by John M. Ford
Not the clerics who created him. They were thinkers and philosophers, useless in a situation like this one. And there was no one else he could trust implicitly, within the council chamber or without.
No…wait. There was someone he could place his faith in.
Someone outside the empire…
Six: The Heroic Age
There was a village in the distance, the largest one they’d seen since Kahless and his men had fallen afoul of Molor’s power. The dark tower of its central keep danced in the heat waves that rose off the land, surrounded by equally dark walls.
A deep, slow-moving river irrigated the fields and the groves of fruit trees that radiated from the village like the spokes of a wheel. The wind brought the smell of the minn’hor droppings commonly used as fertilizer. Swarms of blue-gray treehens scuttled across the land, screeching as they hunted for parasites.
Kahless used the back of his hand to rid his brow of perspiration. Removing his water bladder from his saddle, he untied the thong that held its neck closed, lifted, and drank. At least they’d had no shortage of water as they traveled north, away from Molor’s capital—and the river up ahead would provide them with even more.
He wished the same were true of their food supplies. Their military provisions had run out long ago, and thanks to the famine the year before, it was almost impossible to find fresh game for the fire. As a result, they’d had to subsist on a diet of groundnuts and stringy yolok worms.
“I wouldn’t mind stopping here,” said Porus, the eldest of them. He’d been in Molor’s service longer than even Kahless himself, but he hadn’t liked their orders back in M’Riiah any better than the warchief had. “I’m weary of slinking around like a p’tahk, and this place looks prosperous. I’ll wager they have plenty to eat, and then some.”
Morath, who sat on Kahless’s right flank, nodded wistfully. “I’ll wager you’re right. Their location on this broad old river must have helped them during the drought.” He bit his lip. “But we don’t dare stop here.”
“Why not?” asked a third warrior, a wiry, one-eyed man called Shurin. “What harm could it do to cajole some bread from the local baker? Or better yet, to swipe it while he’s not looking?”
Kahless shook his head slowly from side to side. “No,” he said, “Morath is right. Once the villagers get an idea we’re outlaws, they’ll report our whereabouts to the tyrant. And then a good meal will be the least of our problems.”
With that, he pulled on the reins and pointed his beast’s head toward a bend in the river. There were plenty of trees and bushes there to conceal them while they filled their waterskins. As his men fell into line behind him, he could hear them moaning about what they’d missed.
“I wonder how these people prepare rokeg blood pie,” Porus sighed. “Baked in spices? Or in its own juices?”
“Spices,” decided Shurin. “Definitely.”
“How do you know?” asked Porus.
“Because that’s the way I like it,” returned Shurin. “If I can’t have it in any case, why not imagine I’m missing the best?”
Kahless cursed the circumstances that had put him and Molor at odds. After all, he’d been as loyal a soldier as anyone could ever want. He’d been brave and effective. He deserved better.
Why couldn’t he have been sent to collect taxes from a village like this one, where they had enough to pay and be done with it? Then he might have been gnawing on bregit lung and heart of targ instead of dreaming about them.
But fate had given him no choice in the matter. How could he have burned M’riiah, with all the misfortunes it already had to endure? Molor might as well have asked him to flay the flesh from his shoulders.
Given a second chance, he knew, he would do the same thing all over again. He would like it no better than the first time, he would drag his feet—but he most certainly would do it. And if that was not some particularly virulent form of insanity, he didn’t know what was.
Kahless grunted pensively—then looked around at his companions. And yet, he thought, if I am insane, I am not the only one. If I am diseased, my men are doubly so. And Morath most of all.
The man had risked his life for a warchief he barely knew, just to ensure a fair fight. Given Starad’s size and prowess, Morath had to have believed he was wagering on a losing cause. But, fool that he was, he had wagered nonetheless.
And when the fight was over, and Morath had had every chance to fade into obscurity, he had chosen to raise his sword and lead the cheer for Kahless instead. The warchief shook his head.
Unlike the others, Morath was closemouthed, his motivations difficult to plumb. He didn’t speak much of where he came from or how he had been raised, or how he had come to join Molor’s forces.
Nor would Kahless make an attempt to pry the story from him. If the younger man wished to keep his own counsel, he would have every opportunity to do so. The warchief owed him that, at least.
Up ahead, the gray and yellow micayah trees swayed in the wind, their slim, brittle leaves buzzing like strange insects. Kahless urged his mount toward an opening between two of the largest specimens, through which the glistening surface of the river was blindingly visible.
The animal trotted along cheerfully, for a change. The prospect of a good watering would do that to anyone, thought Kahless. Cool shadows caressed him as he ducked his head to avoid a low-slung branch.
He had almost reached the river bank when he heard a cry downstream, to his left. His first thought was that he’d led his men into an ambush. His second was that Molor would have fewer outlaws to worry about tonight when he took his evening bath.
However, as Kahless slipped his sword free, he saw it wasn’t an ambush at all. Not unless Molor’s warriors were all females these days, and naked ones at that.
What’s more, they hadn’t noticed his approach. They were too busy shrieking with glee, too busy pounding at the surface of the water in an effort to drench one another—though they were already as drenched as one could be. Clearly not the behavior of steely-eyed assassins.
Kahless couldn’t help smiling. The females were so lovely, so tempting as they raised rainbow-colored sprays with their splashing, their dark hair making slapping sounds as it whipped about their heads. He’d had precious little time for lovemaking these past few years, in Molor’s employ. Now he was forcibly reminded of what he’d missed.
“What have we here?” murmured Shurin, as he caught up with his chief.
Porus chuckled. “Something tastier than blood pie, my friend. Our reward, perhaps, for sparing M’riiah?”
“Not likely,” grunted Kahless, putting his cohorts on notice. He wasn’t about to let anyone take advantage of these females. They had enough enemies without making more.
On the other hand, there was no harm in watching, was there? Certainly, Morath didn’t think so. He was so intent on the females as he nudged his beast up near the bank, Kahless thought the man’s eyes would boil.
“Look at you,” Porus jibed, elbowing Morath in the ribs. “One would think you’d never seen a wench before.”
Morath shot him a look that was altogether too serious. “That would be none of one’s business,” he hissed.
But before he could say any more, his mount gave in to temptation—and surged forward over the riverbank, landing with a noisy plash in the shallow water beyond.
Suddenly, the females’ heads turned. For a moment, no one moved and no one spoke, each group seemingly paralyzed as it took stock of its situation. Then the naked ones struck out for the nearest bank.
For no reason he could identify at the time, Kahless brought his animal about and guided it through the trees. Up ahead, he could see the females scrambling for their garments in a little clearing, where they had hung them on the lower branches.
Without even bothering to put their clothes on, they scampered away through the woods. Not that there was any reason to flee, thanks to Kahless’s prohibition—but they had no way of knowing that. Amused, he watched them run, flee
t as any animal and twice as graceful.
All except one of them. The tallest and most beautiful stood her ground all alone, having grabbed not her clothes but a long, deadly dagger. As Kahless spurred his s’tarahk to move closer to her, he saw her eyes flash with grim determination.
He knew that look. This female had the heart of a warrior. He liked that. He liked it a lot.
Kahless heard his men emerge from the woods to assemble behind him. The female’s eyes darted from one to another of them, but she didn’t run or drop her weapon or plead for mercy. Yes, a warrior’s heart indeed.
“My father warned me that Molor’s warriors might be about,” she said, with just a hint of tremulousness in her voice. “Collecting Molor’s stinking taxes,” she went on. “But foolish me, I didn’t listen—and this is the result.” She raised her chin in a gesture of defiance. “Still, I’ll make some of you sorry you thought to lay a hand on me.”
Kahless heard his men laugh deep in their throats. With a gesture, he silenced them, though he himself was grinning like a kraw’za.
“We were once Molor’s warriors,” he told the woman. “But we’re not that anymore. In fact, he would be happier if we were hanged with our own intestines. And rest assured, we have no intention of laying a hand on you.”
The female’s eyes narrowed. “Not Molor’s men? Then you must be…”
“Outlaws,” said Kahless, confirming her suspicions. “And since I have spared your life, I ask a favor in return.”
“A favor?” the female echoed.
He nodded his head. “We could use some food and a comfortable place to sleep for the night—somewhere we’ll be safe from the lord of this place. We don’t want to find ourselves his prisoners in the morning.” He paused. “That is, if it’s not asking too much.”
For the first time, a smile tugged at the corners of the female’s mouth. “I think I can give you what you want,” she said. “But I’ll make no guarantees about keeping your presence here from Lord Vathraq. After all, it’s his hall you’ll be sleeping in.”
“His hall…?” Porus muttered.
The female nodded. “He is my father.”
Seven: The Modern Age
As Worf entered the captain’s ready room, he had expected only Picard to be waiting for him. He was surprised to see that there was another figure as well—a figure whose drab, loose-fitting garb marked him as one of the clerics of Boreth.
And not just any cleric. Closer scrutiny showed Worf that the shadowed face beneath the cowl was that of Koroth—chief among those who had dedicated their lives to the preservation of Kahless’s traditions.
Koroth inclined his head out of respect for the lieutenant. After all, it was Worf who had forced a meeting of the minds between Gowron and the clone, affording the emperor an honorary place in the council hall.
The security chief returned the gesture of respect. Then he looked to his superior for an explanation.
“I am as much in the dark about this as you are,” Picard informed him. Casting a glance in the cleric’s direction, he added: “Our guest asked that you be present before he told us what his visit was about.”
There was just the slightest hint of resentment in the captain’s voice, but Worf noticed it. After one had served with a commanding officer for more than seven years, one came to know his reactions rather thoroughly. However, the Klingon doubted that their visitor had picked up on it.
Koroth fixed Worf with his gaze. “I’ve come on behalf of Kahless,” he declared. “The modern-day Kahless.”
“The clone,” Picard confirmed.
The cleric nodded, though it was clearly not the description he would have preferred. “Yes. You see, he is in need of help—and he hopes you two will be the source of it.”
The captain shifted in his seat. “Why us?” he asked.
“Because he knows he can trust you,” Koroth told him. He was still looking at Worf. “After all, you were the ones who helped him come to an understanding with Gowron. If not for you, the Empire might have split into bloody factions over their conflict.”
True, thought Worf. Though it was Gowron, as leader of the High Council, who still wielded the real power.
“What exactly does Kahless wish us to do?” Picard inquired.
The cleric shrugged. “Unfortunately, he did not provide me with this information. Nor did I press him for it, as he seemed reluctant to speak of the matter. My mission was simply to alert you to Kahless’s need…and to give you the coordinates of a Klingon colony in the Nin’taga system, where Kahless wishes to meet you at a designated time.”
The captain eyed his security chief. Worf knew that look as well. It meant Picard had come up with some answers of his own, which he would no doubt wish to test.
“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the scroll?” the captain ventured.
Koroth scowled. “I would be surprised if it did not. The scroll has been a source of great discomfort to him. In fact, to all of us. I wish Olahg had never found the cursed thing.”
“Has it been authenticated?” Picard asked.
The cleric shook his head. “Nor do I believe it will be. I have publicly demanded that it be subjected to dating technologies, to prove its fraudulence. However, it may be too late to bury the controversy the scroll has created.” Koroth sighed audibly. “One thing is certain—Kahless needs your assistance now, before things get any worse.”
Worf didn’t doubt it. Kahless would not have called on them for any small problem. Whatever trouble the scroll had birthed, it was something big. He hated to think how big.
But in the end, it didn’t matter why Kahless had requested their help—only that he had. Surely, Picard would see that.
“Will you honor the emperor’s request?” asked the cleric.
The captain drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him as he looked from Koroth to the lieutenant and back again, mulling the situation over. After a while, he stopped.
“All right,” he told the cleric. “If there’s a problem in the Empire, I suppose I must investigate it, at least. Give me the time and coordinates of the rendezvous and I’ll be there.”
Koroth turned to Worf. “And you, Lieutenant?”
Worf indulged himself in a typically Klingon remark: “Can I let my captain risk his life alone?”
The cleric smiled a thin-lipped smile. “No,” he said softly. “Not if you are the sort of a warrior the emperor believes you to be.”
The lieutenant grunted. As Picard’s duty was clear, so was his—to respond to Kahless’s summons as quickly as possible, and to gauge the danger to both the Empire and the Federation.
But despite his brave remark, he didn’t feel inspired by the undertaking. Not when all he believed about Kahless seemed to have been built on a foundation of lies.
Commander William Riker was sitting in the center seat on the bridge, staring at the Byndarite merchant ship hanging off their port bow. He didn’t like the idea that something was going on and he didn’t know what or why.
First, the Byndarites had hailed the Enterprise—an unusual event in itself, given the aliens’ customary lack of interest in dealing with the Federation. Then the commander of the Byndarite vessel had asked to speak with Captain Picard—and Picard alone, though it was Riker who had command of the bridge at the time.
Naturally, the first officer had alerted the captain as to the request. Understandably intrigued, Picard had asked Riker to put the communication through to his ready room.
But the captain wasn’t the only one curious about the Byndarites’ intentions. And the first officer only became more curious when Picard gave the order to lower shields.
To Riker, that meant only one thing. Someone was beaming aboard.
Someone who insisted on a certain amount of secrecy, the first officer discovered a moment later. Otherwise, the visitor would have arrived in one of the ship’s several transporter facilities, instead of beaming directly into the captain’s ready room.
Trying to contain himself, Riker had remained patient—even when he saw the turbolift open and deposit Worf on the bridge. A little taken aback, he had watched the Klingon join Picard.
What did Worf have to do with the Byndarites? he had wondered. He was still wondering some ten minutes later when the aliens retrieved their mysterious envoy—or so his monitor indicated.
A moment later, as the first officer watched, Worf had emerged from the captain’s ready room. But he hadn’t provided an explanation. He hadn’t even glanced at anyone on the bridge. The lieutenant had simply reentered the turbolift and disappeared.
Which left Riker where he was now, staring at the Byndarite as it ran through some engine checks. Apparently, it was about to depart, taking its mystery along with it—and leaving the first officer in the dark.
Of course, the captain wouldn’t let him languish there for long. There were few matters he didn’t share with his senior staff, no matter how sensitive or restricted they were.
That was one of the advantages of serving under someone with as much clout as Jean-Luc Picard. He could bend the rules a little, and no one at Starfleet Command was likely to complain.
Not that he would let just anybody in on a high-priority matter. Only those officers he trusted.
Abruptly, the captain’s voice flooded the confines of the bridge. “Number One?” he intoned.
Ah, thought Riker. Right on time. “Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to see you in my ready room as soon as possible.”
“Right away, sir,” said the first officer.
Relinquishing the bridge to Commander Data, he got up, circumnavigated the curve of the tactical console and made his way to the ready room door. A moment later, he heard the single word, “Come.” Right now, it was a welcome word indeed.
As the door slid open, it revealed Picard. He was sitting at his desk, chair tilted back, looking contemplative. Lifting his eyes, he gestured to the chair opposite him.
“Have a seat, Will.”
Riker complied. “This is about our mysterious visitor?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question.
