The Fox Run

Chapter Fourteen

What was that noise?

Joan dropped to her hands and knees behind a large log, listening. What had she heard?

Birds sang, and the leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze.

Nothing else.

She sighed, feeling the fatigue in her limbs and an intense pain in her head, the lingering result of the blow she had suffered when the Trolls assaulted the Home. Her exertion had agitated her wound.

How far had she come?

Four miles maybe.

Joan knew there would be pursuit. She was doing her best to disguise and cover her tracks, exactly as Geronimo had instructed her. But she couldn’t spend too much time on erasing her trail; her first priority was reaching the Home. A competent tracker would be able to follow her—slowly, to be sure, but he wouldn’t be fooled.

A branch snapped to her left.

She had to reach the Home. The Warriors would have no idea which direction the Trolls were taking. They would find the spoor, all right, but it would require time, a precious commodity, one they couldn’t afford to waste.

Up ahead, a squirrel began chattering in alarm.

Joan regretted leaving her sisters. What choice did she have? That thicket had provided the perfect opportunity for her escape, preferable to waiting for dark. Now, at least, she had some daylight on her side.

The squirrel was having a veritable temper tantrum.

Why?

Joan eased through the undergrowth, wishing she had her gun.

Anything would be of more help than a three-inch pocketknife. Her faded brown pants and green blouse were torn and dirty.

Voices.

She froze, getting her bearings.

The voices were right ahead of her. Sounded like two men. Three guesses who.

Joan eased onto her belly and crawled forward, carefully avoiding twigs and limbs that could break and give her away.

“I’ll be glad when we get back to Fox,” someone was saying.

“I can’t wait to pork the new flesh,” said the second.

Joan stopped behind a tall, leafy bush and gently parted one branch.

The two Trolls were busily engaged in wiping out any trace of the path their group had made, wiping the ground with clumps of long grass, carefully obliterating every track they found.

“Which woman will you screw first?” asked the younger of the two Trolls. He was armed with an axe.

The older Troll grinned, exposing a gap where three of his top three teeth had once been. “It’s hard to pick one of ’em,” he admitted. “They’re all so healthy. Not like the usual scrawny flesh we get.”

“Yeah.” The younger Troll beamed. “You know, Galen, we should get some real good years out of this bunch.”

Galen nodded. “A lot of years before we’ll have to feed ’em,” he agreed.

“Maybe, Trent, we’ll have to raid this Family again.”

“I don’t know.” Trent frowned.

“What’s the matter?” Galen asked.

Joan couldn’t see any weapon on the older Troll, on Galen. That concerned her. It meant he had it hidden under that bulky cloak all the Trolls wore. She didn’t like surprises in matters of life and death.

“Did you see all the guns they had?” Trent was saying.

Galen nodded.

“I didn’t think there were that many guns left,” Trent continued. “Guns are so scarce. Where do you suppose they got so many?”

“Beats me.” Galen shrugged. “Maybe the next time we hit ’em, we should steal guns and forget the women.”

“There’s an idea.” Trent smiled. “Tell Saxon about it when we get back.”

“You want to get me killed?” Galen stopped his wiping and stared at the younger Troll.

“Killed?”

“You know damn well,” Galen growled, “Saxon don’t like no ideas unless they’re his. He’d bust my head for sure.”

“Sorry,” Trent apologized sheepishly. “Didn’t think.”

“Well, you better use your head around Saxon,” Galen warned. “I’ve seen him kill people who looked at him the wrong way. He gets in these strange killing moods, and you’d better watch him when he’s in one of ’em. Mark my words.”

“I will,” Trent said earnestly.

Joan silently removed her pocketknife from her back pocket and opened the small blade. It was now or never. The Trolls were abreast of her position, still unaware of her proximity. If she could strike swiftly, the element of surprise would work in her favor. Maybe she could get them both before they could react. She paused, recalling instruction Hickok had imparted when she was training to become a Warrior. “If you’re feeling tense,” the gunman had stated, “and you have the time, take just a second to relax. Take a deep breath and clear your head. Nervousness never helped anyone in a death fight. I learned an important point studying books on the gunfighters of the old West. The best gunfighter, the one who survived the most gun-fights, wasn’t always the fastest. It was the calmest, the one with the steadiest nerves. Remember that.” She had.

Now it was time to put her training to use.

Trent was nearest, stooped over, obscuring tracks. His axe was in his left hand; he was dusting the trail with his right.

Joan leaped to her feet, crashed through the bush, and lunged.

Someone had trained the Trolls well.

Trent saw her coming out of the corner of his right eye. He dropped the grass, straightening, his hands bringing up the axe. He never made it.

Joan swept her right hand up, the three-inch blade shining in the sunlight, and buried the knife to the hilt in Trent’s left eye.

Trent screeched, grabbing for his punctured eyeball, falling backwards.

Joan spun, facing Galen.

The older Troll was already armed, braced for her. He was holding not one, but two gleaming long knives in his hands. Each blade was over six inches long. He gave the impression of someone familiar with their use.

“Well, if this ain’t a surprise,” Galen said to her. “The bitch herself! How’d you get away?”

Joan ignored him, searching for anything she could utilize to defend herself.

“Look what you did to poor Trent!” Galen stared at his hapless companion; Trent had yanked the blade from his eye and was flopping on the ground, screaming and hollering, blood all over his face and chest.

There was nothing Joan could use. Where was the axe?

“Now you’re going to get yours,” Galen assured her, glaring. “Bitch!” He charged, the knives extended, his arms outspread.

Joan remembered her Tegner.

As Galen closed in, intent on a cross slash, Joan dropped to the earth, landing on her right side, her legs clamped together and already in motion, sweeping in a half-circle, catching the Troll behind his knees and toppling him forward.

“Damn!” Galen exclaimed as he landed on his clenched fists and his knees, retaining his grip on his knives. He glanced at the woman next to him.

In that instant, Joan brought her right elbow back and out, slamming the bony edge into Galen’s mouth. She immediately rolled away, beyond the range of his knives, and jumped to her feet.

Galen heaved erect, spitting blood and two teeth from his lower gum.

His eyes glared his rage.

Joan waited for his next move, hoping his fury would get the better of him.

It did.

Galen came in recklessly, swinging his knives, neglecting skill and technique, only wanting her dead.

Joan dodged to her left, but not quick enough. The tip of one of the knives tore into her right shoulder, not deep, but she felt a burning sensation and her blouse darkened with her blood.

Galen laughed and bore in again, the knife in his right hand now crimson.

Joan’s feet hit a fallen branch and, before she could recover her balance, she found herself flat on her back with Galen standing over her, prepared for the kill.

She kicked him in the balls.

Galen gasped, but he stayed on his feet, the tunic absorbing most of the shock of the blow. He dived, sweeping the knives down, aiming for her chest.

Joan grabbed for his wrists as he landed on her body. She knew she couldn’t hold him for long; the Troll was wiry and strong, the result of years of hard living. His fetid breath assailed her nostrils as he leered at her, his eyes inches from hers. Blood fell from his mouth onto her face.

The knives were getting closer to her straining bosom.

Funny how the mind could work sometimes. Her thoughts flashed on Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. “When you’re in a fight,” he had told her, “there are no rules. It’s you or the enemy. Do whatever you must to come out on top.”

She vividly recollected the lesson and instantaneously obeyed.

Galen sensed success; he was laughing, loudly.

Despite her revulsion, Joan opened her mouth and bit down as hard as she could on Galen’s nose, her teeth penetrating the soft skin, tearing into it and ripping it off, the cartilage crunching.

Galen howled, pulled free, and stood.

Joan scrambled to one side, her fingers contacting something long and hard. She glanced down.

The axe.

Galen was backing away, blood pulsing from his ruined nose, pain making him careless. He took his eyes from the woman.

The axe arced down and embedded itself in his skull, the keen blade splitting his cranium like a sword through a melon, the blood and cranial fluid splashing outward. The Troll blinked twice, dead on his feet. He fell slowly, the axe still in his head.

Joan stared at her fallen opponent, catching her breath. He had come so close!

Trent was lying still, unconscious but alive, his chest rising and falling.

Joan knew she would need to finish him off. She moved toward him, then stopped, bothered by a peculiar feeling in her mouth.

What?

Joan spat, and watched horrified as Galen’s nose dropped to the ground.

She felt her stomach toss and doubled over, retching.

Maybe, she reflected in her misery, this Warrior business wasn’t all she had cracked it up to be.

She finished vomiting and actually smiled.

Hickok would be proud of her.

Where the hell was he?