A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [43]
At first, Worf believed he had done the very thing of which he had previously been incapable. His enemy reeled and came up short against a rocky outcropping. His headgear hung at an awkward angle, its hinges having cracked, and there was blood trickling down his partly exposed neck.
But when the Klingon came closer, his heart pounding with an apprehension he despised, the still form stirred. The warrior pushed himself off the rock, groaning, pulling the remains of his helm away so that he could see to fight. Spitting red ruin, he glared at his tormentor.
Since the hour Worf had woken, bereft of memory, he had seen all manner of faces. Faces of comrades and enemies, the living and the dead. But never had he seen a face that so closely mimicked his own.
Until now.
But for the scars, the cragginess that seemed to suggest age, that exposed visage might have been his-or a kinsman’s. It occurred to him that this warrior might be able to tell him something-something about the time before he woke in the barracks, sweating and struggling against his restraints.
It was obvious that they were of the same race-and that that race was a minority here. Perhaps they had known each other once-even collaborated on whatever crime had earned them this fate.
He didn’t dare question him now, of course. But this one had to live-so that he could find him again, when the marshals weren’t looking, and pick his brain for some clue to the past.
Thinking this, Worf dropped his guard. Just for a moment, no more. But that was all the time his enemy needed.
With a speed he should no longer have been able to muster, the helmless one lashed out. Fortunately, his accuracy didn’t match his quickness-all he could manage was a glancing blow.
It was enough, however, to send Worf spinning away, his arm a numb and nerveless thing. His mace fell from unfeeling fingers, raised dust where it hit the ground.
A second blow fell, and Worf barely eluded it. The third came closer, caused him to slip on a patch of gravel, lose his footing and come crashing to earth.
Immediately, his adversary was on top of him, his knee hammering into Worf’s chest. It knocked the wind out of him, forced him to struggle to remain conscious.
His good hand groped, found his opponent’s throat. Kept him at arm’s length. But he was helpless to prevent the ax from being raised. It loomed against the sky like something gigantic.
Then it fell, and Worf felt a terrible impact in his bones. But a moment later, the ax lay beside him in the dirt and his head was still in one piece.
He wished he could say the same for his adversary. The man’s corpse lay slumped beside him.
Another warrior stood over them-one of Worf’s comrades. His expression was concealed behind his headgear-but there was disdain in the way he wiped off his truncheon on his armored leg.
Worf sensed that there was something he had to do. He reached out for his enemy’s slack-jawed visage…
But it was too late. The last vestige of life had ebbed away, leaving only a cold and empty husk.
Worf felt cheated-and in more ways than one. This one might have helped him remember. He was filled with rage-with blind, unyielding fury.
Scrambling to his feet, he went after the warrior who had killed his enemy. Took him down from behind, eliciting a cry of surprise. The truncheon flew out of his hand and they rolled together in the dirt.
Somewhow, Worf came out on top. With all the savage strength he could command, he smashed his mailed fist into the man’s face.
Again.
And again.
Suddenly, the world was flattened in a blast of barely visible force. Worf felt as if something had taken hold of his insides and was tearing him apart. He had felt such pain only once before.
Rolling up into a ball, he withstood it as best he could. But every now and then, despite his best efforts, a whimper escaped his tightly clenched teeth.
Finally, it stopped. For a little while, he just lay there, shuddering. Then he looked up and hissed curses at the marshal on his