by John M. Ford
The outlaws cut through them like a scythe, harvesting death, irrigating the ground with the blood of their adversaries. Kahless searched for Edronh across the battlefield, but never found him. It wasn’t until later that he realized why. Apparently, Morath had found him first and showed him the error of his ways.
In the end, Kahless routed Molor’s men, sending away half the number that had come after him. It was his second great victory in three days. More importantly, it showed his followers they could go nose-to-nose with the best-trained army in the world.
When the combat was over, and Kahless was surveying the field with Morath at his side, he remembered another bit of advice he had gotten in his dream. Unfortunately, he could not take it literally.
A lock of hair was not a good thing to make a weapon of, no matter how cleverly it was twisted. Nor was the crater of an active volcano any place for a man who still clung to sanity.
Still, Kellein’s directions made a kind of sense if one looked at them the right way. A sword like that would be more than a means of killing one’s adversaries. It could become a symbol.
Of self-reliance. Of freedom. And ultimately, of victory.
“I need a metalsmith,” Kahless said out loud.
Morath looked at him. “Right now?” he said.
“Right now,” the rebel confirmed. “And so he will have something to work with, I will need twenty swords plucked from the hands of the enemy’s corpses. And of course, whatever he needs to make a smithy.”
His friend grunted. “Did you hear about this in your dream as well?”
Kahless nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
As it happened, there were several metalsmiths among the rebel forces. The best one was Toragh, a man with short, gnarly legs, a torso like a tree trunk, and biceps each the size of a grown man’s head.
“You want what?” asked Toragh, after Morath and Porus had brought him to Kahless’s tent.
A second time, the rebel chieftain showed the metalsmith what he wanted, carving the same shape into the soft dirt. “Like so,” he said. “With a grip here in the center, and an arc here, and cutting edges all around.”
The metalsmith looked at him as if he were crazy. “I have been at this for twenty years, and I have never heard of anything like this. How did you come up with it?”
“Do not ask,” Morath advised him.
“Where I got the idea is not important,” Kahless added. “What is important, metalsmith, is whether or not you can make it for me.”
Toragh stroked his chin as he considered the design in the dirt. Finally, he nodded. “I can make it, all right. But it will not be easy. A weapon like this one will require a steady hand at the bellows, or the balance will be off—and balance is everything.”
“I will work the bellows myself if I have to,” Kahless replied. “Rest assured, you will have everything you need.”
Toragh eyed him. “And you’re certain this will help us to tear down the tyrant?” He seemed skeptical.
Kahless laughed. “As certain as the bile in Molor’s belly.”
Twenty-nine: The Modern Age
Propelled by only a fraction of its impulse power, Kurn’s craft drifted ever closer to the subspace relay station that hung in space dead ahead. Picard had seen plenty of such stations before, but never one operated by the Klingon Defense Force.
The difference was pronounced, to say the least. Though the station’s sole function was to transmit data from one place to another, its architecture was so severe as to look almost ominous. The captain wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be better armed than some starships.
It wasn’t long before they got a response from the station. A lean, long-faced Klingon with a thin mustache appeared on the monitor screen set into Kurn’s console. His garb suggested that he was in command of the facility.
“Who are you and what do you want?” the Klingon grated. His eyes, one dark brown and the other a sea green, demanded an answer.
In any other culture, Picard knew, this would have been a sign of disrespect, perhaps even a challenge. However, Klingons did not waste time with amenities. They simply said what was on their minds.
Still, Kurn put on a show of anger. As he had explained minutes earlier, the best way to deal with a bureaucrat was to seem even more annoyed than he was.
“I am Kurn, son of Mogh,” he grated. “Governor of Ogat and member of the High Council.”
The station commander’s eyes narrowed. “I have heard of Kurn. But for all I know, you could be a slug on the bottom of Kurn’s boot.”
Worf’s brother made a sound deep in his throat. “Then look for yourself. Bring up my file image and compare it to what you see.”
The station commander wasn’t about to take anyone at his word. Barking an order to an offscreen lackey, he glared at Kurn—as if trying to decide what to do with him if he wasn’t the council member.
A few moments later, the same lackey whispered in the station commander’s ear. A look of confusion passed over the Klingon’s face, like the shadow of a cloud on a sunny day.
“You do indeed appear to be Kurn,” he said finally. “But according to our information, Kurn is supposed to be dead.”
Fortunately, Worf’s brother was prepared for this. Tossing his shaggy head back, he laughed out loud. “Dead?” he roared. Abruptly, he leaned forward, so that his face was only a couple of inches from the monitor. “Tell me, son of a targ—do I look dead to you?”
The station commander swallowed. “No,” he conceded, “you do not.”
“Then lower your shields,” said Kurn, pressing his advantage, “and prepare for our arrival.”
The Klingon on the relay station hesitated—but only for a moment. Then, looking as if he’d just eaten something distasteful, he turned and barked an order over his shoulder.
“Our shields have been lowered,” he reported. “You may beam aboard the station whenever you please.”
That was Picard’s cue. Still wearing the cloak he had used on Ter’jas Mor, he picked up the hood and brought it down over his face. After all, it would arouse instant suspicion if a human were to beam aboard alongside Kurn.
Since Kahless and Worf might also have been recognized, they donned their hoods as well. Only Kurn went bareheaded.
Picard and his lieutenant set their disruptors on stun. However, their companions, Klingons through and through, did nothing of the sort.
Worf’s brother then reached for the remote transporter controls set into his armband. He tapped out the proper sequence and glanced at the captain—as if to make certain he was ready for what would follow.
Picard was ready, all right. The next thing he knew, he was standing on what appeared to be the relay station’s main deck, almost face-to-face with the Klingon he’d seen on the monitor.
Kurn interposed himself between them, so the station commander wouldn’t be tempted to try to peer inside the hood. Of course, that didn’t stop the other Klingons present.
Each of them looked up from his duties and wondered at the newcomers. The captain noted that the Klingons were all armed—not that that was a surprise. And he was certain their disruptors weren’t set on stun.
“I want to download secured transmission records,” Worf’s brother announced. “My ship’s computer is ready and waiting. All I need is your help to get past the security codes.”
The station commander glanced at Picard, Worf, and finally Kahless. Then he turned back to Kurn.
“You travel in mysterious company,” the Klingon observed.
“My choice of companions is not your concern,” Kurn snapped. And then, to throw out a bone: “A man in my position finds the best bodyguards he can, Klingon or otherwise. Now, the help I asked for?”
The station commander frowned. Obviously, this wasn’t going to be as easy as they had hoped.
“You have not yet stated your reasons for coming here,” he maintained. “It’s one thing to allow you entry, considering your po
sition with the Defense Force. But to circumvent the security codes, I would require clearance from the homeworld. I have not received any such clearance.”
Kurn grunted. “And if I told you I was here on Council business? And that the Council does not wish its dealings to be known beyond these bulkheads?”
The station commander thrust out his beardless chin. “In that case, I would still require some form of—”
Kurn didn’t allow him to finish his statement. Instead, he backhanded the Klingon across the mouth with a closed fist, sending him staggering into a bulkhead. When the station commander looked at him again, there was hate in his eyes and lavender blood running down his chin.
But by then, Worf’s brother was aiming his disruptor pistol at the Klingon’s forehead—just as his companions were pointing theirs at the various other personnel on the station.
Kurn took a step closer to the station commander, keeping his weapon level. The look in his eyes said he wouldn’t think twice about using it. In fact, he might relish the experience.
“Thank your ancestors I am a merciful man,” Kurn bellowed. “But I will not ask you again.” He tilted his head to indicate the communications console at one end of the room. “Do it—or you will wish you had.”
Suddenly, Picard heard a shout from somewhere behind him. He whirled just in time to see yet another Klingon emerge from behind a sliding door—a Klingon with a weapon in his hand. He must have been working in a storage area when Kurn’s group arrived.
And now, he had returned to the main deck—only to see his comrades held at disruptor-point. Under the circumstances, the man’s reaction was understandable. The captain sympathized.
But that didn’t mean he was going to stand there and present an easy target for the Klingon’s disruptor fire. Ducking to his right, he watched the disruption beam pass him and strike a bulkhead, where it disintegrated a good part of the thing before its destructive energies wore themselves out.
That could have been me, Picard told himself. At the same time, he returned his adversary’s blast—crumpling the Klingon where he stood.
It might have ended then and there. However, their comrade’s entrance gave the stationkeepers the chance they’d been looking for. Or so it seemed to the captain, as the place turned into a chaotic mess of hurtling bodies and flailing limbs, not to mention the occasional errant disruptor beam.
“Watch out!” cried a familiar deep voice.
Before Picard could determine what he had to watch for, he saw Worf rush past him—in order to meet another Klingon head on. The human winced at the bone-jarring sound of their clash, and was only slightly relieved when he saw his officer had come out on top.
A disruptor beam sizzled by his ear. Turning, Picard aimed at the source of it and let fly with a beam of his own.
It hit a stationkeeper’s hand and knocked the pistol out of it. And before he could recover, Kahless slammed his fist into the Klingon’s jaw, sending him sprawling.
But before the captain could seek out another target, he felt something strike him in the back of the head. There was a moment or two that seemed very long, much too long, and then the floor rose up to meet him with a sickening impact.
Tasting blood, Picard turned his head to see what was going on. Something descended on him—something big and dark and powerful-looking. He was about to lash out at it with the heel of his foot when he realized it was Worf.
“Captain,” said his tactical officer, evincing obvious relief. “When I saw you go down, I was afraid they had—”
Picard waved away the suggestion. “The point is, they didn’t,” he said. With Worf’s help, he got to his feet and surveyed the place.
About half the stationkeepers were unconscious. The rest of them were gone without a trace. Fortunately, the station commander was among those who still remained.
With Kahless’s help, Kurn dragged the Klingon over to the main console and placed the commander’s hand on the appropriate padd—the customary Defense Force security bypass. Abruptly, the console lit up with a pattern of green and orange lights.
“Qapla’,” said Kahless, smiling.
“Qapla’ indeed,” agreed Kurn, as he set out to download the transmission records. It only took a minute or so, once they had access to the system. Had it been a Federation system, it wouldn’t even have taken that long.
“Your computer has the information?” the clone asked.
Worf’s brother nodded. “The transmission is complete.”
“Good,” said Kahless.
Lifting his disruptor pistol, he trained it on the console and fired. The thing was consumed in a matter of seconds.
“Now,” he declared, “these burden beasts will be unable to call for help when they come to.”
In fact, the “burden beasts” in question were already stirring. Picard looked at Kurn, who nodded once and worked the controls on his armband.
The captain drew his next breath on Kurn’s ship. Kahless snorted, a sound of triumph. Worf eased himself into the pilot’s seat and brought the ship about as his brother went to the sensor panel.
Picard joined Kurn. “No sign of any transmission, I trust?”
Without looking up, Kurn shook his head. “None. And to my knowledge, there are no backup systems. Klingons are not enamored of redundancies.”
Except when it comes to parts of your anatomy, the captain thought, remembering how Worf’s biological redundancies had enabled him to walk again after his back had been broken. But as with so much else, he didn’t say it out loud.
“Wait,” said Kurn. “There is a transmission.”
Kahless came over to see it with his own eyes. “I do not understand,” he said. “I destroyed the communications panel. You all saw it.”
“It is not coming from the station,” Worf’s brother explained. “It is being sent there from somewhere else.”
The emperor snorted. “That’s more like it. What does it say?”
Kurn brought it up on his monitor. Of course, Picard couldn’t read Klingon very well. He had to wait for the others to provide a translation.
But after only a few moments, he could tell that the news was not good. Suddenly, Kahless blurted a curse and turned from the console.
The captain looked to Kurn. “What is it?” he asked.
“It is about the scroll,” Worf’s brother told him. He glanced at the emperor. “It was tested for authenticity—and it passed. Apparently, even the clerics of Boreth are now satisfied the thing is authentic.”
Thirty: The Heroic Age
In the center of Tolar’tu, Kahless held Shurin’s battered body in his arms and roared at the gathering storm. Rain fell in heavy, warm drops, mixing with Shurin’s blood and marking the dirt at the rebel’s feet.
“This was my friend,” Kahless cried. “Shurin, who never knew his father or mother, who lost an eye fighting Molor’s wars. Yet he saw more clearly than most men, for he was among the first to turn against the tyrant.”
With a sudden heave of his powerful arms, the outlaw raised Shurin’s loose-limbed corpse to the heavens. More importantly, he made it visible to the vast mob gathered before him—an assemblage of rebels that packed the square from wall to wall and squeezed into the narrow streets all around.
Nor was he the only one with a dead man in his hands. There were hundreds of others clasped by friends and kin, grim evidence of the efficiency of Molor’s soldiers and the sharpness of their swords.
But for every rebel that fell, two of the tyrant’s men had gone down as well. For every one of Kahless’s outlaws, two of Molor’s soldiers. And in the end, that had been enough to save Tolar’tu from destruction.
Not all of it, unfortunately. Not the outer precincts, where the enemy had smashed and burned and gutted at their warlord’s command. But thanks to the courage of these rabble and riffraff, this square and the buildings around it had gone unscathed.
“What will I tell this man of courage,” Kahless raged, “when I see him on
the far side of Death? What will I say took place after he left us? What tale will I bear him?”
There were responses from the crowd, guttural demands of vengeance and promises of devotion. He couldn’t make out the exact words for the echoes. But he could see the expressions on the rebels’ faces, and by those alone he knew he was reaching them.
Strange, the outlaw thought. He had always been able to reach them this way, hadn’t he? He had just never paused to reflect on it. Kahless raised Shurin’s body a little higher.
“Will I tell him his comrades came as far as Tolar’tu, then faltered? That at the last, they spit the bit and allowed his death to come to nothing? Or will I tell him we persevered, and went on to Qa’yarin, and trampled the serpent there under our heel?”
This time the answer was so deafening, so powerful, Kahless thought the buildings around him might crumble after all. It was like being in the center of a storm, the likes of which the world had not known since its beginnings—a tempest made of men’s voices and clashing swords and a yearning so fierce no enemy could stand against it.
Truth to tell, Shurin had broken his neck falling off his s’tarahk in the midst of the battle. Kahless himself had seen the beast stumble and throw the man to the ground, and he had seen Shurin lie still as other beasts came and trampled him.
It might not have been that way if the man hadn’t had too much bloodwine the night before. Or if he had slept more instead of rolling gaming bones halfway to morning.
But that was not the picture the outlaw wished to paint—and since he had been the only witness to Shurin’s death, he could paint it as he liked. The one-eyed man would be an asset in death as he was in life. A hero if necessary, a martyr if possible. Shurin himself would have laughed at the notion, but he was no longer alive to have a say in the matter.
Lowering Shurin’s corpse, he laid it on the ground. Then he stood again and waited for just the right moment.
