“—ceremony was my idea,” Orm was boasting. “Humans are easily swayed by elaborate ceremonies. The sacrifices are an excuse for us to indulge ourselves.”
Blade looked up. They were 12 feet from the waiting Masters and Directors. Seven of the former and thirteen of the latter. Twenty, all told.
Not the best of odds, but he didn’t care anymore. He felt like molten lava was circulating in his veins.
“Ahh. Here we are,” Orm remarked as they reached the assembled group. He extended his right arm. “The knives, Director One.”
Arlo Paolucci began to lift his right hand.
And Blade made his move. His massive arms bunched, his muscles rippling and bulging, as he exerted all of his prodigious strength, his forearms straining outward. For an average man the cuffs would have held; for the herculean Warrior the links were as putty. In the space of a heartbeat they parted with a loud snap, and before the stupefied Masters and Directors could intervene, the Warrior yanked his Bowies from Paolucci and whirled toward Orm.
The mutant leader was reaching for the giant. “Get—” he began.
Blade swept the Bowies under Orm’s arms and buried them to their hilts in the mutant leader’s chest, his shoulder muscles coiling like steel springs as he lifted the Master on the Bowie blades, surging Orm up and over his head. For a second he stood there, grand and terrible in the sunlight, the mutant upraised and thrashing and screeching.
Snarling and hissing, the other Masters closed in.
The Warrior whirled and flung Orm into the charging Masters, bowling four of them over. But the remaining two, one of whom was Radnor, pounced. Blade felt their bony fingers close on his forearms, one on each side. He dropped to his left knee and wrenched his left arm downward, propelling the mutant holding him to the ground to crash onto its face.
Even as he completed the move, he started another. There was no time for needless thought, and there would be no rhyme or reason to this battle. He had to rely on his reflexes, on his honed instincts, and keep moving-moving-moving. If he slowed for an instant, he was dead.
Consequently, as the one mutant was crashing onto the hard ground, Blade was already in motion to the right, angling his left knee in a savage arc, ramming the kneecap into Radnor’s groin.
Radnor gurgled and released his grip. The Directors swarmed in, their red robes swirling. Four of the thirteen produced knives, two drew pistols from hiding, and one stepped up to the giant with a sawed-off shotgun sliding out of his left sleeve.
Blade was a whirlwind. He took the fight to them, moving into their midst to limit their ability to employ their guns and knives for fear of hitting one another. His right Bowie took out the Director with the shotgun, the point slicing into the man’s right eye, causing the Director to scream, release the gun, and flounder backwards, blood pouring from the ruptured socket as the Bowie came free.
Another Director snapped off a shot from his pistol, but missed.
The Warrior pivoted, slashing and swiping, the keen edges of his Bowies cutting and ripping right and left. The two Directors with pistols were the next to fall, both with crimson crescents flowing from their severed throats. Blade pressed his attack with reckless abandon, parrying a knife strike, hacking off the fingers of a hand reaching for him, and ramming his left Bowie into the jugular of a Director clinging to his right shoulder.
A stinging sensation lanced across the giant’s lower back.
Blade spun to find a Director with a bloody knife, and he angled his right Bowie up and in, the blade penetrating the Director’s left cheek. The man stiffened and tottered backwards, blood spraying in all directions.
Before Blade could press his advantage, a body alighted on his back and a thin, bony arm encircled his neck.
A Master!
Instantly, the Warrior doubled over, upending the mutant, toppling it in the grass at his feet. He saw the Master’s upturned, skeletal features, and he thrust downward with both Bowies, both blades spearing into the mutant’s neck.
Something pierced his right shoulder, burning and racking him with pain.
Blade straightened. A Director had stabbed him and was drawing the knife back for another try. But the Warrior was quicker, his right Bowie cleaving the Director’s face from eyebrows to chin with a mighty downswing.
A growling Master tackled the giant from the left, bearing the Warrior down.
Blade landed on his back and kicked, flinging the Master aside. He rolled to his right, and there was another Master diving straight for him.
His left Bowie whipped around and met the mutant in midair, catching the creature high on the chest. It wailed and fell, and Blade pulled the knife out and heaved to his knees just in time to meet the rush of a Director with a survival knife. He ducked under the knife as it arched toward his face, and retaliated with his left Bowie, planting the big blade in the Director’s loins. The man gurgled and clutched at himself. The Warrior tugged the left Bowie out and rotated, always moving, always moving, and as fast as he was, he wasn’t fast enough, because a mutant leaped on his back and razor teeth tore into the right side of his neck. A clammy substance flowed over his shoulder as he drove the right Bowie back and in, and connected.
There was a cry of anguish and the Master on his back fell away.
To be replaced by a hurtling pair of Directors, one armed with a knife, coming directly at him.
Blade engaged them in a frenzy, fighting on sheer impulse, his blood-soaked Bowies striking in reckless abandon, lashing every which way as quickly as enemies presented themselves. Crimson spurted over the combatants and the grass. He downed the Directors and another mutant, imbedded his left Bowie in the stomach of a third Director, and rotated to the right.
And suddenly the Warrior was alone, standing amidst a heap of bodies, some motionless, others groaning and moaning and twitching. He blinked his eyes rapidly, wondering where his foes had gone, and he spotted several figures in red racing to the east. “You!” bellowed a voice to his left.
Blade whirled, the Bowies held at waist level.
“I want you!” It was Radnor, standing over the limp form of his father, saliva caking his lips and chin, his eyes blazing his hatred. “Try me, Warrior! Just me! Without your knives!”
The Warrior spied a lone female Master sprinting to the north. He glanced down, astonished at the sight of Arlo Paolucci, dead, a foot away.
The Director was lying on his left side, his forehead split open wide. When had he killed Paolucci?
Radnor took a step forward. “Me, Warrior! Try me if you have the courage!”
Blade returned Radnor’s glare, his rage rekindled by the repulsive Master. He tossed the Bowies to the ground.
A vicious grin creased Radnor’s mouth. “Now you die!” he roared and charged.
Blade met Radnor halfway, their bodies colliding with a bone-jarring impact. Both kept their footing, Radnor delivering a brutal punch to the Warrior’s midsection. Blade doubled over, and Radnor locked his hands together and smashed the Warrior on the back of the head.
Suddenly Blade was on his knees, reeling, pinwheels of light flickering before his eyes, his ears barely registering the brittle chatter of machine guns from the near distance. He looked up, squinting, as the mutant swung those cupped hands again, but this time Blade blocked the blow with his left arm and retaliated. His malletlike right fist thudded into the Master’s stomach once, twice, three times in all, and Radnor staggered backwards. Blade went after the mutant with his fists flying, landing one blow after another, his knuckles pounding Radnor’s face. He swung again and again and again, even after Radnor toppled backwards, refusing to relent, venting his fury on the mutant, straddling Radnor and pounding the Master repeatedly. A red haze enveloped him, and he kept swinging long after Radnor had ceased moving. He was still raining punches when strong hands grabbed his arms, and he surged erect, prepared to take on more adversaries. Dimly, he perceived a familiar voice.