A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [82]
Ma’alor regarded him. “Would you, if our positions were reversed?”
“No. I suppose not. But I want to help my father. And I trust his judgment. If he thought my Military experience could help you-who are you to say otherwise?”
Ma’alor obviously hadn’t expected that. Anger smoldered in his eyes.
“Is there anyone else among you who knows anything about the Military?” asked Dan’nor. “Who has been trained by the Military? Lived his life in the Military?”
The dark man continued to glare at him. But when he answered, his voice was under control. “No,” he said. “You are the only one-other than Trien’nor, of course.” The anger in his eyes died. “And he, unfortunately, is of little use to us now.”
Silence. As Dan’nor sat before Ma’alor, he was reminded of the Council’s scrutiny on the day he went before it. Except this time, he had no fear. And because of that, this time, he knew he would win.
“Very well,” said Ma’alor at last. “You will be part of it, Tir’dainia. Part of our big event.” He laughed-a surprising sound, coming from him. “But you may wish you had not been so eager to get involved.”
And in the hours that followed, Ma’alor outlined their plan.
Worf huddled in the keep with the other invaders, glad for the shelter from the cold, driving rain. They sat in a high-raftered hall, listening to the echo of helmets and weapons as they dropped against the smooth, stone floor. Worf’s comrades seemed too tired to lay their gear down carefully. And more than tired-they seemed almost not to care.
Inside, it was dark, the corners of the place softened with deep shadows. Outside, it was darker still. Except for the infrequent stroke of light, which illuminated in quick, staccato bursts the piece of courtyard framed by the open doorway.
It was in these flashes that Worf saw the bodies-many bodies, and most of them had not died at the hands of other warriors. Still, he did not need to see the helmless corpses to remember what the marshals had done. It was branded on the backside of his eyes, carved there like a blood eagle, so that even shutting them was no relief.
The defenders-or what was left of them-had all departed by now, gone up into the hills and vanished. Nor had anyone bothered to stop them. It was as if a truce had been called-one without words, understood by both sides.
And now what? Would they wait until the rain stopped-and then pursue their enemies as before? Or stay here and defend the place as if it were theirs now?
When Harr’h got up and stood before them, Worf thought he would find out. But that was not the veteran’s purpose in addressing them.
“You know me,” he said. “I am no stranger to you.” He looked about. “Nor am I one of those linked to the sled riders, who guide us in our forays.”
A few of the other veterans shifted uncomfortably; the Klingon tried to mark them in the darkness. He began to understand better how the warriors’ orders came down, and from whom.
“So when I speak,” Harr’h went on, “I have nothing to gain. And what I say is this: forget what you have seen this day. Forget it as quickly as you can. Warriors who think too much become weak; they fall to the first quick blade that comes along. Believe me. I have seen this before-the flash of light, and the madness, and the way the marshals strike down the maddened ones. Because I put it from my mind that earlier time, I still stand before you now. Those who could not do that are long dead.” He shrugged. “That is all I have to say.”
Having finished, Harr’h returned to his place. But not before casting a look in the Klingon’s direction. Nor was it a random glance-he knew exactly whom he was looking at.
And what he said with his eyes was not what he had said with his mouth. For Worf, he seemed to have a different message.
You are not like the rest, Harr’h appeared to say. You cannot forget. For you, the burden will be much greater.
And the advice proferred in that secret glance was unmistakable: to endure. To fight on as if the fight were honorable, knowing all the time that it is not. To strike a