Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [64]
But Akarr glanced ahead at Riker—barely visible ahead of them—and wondered if a truly good leader would have insisted on a litter for Rakal, anyway.
Too late to worry about that now. And the daleura of this kaphoora was so tangled, between the pitched battles they’d fought, the injuries they’d suffered, the sustained contact with the very creatures that most kaphoora participants had to track with care… He doubted that those who reckoned such intangibles would ever be able to straighten it out.
In which case, his brother Takarr still had the chance to establish a daleura dominance over Akarr when he went on his own prime kaphoora, despite all the unique factors their father had arranged for Akarr. Not that Takarr had the driving nature to excel so emphatically … but as this expedition itself proved, stranger things had happened. Of course Akarr had overridden his own shame to harvest the skik claws … he must have trophy.
But now, in a more objective moment, he knew those
skik claws represented as much hazard as victory, for there were those alive who knew exactly from where they’d come.
He’d take another trophy. Something more appropriate. Surely there’d be a chance before they returned to the shuttle, despite the waxing heat and the increasing midday somnolence of the predators. If only his own aim with the tranks—aim he’d been proud of at the training center—hadn’t failed him here. Something about the strange light, or all the foliage—reaching leaves, grabby branches, drooping fronds—must be interfering with his aim.
Yes, that was it.
Ahead of him, Riker—on point—slowed. Worf moved close, but not so close that Akarr couldn’t see Riker waver, reaching out for the nearest vine for support—a thorn vine; Akarr could see it from where he stood. Worf quickly pulled another vine within Riker’s reach. Akarr waved the others to a stop and eased into earshot, surprised by a momentary pang of concern for Riker. Akarr generally thought of him as a profound annoyance and a blot on the kaphoora—for piloting them to a crash, for challenging Akarr’s authority and daleura every chance he got—mighty sybyls, for simply not being the captain in the first place—but he’d somehow begun to think of him as a stable annoyance. One on which he could count to be annoying … and to swing that bat’leth around with vigor.
“We are close, now,” Worf was telling Riker. “There are medicines aboard that will improve your situation. We have a med kit suitable for the Tsorans, as well; we can ease their pain. We simply chose to travel… light… in our pursuit of you.”
“A wise decision,” Riker said, sounding distracted.
Akarr suddenly realized Riker was simply trying to
stay on his feet. “We cannot carry you,” he said, imagining the size of such a Utter with some horror.
Worf turned an unreadable stare on him. “I could,” he said, bluntly. Pointedly.
“It could affect your own survival,” Akarr said, challenging not out of any great need, but to observe the reaction. To understand this humanoid culture, and why it would consider Riker fit for his rank after all the various weaknesses he’d shown Akarr. He was not at all bothered by the fact that Riker was within earshot. “Riker has earned no great daleura here. Why would you imperil yourself for him?”
Worf’s expression changed. His reply was even and low-key, although Akarr discerned that this took much effort. He had the instant revelation that Worf had pegged him as an idiot, and that there was therefore no point in displaying anger.
“A leader must do more