The Trolls, seeing only one opponent effectively armed, voiced a collective war cry and attacked.
Hickok stood firm, shooting targets as rapidly as they presented themselves: two Trolls with rifles, another with a pistol, a fourth with a shotgun, one fleet of foot who managed to get within six feet with an axe, three more Trolls charging as a group. Arrows spun by his head, and bullets buzzed through the air, resembling angry hornets in flight. A spear cleaved a furrow in his left thigh.
Geronimo reentered the fray, four quick blasts from the Browning decimating a row of approaching Trolls. A slug nicked his left cheek, drawing blood. An arrow clipped his right ankle.
The Trolls had gained the advantage.
“Reloaded!” Joan suddenly shouted, the fresh clip finally in the Carbine.
She heaved erect as Hickok dodged aside, and she cut loose with the Commando, bowling the Trolls over. They screamed and plunged, littering the ground with the dead and the wounded, pools of crimson dotting the pavement.
One Troll, smarter than his peers, had hung back, hidden just inside the swinging doors. He was armed with a metal-tipped lance, and as his beady eyes surveyed the carnage the woman was wreaking, he galvanized his burly body into action. Sheltered by the shadows, he hefted the heavy lance, judging the distance. He shuffled backwards several steps, then raced forward, his right arm swinging the lance back, then up and out.
Hickok, crouched by Joan’s right side, caught a blur of motion as the Troll emerged from the building into the light of day. He automatically sent a bullet into the Troll’s brain, even as the lance left the Troll’s hand and hurtled through the air.
“Look out!” Hickok cried, diving, attempting to put his body in front of Joan’s.
Joan, intent on dealing death to the Trolls, caught the flashing gleam of the lance out of the corner of her right eye. She heard Hickok’s warning and whirled.
The lance, on course, descended from its apex, the tapered, sharpened point piercing Joan’s left side, puncturing her lung. It passed completely through her body and impaled her to the ground.
“No! No!” Hickok scrambled to her side.
Joan was attempting to speak; blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth. She was on her back, her lips close to his face.
“No!” Hickok felt a drop of her blood spatter against his left cheek. He saw the Commando on the ground at her feet and he scooped the Carbine into his hands. “No!” Hickok rose and spun, the Commando bucking as he depressed the trigger. He began walking toward the Trolls, sweeping the Carbine back and forth, back and forth. He hardly noticed the havoc he caused: the torn and mangled bodies covering the pavement, the screams of agony and destruction, the frenzied efforts of the remaining Trolls to escape the mayhem. He held the trigger in, his mind attuned to a singular activity: sweeping the Commando in an arc, back and forth, back and forth.
“Hickok!”
Hickok disregarded the voice, still firing.
“Hickok!”
Hickok advanced, keeping the trigger pressed, unaware of all else.
“Hickok! It’s me!” Geronimo stepped in front of him and gripped him by the shoulders. “It’s me! The gun’s empty! Do you hear me? The gun’s empty!”
Hickok stopped, disoriented. He stared at the smoking Carbine.
“The gun’s empty!” Geronimo repeated. “The Trolls are gone.”
Hickok scanned the area. Sure enough, except for the dozens of bodies all over the place, the Trolls had withdrawn.
“Are you okay?” Geronimo asked. He was sporting a nasty wound on his right side.
“Fine,” Hickok mumbled. “Piece of cake.” Then he remembered. He turned and raced to Joan, aghast at the sight of her pale face and the red puddle at her feet.
“Joan!” Hickok knelt by her side. “What do I do?” He glanced at Geronimo. “Should I remove the lance?”
Geronimo sadly shook his head.
“Joan!” Hickok stared into her beautiful blue eyes, his own watering.
Joan grinned weakly. She licked her dry lips and managed to raise her right hand.
Hickok tenderly took her hand in his. “Don’t move,” he advised her. “Stay as still as possible.”
“It’s no use,” Joan said, her voice a wavering whisper.
“Don’t talk like that!” Hickok stroked her forehead, tears streaming down his face.
“We sure gave it to them,” Joan stated proudly. “Didn’t we?”
Hickok nodded, his throat bobbing.
“You’ve got to find the women,” Joan declared urgently. “Jenny, Mary, Ursa, and the rest.”
“We will,” Hickok promised.
Geronimo was standing guard, his back to them, scanning for danger.
His own eyes were misting over.
“Get them to the Home, safe and sound,” Joan said.
“We will,” Hickok assured her. “Don’t worry.”
“You know,” Joan began, a faraway look in her eyes, “this would happen now, after I finally find someone I care for. Murphy’s Law strikes again.”
She smiled.
“Please,” Hickok begged her. “Don’t talk. If we can remove this thing—”
Joan reached up and touched the tip of her right forefinger to his lips.
“Take care, lover,” she told him.
“Joan…”
“It’s been fun.” She began coughing.
“Don’t talk!”
Joan shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be waiting for you in the mansions on high.”
“Please…”
“Tell me you love me,” she urged him.
“I love you.”
Her eyes abruptly widened, her body stiffened, and she gave vent to one last, lingering breath. Then she was gone.
Hickok raised his tear-streaked face to the heavens.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saxon was toying with Blade. The giant knew he had the longest reach, and the machete added to his leverage, the Bowie being fourteen inches shorter. He swung the machete again and again, almost lazily, displaying his contempt, forcing Blade to back away.
For his part, Blade was using this game to gather his energy. After the battle with the wolverines, he was winded, tired, and feeling the loss of blood from the wounds covering his body. The wolverine’s claws had caused considerable damage. He glanced at Jenny, still staring mutely at Angela. What was the matter with her? Was it shock?
Saxon caught the glance, and promptly misinterpreted it.
“Don’t worry about her,” the giant teased. “I won’t harm her. I’m saving her for myself.” He grinned lecherously.
“You’ll never have her,” Blade rejoined harshly.
“Think so, eh?”
“I know so,” Blade confirmed.
Saxon bore down, his blows coming faster now, his playfulness gone.
Blade parried his opponent’s thrusts and slashes, continuing to retreat across the arena, away from Jenny.
“I must admit,” Saxon spoke even while fighting, “you are a worthy foe.
No one has dared face me in years.”
“You know what they say…” Blade managed to retort as he ducked beneath a sweeping blow.
“No.” Saxon chuckled. “What do they say?”
Blade scurried away from another stabbing thrust. He paused, smiling, strangely appreciative of this colossus of a man. “The bigger they are…”
“…the harder they fall,” Saxon finished for him. “Yes, I’ve heard that one.”
“I don’t suppose,” Blade said lightly, “I could prevail upon you to surrender?”
“What?” Saxon laughed. “Do you hear that?” he asked.