The Hand of Kahless

by John M. Ford

  Finally, he turned to Kellein again. Her hair was black as a kraw’za’s wing and her eyes were green as the sea. She looked every bit as strong and defiant as the day he saw her in the river.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere,” he told her. “I want to stay.”

  Her eyes flashed. “No, Kahless. You must go back. You have come a long way toward tearing down the tyrant Molor, but there is yet much to do.”

  “Molor means nothing to me,” he declared. “The rebellion means nothing, except for my promise to Morath. I would give it all up in a moment to have you with me again.”

  Even before Kellein spoke, he knew the truth of the matter. “It is not possible,” she said. “At least, not now. You have a destiny to take hold of—and in their hearts, all who follow you know that. But to succeed in your quest, you will need a sword.”

  Kahless shrugged. “There are plenty of swords in the world.”

  She grasped his arm. “No. This one is different. It will be a friend to you in battle. It will make you unbeatable.”

  Kahless wanted to laugh, to tell her that a sword was no better than the warrior who wielded it. But he could see his Kellein was not in a joking mood.

  “Listen carefully,” she told him.

  Kellein gave him directions on how to make the sword. First, he had to take a lock of his hair and dip it in the hot blood of the Kri’stak Volcano. Then he had to cool the thing in the waters of Lake Lusor. Finally, he had to twist it just so.

  “Only then,” she said, “will you have the kind of weapon you need to overthrow the tyrant.” She squeezed his hand harder than ever. “Only then will you achieve a victory unequaled in the history of the world.”

  Kahless moved his fingers into the softness of her hair. He didn’t want to be talking with her about swords and tyrants. He wanted to tell her how much he ached for her still, how he would never forget what she meant to him.

  But before he could utter a word, Kellein faded like smoke on the wind. And before he knew it, he held nothing in his hands but empty air.

  He would have bellowed then like a wounded minn’hor, making the rafters ring with his agony, except someone had leaped off one of the benches and was approaching him. Someone he knew all too well.

  It was Starad, Molor’s son. And he was whole again, unscathed.

  The warrior had a sword in his hand, and it seemed he was looking for trouble. But something told Kahless that he could not be harmed here. After all, Kellein had said he had a destiny to seize elsewhere.

  “Kahless?” Starad laughed, brash as ever. “Is it really you?”

  The rebel held his ground. “You can see it is.”

  Molor’s son stopped in front of him and sneered. “I know what you’re up to, Kahless. But you’re just a yolok worm beneath Molor’s boot. Oh, maybe you’ll win a battle or two, but in the long run you can’t hope to accomplish anything.” He leaned closer to the rebel, grinning with his long, sharp teeth. “Why not give yourself up and save everyone some trouble?”

  Kahless could feel his own lips pulling back. “You were a fool when you were alive, Starad. I never thought to seek your counsel then, so why would I heed it now?”

  Molor’s son raised his sword before his face. Catching the light, the blade glinted murderously.

  “Ignore me if you want,” he rasped, “but you will not be able to ignore my father’s power. When the deathblow falls and your wretched rebellion falls along with it, you will remember me.” His eyes slitted with barely contained fury. “You will remember Starad.”

  Kahless cursed him. “You think I wanted this?” he hissed. “You think I wanted to be hunted like an animal? To see my mate lying dead on her father’s ground? To be deprived of comfort everywhere I turn?”

  Starad opened his mouth to reply—but nothing came out. And a moment later, he had faded to smoke, just like Kellein before him.

  Kahless felt a hand on his arm. He turned and found himself face to face with Rannuf, Edronh’s son. The boy was just as he had been in the forest that snowy day, ruddy-cheeked and full of life.

  “Rannuf,” he said, his anger abating. In its place, he felt only heavy-hearted remorse. “I am sorry you had to die. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise.”

  Rannuf shook his head. “You misunderstand, Lord Kahless. I have not come to exact an apology from you, or to blame you for my death. I have come to warn you about impending treachery.”

  “What treachery?” the rebel asked.

  “It is my father,” Rannuf explained. “Edronh plans to sell you out to Molor’s forces. He grows weary of losing his family and his possessions—weary of the bloodshed. The only way it will end, he believes, is when the tyrant has your head.”

  “No,” said Kahless. He shook his head. “That is not possible. Edronh has never shown me anything but loyalty.”

  The youth smiled grimly. “Molor might have said that about you once, my lord. Men change.”

  Kahless frowned. He couldn’t ignore Rannuf’s advice—not under the circumstances. It was said the dead had knowledge that was denied the living.

  “All right,” he replied. “What does your father intend to—?”

  He never finished his question. Like the others, Rannuf wavered and blew away on a puff of air.

  Kahless turned to the center of the hall, where the two warriors were still raising a terrible noise. The multitude of spectators egged them on from their seats. Up above, strange birds flew from one rafter to the next.

  Kellein had said he didn’t belong here. It seemed to him that she was right—that he wasn’t meant to leave the world of the living quite yet. But how was he supposed to get back?

  What offering did he have to make, and to whom? There was no sign of the serpent said to guard this place and keep it inviolate, or of the ancient ones who had challenged it….

  Just as he thought that, the hall itself began to quake and come apart, as if under the influence of a powerful wind. Oblivious to it, the warriors on the benches continued to cheer for one fighter or the other, and the birds continued to fly. But Kahless could see the hall shiver and dissipate, and its occupants along with it.

  Finally, he himself began to lose his shape, to twist in the wind and drift away. He cried out…

  …and found himself sitting upright in a tent, the air cold on his skin. His heart was pumping like a bellows and his eyes stung with sweat that had pooled in the hollows of their sockets.

  Kahless wasn’t alone, either. Morath was sitting in a corner, alongside Porus and Shurin, and a heavyset man he didn’t recognize at first. Then he remembered. The man’s name was Badich. He had professed to be a healer when he joined them.

  “Kahless is awake!” snapped Shurin.

  Morath got to his feet and came closer. “He looks better, too. I think the fever has broken.”

  “What did I tell you?” asked Badich, getting to his feet as well, albeit with a good deal more difficulty. “It was the poultice I made him. There’s nothing it can’t cure.”

  “How long have I been here?” asked Kahless.

  “Two days,” said Porus. “Your wounds became infected. You were so feverish, we thought we had lost you. How do you feel?”

  Kahless didn’t answer him. He just grabbed his tunic and slipped it on. It wasn’t easy, considering he hurt in a dozen places, all of which were dressed and bandaged.

  “What are you doing?” asked Morath.

  Kahless found his belt and cinched it around his waist. Then, with an effort, he pulled his boots on.

  “Where’s Edronh?” he wanted to know.

  The others looked at one another. Judging by their expressions, his question was a surprise to them.

  “Edronh?” echoed Shurin. “What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference,” Kahless insisted. “Where is he?”

  Porus shrugged. “With his men, I suppose.”

  Kahless grunted. “Let us see if that is so.”

  Doing his best to
forget how much he still ached, he emerged from the tent. It was dusk. The fires of his followers stretched for a distance all around him.

  “Edronh and his men are that way,” said Morath. He pointed in the direction where the sky was lightest and the stars already dwindling. “They’re guarding our front against the enemy.”

  “Show me,” Kahless ordered.

  Morath led him and the others to the place where Edronh was supposed to be encamped. Neither the northlander nor his warriors were anywhere to be seen, nor had their fires been tended lately.

  “Maybe we were wrong,” said Porus. “Maybe they bedded down somewhere else.”

  Kahless sniffed the wind. Nothing yet. But soon, there would be plenty.

  “You were not wrong,” he told Porus. “They were supposed to be here and they are not. They are off betraying us instead.”

  Morath looked at him, his brow wrinkled with concern. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

  “I heard it in a dream,” Kahless replied. “Now listen closely. We have to move before Molor takes Edronh’s treachery and skewers us on it.” He turned to Porus. “Stay here with a hundred warriors. Pretend to sleep, but keep your blades at hand.”

  “And what of the rest of us?” asked Shurin.

  Kahless clapped him on the shoulder. “The rest of us will slip away quietly and take up positions along the enemy’s flank.”

  “But the enemy is not in the field,” Badich protested. “He has no flank.”

  “Not yet,” Kahless agreed. “But he will soon enough.”

  Twenty-seven: The Modern Age

  As Picard and his comrades materialized on the perimeter of Muuda’s estate, the first thing that struck the captain was the heavy-handed showiness of the place. It was not a tribute to elegance by any standard, Klingon or otherwise.

  All around the low-lying m’ressa-wood structure, there were ornate fountains of polished marble and overgrown tran’nuc trees and elaborate stone paths leading through seas of ruby-red fireblossoms.

  And statues. Lots of statues.

  Ironically, the largest of them depicted Kahless’s epic struggle with the tyrant Molor. In this particular piece, they were locked in hand-to-hand combat, their bat’leths broken and lying in pieces at their feet. Both were bleeding from a dozen wounds, eyes locked, muscles straining in a life-or-death battle that would decide the fate of a civilization.

  The clone had apparently noticed the statue as well. “Nice likeness,” he grunted matter-of-factly from beneath his cowl. But he said nothing more on the subject.

  Of course, if the scroll were to be believed, Kahless’s encounter with Molor had been of a different nature. But if the clone wasn’t inclined to comment, Picard wouldn’t either.

  There was no evidence of a security system on the grounds or around the house. Apparently, Muuda had spent all his darsekmey on his esthetic, unable to imagine that his deeds would come back to haunt him.

  But haunt him they would, and with a vengeance. Picard and his allies would see to that.

  Proceeding along one of the wildly meandering stone paths, the four of them made their way to a window in the back. Worf peered inside, then turned to face the others.

  “There are warriors inside. Females as well,” he said, his mask muffling his voice. “But they all appear to be asleep, some with bottles of warnog in their hands.”

  Kurn grunted. “Drunk. Muuda must have thrown a party with his latest infusion of blood money.”

  Kahless nodded. “The same sort of blood money he used to buy this estate and furnish it with heroic images. I say we burn it down and him with it—give him a taste of what he did to those children.”

  “After we’ve dragged some information out of him,” Kurn noted.

  “Yes,” said the clone. “Afterward, of course.”

  The captain looked at them with some alarm. But Worf made a gesture of dismissal, indicating it was only talk. The Klingons wouldn’t incinerate these people any sooner than Picard would.

  It wouldn’t be honorable. And to some Klingons, honor was still an issue.

  “Come on,” said the lieutenant.

  He moved to the next window and looked through it. This time, the captain saw Worf’s lip curl in disgust. When he turned to them again, he didn’t report out loud as before. He just tilted his head to indicate Muuda was inside.

  Kahless didn’t hesitate. Taking out his d’k tahg, he turned it pommel-first and smashed the window glass. Then he vaulted through the aperture, oblivious to the shards that still stuck to the frame.

  In rapid-fire succession, the others followed. As Picard leaped through the ruined window, he saw a one-armed Klingon lying in a bath of faceted obsidian, surrounded by three levels of steps. Despite the noisiness of their entrance, Muuda was still unconscious.

  But then, warnog had that effect. Warriors had been known to sleep for days after a particularly generous dose of the beverage.

  Not so the two females who had shared Muuda’s bath. Eyes wide, they slithered out of the water and ran for the door, naked as the day they were born. But Kurn blocked their way, his drawn dagger enough of a threat to stop them in their tracks.

  They hissed at him. “Let us go,” one of them insisted, showing her teeth. “We have done nothing wrong.”

  “Get back,” the governor instructed, obviously not in a mood to argue the point.

  Worf grabbed a couple of robes hanging on a wall rack and threw them at the females. “Clothe yourselves,” he told them. “Then find a corner and be still. Cooperate and we’ll leave you unharmed.”

  Ultimately, the females had little choice. Catching the robes in midair, they put them on and relegated themselves to a corner of the room. But even then, they were far from docile-looking.

  Having dealt with Lursa and B’Etor of the House of Duras, the captain knew how big a mistake it would be to underestimate the “gentler” Klingon sex. He resolved to keep an eye on the females until they were done with their business here.

  Advancing to the bath, Kahless walked up the steps and reached for Muuda’s hair, which lay spread about his shoulders. Grabbing a lock in his fist, the clone tugged without mercy.

  Crying out, Muuda brought a bottle out of the water with his good hand. Out of instinct, he tried to strike Kahless with it. But the clone batted it away. A moment later, it shattered on the floor, leaving an amber-colored pool on the stone.

  “Muuudaa,” growled Kahless, drawing the name out, making it plain it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  The Klingon in the bath looked up at him through bloodshot eyes, still half in an alcoholic stupor. But he wasn’t so drunk he didn’t know what kind of danger he was in.

  “Who…who are you?” he stammered.

  The clone took out his dagger and laid its point against Muuda’s cheek. “I will ask the questions here,” he said.

  Realizing this was no dream, the Klingon swallowed. “Yes,” he agreed. “You will ask the questions.”

  “You bought two bombs from a pair of armory workers on Ter’jas Mor,” Kahless told him. “Bombs intended for use in an academy on Ogat. But you didn’t see them planted yourself. You were merely a go-between—a middleman. Who was it you bought the bombs for?”

  Muuda swallowed again, even harder than before. Obviously, he was thinking of what would happen to him if his employers discovered he had identified them. But he also had to be thinking about the more immediate danger—the masked intruders in his bath chamber.

  Noting Muuda’s indecision, the clone flicked the point of his dagger, breaking the skin of the Klingon’s cheek. He winced as a droplet of lavender blood emerged.

  “I asked you a question,” Kahless hissed. “I expect an answer.”

  Muuda glared at him. “All right,” he said, slurring his words. “I’ll tell you. Just let me up. It is cold in here.”

  The clone shook his head. “Not a chance, p’tahk. You will have plenty of time to warm yourself when we are done here. Now who was i
t?”

  Seeing his ploy wouldn’t work, the Klingon acquiesced. He told them not only who was involved in the plot, but the role each of the conspirators had assumed in it.

  It was just as Kahless had been telling them all along. These people were some of the most highly placed officers in the Klingon Defense Force. And there was one name that was not associated with the Defense Force, but was nonetheless more important than all the others.

  “All well and good,” said Worf. “But what proof do we have that this ko’tal is telling the truth?”

  The merchant licked his lips. “There is a way to prove it,” he replied. And he informed them of it.

  When Muuda was done, the clone took his knife back and sheathed it. “That is more like it,” he said. “Now we leave you to your newfound wealth and your companions. But trust me, coward, when I say you will not have long to enjoy them. The innocents you killed will not soon be forgotten.”

  Picard saw the look in Muuda’s eyes. The Klingon believed it. No doubt, it would take the pleasure out of his revels, knowing how short-lived they would be. At least, the captain wanted to think so.

  With a jerk of his shaggy head, the clone advised them it was time to withdraw. The warriors in the house might come out of their drunken sleep at any moment, and it would be tempting fate to stay and lock horns with them.

  Instead, Kahless slipped out of the window, and the others followed. Before Muuda and his females could sound the alarm, Picard saw the glimmer in the air that signified their transport.

  Twenty-eight: The Heroic Age

  Kahless and his men had barely settled in when Molor’s army began to move, charging headlong without the least bit of caution. After all, the enemy’s warchiefs expected the rebels to be helpless and exposed. Thanks to the warning Kahless had received, they were neither.

  He waited only until Molor’s soldiers had moved past them and were on the verge of the rebel camp. Then, with guile and fury and righteous indignation, he attacked. The tyrant’s men never knew what hit them.