Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
The minnhormey didn’t seem to suspect a thing. They maintained their slow progress through the wood, their shaggy hindquarters swaying from side to side, their horned heads trained squarely on what was ahead of them.
Kahless sighted a particularly slow minnhor and was about to take it down when he felt a hand on his arm.
Turning, he saw Morath’s ruddy, snow-covered face. In the swirling gray of the storm, the younger man’s eyes looked like dark caverns.
“What?” asked Kahless.
Morath pointed-not at the herd, but at something off to the left of it. Something that moved with a purpose similar to their own.
There were four-legged predators in this place, but they didn’t hunt in packs. And besides, these shapes were too tall to be animals. Klingons, then. Mounted, like Kahless’s men. And after the same minnhormey.
The other band must have spotted them at about the same time, because the riders hung back from the herd.
With another hand signal, Kahless gestured for his own men to slow down.
The minnhormey kept going, still unaware of their danger. The wind howled and writhed, sending spindrifts whirling through the forest. And all the while, the two hunting parties sat their mounts, eyeing one another.
Sizing one another up. After all, they were Klingons.
Finally, Kahless spoke, shouting to make himself heard over the storm. “This herd is ours. If need be, we’ll fight for it.”
On the other side, one figure separated itself from the others. His hair was the color of copper, gathered in iceencrusted braids. “So will we,” came the answer.
Kahless licked his lips. The last thing he wanted was to lose men over a meal. But he didn’t know when the next one would come along, and he had no stomach for s’tarahk meat.
Morath and Porus had positioned themselves on either side of him. He glanced at them, making sure of their alertness. They held their bows at the ready, waiting for him to give the word.
But the leader of the other band acted first. With a bloodchilling cry, he raised his arrow to eye level and let it fly.
It sliced through the snow, missing Kahless by no more than an inch, and buried itself in a tree behind him. The outlaw chief’s teeth clenched. Roaring a challenge of his own, he shot back.
A moment later, the forest was alive with swarms of wooden shafts. There were grunts of pain and angry curses, all muffled by the storm. The s’tarahk under Porus shrieked, spilling him in its agony.
Kahless didn’t like this. They could fire back and forth for hours, with no clearcut victor-except the damned minnhormey, who would go free in the meantime. It was time to remember Molor’s advice and take the bloody battle to the enemy.
Replacing his bow on the back of his saddle, Kahless took out his blade and spurred his mount forward. The animal responded with a gratifying surge of speed, putting him face to face with the enemy leader before anyone could stop him.
Another of Molor’s lessons sprang to mind-cut the serpent’s head off and the rest of it will die. With this in mind, Kahless took a swipe at the enemy leader’s chest.
But the man was quicker than he looked. Ducking low, he let the blade pass over him. Then he reached out and grabbed Kahless’s wrist.
At the same time, he drew a weapon of his own-a sword which had clearly seen better days. But it was still sharp enough to sweep a warrior’s head off his shoulders.
Kahless had no intention of being the head in question.
Lunging forward, he grabbed his enemy by the forearm.
The two of them struggled for a moment, whirling about on their starahkmey, neither daring to let go of the other. Then, as one or both of them lost his balance, they toppled into the snow.
By then, Morath and Porus and the others had come crashing after their chief, breaking branches and trampling saplings in their way. But the other band leaped forward to meet them.
Kahless and his adversary were like a rock in the middle of a strong current. The battle raged around them as they rolled on the ground, each struggling for leverage with savage intensity.