For some time, from outside the swinging doors, came the sound of gunfire and screaming and yelling.
“That’s my men,” Saxon stated. “Finishing off whoever was with you.”
“It could be the other way around,” Blade reminded him.
Saxon glanced in the direction of the combat, his brow furrowed. “You could be right,” he mused. “We don’t have machineguns. The Watchers do, but we have a pact with them.”
“Watchers?” Blade said. “What are the Watchers?”
Saxon shook his head. “Sorry. I really must get outside.” Without warning, he flipped his machete at Blade.
Blade twisted, avoiding the machete, off balance, his back turned toward the giant for only an instant.
It was enough.
Saxon leaped, pouncing on Blade from behind, wrapping his mighty arms around the Warrior. He lifted Blade from the floor and applied pressure, squeezing, exerting his stupendous brute force.
Blade, caught in a steel vise, struggled and heaved, attempting to trip the giant and drop them to the ground. He surged against Saxon’s restraining arms until his own biceps and triceps bulged, to no avail.
“Why fight it?” Saxon hissed through clenched teeth. “Make it easy on yourself.”
Blade tossed and pitched, trying to butt Saxon with his head and kick him with his legs.
Saxon laughed.
Blade could feel the pressure building in his chest. He could easily imagine it caving in if he couldn’t break free.
Jenny was showing signs of life, looking around her, her green eyes blinking rapidly.
Blade’s face was reddening, his arms weakening, the sustained conflict taking its toll on his physique.
“You should never mess with the Trolls,” Saxon stated, straining even more.
Blade remembered his Bowie, still clutched in his right hand. A vital spot, a death stroke, was out of the question; they were out of his reach.
But there was one option…
“Blade!” Jenny was running his way, horrified at what she saw.
“I think I’ll have her for supper,” Saxon gloated.
Blade focused, aligning the Bowie. He gripped the handle and drove the blade upward, through the tunic, and into Saxon’s groin, slicing into the gonads and twisting the knife.
Saxon screeched and released Blade. He stumbled backwards, his hands groping his bleeding groin.
Blade dropped to the arena floor. He quickly hiked the tunic and found one of the Soligen throwing knives.
Saxon was doubled over, whimpering. His hands grabbed the Bowie and pulled, and he screamed as the knife jerked loose. He looked up at Blade.
“I don’t believe it!” he said, moaning.
Blade slowly stood, the Soligen hidden behind his right leg.
“Don’t leave me like this,” Saxon pleaded. “The pain! The pain!”
“I could take you prisoner, back to the Home,” Blade told him.
“Don’t leave me like this,” Saxon repeated. He looked down at the blood oozing from his ruined testicles. “Don’t leave me less than a man.”
Blade nodded once, understanding. The Soligen was up and on its way in the blink of an eye.
Saxon flinched as the thin blade penetrated his sloping forehead. His eyes closed and he toppled like a jumbo tree in the forest, his head striking the ground first, driving the knife even deeper.
“Blade!”
Jenny reached him, tossing the thigh bone aside. She hugged him and buried her face in his shoulder.
Blade held her, allowing his nerves to relax. Outside, all was quiet. What had happened? he wondered. He detected movement in the bleachers and tensed, then smiled when he recognized the Family women—Lea, Mary, Daffodil, Ursa, Saphire—and an elderly woman he did not know.
Or did he?
“Bless you, Blade,” this woman said. “Thank you for saving us from hell.”
“Do I know you?” he asked her.
“Know me? You used to sit on my lap and eat my cookies.”
“Nadine!” Blade realized, grinning. “Wait until Plato sees you.”
“Wait until I see him.” Nadine smirked. “I’ll probably wear the poor dear out the first week I’m home.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The mop-up took the remainder of the day.
They searched the entire town, but any remaining Trolls had vanished into the woods, taking the other women prisoners with them. Of the Trolls involved in the battle, only five were still alive. Blade placed them in one of the buildings, and gave them a jar of water and several strips of venison.
He couldn’t afford to take them to the Home; there wasn’t enough room in the transport for all the Family members as it was, and it would be slow going, with several of the women forced to march outside the vehicle, guarded by the Warriors.
Cindy and Tyson conferred, deciding they still wanted to go to the Home, although they were inexpressibly saddened by the death of their papa. Geronimo had found Clyde slumped against the building he had stood near during the fight, an arrow through his chest and a deep gash over his left eye.
Runt, Ursa told them, had escaped. In the confusion and the din, sensing his chance, he had jumped from the bleachers, found a sizable hole in the north wall, and departed the company of detested man for good, instinctively yearning for the scents and sounds of the natural element he’d been denied confined in a cage, the deep forest.
Hickok, morose, inconsolable, wrapped Joan in several discarded, and relatively clean, cloaks. They placed her body in the rear section of the SEAL. She would receive the honor of a Warrior’s burial in the Family plot.
Blade, after collecting his weapons, joined the others. They were huddled around a fire near the SEAL. The sun was setting, the horizon a vivid display of reds and pinks and yellows.
“I’ll never let you out of my sight again,” Jenny said, her arms around him. “I can’t believe we’re together, we’re alive, and we’ll be safe in the Home within a few days.”
“Did you doubt I’d find you?” Blade asked her.
“I was beginning to wonder,” she confessed.
Blade sadly stared at the transport. He knew Hickok was in there, slumped over Joan’s lifeless body.
“I feel so sorry for him,” Jenny stated, seemingly reading Blade’s mind.
“So do I,” Blade replied gloomily.
“He’ll recover,” Jenny predicted.
“How would you feel if I was the one lying in there?” Blade queried.
Jenny didn’t respond.
“You know,” Blade mused aloud, “just a few days ago Plato was telling me how hard life can be, how these hardships are intended to mold our character. If he were here right now, I’d ask him how Joan’s death is supposed to mold Hickok’s character.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Jenny concurred, kissing him on the lips.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“One thing life definitely isn’t,” Jenny mused, “is a piece of cake.”
“Maybe,” Blade grinned, despite his sorrow, “it all depends on how you slice it.”