Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [69]
The first officer wanted to tell Alexander that everything would be all right. He wanted to assure him that Worf would come back with his faith intact. But he couldn’t.
This wasn’t a folktale. This was the real world. Here, nothing was certain. One had to take one’s chances and hope for the best.
As they exited from the holodeck into the corridor outside, Riker put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Alexander looked up and managed a smile, as if he shared the first officer’s thoughts.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be okay. Really.”
Riker stopped. As he watched, wishing he could have done more, the boy headed for his quarters.
The Heroic Age lchless whirled on his starahk and cut at his adversary with his sword. With a speed born of self-preservation, the soldier parried the blow with a resounding clang, then launched an attack of his own.
But Kahless’s first cut had only laid the groundwork for his second. Ducking to avoid his enemy’s response, he struck hard at the man’s flank.
The soldier couldn’t react in time. Kahless’s sword bit deep between two ribs, eliciting a scream. Then, while the man was at a disadvantage, the rebel sat up again and delivered the deathstroke.
As the soldier fell from his mount, his throat laid open, Kahless turned and surveyed the barren hillside he had chosen. No one else was coming for him. Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he surveyed the changing terrain of the battle.
It was his first full-scale clash with Molor’s forces-a clash designed to test the mettle and dedication of his ragtag army. So far, it seemed to him, the battle was more or less even. To their credit, the rebels were holding their own.
Still, they could be overrun if some pivotal event we nt against them. The same with the tyrant’s army. That was the way of such conflicts-Kahless knew that from his service to Molor during the border wars.
He was determined that if the battle turned, it would do so in the rebels’ favor. That meant he could not simply wait and hope-he had to make something happen on have’ is own. And he knew just what that something might be.
Cut off a serpent’s head. Had that not been the tyrant’s own advice to him in the border wars?
Seeking out the warlord in charge of Molor’s forces, he found the man directing a charge against the rebels’ flank.
Kahless smiled to himself. He couldn’t see who the warlord was for the hair that obscured his face, but it didn’t matter. He would bring the man down or die in the attempt.
Spurring his starahk with his heels, he sliced his way through the ranks of the enemy. When he was close enough, he bellowed a challenge-one that could be heard even over the din of battle. As he’d hoped, the warlord turned to him.
And Kahless realized then whom he’d challenged. The man’s name was Yatron. And like Starad, he was Molor’s son.
The rebel clenched his teeth. He had already earned the tyrant’s hatred many times over, hadn’t he? What difference did it make if he gave Molor one more reason to despise him?
“Kahless!” bellowed Yatron, consumed with rage.
He seemed to recognize his brother’s killer. And judging by the expression on his face, Yatron had no intention of adding to his father’s miseries. Digging his heels into the flanks of his starahk, he charged at Kahless, his sword whirling dangerously above his head.
Raising his own blade, Kahless charged too. They met in an empty space, each trying to skewer the other with the force of his attack. But somehow both of them escaped untouched, their only injuries the numbness in their sword arms.
Yatron whirled and hacked at the rebel’s head, but Kahless was ready for him. Turning the weapon away, he stabbed at the warlord’s chest. Fortunately for Yatron, he was quick enough to catch the stroke and deflect it.
For a long time, they exchanged brutal blows, neither of them giving an inch. Kahless was gouged and cut and battered, but none of his wounds were enough to slow him down.
It was the same for Molor’s son. As many times as the rebel tried to slice him or run him through,