Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (40 page)

Deanna Troi spotted the boy in the corridor outside the ship’s classrooms, on his way to the turbolift. She hurried after him, calling his name.

“Alexander?”

The boy turned and stopped to wait for her. The Betazoid smiled.

“I almost missed you,” she told him. “I meant to be here ten minutes ago, but my work ran a little long today.”

Alexander looked at her, his dark brows coming together at the bridge of his nose. “Is everything all right?”

She knew exactly what he was asking.
Damn,
she thought.
Here I am, trying to ease Worf’s absence, and I find a way to alarm the poor kid. Some counselor you are, Deanna.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him, “as far as we know.”

Troi had to add the caveat, just in case. After all, away missions included their share of tragedies, and the Klingon Empire was more perilous than most other destinations.

Alexander seemed to relax a little, but not completely. “So why were you in such a hurry to see me?”

The counselor shrugged. “No reason in particular. It’s just that I haven’t had a chance to spend any time with you since your father took off, and I thought you might like to keep me company while I have a sundae in Ten-Forward. Of course, you
could
have one yourself, so I don’t look like too much of a glutton.”

The boy normally smiled at her silliness, but not this time. “Okay,” he said without enthusiasm. “I guess.”

“That’s the spirit,” she told him, wishing she meant it.

Worf looked around the bridge of Kurn’s ship. It wasn’t much bigger or more comfortable than the one in which Kahless had brought them to Ogat. But it had four seats, one in the center and three on the periphery, and that made it possible for them all to be on the bridge at once.

At the moment, Kurn was in the center seat, checking to make certain they were still on course. After all, Klingon vessels of this size had a tendency to veer slightly at high speeds.

Kahless was pacing the corridor that led to the vessel’s sleeping quarters, occasionally striking a bulkhead with a mere fraction of his strength. It was as if the ship were a
s’tarahk
and he was urging it into a gallop, eager to get on with his self-appointed mission.

Captain Picard was sitting at the station closest to the main viewscreen, his blunt, human features illuminated by the lurid light of his control panel. He seemed absorbed in the readings of the alien monitors.

Sitting next to the captain, one panel over, Worf watched him. There was something he needed to say, but he was having difficulty finding the words to say it.

After a moment or two, he gave up. He would just have to say what he felt, and hope that would be enough.

“Sir?”

The captain turned to him, so that the control lights lit up only half of his face. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

Worf frowned. “Sir, I must apologize for the way I acted on Ogat. At the academy, I mean.”

Picard nodded. “After you emerged from the burning building, and I attempted to console you.”

“Yes,” said the Klingon. “I pulled away from you in a most unseemly manner. But I assure you, it was not my intention to offend you. Or to seem ungrateful for your—”

The captain winced and held up his hand. “Please, Mister Worf. There is no need for you to go on. First off, it’s much too painful for me to watch. And second, I was not offended.”

The lieutenant looked at him. “But the way I acted was hardly in keeping with Starfleet protocol.”

Picard leaned closer. “That is true. However, you were under a great deal of strain at the time. We all were. And as you have no doubt noticed, we are not now wearing Starfleet uniforms. It occurs to me we can make some allowances if we wish.”

The Klingon breathed a little easier. “Thank you, sir.”

For a second or two, the captain smiled. Then he said, “You are quite welcome, Lieutenant,” and went back to scrutinizing his control panel.

His duty discharged, Worf sat back in his chair. He was fortunate to have a commanding officer who understood—at least in some small measure—what the Klingon was going through.

Normally, he would have been able to control his more feral instincts, no matter the provocation. Serving on the
Enterprise
had made him skilled at that. But this was different.

The killing of children was a provocation that went to the heart of his being—and not just because it was dishonorable, or because it stirred the memories of his experiences on Khitomer.

Worf was a father. And not so long ago, he had considered sending his son to the academy on Ogat, to make him more of a Klingon.

That was why the faces of those children had cut him so deeply, with their bloodless lips and their staring eyes. That was why he had lost control of himself and reverted to savagery.

Because to him, every one of those faces had been Alexander’s.

Troi found Will Riker in the captain’s ready room, taking care of ship’s business at the captain’s computer terminal. As she entered, he leaned back in his chair, his expression speaking volumes.

“And people ask me why I turned down my own command,” he sighed.

“Red tape?” she asked.

“By the cargo hold full,” he said. “What can I do for you, Deanna?”

“It’s about Alexander,” she told him. “He’s not himself lately. And I think I know why.”

Riker guessed at the answer. “The boy’s having a hard time coping with his father’s absence?”

“Certainly,” said Troi, “he’s worried about his father coming back in one piece—but not as much as you might think. He has a lot of confidence in Worf, after all.”

“Then what’s on his mind?” the first officer asked.

The counselor frowned. “Alexander wouldn’t tell me, of course. It’s as if he’s trying to be like his father—strong and silent. So on a hunch I checked the computer log, to see if he’d been exposed to anything disturbing.”

“And?” said Riker.

Her frown deepened. “I found out he had read those scrolls the captain told us about. The ones concerning Kahless.”

The first officer regarded her, then leaned forward and tapped out a few commands on his padd. A moment later, he read the information contained on the screen.

“I see what you mean. Alexander accessed the contents of the scrolls night before last. And it seems he spent quite a bit of time with them.” He shrugged. “Now what? Are you going to confront him with this?”

Troi shook her head. “No. As much as he likes me, as much as he trusts me, I don’t think I’m the one he wants to talk to.”

It took the first officer a moment or two to figure out what she meant. “You mean you want
me
to talk to him?”

“It would be a big help,” the Betazoid noted. “Besides, it’ll give you a chance to see how much fun my job is.”

Riker eyed her. “If I’d wanted to be a counselor, Counselor, I would’ve applied to the University of Betazed.” His features softened. “On the other hand, I can’t let poor Alexander swing in the wind. Just what is it you’d like me to do?”

Troi told him.

It was the season of Growing.

The river that led to Kellein’s village was swollen with flood, rushing between its banks as if it had somewhere important to go. The overhanging
micayah
trees were sleek and heavy with dark green nuts, which somehow managed to hover just above the glistening water.

As Kahless led his men along the same path he’d traveled the year before, Vathraq’s village loomed ever closer. He recognized the dark walls, the dark keep, the dark tower. The rows of fruit trees that extended in every direction. And of course, the smell of manure.

It was just as he remembered it. More than ever, he was aware of the
jinaq
amulet his betrothed had given him. It lay against his chest, a promise yet to be fulfilled.

Kahless smiled at the thought of his betrothed. He imagined the look on her face when she spotted the outlaw band making its way down from the hills. The joy in her sharp-toothed grin, the quickening of her pulse.

He almost wished he could catch her bathing again and surprise her as he had before. But that would be too much to ask, he knew. It was ample cause for thanks that he had made it through the Cold.

As he led his men closer, the track dipped and then rose again, lined now on the river side with
tran’nuc
trees. Their purplish fruit were still puny things, waiting for late in the season to grow fat and flavorful.

He remembered how he had staggered out of Vathraq’s house and tasted one—just before he’d tasted Kellein, and she him. Perhaps, he thought, I should bring one with me as a luck charm. Then he again felt the amulet under his tunic and knew that was all the luck he needed.

“Kahless,” said Morath, who had come up beside him.

The outlaw was smiling as he turned to his friend. “Yes? What is it?”

Morath seemed intent on something in the distance. He squinted in the sunlight. “Something is wrong.”

“Wrong?” Kahless echoed. He could feel his heart start to beat faster. “In what way?”

Following Morath’s gaze, he saw what the man was talking about. One of the gates in the wall ringing the keep had been left ajar.

“It’s only a gate,” said the outlaw.

But he knew better. And so did Morath, by his expression.

“Where are the sentries?” asked the younger man.

Kahless repeated the question to himself. Granted, it was the middle of the day, but danger could appear at any time. Vathraq wouldn’t tolerate such an oversight…if that was all it was.

Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he eyed the place in a new light. The quiet, which had seemed so natural only a few moments ago, seemed ominous now. And Vathraq’s house, which had been so inviting, began smelling a lot like a trap.

If Molor discovered Kahless was taken in by these people, he might have left some men there to watch for the outlaw’s return. Certainly, stranger things had been known to happen.

“A wise man would withdraw,” Morath remarked.

Kahless looked at him. “Turn from a fight? That’s not like you, my friend.”

The younger man grunted. “I said a
wise
man would withdraw—not that we would. And if I know you, we will not.”

True,
thought the outlaw.
After all, this wasn’t simply a matter of their own preservation. If the keep had been taken by Molor’s men, Kellein was a captive—perhaps worse.
Kahless couldn’t tolerate the thought of that.

“Follow me,” he advised Morath. “But be wary.”

“I am always wary,” his friend replied.

Little by little, Kahless urged his
s’tarahk
up the river road, toward the open gate. His senses prickled with awareness, ready for the least sign of an ambush. But he couldn’t find any.

At least, not at first. However, as they came closer to the gate, he distinctly heard something rustling within the walls. The swords of Molor’s men, perhaps, as they drew them from their belts? Their arrows, as they fit them to their bowstrings?

The outlaw had to make a decision, and quickly. Should I charge the gate, he asked himself, in an effort to surprise the
p’tahkmey?
Or continue this slow progress, waiting to see how far I can get before they stop me?

Before Kahless could come to a conclusion, the whisper of movement within the walls became a storm of activity, punctuated by high-pitched cries of annoyance. Before his eyes, a huge, black cloud erupted around the keep.

A flock of
kraw’zamey,
protesting loudly as they headed for the slopes beyond the river. The outlaw swallowed, his mouth as dry as dust.

This was no trap. Carrion birds didn’t abide the presence of Klingons. Nor did they gather except where there was sustenance for them.

If Molor’s men had been here, they were gone now. But that was no comfort to Kahless. Clenching his jaw so hard it hurt, he dismounted and walked the rest of the way to the gate. Then he went inside.

What greeted his eyes was a slaughterhouse. Vathraq’s warriors choked the space between the walls and the keep with their gutted, lifeless bodies. Fleshless skulls grinned up at him with bared teeth and hollowed-out eyes, picked to the bone by the beaks of the
kraw’zamey.

Molor’s men could still have been inside the keep, awaiting them, but Kahless no longer cared. He was too overcome with fear for his beloved, too caught up in a current of dread and fascination to worry about himself.

Crossing the courtyard, he tore open the doors to the keep. Inside, it was silent as a tomb. Putting one leaden foot in front of the other, he made his way past the antechamber into the great hall.

Vathraq was sitting on his high wooden throne, just as Kahless remembered him. Except now he was slumped to one side, a blackened hole in his chest where an arrow had pinned him to the chair, and his eyes were sunken and staring.

His people lay scattered about, draped over serving tables or crumpled on the stone floor, cut down at the brink of the firepit or tossed inside to char and burn. No one had escaped, young or old, male or female.

No one except Kellein. Try as he might, Kahless couldn’t find her body. It gave rise to a single, reckless hope.

Perhaps she had eluded Molor’s hand. Perhaps she had been away at the time. Or she had seen the tyrant’s forces in time to hide herself.

Perhaps, against all odds, she still lived.

Kahless felt a hand on his shoulder. Whirling, he saw that it was only Morath. But his friend had a grim expression on his face, even grimmer than was called for.

Suddenly, the outlaw knew why, and his heart plummeted. “Kellein…?” he rasped, his throat dry with grief.

Morath nodded. “Upstairs,” he said.

Rushing past him, staggering under his load of anguish, Kahless left the feast hall and found the steps that led to the higher floors. His men, who had been searching the place while he lingered downstairs, stood aside for him as he barreled his way up.

At the head of the stair, he found her. She was sprawled in a pool of dried blood, a sword still clasped tight in her hand.

Kellein’s eyes were closed, as if she were only sleeping. But her skin was pale and translucent as
pherza
wax, and there was a track of blackened gore from the corner of her mouth to the line of her jaw.

The outlaw didn’t have the heart to inspect her wounds. Slowly, carefully, he touched his fingertips to her lips. They were cold and stiff as stone. Sorrow rose up in him like a flood.

Only then did he notice the thong around her neck and reach inside her tunic to take out her
jinaq
amulet. Cradled in his hand, it sparkled gaily in the light from a nearby window, affirming her vow.

Clumsily, with fingers that barely seemed alive, Kahless took out his own amulet and held it beside hers. As intended, they were identical. He and Kellein had planned to wear them at their mating ceremony.

Without meaning to, he began whispering the words he would have spoken. “I pledge my heart and my hand to you, Kellein, daughter of Vathraq, and no other. I am your mate for the rest of my days.”

They were more than words to him, though his beloved had passed through the gates of Death. Kahless knew then and there he would never take another mate as long as he lived.

Indeed, why live at all? Why bother? With Kellein gone, what was there to live for?

Nothing, the outlaw screamed in the darkness of his despair. “Nothing!” he bellowed, making the hallway ring with his anger and his pain.

Blind with bitterness, Kahless drew his sword from his belt and raised it high above his head. Then, with all his strength, he hacked at the floor beside Kellein. One, twice, and again, raising white-hot sparks, until the gray metal of the blade finally relented and shattered on the stones.

The pieces skipped this way and that, then were still. As still as Kellein, Kahless raged. As still as the heart inside him.

Delirious, writhing inside with agony, he fled. Down the stairs, out of the antechamber and across the blindingly bright courtyard. He staggered past the corpses of Vathraq’s defenders, through the gates to the walled town, and out to the river road.

His
s’tarahk
stood there with all the others, taut and nervous though it didn’t know why. It raised its head when it saw him coming.

With a growl, he threw himself into the saddle and dug his heels into the animal’s sides. Startled, it bolted forward, taking him down the road as fast as it could carry him.

He didn’t know where he was going or why. He just knew he wanted to die before he got there.