A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [42]
One combatant in particular aroused Dan’nor’s interest-though at first, he couldn’t say why. Upon reflection, he decided that it was the warrior’s efficiency that was so impressive. While others flailed wildly, caught up in a bloodthirsty frenzy, this one seemed to measure each blow with expert care-to use only as much force as was necessary and no more.
That was one reason he was still standing, while most of his comrades lay maimed or destroyed. He was more than a killer. He was, truly, a warrior.
Dan’nor would have liked to watch him longer. But in the middle of an especially fearsome exchange, the scene shifted to some other place entirely-another battle, this one just beginning, and another set of combatants.
It was a little too abrupt a transition for Dan’nor’s taste. But he soon forgot about it as he lost himself in the drama of the new confrontation.
Worf brought his mace up to block his opponent’s downstroke. He held fast beneath the impact of the blow, then turned loose one of his own. It caught the other warrior in the ribs, sent him staggering in a cloud of churned-up dust.
The Klingon advanced, peering at his adversary through the eye slits of his headgear, feeling his armor abrade newly healed skin. Not that he wasn’t grateful for it-it had already saved his life more times than he cared to admit.
Others had not been so fortunate. Death was all around him in this narrow mountain pass, where his recon party had been surprised by the enemy. The clangor of clashing weapons and the cries of the wounded had blended by now into a single, maddening drone. The scent of blood-some of it his own-was thick and intoxicating in his nostrils.
His opponent-helmeted and armored even as he was-feigned an ax stroke at his knees. But Worf only snarled at the ploy and circled to his left.
The beast in his gut was rearing its head again, whipped into a frenzy by the atmosphere of unrelenting violence. He could feel it unwinding, serpentlike-glorious.
He yearned to crush his opponent under the weight of his mace-just as any of his comrades would have done, and without a second thought.
Worf didn’t know what made him different from the others. Certainly, he shared their ferocity, their physical capacity for destruction-even their love of combat. Yet he could not bring himself to complete the critical act of war-the slaying of his enemy. Quickly and surely, as each of them deserved.
Somehow, at the last, the serpent in him turned back. Strangled on its own fury, leaving him cold and empty at the prospect of killing.
So painful had it been, this inability, that Worf had tried to refrain from battle altogether. His reward had been a blasting from the marshals.
Even now, he knew, they were hovering somewhere nearby. Ready to inflict agony if they caught him dragging his feet again.
But they would not catch him doing that. He had gotten too skillful at masquerading as a killer. At hiding his shame.
His adversary of the moment feinted again-but this time, he followed it up with the real thing. Worf leapt back and the ax missed.
“Run,” he growled, too low for anyone but them to hear.
The warrior cocked his head. He seemed unable to believe his ears.
“Run,” repeated Worf. “Now. While you still can.” If he could pretend to show pity, rather than reveal his awful truth…
The warrior’s response was muffled by his headgear. But it sounded enough like a laugh to start a boiling in Worf’s blood.
Trying to ignore it, he pressed his case. “Look around-there aren’t enough of you left to win this fight. Nor will your wounds permit you to endure much longer. Go now-before the others notice.”
The warrior brandished his weapon. “You go-straight to hell.”
Then Worf heard the whine of a marshal’s sled, and the opportunity was lost.
With a deep-throated roar, he struck at his adversary’s armor-encased head-holding back despite himself, allowing the warrior just enough time to move away. As it happened, however, his reaction was just a hair slower than Worf had expected. His ax came