Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [101]
Ugulan didn’t even try. He spun around and headed for the cell entrance.
In his panic he forgot that Worf was standing there.
Worf reached out as Ugulan tried to pass him by. For an instant they simply stared at each other, until Worf’s fury peaked.
He skewered Ugulan with a long, cold glare, gritted his teeth, and roared, “It is a good day to die!”
His right fist drew back and flew forward in a short, hard punch to Ugulan’s rib cage. Never had Worf thrown such a punch in his entire life. Never had he felt such rage driving his actions. His fist struck Ugulan’s sternum, cracking the bone, then his other fist drove into the other Klingon’s chest. Before Worf’s eyes, Ugulan’s body collpased. Living or dead, Worf did not know. Either way, his soul was doomed.
Dizzy and wheezing, Worf spun twice to make sure all the Rogues were down or gone, then looked around to where Riker was snuffing out the flames on Crusher’s sleeve. “All of you stay here!” he shouted.
Data smoldered forward. “I will go with you—”
“No! This is for me alone!”
“You’d better run,” Riker said. “She’s getting away.”
“She will not get away,” Worf snarled back. “And I refuse to run.”
Chapter Nineteen
DARKNESS STILL COMMANDED the port of Delaware Station, although the first pale periwinkle of coming day now showed itself above the black cutouts of trees, houses, and the boatyard. The details of Justina’s rigging jumped out against the velvety purple predawn sheen.
Amazing. All this in one night.
Behind them, the chapel bell rang and rang, and around them armed men poured out of cottages, inns, cabins, and rooming houses. Old, young—every manner of man came out with a rifle or flintlock pistol. Some seemed confused, then joined others who were following behind Picard, Alexander, Patrick O’Heyne, Jeremiah Coverman, and their men. The patriots seemed pathetically disorganized, but determined and of a single mind as they flocked to face the incoming redcoats.
“Cavalry? Artillery?” Jeremiah asked O’Heyne as they ran toward the south side of the town.
“No,” O’Heyne said, struggling with his wounds. “They landed no artillery or horses that I saw. They have, by my estimate, about two hundred men on foot. And they do have sharpshooters, I’m sorry to recall for the sake of my poor Whistler. I loved that horse …”
Caught in a moment of sorrow, O’Heyne didn’t mind his wounds and tripped on a small wooden plank, skidding to one knee on the dirt road. Jeremiah, understandably, rushed to help him up, but so did Sandy, and that was enheartening. Picard helped O’Heyne over the discarded plank that had tripped him. “Perhaps go a little slower.”
“Not tonight,” O’Heyne said, bothering to knock back the ponytail loosely tied at the nape of his neck. “I’m all right. There’s the barricade.”
At the end of a stand of houses and shops, likely the edge of town as well, minutemen with rifles and townsfolk, including women, were building up a line of scrimmage made of sea barrels, crates, and a horse trough that had been spilled and moved into place. The barricade looked all too fragile, and would stop no one from rushing through, but Picard noted that it would provide fair cover for those shooting over it, which the flanking trees wouldn’t.
“Hear them?” Jeremiah said abruptly, looking down the dark road. “Drums! They’re nearly here!”
“Yes, marching snares,” O’Heyne agreed. “Remarkable sound. Keeps the soldiers marching for hours and somehow their backs don’t hurt when they’re done. There’s nothing like marching drums. You should hear the sound when they’ve got pipers along. They can go for days, and I find myself wanting to go with them.”
Enjoying himself more than he should have been, Picard glanced at him. “Mr. O’Heyne, I think you’re a bit crazy.”
“I’d have to be, wouldn’t I?”
That sound was stirring! The clap-trrrrap-ap of snares coming