by John M. Ford
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be okay. Really.”
Riker stopped. As he watched, wishing he could have done more, the boy headed for his quarters.
Twenty-four: The Heroic Age
Kahless whirled on his s’tarahk and cut at his adversary with his sword. With a speed born of self-preservation, the soldier parried the blow with a resounding clang, then launched an attack of his own.
But Kahless’s first cut had only laid the groundwork for his second. Ducking to avoid his enemy’s response, he struck hard at the man’s flank.
The soldier couldn’t react in time. Kahless’s sword bit deep between two ribs, eliciting a scream. Then, while the man was at a disadvantage, the rebel sat up again and delivered the deathstroke.
As the soldier fell from his mount, his throat laid open, Kahless turned and surveyed the barren hillside he had chosen. No one else was coming for him. Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he surveyed the changing terrain of the battle.
It was his first full-scale clash with Molor’s forces—a clash designed to test the mettle and dedication of his ragtag army. So far, it seemed to him, the battle was more or less even. To their credit, the rebels were holding their own.
Still, they could be overrun if some pivotal event went against them. The same with the tyrant’s army. That was the way of such conflicts—Kahless knew that from his service to Molor during the border wars.
He was determined that if the battle turned, it would do so in the rebels’ favor. That meant he could not simply wait and hope—he had to make something happen on his own. And he knew just what that something might be.
Cut off a serpent’s head. Had that not been the tyrant’s own advice to him in the border wars?
Seeking out the warlord in charge of Molor’s forces, he found the man directing a charge against the rebels’ flank. Kahless smiled to himself. He couldn’t see who the warlord was for the hair that obscured his face, but it didn’t matter. He would bring the man down or die in the attempt.
Spurring his s’tarahk with his heels, he sliced his way through the ranks of the enemy. When he was close enough, he bellowed a challenge—one that could be heard even over the din of battle. As he’d hoped, the warlord turned to him.
And Kahless realized then whom he’d challenged. The man’s name was Yatron. And like Starad, he was Molor’s son.
The rebel clenched his teeth. He had already earned the tyrant’s hatred many times over, hadn’t he? What difference did it make if he gave Molor one more reason to despise him?
“Kahless!” bellowed Yatron, consumed with rage.
He seemed to recognize his brother’s killer. And judging by the expression on his face, Yatron had no intention of adding to his father’s miseries. Digging his heels into the flanks of his s’tarahk, he charged at Kahless, his sword whirling dangerously above his head.
Raising his own blade, Kahless charged too. They met in an empty space, each trying to skewer the other with the force of his attack. But somehow both of them escaped untouched, their only injuries the numbness in their sword arms.
Yatron whirled and hacked at the rebel’s head, but Kahless was ready for him. Turning the weapon away, he stabbed at the warlord’s chest. Fortunately for Yatron, he was quick enough to catch the stroke and deflect it.
For a long time, they exchanged brutal blows, neither of them giving an inch. Kahless was gouged and cut and battered, but none of his wounds were enough to slow him down.
It was the same for Molor’s son. As many times as the rebel tried to slice him or run him through, Yatron always eluded the worst of it—and came back for more.
Kahless’s sword became too heavy to swing. His throat grew raw with the dust he raised. And still he fought on.
Finally, he saw an opening—a hole in the web of steel Yatron wove about himself—and took advantage of it. Reaching back for whatever strength he had left, the rebel brought his blade around in a great and terrible arc.
When he was done, Yatron lay in the dirt, clutching at his entrails. Exhausted as he was, Kahless didn’t let him lie there that way for long. As he’d shown mercy to one of Molor’s sons, he now showed mercy to the other.
Done, he thought. The serpent’s head is off.
The rebel paused for a moment, chest pounding, sweat streaming down both sides of his neck. It was a moment too long.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something bearing down on him. Too late, he turned and brought his sword up. He had time to glimpse a flash of teeth and a pair of murderous eyes before he felt a sword bury itself in his side.
With a sucking sound, it came out again. Kahless bit back a cry of agony and clutched at the neck of his s’tarahk, trying desperately to steady himself. He could feel his strength ebbing, feel his side growing cold and wet with blood.
His attacker spun about and came back at him to finish the job. Somehow, despite his agony, Kahless found the strength to lash out backhanded.
He was lucky. The edge of his blade caught his enemy in the forehead, sending him twisting down to the ground.
The outlaw had no time to congratulate himself. He was losing his grip—not only on the reins, but on his senses. The battle churned and tossed about him like an angry sea, disorienting him until he didn’t know up from down.
Kahless was weak from loss of blood, and it was getting worse. If he was to achieve victory today, he would have to hurry. Hanging on as best he could, he raised his sword with a trembling arm.
“Their warlord is dead!” he thundered, though the ground seemed to reach up at him. “Without him, they are no better than we are!”
His words seemed to have the desired effect. With cry upon cry, his warriors surged against Molor’s forces like a ponderous surf, a force that would not be denied.
The outlaws shoved the tyrant’s men back. And again, and further still. And moments later, Molor’s army broke like a dam trying to hold back a flood.
Kahless yelled at his men, urging them on. But he himself didn’t have the strength to dig his heels in and follow. His hands and feet had become cold as ice, his vision had grown black around the edges.
Finally, mercifully, the ground rushed up at him. He had no choice but to give in to the darkness.
Twenty-five: The Modern Age
The installation that included Ter’jas Mor’s defense armory was so big and stark and gray, Picard had trouble believing even a Klingon would have found it esthetically pleasing. But then, it was built more for security than esthetics.
And certainly, under normal circumstances, the place’s state-of-the-art security systems would have kept intruders from getting in. But these were not normal circumstances—and Kurn, with his thorough knowledge of Defense Force design methods and codes, was hardly the average intruder.
Kahless grunted. “I never thought the day would come when Kahless the Unforgettable wore a mask like a lowly sneak thief.” Reaching underneath his hood, he scratched some part of his face to relieve an itch.
“I sympathize,” said the captain.
He, too, felt funny wearing a mask—and he doubted that Worf and Kurn liked it any better. Among Klingons, as in many other cultures, masks were badges of dishonorable intent.
However, it was important that they not reveal themselves here in the heart of a Defense Force installation. Hence the additional precautions, which included concealing themselves in the shadows until their prey entered their trap.
Picard had barely completed his thought when he heard footfalls approaching from the far end of the alley. Exchanging looks with Worf, he pressed his back that much harder against the wall that concealed them.
As their objective came closer, the captain all but stopped breathing. It was important that this be as quick and silent as they could make it. If anyone else heard what was going on, all their hard work might go for nothing.
Luck was with them. The Klingon armory worker didn’t have the slightest inkling they were about. Without a c
are in the world, he approached his door and tapped in the security code on the well-worn padd beside it.
It wasn’t until the door began to slide aside that he heard even the slightest sound. And turned. And opened his mouth to cry out.
But by then, it was too late. Grasping the man by the back of his neck, Kahless pushed hard—sending him hurtling into his abode, where he sprawled on the hard, smooth floor.
Twisting about to see who had attacked him, the Klingon might have had ideas about getting up or sounding an alarm—but it was too late for that as well. Worf was already standing over him, the disruptor in his hand pointed directly at the center of the Klingon’s forehead. And at this range, it was highly unlikely he would miss.
Of course, as far as Picard could tell, Worf had no intention of using the weapon, except as a bluff. But the object of their attentions didn’t know that.
Picard touched a wall padd beside the door and the metal panel slid closed. That left the four of them alone with their newfound friend.
“What…what is it you want from me?” the Klingon grated.
He was a lean man with a head that somehow seemed too large for his body. Though his skin was dark, his eyes were large and blue, and his only real facial hair was a tuft of beard in the center of his chin.
Kahless knelt beside the armory worker and grabbed a fistful of his tunic. When he spoke, his voice dripped with deadly intent. What’s more, the captain thought, the clone wasn’t just pretending—he meant it.
“What do we want?” Kahless echoed. “We want to know what possessed you to steal a bomb from the place where you’re employed.”
The man shook his head vigorously. “Whoever you are, you’re mistaken. I stole no bomb.”
Kahless leaned closer, his eyes smoldering through the slits in his mask. “Do not lie to me, p’tahk. I hate liars more than anything. Now tell me—why did you take the bomb? Do you get some sort of perverse satisfaction from destroying innocent children?”
“I know nothing of this,” their host complained. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
Kahless tilted his head as he studied the worker. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we have the wrong man.”
Abruptly, he struck the Klingon across the face with his free hand. The captain winced beneath his mask and the worker flung his hands up to protect himself from a second blow.
But it was unnecessary. Kahless had made his point.
“Perhaps that is so, Adjur, son of Restagh. Perhaps we have made a mistake. But,” the clone growled, “I do not think so. I think we have precisely the man we are looking for.”
“We know you stole the bomb,” said Worf, a voice of reason in comparison to Kahless. “Tell us who else was involved. Your accomplices, your contacts in the Defense Force, everything. Or you will not live long enough to regret the blood you’ve shed.”
The Klingon looked from one masked and hooded face to the next, his blue eyes full of fear. By now, he must have known how slim his chances of survival were—unless he cooperated.
There was still the chance that he was telling the truth, of course, and was completely innocent of the charges against him—but Picard doubted it. He’d been a captain long enough to know when someone had the stench of treachery about him—and this one stunk to high Heaven.
“All right,” Adjur relented. “I’ll talk.” His eyes narrowed. “But first, you must tell me what you meant about the children.”
Was it possible he didn’t know? Certainly, his question seemed sincere enough. Or was he simply building a case for his ignorance?
Kurn spat. “The bomb was used to destroy an academy. Some of the victims weren’t tall enough to cut your throat.”
That got a reaction from the Klingon—an expression of shame and disgust. “I did not know,” he swore heatedly. “If I had, I would never have gotten involved with them.”
“With who?” asked Kahless.
Adjur scowled. “The one who came to me was a Klingon named Muuda. He’s a merchant of some sort.”
“Tell me more,” the clone advised him.
Adjur’s scowl deepened. “Muuda said he represented a conspiracy to overthrow Gowron, and to replace him with someone else. But he never said who the other conspirators were or who they proposed as council leader.”
“And you didn’t care enough to ask?” Worf prodded.
The armory worker shrugged. “What difference would it have made to me? Besides, Muuda was willing to offer me latinum in exchange for my cooperation. One in my position does not often get such an offer.”
“Who else accepted this offer?” asked Kahless.
Adjur went silent. “No one,” he said.
Based on Godar’s comments, they suspected otherwise. This was their chance to have the suspicion corroborated.
“A lie,” snarled the clone, tightening his grasp on the Klingon’s tunic. “Tell me the truth, son of Restagh, or I’ll see to it you never walk the same way again.”
Adjur swallowed. “His name is Najuk, son of Noj. We made the deal with Muuda together. Najuk got one bomb and I got another.”
Picard nodded. Godar had been correct. Besides, he recalled seeing two separate explosions at the academy.
Kahless pulled the armory worker’s face closer to his own. “Listen carefully,” he rasped. “I should turn you in for what you’ve done—but I won’t, if you continue to help me. I want to know how to find this Muuda.”
Adjur saw he had little choice in the matter. “That goes for all of you?” he asked. “You won’t turn me in?”
“All of us,” Worf confirmed.
That was good enough for Adjur. “He lives on Kerret’raa, just north of the city of Ra’jahn. He once described the place to me.”
“Anything else we should know?” asked Kurn.
The armory worker thought for a moment. “Yes. You’ll know Muuda at a glance because he has only one arm. He lost the other in a battle with the Romulans twenty years ago.”
Kahless made a sound of disgust as he thrust Adjur away from him. “A real patriot, this Muuda. Good. Then we won’t have to twist off his other arm to get some information out of him.”
The armory worker must have thought his ordeal was over. But as the clone turned away from him, Kurn pinned Adjur hard against the wall. Behind his mask, the governor seemed to be smiling.
“If I were you,” he said, “I would pack up and run. Tonight. Otherwise, you will be kraw’za food before you know it.”
The Klingon looked confused. “But I told you what you wanted to know. You said you wouldn’t turn me in.”
“And we won’t,” Kurn assured him. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t tell the families of those who were killed.”
Adjur paled. His eyes grew larger than ever. “You wouldn’t,” he moaned.
Worf’s brother didn’t answer. He just released the armory worker as if he were some diseased animal. Then he tapped the appropriate keys on his wrist controller.
The next thing the captain knew, they were back on Kurn’s ship, and its master was setting the controls for Kerret’raa.
Twenty-six: The Heroic Age
Like a man who had discovered how to see for the first time, Kahless opened his eyes. He was standing in a courtyard.
The stones beneath his booted feet were small and gray, deftly cut and fitted together. The walls around him were gray as well, and taller than he had ever imagined walls could be. Even the barriers around Molor’s fortress at Qa’yarin seemed small and frail-looking by comparison.
The doors to the keep here were made of heavy wood, and bound between sheets of tough, black iron. As Kahless watched, they opened for him. A din of music and laughter poured out, making the courtyard ring. Curious, he ventured inside.
There was no one in the anteroom to ask him his name or his business there, no one to stop him. Glad of it, he hurried on into the feast hall.
It was huge and imposing, with beams and poles and rafters made of rich, red teqal
’ya wood and a flock of exotic birds roosting in the recesses of its high vaulted ceiling. The place was ringed with benches, on which sat a veritable host of armed men. And in the center of the hall, two warriors in leather armor clashed and clattered and raised a terrible commotion with their swords, though neither seemed to sustain any wounds.
Kahless shook his head in wonder. Whose hall was this? How had he gotten here? And who were these warriors?
Suddenly, he noticed that someone was standing next to him. Expecting a threat, he whirled.
But it wasn’t a threat. A cry stifled in Kahless’s throat. Reaching out, he touched the side of Kellein’s face with infinite gentleness.
“How…?” he stumbled, drinking in the sight of her.
Kellein grasped his hand and placed it against her breast. He could feel her jinaq amulet.
“Do not ask how,” she told him. “Nor when, nor where, nor why. Only trust that I am who I seem I am, and that we have a pitifully short time to be together.”
He drew her closer. “Kellein…I wish I…if only…”
She shook her head. “You did not fail me, Kahless, son of Kanjis. I was meant to perish along with the rest of Vathraq’s people. There is nothing you could have done about it.”
He couldn’t accept that. “But if I had turned down your father’s invitation, if I had kept riding—”
“The same thing would have happened,” Kellein insisted, “albeit it in a different way. We were meant to find this place.”
Kahless looked around and realized where he was. He swallowed hard. Until now, it had only been a legend to him, a tale told to children around the fire. Now it was wonderfully, painfully real.
“Enough of me,” his betrothed said. “I need to speak of you, Kahless. Soon, you will leave this place, because you do not belong here. And when you return to the world, there is something you must do.”
He looked around at the warriors seated on the benches, and he began to see among them faces that he recognized—faces of men who fought beside him on the frontier. And also, the faces of those who had fought against him.
