Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (39 page)

It was
Kurn.

“There are more of them back there!” he bellowed over the roar of the fire and the screams of the injured. “Some may still be alive!”

But it was clear that some were not. The bodies of dead students littered the hallway, having come to rest wherever the explosion cast them. Their postures were painfully grotesque.

Picard wanted to rearrange them, to give them some measure of dignity in death. But there was no time. His priority had to be the survivors.

For what seemed like an eternity, the captain pulled out child after child from the burning building. Some were conscious, some were not. Some were badly wounded, others only dazed.

There were still others to be saved—no one knew how many. But just as Picard was running back inside for another survivor, an even bigger explosion wracked the building.

He was deafened by it, thrown off his feet as the floor beneath him shivered with the impact. He found himself pressed against a slab of stone, the skin of his cheek scraped and bloody.

As the captain rose and regained his bearings, he saw a huge ball of fire blossom into the sky. In its wake, all was silent. There were no screams from within, no sound of life at all. And by that, he knew there was nothing more they could do in this place.

But if he stayed, the fire would consume him. So Picard dragged himself outside, where the surviving students had been arrayed on the short, red
en’chula
grass.

That’s when he saw Worf heading toward him, the Klingon’s countenance full of horror and rage. The captain waved his officer back.

“There’s no one left in there,” he shouted, striving to be heard over the groans of the wounded. “If they weren’t dead before, they’re dead now.”

But Worf didn’t stop. Wild-eyed, he kept on going, aiming for the burning pile of rubble that was all that remained of the academy.

“Lieutenant!” Picard cried. “Worf!”

His officer didn’t heed him. Instead, as if bent on suicide, he plunged into the maze of flames.

The captain started after him, but he felt himself grabbed from behind. Whirling, he saw it was Kahless who had grabbed him, and Kurn wasn’t far behind.

“Let me go!” Picard shouted. “It’s Worf! He’s gone back into that inferno!”

“Then he’s dead!” the clone roared back at him. “You cannot throw your life after his!”

Kurn didn’t say a thing. He just stared at the blazing ruin. But by the look in his eyes, the captain could see Worf’s brother had given up hope as well.

Cursing beneath his breath, Picard tried to pull away from Kahless. But the clone was too strong, and the human was too drained from his rescue efforts. In time, the captain ceased his struggles and gazed narrow-eyed at the academy building.

He could feel the heat of the conflagration on his face. Even here, it made the skin tighten across his face.

By then, Picard told himself, Worf had to have perished. No one could have survived. He didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t see any way around it.

Suddenly, against all common sense, the captain caught sight of something moving in the debris. Something that made a path for itself between the flames. Something that staggered out through a gap in what had once been a wall.

It was Worf.

His face was blackened with soot, his clothing full of smoke and red-hot embers. And somehow, against all odds, he had not one but
two
young Klingons slung over his shoulders.

Rushing to him, the captain helped relieve Worf of his burden. With Kurn’s help, he lowered one of the students to the ground. Though badly burned and bleeding from half a dozen places, the child was still breathing. He had a chance to live.

Not so with the other one, the youth Kahless had wrested from Worf’s shoulders. He was blackened beyond recognition, a lifeless husk. But in the chaos within the building, there couldn’t have been any way to tell that. Worf had just grabbed him and run.

As for the lieutenant himself, he was on all fours, helplessly coughing out the acrid fumes that had invaded his lungs. As someone came and took the living child away, Picard went to Worf and laid a hand on his powerful shoulder.

The Klingon’s head came about sharply, his eyes smoldering no less than the inferno from which he’d escaped. Shrugging the captain off with a growl, he got to his knee and turned away.

Picard wasn’t offended. He understood. His security officer had been reduced to instincts in his attempt to save those children. And his instincts were not pretty by human standards.

No, he realized suddenly—there was more to it than that. A great deal more. Standing, he recalled the story he had read several years earlier in Worf’s personnel file.

As a child of six, Worf had accompanied his parents to the Khitomer outpost, on the rim of the Klingon Empire. It was an installation devoted to research, to scientific pursuits. Nonetheless, the Romulans attacked the place without warning, brutally destroying the four thousand Klingons who lived there—Worf’s parents included.

Buried in the rubble, in danger of suffocation, Mogh’s son would have died too—except for the Starfleet vessel
Intrepid,
which arrived in time to search for survivors. A team located a faint set of life signs in the ruins and began digging. It was Sergey Rozhenko, a human, who saved the Klingon’s life and later adopted him.

The captain could only imagine what it had been like to be trapped in all that debris, small and alone, despairing of assistance yet hanging on anyway. Or how Worf had felt when he’d seen the stones above him coming away, to reveal the bearded face of his savior.

That’s why he had refused to leave those two children behind. That was the force that had impelled Worf from the conflagration against all odds. The Klingon remembered the horrors of Khitomer. He could not do less for those students than Sergey Rozhenko had done for him.

Even as Picard thought this, he heard a call go up, a wail of pure and unadulterated pain. A moment later, a second call answered it, and then a third. Before he knew it, every survivor, child and adult, was crying out to the smoke-stained sky above them. Worf too.

This wasn’t the death song the captain had heard before—the ritual howl of joy and approval meant to speed a warrior’s soul to the afterlife. This was an admixture of fury and anguish, of ineffable sadness, that came from the darkest depths of the Klingon heart.

Those who died this day had been denied the chance to become warriors. They had been slaughtered like animals on the altar of greed and power. And no one here, Picard included, would ever forget that.

The murderers of these children had to be brought to justice. There was no other way the captain would be able to sleep at night.

“Whoever did this,” said a hollow voice, “was without honor.”

Picard turned and saw it was Kahless who had uttered the remark, his throat raw from crying out. And he was standing beside Kurn—hardly an accident.

Worf’s brother didn’t turn to look at the clone. But in his eyes, the captain could see the reflection of the burning academy. Kurn’s jaw clenched, an indication of the emotions roiling within him.

“Obviously,” said the governor, in a soft but dangerous voice, “the conspiracy is real. And this attack was directed at
me,
on the assumption I would move to help you uncover it.” He grunted. “Me, a member of the High Council—as if that meant anything.”

“The question,” Kahless responded pointedly, “is what you are going to do about it.”

This time, Kurn looked at him. “What I will do,” he said, “is put my loyalty to the lovers aside—and help in whatever way I can.”

The clone nodded, satisfied. Then, despite the weariness they all felt, he went back to see to the survivors, who were being tended to by those adults who had survived unscathed.

Suspecting that Worf and his brother might have several things to say to each other, the captain fell in behind Kahless. After all, Picard had a brother too. He knew how exasperating they could be.

Snow was falling in great, hissing dollops, making it difficult to see the trees even thirty meters in front of them. But it wasn’t falling so heavily Kahless couldn’t see the hoofprints between the drifts, or catch the scent of the wild
minn’hor
herd that had made them.

“We’re gaining on them,” Porus observed with some enthusiasm, his ample beard rimed with frost.

“Slowly,” Shurin added. He snorted. “Too slowly.”

Kahless turned to the one-eyed man. Like the rest of them, his cheeks were sunken from not having eaten in a while.

“We’re in no hurry, Shurin. It’s only the middle of the day. Why push the
s’tarahkmey
if we don’t have to?”

Morath said nothing. That wasn’t unusual. He only spoke if he really had something to say.

As the outlaw chief negotiated a path through the forest, he became aware of the
jinaq
amulet pressed against his chest by the weight of his tunic. And that made him think about Kellein.

Around her father’s village, it would be Growing season in another month or so—time to pursue the promise he had made to her by the riverbank. And pursue it he would.

It was madness, of course. Though he wanted Kellein as he’d never wanted anything or anyone in his life, all he could give her was the life of an outlaw. And he had learned how hard that life could be.

All Cold long, he and his band had been on the move, always looking back over their shoulders, always wondering when Molor would swoop down on them like a hunting bird. Hell, Kahless hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since he killed the tyrant’s son—except for the night he’d spent by Vathraq’s keep.

If he stayed in this realm, Molor would track him down. If not in Cold, then in Growing; if not during the day, then at night. Kahless had no illusions about that.

That was why he had to reach the southern continent. True, it was a harsh and backward place, largely untouched by civilization. Life there would be punishing, and rewards few.

But at least he and Kellein would be safe from the tyrant’s hatred. With luck, they might find some measure of happiness together. And if they were truly lucky, if the ancient gods smiled on them, their children would never have to know the name Molor.

All Kahless had to do was make his way into one of the tyrant’s port towns. And hire a vessel with a greedy captain, who knew his way across the sea. And when he had done that, he would—

Suddenly, the outlaw realized how absurd it all sounded. How impossible. Chuckling to himself, he shook his snow-covered head.

How would he pay for their passage? And what seafarer would defy the all-powerful Molor to help a scraggly renegade?

It was an illusion, a pipedream. And yet, it was one he would wrestle into truth. Somehow. For Kellein’s sake.

“Kahless!” a voice hissed at him.

It was Shurin. The one-eyed man pointed through the sheeting snowfall at a wide brown smudge in the distance. Kahless sniffed the air.

It was the herd, all right. Perhaps a dozen of the beasts, enough to keep them fed for a week or more. Nodding at Shurin to acknowledge the sighting, Kahless reached for the bow he’d made, which was secured to the back of his saddle.

He could hear the flapping of leather as the others did the same. Of course, they didn’t have to worry about the
minn’hormey
hearing them. They were still a good distance from the herd and the thick, falling snow dampened all sounds.

As long as Kahless and his men remained downwind of the beasts, they wouldn’t have any trouble picking them off. An easy kill, he thought—though small compensation for the scarcity of such herds, or the painstaking time it took to find them.

Raising his hand, the outlaw gave the signal for his men to urge their mounts forward. Then he himself dug his heels into the flanks of his
s’tarahk.
The animal picked up its pace, gradually narrowing the gap between hunter and prey.

The
minn’hormey
didn’t seem to suspect a thing. They maintained their slow progress through the wood, their shaggy hindquarters swaying from side to side, their horned heads trained squarely on what was ahead of them.

Kahless sighted a particularly slow
minn’hor
and was about to take it down when he felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he saw Morath’s ruddy, snow-covered face. In the swirling gray of the storm, the younger man’s eyes looked like dark caverns.

“What?” asked Kahless.

Morath pointed—not at the herd, but at something off to the left of it. Something that moved with a purpose similar to their own.

There were four-legged predators in this place, but they didn’t hunt in packs. And besides, these shapes were too tall to be animals. Klingons, then. Mounted, like Kahless’s men. And after the same
minn’hormey.

The other band must have spotted them at about the same time, because the riders hung back from the herd. With another hand signal, Kahless gestured for his own men to slow down.

The
minn’hormey
kept going, still unaware of their danger. The wind howled and writhed, sending spindrifts whirling through the forest. And all the while, the two hunting parties sat their mounts, eyeing one another.

Sizing one another up. After all, they were Klingons.

Finally, Kahless spoke, shouting to make himself heard over the storm. “This herd is ours. If need be, we’ll fight for it.”

On the other side, one figure separated itself from the others. His hair was the color of copper, gathered in ice-encrusted braids. “So will we,” came the answer.

Kahless licked his lips. The last thing he wanted was to lose men over a meal. But he didn’t know when the next one would come along, and he had no stomach for
s’tarahk
meat.

Morath and Porus had positioned themselves on either side of him. He glanced at them, making sure of their alertness. They held their bows at the ready, waiting for him to give the word.

But the leader of the other band acted first. With a bloodchilling cry, he raised his arrow to eye level and let it fly.

It sliced through the snow, missing Kahless by no more than an inch, and buried itself in a tree behind him. The outlaw chief’s teeth clenched. Roaring a challenge of his own, he shot back.

A moment later, the forest was alive with swarms of wooden shafts. There were grunts of pain and angry curses, all muffled by the storm. The
s’tarahk
under Porus shrieked, spilling him in its agony.

Kahless didn’t like this. They could fire back and forth for hours, with no clearcut victor—except the damned
minn’hormey,
who would go free in the meantime. It was time to remember Molor’s advice and take the bloody battle to the enemy.

Replacing his bow on the back of his saddle, Kahless took out his blade and spurred his mount forward. The animal responded with a gratifying surge of speed, putting him face to face with the enemy leader before anyone could stop him.

Another of Molor’s lessons sprang to mind—cut the serpent’s head off and the rest of it will die. With this in mind, Kahless took a swipe at the enemy leader’s chest.

But the man was quicker than he looked. Ducking low, he let the blade pass over him. Then he reached out and grabbed Kahless’s wrist.

At the same time, he drew a weapon of his own—a sword which had clearly seen better days. But it was still sharp enough to sweep a warrior’s head off his shoulders.

Kahless had no intention of being the head in question. Lunging forward, he grabbed his enemy by the forearm.

The two of them struggled for a moment, whirling about on their
s’tarahkmey,
neither daring to let go of the other. Then, as one or both of them lost his balance, they toppled into the snow.

By then, Morath and Porus and the others had come crashing after their chief, breaking branches and trampling saplings in their way. But the other band leaped forward to meet them.

Kahless and his adversary were like a rock in the middle of a strong current. The battle raged around them as they rolled on the ground, each struggling for leverage with savage intensity.

Suddenly, Kahless’s foot slipped out from under him, and the other man gained the upper hand. Twisting his wrist free, he smashed Kahless across the face with the hilt of his sword. A second time. And again.

For Kahless, the world swam in a red haze. And when it cleared, his enemy was sitting astride him, sword raised high, ready to plunge it deep into his naked throat.

Kahless groped for the handle of his weapon, but it wasn’t there, and he was too dazed to search for it. He tried to push his enemy off, but it was no use. His strength had left him along with his senses.

“Tell me your name,” said the man, “so I may honor it when I speak of our battle around the campfire.”

The outlaw chief laughed at his own helplessness, spitting out the blood that was filling his mouth. “You’d honor me?” he grated, his voice sounding a hundred miles distant. “Make it Kahless, son of Kanjis, then. Or Molor himself. Or whoever you want.”

What did he care? He’d be dead by then.

But as Kahless’s words sank in, a change came over his enemy’s face. A look of uncertainty, the outlaw thought. At any rate, the sword remained high.

“You are…Kahless?” the man demanded sharply. “In truth?”

The outlaw nodded. “I am.” He squinted through the prismatic snow that had gathered on his eyelashes. “Do I know you?”

His enemy shook his head from side to side, his copper-colored braids slapping at his cheeks. “No,” he said. “But I know
you.
”

Suddenly, the man was on his feet, waving with his sword at the other combatants. “Stop,” he cried. “All those who follow Edronh, put down your weapons. These warriors are our friends!”

Kahless thought he was dreaming, or addled by all the punishment he’d taken. Klingons didn’t stop in the middle of a life-or-death struggle to declare their enemies their allies.

Or did they?

All around him, the enemy stopped fighting. Kahless’s men looked at one another, unsure what to make of this. And as the outlaw chief himself got to his feet, he didn’t know what to tell them.

Then the leader of the other band knelt before Kahless and laid his sword at Kahless’s feet. When he spoke again, it was in a voice filled with deep shame and embarrassment.

“We yield to bold Kahless, who leads the fight against the tyrant. Had we known from the beginning whom we faced, we would never have raised our bows against him.”

The son of Kanjis began to understand. Edronh and his men were outlaws too—the kind Kahless had hunted when he was still in the tyrant’s employ. And like Vathraq to the south, they believed Kahless was leading a revolt against Molor’s rule.

He was about to correct the notion when he realized how foolish it would be. The truth would only start their bloody battle all over again. And by keeping his mouth shut, by going along with the lie, he would get them the
cob’lat
’s share of the hunt.

Grabbing a tree for support, because his head still swam with the other man’s blows, Kahless dismissed the conflict with a sweep of his arm. “It was an honest mistake. I will not hold it against you, nor will my men.”

To cement his promise, he eyed as many familiar faces as he could find with a single glance. They seemed to understand, because to a man they nodded back. All except one, that is.

Only Morath looked away from him, reluctant to be part of the falsehood. The younger man was scowling as he stuck his sword in his belt.
It was all right,
Kahless thought.
Some day, Morath would learn.

A young warrior, even younger than Morath, approached Kahless. Like his chief, he laid his sword in the snow.

“It is an honor to meet you,” he said.

The enemy leader—no longer an enemy at all now, it seemed—grinned at the young one. Then he turned to Kahless.

“My youngest son,” he explained. “His name is Rannuf.”

Kahless nodded. “In that case, I’m glad we didn’t kill him. Now, my friend, about the herd…”

“We’ll take it down together,” suggested Edronh. “But you may take the bulk of the provisions. We know these hills as we know our own swords. We can always find another herd.”

Kahless smiled. This was better than leaving corpses in the snow. Much better. And all it had cost them was a single lie.