Planet X - Michael Jan Friedman [26]
“You’re certain you do not require a weapon?” It wasn’t the first time he had asked.
The mutant held up his fist, showing Worf the deadly-sharp spars of bone that protruded well past his knuckles. “I’ve got all the weapon I need right here,” he said.
The Klingon had seen Wolverine use his claws to considerable advantage. “Very well,” he said.
Taking a couple of steps in the direction of the altar, he felt the program respond to his presence. The shrieks of the birds grew louder, the wind in the trees fiercer, the sense of danger more immediate.
Worf could feel his pulse quickening, his blood growing hotter. His lips pulled back in anticipation of the battle to come.
And Wolverine was right behind him, his eyes sliding warily from side to side, his nostrils flaring beneath his mask. It seemed he could sense the danger as well.
But then, as Worf understood it, the mutant’s faculties of smell and hearing—not to mention his most basic, primitive instincts—were far superior to those of normal humans. In that regard, Wolverine was more like the Terran predator he had been named for.
Or—Worf thought—more like a Klingon.
The only thing about Wolverine he didn’t understand was the mutant’s disguise. If a warrior concealed his identity from others, how could he bring honor to his house?”
“They’re out there,” Wolverine whispered.
“Indeed,” Worf responded.
The mutant’s lip curled. “So what are they waitin’ for?”
As if that were a cue, adversaries charged them from four different directions. Worf flung his bat’leth up in time to ward off the mace-stroke of a hulking, blue-skinned Pandrilite, then whirled and parried the sword thrust of a lightning-quick Orion.
A glance told him Wolverine wasn’t bored either. A Chardeni whipmaster was trying to snare the mutant’s ankles while a Drilikan assassin looped a garrot around his neck.
With the claws of one hand, Wolverine sliced off the business end of the whip and drove his fist into the Chardeni’s face. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough to prevent the garrot from taking hold around his neck—but even then, he was far from vanquished.
Driving his elbow into the Drilikan’s ribs, the mutant cracked a couple, forcing his adversary to loosen his grip. Then, with some room in which to work, he slashed the assassin’s belly.
Worf, meanwhile, was getting a workout. No sooner had he opened the Pandrilite’s throat with his bat’leth than the Orion was on the attack again. Ducking the green man’s flashing steel, the Klingon parried a second assault and a third.
Then, just when the Orion thought he was gaining the advantage, Worf struck low and swept his legs out from under him. With a single, quick thrust, the Klingon finished off his adversary.
Some of Worf’s colleagues might have been shocked at his love of violence. But not Wolverine, he knew. Turning to the mutant, the Klingon grinned.
Wolverine was grinning too. “Not bad for a start,” he gibed. “But when’re we gonna see some real action?”
In answer to his question, a shaggy Bandelaar dropped on him from the trees above. Pinning the mutant to the ground, he raised a large and deadly looking axe over his head.
Taking two quick steps, Worf hurled himself at the Bandelaar. He managed to knock the alien off-balance before he could bring his weapon down on Wolverine’s head. Then, before the Bandelaar could recover, the Klingon sliced his axe-handle in two.
Weaponless, the alien reached out and grasped Worf’s naked throat. The Klingon felt his windpipe closing in the Bandelaar’s vicelike grip. Reluctant to let his enemy finish the job, he plunged the point of his bat’leth into his opponent’s ribs.
That made the Bandelaar let go in a hurry. With his throat open for business again, Worf raised his weapon and savagely terminated his adversary’s brief existence.
That’s when he saw someone big and dark hurtling out of the jungle at him. A Shriiton trident-warrior, he thought. Whirling, he tried to brace himself for the newcomer’s attack.
It turned out not to be necessary. Before the Shriiton could get anywhere