Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [49]
built a second fire on the other side of the cave entrance, hoping to create a more secure area in between the two, at the mouth of the cave. For a while it worked—until the beasts lost their initial respect for the flames, and learned to shoulder the humanoids away from the clear spots and into the fires—or nearly into the fires. Singed Tsoran fur, singed sculper fur, singed Starfleet uniform
The bat’leth threw swooping firelight around the cleared zone, whirling with Riker’s fierce attacks, his twisting retreats; the club hit the ground early on, wrested from his grip by sculper jaws and then discarded. Around him, the Tsorans wielded their lances and clubs and trank guns, but the sculpers were too quick for the short-range tranks and only momentarily deterred by the hastily made weapons.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, the sculpers took a break—time for a little nap, Riker thought, a break in the entertainment. For that’s what this was—entertainment. Nothing about the sculpers, not their lolling tongues or their exuberant body language, led him to think that he and the Tsorans provided anything but amusement, and the moment the scavengers tired of the game, they’d barge past all defenses and take who they wanted.
Or eat them on the spot.
“If we can at least stun one of them,” Akarr said to Rakal, possibly unaware that Riker stood on the other side of the currently blazing second fire, feeding in another batch of now-dry logs, “I can take trophy. Trophy from the very animals attacking me!”
“Nothing Takarr does will be enough to elevate him beyond that in our people’s eyes,” Rakal agreed.
Takarr again. Who was Takarr?
Rakal added, “But I worry about Ketan, ReynTa. He
was honorably injured. Even putting him in the cave with Gavare doesn’t seem likely to protect him from these sculpers if they quit playing with us and determine to take food.”
No doubt about that; the injured men needed protection.
Riker rounded the fire to join them uninvited, offering them glare for glare—a greeting he’d received so often he now responded in appropriate Tsoran body language without thinking about it. “We should pull in, and not attempt to protect anything but the cave mouth.” Not that it was much of a cave, but every little advantage … “If we do that, they can come upon us several at a time, and take us all down,” Rakal said, pouching his lower lip in disapproval. “As we are, they might get one of us, but the others will survive.”
“But they aren’t coming in several at a time.” Riker cast a pointed glance out at the black and impenetrable foliage surrounding them; something rustled loudly and they all tensed, but nothing came of it, and after a moment he looked back at the Tsorans. “No reason to risk losing anyone else.”
“We will continue as we are,” Akarr said stiffly, the hair on his arms rising slightly.
Suddenly Riker understood. Akarr wasn’t making any attempt to keep the animals away from the cave, not at all. He approached each strafing run as an opportunity to stun or trank one of the sculpers long enough to harvest a trophy. And while defending the cave meant chasing them off in any fashion possible, going for the trophy meant letting them get close enough to take one down. If that meant standing aside while it went for the cave, then that’s just exactly what it meant—no matter the cost to Gavare and Ketan.
But nothing in Rakal’s attitude suggested that it was
commonplace to leave their wounded to die, or even to fend for themselves.
Who is Takarr?
Why would he inspire such behavior?
Riker looked down at Akarr—bloodied from minor wounds, his fur sticking out in random cowlicks where he’d run into sap, his stiff leather vest scratched and scarred—and knew he looked no better himself. Never mind daleura, never mind the world outside this small, recently made clearing. “You’re making a