The Hand of Kahless

by John M. Ford

  At times, the figure vanished behind a curtain of smoke and cinders, or lost his footing and slipped behind some outcropping. Yet, over and over, he emerged from the setback unscathed, a look of renewed determination on his face. Sweat pouring from his bright red brow, he pushed himself from path to treacherous path, undaunted.

  Unfortunately, his choices were narrowing radically as he approached the lip of the crater. There was only one ridge that looked to give him a chance of making it to the top—and that was guarded by a hellishly wide channel.

  It wasn’t impossible for him to make the leap across. However, as drained as he must have been by this point, and as burdened by his heavy leather tunic, it was highly unlikely he’d survive the attempt.

  Spreading his feet apart to steady himself, the warrior raised his arms above his head and unfastened the straps that held his tunic in place. Then he tore it from him and flung it into the river of lava below, as if tendering a sacrifice to some dark and ravenous demon.

  In moments, the tunic was consumed, leaving little more than a thin, greasy trail of smoke. Nor would the Klingon leave the world much more than that, if he failed.

  But he hadn’t come this far to be turned away now. Taking a few steps back until his back was to yet another brink, the warrior put his head down and got his legs churning beneath him: It was difficult for his boots to find purchase on the slick, steamy rock, but the Klingon worked up more speed than appeared possible.

  At the last possible moment, he planted his right foot and launched himself out over the channel. There was a point in time, the size and span of a long, deep, breath, when the warrior seemed to hover over the crackling lava flow, his legs bicycling beneath him.

  Until he completed his flight by smashing into the sharp, craggy surface of the opposite ridge. For a moment, it looked as if he had safely avoided the lava, as if he had come away with the victory.

  Then he began sliding backward into the river of fire. Desperately, frantically, the warrior dug for purchase with fingers and knees and whatever else he could bring to bear—even his cheek. Yet still he slid.

  The rocky surface tore at the warrior’s chest and his face, but he wouldn’t give into it. Slowly, inexorably, by dint of blood and bone, he stopped himself. Then he began to pull himself up from the edge of death’s domain.

  Finally, when he felt he was past the danger, he lay on the ground—gulping down breath after breath, until he found the strength to go on. Dragging himself to his feet, too drained even to sweat, he stumbled the rest of the way up the ridge like a man drunk with too much bloodwine.

  At the brink of the crater, the Klingon fell to his knees, paused, and pulled a knife from the inside of his boot. It was a d’k tahg, a ceremonial dagger. Lifting a thick lock of hair from his head, he held it out taut and brought the edge of his blade across it. Strand by severed strand, it came free in his hand.

  For a long moment, he stared at the lock of hair. Then he dropped it into the molten chaos inside the volcano, where it vanished instantly.

  But only for a moment or two. Then it shot up again on a geyser of hot, sulfurous air. Except now it was coated with molten, flaming rock, an object of unearthly beauty, no longer recognizable as a part of him.

  Mesmerized, the warrior extended his hand, as if to grasp the thing. Incredibly, it tumbled toward him, end over end. And as if by magic, it fell right into the palm of his gauntleted hand.

  Bringing it closer to him, the Klingon gazed at it with narrowed eyes, as if unable to believe what had happened. Then, his glove smoking as it cradled the lava-dipped lock, he smiled a hollow-cheeked smile—and started his journey down the mountain.

  Worf, son of Mogh, hung in the sky high above it all, a spectator swathed in moist, dark cloud-vapors, his eyes and nose stinging from the hot flakes of ash that swirled like tiny twisters through the air.

  He hovered like some ancient god, defying gravity, hair streaming in the wind like a banner. But no god ever felt so troubled, so unsettled—so pierced to the heart.

  For a moment, all too brief, he had been drawn to the spectacle, to its mysticism and its majesty. Then the moment passed, and he was left as troubled as before.

  “Mister Worf?”

  The Klingon turned—and found himself facing Captain Picard, who was walking toward him through the clouds as if there were an invisible floor beneath him.

  The captain had come from the corridor outside the holodeck, which was still partially visible as the oddly shaped doors of the facility slid shut behind him. It wasn’t until they were completely closed that Picard became subject to the same winds that buffeted Worf.

  The captain smiled politely and tilted his head toward the volcano. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he said.

  Inwardly, the Klingon winced at the suggestion. Certainly, it had seemed important when he entered the holodeck half an hour ago. There had been the possibility of solace, of affirmation. But the experience had fallen far short of his expectations.

  “No,” he lied. “Nothing important. I am merely reenacting the myth of Kahless’s labors at the Kri’stak Volcano.”

  Picard nodded. “Yes, of course…the one in which he dips a strand of his hair into the lava.” His brow wrinkled as he tried to remember. “After that, he plunged the flaming lock into Lake Lusor—and twisted it into a revolutionary new form of blade, which no Klingon had ever seen before.”

  Worf had to return the human’s smile. Without a doubt, Picard knew his Klingon lore—perhaps as well as the average Klingon. And in this case even better, because this particular legend had been nurtured by a select few until just a few years ago.

  “That is correct,” he confirmed.

  Pointing to the northern slope of the volcano, he showed the captain Kahless’s position. The emperor-to-be had hurled himself across the deep channel again—this time with a bit less effort, perhaps, thanks to the improvement in the terrain he was leaping from—and was descending the mountainside, his trophy still in hand.

  It was only after much hardship that he would come to the lake called Lusor. There, he would fashion from his trophy the efficient and graceful weapon known as the bat’leth.

  Picard made an appreciative sound. “Hard to believe he could ever have made such a climb in fact.”

  Worf felt a pang at the captain’s remark. He must not have concealed it very well this time, because Picard’s brow furrowed.

  “I didn’t mean to question your beliefs,” the human told him. “Only to make an observation. If I’ve offended you—”

  The Klingon waved away the suggestion. “No, sir. I am not offended.” He paused. “It was only that I was thinking the same thing.”

  Picard regarded him more closely. Obviously, he was concerned. “Are you…having a crisis of faith, Lieutenant? Along the lines of what you experienced before Kahless’s return?”

  Worf sighed. “A crisis of faith?” He shook his head. “No, it is more than that. Considerably more.” He watched the distant figure of Kahless descend from the mountain, making improbable choices to defy impossible odds. “A few years ago,” he explained, “it was a personal problem. Now…”

  He allowed his voice to trail off, reluctant to give the matter substance by acknowledging it. However, he couldn’t avoid it forever. As captain of the Enterprise, Picard would find out about it sooner or later.

  “You see,” he told the human, “these myths—” He gestured to the terrain below them, which included not only the volcano but the lake as well. “—they are sacred to us. They are the essence of our faith. When we speak of Kahless’s creation of the bat’leth from a lock of his hair, we are not speaking figuratively. We truly believe he did such a thing.”

  Worf turned his gaze westward, toward the plains that formed the bulk of this continent. He couldn’t see them for the smoke and fumes emerging from the volcano, but he knew they were there nonetheless.

  “It was out there,” he continued, “that Kahless is sai
d to have wrestled with his brother Morath for twelve days and twelve nights, after his brother lied and shamed their clan. It was out there that Kahless used the bat’leth he created to slay the tyrant Molor—and it was out there that the emperor united all Klingons under a banner of duty and honor.”

  “Not just stories,” Picard replied, demonstrating his understanding. “Each one a truth, no matter how impossible it might seem in the cold light of logic.”

  “Yes,” said Worf. “Each one a truth.” He turned back to his captain. “Or at least, they were.” He frowned, despite himself.

  “Were?” Picard prodded. He hung there in the shifting winds, clouds writhing behind him like a monstrous serpent in terrible torment. “What’s happened to change things?”

  The Klingon took his time gathering his thoughts. Still, it was not an easy matter to talk about.

  “I have heard from the emperor,” he began.

  The captain looked at him with unconcealed interest. “Kahless, you mean? I trust he’s in good health.”

  Worf nodded. “You need not worry on that count. Physically, he is in fine health.”

  In other words, no one had tried to assassinate him. In the corridors of Klingon government, that was a very real concern—though to Worf’s knowledge, Kahless hadn’t prompted anyone to want to kill him. Quite the contrary. He was as widely loved as any Klingon could be.

  “The problem,” the lieutenant went on, “is of a different nature. You see, a scroll was unearthed alongside the road to Sto-Vo-Kor.”

  Picard’s eyes narrowed. “The road the historical Kahless followed when he took his leave of the Klingon people. That was…what? Fifteen hundred years ago?”

  “Even more,” Worf told him. “In any case, this scroll—supposedly written by Kahless himself—appears to discredit all the stories that concern him. It is as if Kahless himself has given the lie to his own history.”

  The captain mulled the statement over. When he responded, his tone was sober and sympathetic.

  “I see,” he said. “So, in effect, this scroll reduces Klingon faith to a series of tall tales. And the emperor—”

  “To a charlatan,” the lieutenant remarked. “It was one thing for the modern Kahless to be revealed as a clone of the original. My people were so eager for a light to guide them, they were happy to embrace him despite all that.”

  “However,” Picard went on, picking up the thread, “it is quite another thing for the historical Kahless to be nothing like the legend.”

  “And if the scroll is authentic,” Worf added, “that is exactly the message it will convey.”

  Below them, the volcano rumbled. The wind howled and moaned.

  “Not a pretty picture,” the captain conceded. “Neither for Kahless himself nor for his people.”

  “That is an understatement,” the Klingon replied. “A scandal like this one could shake the empire to its foundations. Klingons everywhere would be forced to reconsider the meaning of what it is to be Klingon.”

  Picard’s brow furrowed. “We’re speaking of social upheavals?”

  “Without a doubt,” Worf answered. “Kahless revived my people’s dedication to the ancient virtues. If he were to fall from grace…”

  “I understand,” said the captain. His nostrils flared as he considered the implications. “For a while there, Kahless seemed to be all that kept Gowron in his council seat. If that were to change, the entire diplomatic landscape might change with it. It could spell the end of the Federation-Klingon alliance.”

  “It could indeed,” the lieutenant admitted.

  He saw Picard gaze at the volcano again. Down below, Kahless had reached its lowermost slopes, though it looked to have cost him the last of his strength. Still, according to the legends, he would make it to the lake somehow.

  “So that is why you constructed this program,” the captain remarked out loud. “To play out the myths before your eyes. To test your faith in the face of this scroll’s revelations.”

  Worf confirmed it. “Yes. Unfortunately, it has only served to deepen my doubts—to make me wonder if I have been fooling myself all along.”

  Still gazing at Kahless, Picard took a breath and expelled it. “I suppose that brings me to the reason I barged in on you like this.” He turned to the Klingon again. “A subspace packet has arrived from the Klingon homeworld. It seems to be a transcript of some sort. I would have notified you via ship’s intercom….”

  “But you were concerned,” the Klingon acknowledged, “about the possible political implications.”

  “Yes,” the captain confirmed. “Anything from Qo’noS makes me wary—perhaps unnecessarily so.” He paused. “Any idea what it might be?”

  Worf nodded. “I believe it contains the contents of the scroll,” he rumbled. “As I requested.”

  “I see,” said Picard.

  At that point, he didn’t ask anything of his officer. Nonetheless, the Klingon sensed what the captain wanted.

  “After I have read it,” he said, “I will make it available to you.”

  Picard inclined his head. “Thank you,” he replied. “And please, continue what you were doing. I won’t disturb you any further.”

  Worf grunted by way of acknowledgment and turned to watch Kahless begin his trek toward the lake. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the captain make his way through the clouds and exit from the holodeck.

  The Klingon sighed. He would read what was written in the cursed scroll soon enough. For now, he would track the emperor’s progress from his place in the sky, and try again to stir in himself some feeling of piety.

  Two: The Heroic Age

  The chase was over, Kahless thought, bringing his lean, powerful s’tarahk to a halt. And a long, arduous chase it had been. But in the end, they had cornered their quarry.

  The outlaws milled about in the foothills of the towering Uhq’ra Mountains, wary as a cornered targ and twice as restless. Sitting at the head of the emperor’s forces, Kahless listened to his mount gnashing its short yellow tusks while he considered the enemy. As they were upwind, he sampled their scent. His nostrils flared with surprise.

  There was not the least sign of fear in the brigands. In fact, when Kahless tried to make out their faces, he thought he could see their teeth glinting in the sun.

  They were not to be taken lightly, he told himself. But then, cornered beasts were always the most dangerous kind.

  “Kahless!”

  Turning, he saw Molor riding toward him on his proud, black s’tarahk. Out of heartfelt deference to his master, Kahless pulled hard on the reins of his own beast. It barked loudly as it reared and clawed at the air, red eyes blazing, muscles rippling beneath its thick, hairless hide.

  After all, Molor was no petty land baron. He was a monarch among monarchs, who in the course of his lifetime had seized half the world’s greatest continent. And before long, if all went well, he would no doubt lay claim to the rest of it.

  “My liege lord,” said Kahless.

  He had served Molor for seven years, almost to the day. And in that time, he had gradually won himself a post as one of the ruler’s most trusted warchiefs. So when Molor rode up to him, his pale green eyes slitted beneath his long, gray brows, it was with a measure of respect.

  “What are they doing?” asked Molor, lifting his chin-beard in the direction of the outlaws.

  “Waiting,” Kahless grunted.

  “For us to make the first move,” his lord suggested.

  The warchief nodded his shaggy head. “It looks that way, yes.”

  Molor’s s’tarahk pawed the ground and rumbled deep in its throat. “Because our numbers are about even,” the ruler observed. “And because, with their backs guarded by the hills, they have the strategic advantage. Or to be more accurate, they think they do.”

  Kahless eyed him. “You believe otherwise?”

  As Molor’s steed rose up on its hind legs, the monarch’s lip curled back. “What I believe,” he said, “is that strategies on
ly go so far. More important is what is in here.” He pounded his black leather breastplate, for emphasis. “Our hearts. And their hearts. That is what a battle is about.”

  The warchief couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth of that. He said as much.

  Gazing at the outlaws, Molor laughed. “I will confide something to you, Kahless, son of Kanjis—for you have earned it.”

  The warchief made a sound of gratitude. “And what is that, my lord?”

  “Battles are won and lost,” said Molor, “before they ever begin. It is not the strength of one’s sword arm that carries the day, but the manner and the timing of one’s attack. And the look in one’s eyes that says he will suffer nothing less than victory.”

  Kahless had never looked at it that way. But if it came from his lord, could it be anything but wisdom?

  “The enemy may seem fearless now,” Molor observed. “Eager, even. But then, they expect us to spend the afternoon talking, planning what we will do next. If we were to strike swiftly and unexpectedly, like a bird of prey, and show not an ounce of mercy…”

  Molor grunted. “It would be a different story entirely, I assure you of that. Before they recovered from our first charge, you would see it in their faces—the knowledge that they will not live to see another dawn.” He chuckled in his beard. “Fear. There is no more powerful emotion,” he grated. “And to us, no more powerful friend.”

  As if they had heard and understood, the first line of s’tarahkmey rumbled and poked at the ground with their forelegs. A smile on his face, Molor nodded approvingly.

  “Prepare yourself,” he told Kahless, “and see if I am not right.”

  Suddenly, he raised his right hand. All eyes were drawn to it, instantly, as lightning is drawn to an iron rod in the midst of a thunderstorm. Then, with an ululating cry to spur them on, Molor dropped his hand.

  Like bristling, black death itself, the emperor’s first rank sprang forward as one. Molor himself served as its spearhead, with Kahless right beside him, their war-axes held high.

  His heart beating like a drum, even harder and louder than the thunder of his s’tarahk’s charge, the warchief tightened his grasp on the haft of his weapon. Up ahead, the outlaws loomed in the lap of the hills, scrambling about to brace themselves for the unexpected onslaught.