Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (33 page)

It was the fifth attack on which the battle turned. It started out like all the others, with Molor’s son trying to turn his superior reach to his advantage. He began by aiming at his enemy’s head—but when Kahless moved to block the stroke, Starad dropped his shoulder and tried instead to cut him at the ankles.

Kahless leaped to avoid the blow, which he hadn’t expected in the least. Fortunately for him, it missed. But when he landed, he stumbled.

He was just starting to right himself when his heel caught on something and he sprawled backward. At the same time, Starad came forward like a charging beast, his sword lifted high for the killing downstroke.

Kahless knew that someone had taken advantage of his vulnerability to trip him. He even knew who it was, though the man might have concealed it from the others. But there was no time for accusations—not with Starad’s blade whistling down at him.

He rolled to one side—but not quickly enough. Before he could escape, the finely honed edge bit deep into his shoulder, sending shoots of agony through his arm and leaving it senseless as a stone.

Striding forward, Starad brought his blade up again—apparently his favorite line of attack. Kahless could see the purplish tinge of gore on it—the younger man’s reward for his last gambit.

The sight of his own blood was maddening to Kahless. It gave him the manic strength to get his legs underneath him, to try to lift his weapon against this new assault. But again, he saw, he wouldn’t be fast enough. Starad would crush his other shoulder, leaving him completely and utterly defenseless.

He clenched his teeth against the expected impact, knowing it was treachery that had cost him this battle. But treachery, he knew, was part of life.

Then something flashed between him and Starad—something small and slender and bright. It caught the younger man in the side, forcing him to loosen his grip on his weapon and hit the ground instead of his target.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kahless saw a warrior step back into the crowd, lighter by the weight of a throwing dagger. He vowed to remember the man, just as he would remember who had caused him to lose his footing a moment earlier.

In the meantime, there was still a battle to be fought. Kahless scrambled to his feet and raised his blade before him, albeit with one hand. By then, Starad had pulled out the dagger in his side and balanced it in his left hand. It was clear what he intended to do with it.

Seeing that he had no time to lose, Kahless lunged as quickly and forcefully as he could—closing the distance between them so the dagger couldn’t be thrown. With a scowl, Starad brought his blade across to intercept his enemy’s.

But just this once, he was too slow. In one continuous motion, Kahless thrust his sword deep into the younger man’s side and followed it with his shoulder, bringing Starad down like a tall tree at a land-clearing feast.

They landed together, Kahless on top of his enemy—and his first thought was of the dagger. Taking a chance, he let go of his hilt and used his right hand to snatch at Starad’s wrist.

There was still a lot of strength left in Molor’s son—so much, in fact, that Kahless nearly lost the struggle for the dagger. But in the end, he forced Starad to plunge the thing into the ground.

Weaponless, hampered by the sword in his side, Starad clawed at Kahless’s face, scoring it with his nails. But the older man managed to squirm free, to lurch to his feet, and to grab hold of the sword that still protruded from between Starad’s ribs.

He pulled on it, eliciting a groan from Molor’s son. With a sucking sound, the blade came free.

Kahless felt the weight of the sun on his face. His wounded shoulder throbbed with pain that was only just awakening. Breathing hard, sweat running down the sides of his face into his beard, he bent to recover the dagger that had preserved his life and thrust it into his belt. Then he paused to survey his handiwork.

Starad was pushing himself backward, inch by painful inch—trying to regain his sword, which had fallen from his hands at some point and still lay a meter or so beyond his grasp. There was gore running from his mouth and his nose, and his tunic was dark and sticky where Kahless had plunged his sword in.

Molor’s son was no longer a threat. Left to his own devices, he would perish from loss of blood in a matter of minutes. But despite everything, Kahless was inclined to give him one last chance—for by doing so, he’d be giving himself a chance as well.

A chance that Molor would forgive him. A chance that he might still have a place in the world.

Approaching Starad, so that his shadow fell across the man, Kahless looked down at him. Molor’s son looked up, and all the hatred in him was evident in his bulging, bloodshot eyes.

“Yield,” Kahless barked, “and I’ll spare your life.”

Starad kept on pushing himself along, though he never took his eyes off his enemy. Obviously, he had no intention of giving in.

Kahless tried again anyway. “Did you hear me, warrior? I’ll let you live if you admit your mistake.”

“I admit nothing,” Starad croaked. “If I were you, Kahless, I would kill me—because otherwise, I
swear
I’ll kill
you.
”

The older man scowled. There was no point in dragging this on. He was weak with blood loss himself and needed stitching. Raising his blade with his one good hand, he brought it down as hard as he could. Molor’s son shuddered as the spirit passed out of him.

But Kahless wasn’t through yet. Removing the dagger from his belt, he turned and threw it. Nor did the warrior who’d tripped him realize what was happening in time to avoid it.

There was a gurgling sound as the man tried to pull it from the base of his throat. He’d only half-succeeded when his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, then pitched forward face-first on the ground.

Kahless grunted. There was silence all around him, the kind of silence that one might fall into and never be heard from again. Withdrawing his blade from Starad’s body, Kahless wiped it clean on the tattered sleeve of his wounded arm. He could feel the scrutiny of his warriors, but he took his time.

Finally, he looked up and commanded their attention. “Molor ordered me to burn this place if its taxes were not paid. I will not do that, nor will I allow anyone else to do it. If there is a man among you who would dispute that with me, as Starad has, let him step forward now. I do not, after all, have all day for this foolishness.”

The bravado of his words far exceeded his ability to back them up. He was already beginning to feel light-headed, and he doubted he would survive another encounter. However, he knew better than to say so.

“Well?” he prodded. “Is there not one of you who thinks ill of me for breaking my promise to Molor?”

No one stepped forward. But one of them, the one who had thrown the dagger at Molor’s son, drew his sword from his belt and held it high, so it caught the sun’s fiery light.

A moment later, another of Kahless’s charges did the same. Then another, and another, until every warrior in the circle was pledging his allegiance to the wounded man. Even those who’d ridden with Starad, and laughed at his jokes, and drawn their torches when he did. Their swords were raised as well.

Kahless nodded. It was good to know they were behind him.

But at the same time, he recognized their foolishness. He had made a pariah of himself. He had begun a blood feud with the tyrant Molor, the most powerful man in the world.

Kahless had nowhere to go, no place he could call home. And no idea what he would do—in the next few minutes, or hours, or days.

No—that wasn’t quite true. There was one thing he knew he would do. Eyeing the warrior who had taken the dagger in his throat, he walked over to him, ignoring the mounting pain in his shoulder.

Bending, Kahless withdrew the blade from below the man’s chin. Then he walked over to the warrior who had thrown it in the first place.

“Here,” he told the man. “I believe this is yours.”

“So it is,” the warrior replied. He accepted the dagger and replaced it in its sheath, which was strapped to his thigh.

“What’s your name?” asked Kahless.

The warrior looked at him unflinchingly, with dark, deep-set eyes. “Morath,” he answered. “Son of Ondagh.”

Kahless shook his head. “To follow me is to invite Molor’s vengeance. You must be a cretin, Morath, son of Ondagh.”

Morath’s dark eyes narrowed, but there was no spite in them. “No more than you, Kahless, son of Kanjis.”

The warchief couldn’t help smiling at that. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approaching. He turned.

It was the village headman. Behind him, a couple of women had come out with wood for the cooking pot. Another man was setting it up again in the center of the square.

“Your wound,” said the old man. “It must be cauterized and bathed, or it will become infected and you will lose the arm.”

Kahless couldn’t help but see the wisdom in that. Bad enough to be hunted by Molor, but to do so with only one hand…

“All right,” he said, loud enough for all his warriors to hear. “We’ll wait long enough to lay hot metal against my wound. Then we will ride.”

But he still had no idea where they would go or what they would do. Unfortunately, he had never been an outlaw before.

As Kahless marched the length of the long corridor that led to the Klingon High Council Chamber, he could hear the resounding clack of each footfall. He had grown to like that sound, to look forward to it—just as he had grown to appreciate the venerating looks he got from the warriors standing guard along the way.

It was right that his footsteps should resound. It was right that warriors should look at him with respect and admiration in their eyes. After all, he was
Kahless.

But even here, the emperor saw, the scroll had taken its toll on him. The guards didn’t look at him quite the same way as he passed. Instead, they peered at one another, as if asking: Is it true? Can he be the utter fraud they’ve made him out to be?

The muscles in Kahless’s jaw tightened. He wished he had Olahg’s scrawny neck in his hands, for just a minute. He would repay the initiate tenfold for the damage he had done.

Regaining control, he saw the doors to the central chamber were just ahead. Kahless resolved not to glance at anyone else along the way, but to keep his gazed fixed on the entrance.
Remember who you are,
he told himself.
Remember and be proud.

He didn’t pause at the doors, as other Klingons did. It was his right as emperor—even one who wielded no political power—to come and go as he pleased. Laying a hand on either door, he pushed them open.

Gowron was sitting in the leader’s seat at the far end of the chamber, conferring with one of his councilors. When he saw Kahless make his entrance, he paused for a moment, then dismissed the councilor with a gesture.

Kahless stopped, allowing the echoes of the man’s footfalls to become lost under the dark, vaulted roof. Gowron sat back in his seat and assessed his visitor, his eyes giving no clue to his emotional state.

The emperor grunted softly. Gowron was very good at that, wasn’t he?

“What do you want?” asked the council leader, his voice—like his eyes—as neutral as possible.

Kahless straightened to his full height. “I would speak with you privately, son of M’rel.”

Gowron considered the request for a moment. Then he looked to the guards who stood at the door and made a sweeping motion with his arm. Kahless didn’t look back to see how it was done—but a moment later, he heard the heavy, clanging sound of the doors as they were shut.

It was quiet in the chamber now. The only sound was that of their breathing—until Kahless spoke up again.

“I believe there is a conspiracy,” he said, seeing no reason to be circumspect. “A plot against you and your regime—and therefore, against me as well.”

Gowron’s brows met over the bridge of his nose. He started to smile as if it were a joke, then stopped himself. “And who do you believe is conspiring against us?”

Kahless told him about the incident in the dining hall. About Lomakh, and the things he had seen Lomakh say. And, finally, he told Gowron what he thought it all meant.

The council leader stared at him. “Why
them?
” He tilted his head. “They have always been among my greatest supporters. Why would they see fit to turn against me now?”

“One might look at a
thranx
bush for seven years,” said Kahless, “and conclude it was incapable of flowering. But if one came back in the eighth year, one would see a vast profusion of flowers.”

Gowron scowled. “In other words, they’ve been nurturing a plot against me for some time? And I was simply not aware of it?”

“It is certainly possible,” Kahless agreed. “The question is—what are you going to do about it?”

Gowron’s scowl deepened, his eyes like flat, black stones. “I will do nothing,” he replied at last.

If this was humor, the emperor didn’t appreciate it. “Nothing?” he barked, his words echoing around him. “Against a threat of this magnitude?”

The council leader leaned forward in his chair. “If there
is
a threat,” he rejoined. “I have seen no evidence. All I have to go on is the account of a single individual—an individual with a great deal on his mind right now, who may have perceived a conspiracy where none existed.”

Kahless could feel the old anger rising inside him. It was all he could do to keep from challenging Gowron to combat.

“You doubt my
word?
” he seethed. “You think I’ve made this up?”

“I think you believe what you believe,” the other man responded, leaning back ever so slightly. “However, under the circumstances, your beliefs may not be grounded in reality. And I cannot accuse my right hand of clawing at my throat until I have seen its fingers reaching for it.”

Kahless felt the anger bubble up inside him, refusing to be denied. “I saw what I saw!” he thundered, until the rafters shook with it. “And if you will not defend your Empire, I will!”

Gowron’s eyes flashed with equal fire. But before he could answer, the emperor had turned on his heel and was headed for the exit.

Had it been anyone else, Kahless knew, the council leader would have rewarded his impertinence with a swift and violent death. But scroll or no scroll, he was still Kahless. Gowron didn’t dare try to kill him, no matter how great the insult.

What was more, Kahless had suffered the greater affront. The accuracy of his observations had been questioned, as if he were some drooling half-wit, or a doddering old warrior who had outlived his usefulness. Gowron’s words stung him like
pherza
wasps as he threw open the doors and stalked back down the long corridor beyond.

Seeing his anger, the guards on either side of him looked away.
A wise move on their part,
he thought. He was in no mood for further impudence on the part of his inferiors.

Until recently, Kahless told himself, Gowron’s regime had benefited mightily from the emperor’s popularity. Only now, as the controversy concerning the scroll reached new heights, did Gowron seem eager to disassociate himself from Kahless—to keep the clone at arm’s length.

Kahless’s mouth twisted into a silent snarl. Regardless of how Gowron had treated him, he could not let the Empire fall. And yet, he couldn’t very well face the threat of Lomakh and his conspirators alone.

He needed help. But from whom? Who could he enlist in his cause?

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…