Clyde held back, slightly timid. He provided supporting cover, shooting at random, snickering, delighted at experiencing his long-deferred revenge.
Hickok reached Joan’s side. He was beginning to believe they would break the Trolls, would compel them to retreat and scatter, when Joan suddenly stopped firing.
“Out!” she shouted, reaching behind her for one of the extra ammo clips.
Hickok shot a Troll attacking with a spiked club and pivoted, aiming at another bearded enemy, this one with a hatchet. He hastily squeezed the Henry’s trigger, appalled when the hammer clicked. He was out too! How could he allow himself to lose track of the rounds fired? There was no time to reload. He dropped the Henry and drew the Pythons, both Colts simultaneously, forcing his aching, injured shoulder to obey his mental commands.
The Troll with the hatchet shrieked as he closed the gap.
Hickok shot, the right Colt only, the bullet slamming into the Troll’s forehead.
Joan was frantically tugging on the spent clip, still in the Commando.
“It’s jammed!” she yelled. “The damn thing’s jammed!”
Hickok stepped between the Trolls and Joan, the Pythons held low, at waist level. He would insure she was safe until she could switch clips.
With the Commando inoperative, the Trolls regained their momentum, closing file and advancing, retaliating against the greatest threat, the woman with the machine gun.
Geronimo reached Hickok and Joan. “Reloading!” he alerted them, and dropped to one knee, extracting fresh rounds from the bandoleer and feeding them into the Browning.