Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [96]
Picard didn’t waste any time. Darting in close, he ducked and heard the whistle of the blade as it passed harmlessly over his head. Then he stabbed at the conspirator with his dk tahg, hoping to find a space between the Klingon’s ribs.
It didn’t work out as he’d hoped. Not only did Lomakh ward off his blow, he struck the captain in the mouth with the heel of his hand. Staggering backward with the force of the blow, Picard tasted blood. As he tried desperately to steady himself, he felt something hard smack him in the back-and realized it was the wall.
The conspirator’s eyes gleamed as he saw his chance.
With a flip of his wrists, he swung his battelh a second time. But Picard regained control in time to roll to one side, removing himself from harm’s way.
The bat’telh struck the wall where he had been, giving rise to a spray of hot sparks. Enraged, Lomakh turned to his adversary and went for him again, thrusting with the point of his blade.
But this time, the captain had a better plan. After all, he had studied fencing as a youth, and his instructor had emphasized the importance of distance. Peddling backward suddenly, his dagger held low, he managed to keep his chin just beyond the leading edge of Lomakh’s battelh.
As the conspirator came on, trying to extend his reach, Picard maintained his margin of safety. Then, without warning, he drove Lomakh’s blade aside with a vicious backhand slash. His adversary lurched forward, unable to regain his balance, much less protect himself.
Taking advantage of the opening, the captain grabbed the front of Lomakh’s tunic with his free hand and dropped into a backward roll. Halfway through the maneuver, he planted his heel in the Klingon’s chest and allowed Lomakh’s momentum to do the rest.
As Picard completed his roll, he saw the Klingon sprawl, a tangle of body and limbs and razor-sharp battelh. Lomakh bellowed with pain before he came to a stop. A moment later, the captain saw what had caused the warrior so much discomfort.
The battelh had imbedded itself in Lomakh’s tunic, cutting through flesh as well as leather. With a guttural curse, the Klingon tore the blade free and staggered to his feet.
“For that,” he spat, “your death will be slow and painful!”
Picard smiled grimly, caught up in the interplay of bravado. “This may surprise you,” he said, “but I have heard that before.”
Again, Lomakh charged him. And again, the captain let him think he was on the verge of achieving his goal. Then, at the last possible moment, Picard turned sideways, flung up his arms, and let the conspirator’s battelh shoot past him.
As Lomakh followed through, the human brought the I v hilt of his dagger down on the base of the Klingon’s skull.
With a grunt of pain, his adversary fell to his knees. His weapon slipped from insensible hands. And before he could recover, Picard’s knee was in the small of the Klingon’s back.
Driving Lomakh down with all his weight, the captain gripped the conspirator’s hair with his left hand and pulled. Then, with his right hand, he placed the edge of his blade against Lomakh’s eminently exposed throat.
“Bljeghbe’chugh vaj bIH-EGH!” Picard growled. “Surrender or die!”
The conspirator tried to twist his head free, but the captain only increased the pressure of dagger against flesh. He repeated the order, this time in the shddort form.
“Jegh! his
Lomakh groaned, awash with shame-but not so much he would die to rid himself of it. “Yap, was he rasped.
“Enough.”
Careful not to let his guard drop, Picard looked up-in time to see Kahless dodge a sweeping attack from Tichar.
As the human watched, the clone struck back-once, twice, and again, battering down the conspirator’s defenses. Tichar looked a little clumsier and a little more fatigued with each blow leveled against him.
But then, Kahless was wearing down too. Sweat streamed down either side of his face and his barrel chest was heaving for air. Besides that, there was a nasty cut on his forehead just below his hairline, and the blood from it was seeping into his eyes.