The Hand of Kahless

by John M. Ford

The security officer didn’t like to be put on the spot like this. The captain knew that from experience. On the other hand, Worf had the firmest grasp of the situation. If anyone could divine the truth about this “conspiracy,” it would be the son of Mogh.

  For a long moment, Worf looked Kahless square in the eyes. Then he turned to Picard. “I think we ought to go to the homeworld,” he said at last.

  The captain was still leery of the prospect. However, he had placed his trust in his security officer.

  “All right,” he concluded. “We’ll go.”

  Kahless smiled. “You won’t regret it,” he said.

  Tapping his wristband, he activated his link to whatever vehicle awaited him. It was the same kind of wristband Picard himself had used to maintain control of Enterprise shuttles.

  At the same time, the captain tapped his communicator and notified the Pescalians they wouldn’t be going back with them. At least, not yet.

  “Three to beam up,” the clone bellowed.

  A moment later, Picard and the others found themselves on the bridge of a modest cruiser. As with all Klingon vessels, the place was small, stark, and lacking in amenities. Quarters were cramped and lights were dim. The bridge had three seats; Kahless took the one in the rear, leaving his companions the forward positions if they wanted them.

  “Break orbit,” the clone commanded, speaking directly to the ship’s computer. “Set course for Qo’noS, heading three four six point one. Ahead warp factor six. Engage.”

  The captain felt the drag of inertia as the ship banked and leaped forward into warp. Even for a small and relatively unsophisticated vessel, its damper system left something to be desired.

  Then again, Kahless probably preferred it that way. The rougher, the better, Picard mused.

  “The journey will take a couple of days,” the clone informed them. “When you tire, you’ll find bunks in the aft cabin.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder for emphasis. “Back there.”

  Picard nodded. “Thank you.”

  He recalled the last time he was on a Klingon vessel. He had been on a mission to investigate Ambassador Spock’s activities on Romulus. From what he remembered, his cabin had been sparsely furnished and eminently uncomfortable. He resigned himself to the likelihood that on a cruiser this size, the accommodations would be even worse.

  Worf looked around. “Nice ship,” he observed.

  Kahless grunted. “Gowron gave it to me, though I don’t think he expected I’d use it much. And truthfully, I haven’t.”

  Again, Picard found his eyes drawn to the amulet on the clone’s chest. He was starting to think he’d seen such a thing before in his studies of Klingon culture, though he wasn’t sure where.

  “You like my amulet?” asked Kahless.

  The captain was embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “You need not apologize,” said the clone. “It is called a jinaq.”

  Picard nodded. He remembered now. Klingon men used to wear them when they were betrothed to someone. Did that mean Kahless intended to marry?

  “I have no lover,” the clone informed him, as if he’d read the captain’s mind. “Not anymore, at least—not for fifteen hundred years or more. But I wear it still, out of respect for her.”

  “I see,” said Picard.

  He made a mental note to ask Worf about the applicable myth later on. It sounded interesting—and if it would shed more light on Kahless for him, it was well worth the time.

  Ten: The Heroic Age

  Kahless sat back heavily in his sturdy wooden chair, his head spinning like a child’s top. The food and the bloodwine had been more than plentiful. And in all fairness, Vathraq wasn’t the worst storyteller he’d ever heard, although he came close.

  But the warchief was restless under his host’s vaulted roof. So, as the revelers’ eyes grew bloodshot on both sides of the overladen table, and their speech thickened, and the hall filled with smoky phantoms born of the cooking fires, the guest of honor left the feast.

  No one seemed to notice as he made his way out of the great hall, or as he crossed the anteroom and exited the keep. And if anyone did notice, they didn’t care enough to say anything.

  The evening air was cold and bracing after the warmth of Vathraq’s feast—like a splash of melt from a mountain spring, clearing his head and tightening the skin across his face. Breathing it in deeply, he felt as if he’d regained some semblance of his wine-dimmed senses.

  A dirt track began at his feet and twisted tortuously between a couple of dark, blockish storage buildings, then reached through the stronghold’s open gates to the river road beyond. Kahless caught a glimpse of the cultivated tran’nuc trees that grew between the road and the riverbank, and the sweet, purplish fruit that drooped heavily from their thorny black branches.

  Vathraq hadn’t served the tran’nuc fruit because it wasn’t ripe yet, nor would it be for a couple of weeks. Kahless knew that because his family had had a tree of their own when he was growing up.

  Still, he hadn’t bitten into a tran’nuc fruit since he left the capital months earlier. And he might not have a chance to taste one again, the way Molor was hunting him.

  He could feel the warm rush of his own saliva making his decision for him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his fat-smeared hand, he set out for the gate and the trees beyond. The sentries on the wall turned at his approach. He called up to them, so there would be no surprises.

  They swiveled their crossbows in his direction, just in case he was one of the tyrant’s tax collectors trying to deceive them. Then one of them recognized him, and they let their weapons fall to their sides. It was unlikely that they’d have shot at him anyway, considering he was leaving the compound, and doing it alone at that.

  Once past the gates, he felt the wind pick up. It lifted his hair, which he’d left unbraided. The broad, dark sky was full of stars, points of light so bright they seemed to stab at him.

  Kahless grunted. What wasn’t stabbing at him these days?

  Leaving Vathraq’s walls well behind him, Kahless crossed the road and approached the nearest tran’nuc tree. As he moved, the river unfolded like a serpent beyond its overhanging banks, all silver and glistening in the starlight. It seemed to hiss at him, though without malice, as if it too had had its fill this night.

  Arriving at the foot of the tree, he reached up and tore a fruit from the lowest branch. In the process, he scratched himself on one of the long, jagged thorns. A rivulet of blood formed on the back of his hand, then another.

  Ignoring them, he bit into the fruit. It was riper than he’d imagined, sweet and sour at the same time. But as he’d already gorged himself on Vathraq’s food, he had no room for the whole thing.

  Tossing the sweet, dark remainder on the ground, he waited for the yolok worms to realize it was there. In a matter of seconds, they rose up beneath it, their slender, sinuous bodies white as moonlight. The fruit began to writhe under their ministrations, and then to disappear in chunks as they consumed it with their pincerlike jaws.

  Before long, there was only a dark spot on the ground to show that the tran’nuc fruit had ever existed. Kahless snorted; it was good to know there were still some certainties in life.

  He turned to the river again, observing the ripple of the winds on its back. He had forgotten how good it could feel to have a full belly and the prospect of a warm place to sleep. He had forced himself to forget.

  Of course, he could have had this every night, if only he’d gone along with Molor’s orders back at M’riiah. If he had returned from his mission, the blood on his sword testament to his hard work, and remained the tyrant’s most loyal and steadfast servant.

  Molor treated his servants well. He would have given Kahless all the females he wanted, and all the bloodwine he could drink. And in time, no doubt, a hall of his own, with a wall for his trophies and a view of his vassals working in the fields.

  But if he had torched the village as he was supposed to, all the bloodwine
in the world wouldn’t have soothed him at night. And the stoutest walls couldn’t have kept out the ghosts of M’riiah’s innocents.

  The outlaw snorted. Why had the tyrant set such a task before him anyway? Why couldn’t he have sent one of his other warchiefs—one with a quicker torch and a less tender conscience?

  Kahless shook his head angrily. I’ve got to stop playing “what if” games, he told himself, or they’ll drive me mad. What’s done is done, for better or worse. And is that any different from what I—

  Before he could complete the thought, Kahless realized he was not alone. His eyes slid to one side, searching for shadows; there weren’t anyway. Nor could he find a scent, given the direction of the wind. But he sensed someone behind him nonetheless, someone who had apparently made an effort to conceal his approach.

  Kahless’s thumbs were already tucked into his belt, and his back was to his enemy. As subtly as possible, he moved his right hand toward the knife that hung by his thigh and grasped it firmly. Then he lifted it partway from its leather sheath.

  Listening intently, he could hear the shallow breathing of his assailant, even over the sigh of the wind. In a minute, maybe less, the yolok worms would have another meal—and a meatier one.

  He waited for a few impossibly long seconds, the hunter’s spirit rising in him, the blood pounding in his neck like a beast tearing loose of its chain. His lips curled back from his teeth, every fiber of his being caught in the fiery fever of anticipation.

  Finally, the moment came. Clenching his jaw, Kahless whirled, blade singing as it cut the air, heading for the spot between his enemy’s head and his shoulders. His eyes opened wide, drinking in the sight of surprise on the intruder’s face, exulting in the prospect of the blood that would flow from his—

  No!

  Muscles cording painfully in his forearm, he stopped his blade less than an inch from its target. The oiled surface of the knife glinted, reflecting starlight on the smooth, gently curving jaw of Vathraq’s daughter. Her neck artery pulsed visibly beneath the metal’s finely honed edge.

  And yet, she didn’t flinch. Only her eyes moved, meeting Kahless’s and locking onto them. They were pools of darkness, full of resentment and anger.

  But nothing to match his own. Lightning-swift, Kahless flicked the blade back into its sheath and snarled like a wounded animal.

  “Are you mad?” he rasped. “To sneak up on me like a—”

  He never finished. Kellein’s open hand smashed him in the face, stinging him as he wouldn’t have imagined she could. He took a half-step back, stunned for the moment.

  But she wasn’t done with him. Slashing him with her nails, oblivious to the knife he still held in his hand, she sent him staggering back another step. With his left hand, he caught one of her wrists and squeezed it hard enough to crush the bones within.

  His intention was to make her stop until he could put his knife away, then use both hands to subdue her. But before he could carry it out, his back foot slipped on the uncertain ground of the riverbank. He felt himself falling backward and braced himself for the chill of the current.

  But instead, he felt something hard rush up to meet him, half-pounding the breath out of him. Then there was another impact—that of a weight on top of him. Her weight.

  It was only then he realized that they had fallen onto a gentle slope just beneath the bank. In the season of Growing, this ground would be submerged by the flood; now, it was dry.

  Kahless found that he was still grasping Kellein’s wrist with his free hand. Tightening his grip on it, he glared at her, his face mere inches below hers. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his face, smell the wildflowers with which she’d adorned herself for the feast.

  Pleasant sensations, under other circumstances. But here and now, they only made him angrier. Remembering his knife, he plunged it into the soft earth beside him.

  Kellein planted the heel of her hand on his chest and tried to get up—but he wouldn’t let her. Though Kahless’s strength was greater than hers, she tried a second time. And a third.

  His lip curled. “You followed me out here,” he growled accusingly.

  “And what if I did?” she returned, her teeth bared in an anger that seemed every bit as inflamed as his.

  “What were you thinking?” he thundered. “Why did you come up behind me without warning?”

  Kellein’s eyes narrowed, making her seem even more incensed than before. “Why,” she asked—her voice suddenly husky with something quite different from anger—“do you think?”

  Suddenly, Kahless understood. All too aware of the hard-muscled angles of Kellein’s body, he caught her hair in his fist and drew her face down until her mouth met his.

  He tasted blood—though it took him a moment to realize it was his own, wrung from a lip Kellein had just punctured with her teeth. He didn’t care, not in the least.

  In fact, it made him want her that much more.

  In the aftermath of passion, Kahless lay with his back against the ground and Kellein’s head on his shoulder. Lightly, she ran her fingernails across his cheek, tracing what seemed to him to be arcane emblems.

  Praxis had risen in the east. In its light, Kellein’s skin took on a blue-white, almost ethereal cast. She was too beautiful to be of this world, yet too full of life to be of the next.

  “What?” she asked suddenly.

  He looked at her. “How did you know I was thinking of something?”

  Kellein grunted. “You are always thinking of something. If you weren’t, Molor would have caught you a long time ago.”

  Kahless smiled at that. “But how did you know this thought had to do with you, daughter of Vathraq?”

  She shrugged and looked up at the stars. “I just knew,” she told him.

  “Did you also know what I was thinking?”

  Kellein cast him a sideways glance. “Don’t play games with me, Kahless. I don’t like games.”

  “I don’t either,” he admitted. “It is only that…”

  “Yes?” she prodded.

  “Where I come from, this means we are betrothed.”

  Kellein laughed. It was the first time he’d heard her do that. Normally, he would have liked the sound of it—except in this case, he felt he was being mocked. He said so.

  “I am not mocking you,” she assured him.

  “It does not have to mean we’re betrothed,” the warchief told her, snarling as he gave vent to his anger. “It does not have to mean anything. We are not in my village, after all.”

  “I am not mocking you,” Kellein repeated, this time more softly. “I was laughing with delight.” She propped herself up on one elbow and looked deeply into his eyes. “What we did just now…it means the same thing to my people that it does to yours.”

  His anger faded in the wake of another emotion—a much milder one. “You would betroth yourself to me? An outlaw with no future?”

  “Not just any outlaw,” Kellein said. “Only Kahless, son of Kanjis, scourge of hill and plain.”

  Kahless was filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the bloodwine. Taking her head in his hands, he drew her to him again.

  “You should do that more often,” he told her.

  She raised her head. “Do what?” she asked.

  “Laugh,” he answered.

  “Oh,” she said. “That.” There was a note of disdain in her voice. “I have never been the laughing kind.” And then, as if she had been carrying on a separate conversation in her own head, “I will make you a jinaq amulet just like mine. That way, everyone will know we belong to each other.”

  “Yes. Everyone will know. And all through the Cold, whenever I touch it, I will think of you.”

  For a moment, Kellein seemed surprised. “Through the Cold…?”

  Kahless nodded. “I mean for my men and I to lose ourselves in the mountains. To give Molor time to forget we exist. Then, when the hunt for me has abated somewhat, I will send them away to seek their separate fortunes
, unburdened by their association with me. And you and I will go somewhere the tyrant can’t follow.”

  “I could go with you now,” she suggested. “To the mountains, I mean. I could remain at your side the long Cold through.”

  “No,” he told her. “It wouldn’t work for me to have a mate when none of the others do. It would cause jealousy, dissension. Besides, if Molor were to catch us, the worst he could do is kill us. A female, especially a strong one, would be handled much worse.”

  Kellein ran her long-nailed fingers through his hair. “But you’ll come back in the Growing.” It wasn’t a question. “And then you’ll ask the Lord Vathraq for his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  He grunted. “I will indeed. That is, if I’m still alive.”

  She eyed him with a forcefulness he had never seen in a woman before. It robbed him of his breath.

  “You’ll still be alive,” Kellein told him, “if you know what’s good for you.”

  Eleven: The Modern Age

  Alexander couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, imagining fleecy sheep leaping over fences in a land of rolling, green hills. They leaped one at a time, making long, lazy jumps.

  It didn’t work. It had never worked. And it didn’t make it any easier that he had never seen an actual sheep in his whole, entire life.

  The only reason Alexander even tried counting sheep was that his mother had suggested it to him. He clung to things he remembered about her a little more than was absolutely necessary.

  Like the way she used to sneak up on him and hug him when he wasn’t expecting it. Or the way she would recite nursery rhymes to him, which she claimed were from Earth but sounded more Klingon than human.

  Little Red Riding Hood, for instance. Didn’t that one end with a woodchopper slicing a wolf into bloody bits?

  Then there was Snow White, where an evil stepmother poisoned the heroine of the tale with a piece of fruit. K’mpec, who led the High Council before Gowron, died after being poisoned.

  And what about the Three Billygoats Gruff? Unless Alexander was mistaken, that was about an animal who butted his enemy off a bridge and saw him drown in the waters below. If that wasn’t Klingon, what was?