Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (50 page)

With a hiss of metal on molded leather, he drew his dagger and made a break for it. Nor were his fellow officers far behind.

In Molor’s anteroom, Kahless swung his
bat’leth
and struck down one of Molor’s guards. Beside him, Morath disemboweled another.

For a time, the tyrant’s retainers had held their own, even against greater odds. Perhaps twenty of the rebels lay stacked about them, blood running from twice as many wounds.

But now there were only a dozen defenders left, and none of them were grinning as eagerly as before. A couple barely had the strength to stay on their feet. Slowly but surely, the tide was turning against them.

“They’re faltering!” Kahless cried. “It won’t be much longer now!”

Still, every second they delayed him was like the sting of a
pherza
wasp. He wanted desperately to reach their master and see an end to this.

Blinking sweat from his eyes, Kahless hacked at another of Molor’s warriors. The man stumbled backward, barely managing to deflect the blow in time. In another moment, he would come back with one of his own.

But in the meantime, the outlaw had a clear path to his goal—a long, straight hallway that led deeper into the bowels of the citadel. With a burst of speed, he seized the opportunity.

And Morath was right behind him. As always.

“Kahless!” he cried.

The outlaw turned, barely breaking stride. “What is it?”

“We should go back and finish them,” Morath protested.

“No,” said Kahless, firm in his resolve. “If you want to end this, I’ll show you a quicker way.”

Morath hesitated. But in the end, he came running after his friend. “All right,” he said for emphasis. “Show me.”

The outlaw pledged inwardly to do his best. Pelting down the long, echoing hallway, he tried to remember the layout of the place. After all, he had only been here a couple of times, and both seemed impossibly long ago.

At the end of the hallway, there was a choice of turnings. The corridor to Kahless’s left was decorated with heroic tapestries and ancient weapons. The one to his right held a series of black-iron pedestals, each one host to something dark and hairy.

A head, the outlaw recalled. A
stuffed
head.

Turning to the right, he broke into a run again. As before, Morath followed on his heels.

“What are these?” his friend asked, referring to the heads.

“The tyrant’s enemies,” Kahless told him. “Though from what I’ve heard, they plague him no longer.”

Unexpectedly, he drew courage from the sight. It was as if every shriveled, staring face was shouting encouragement to him, every hollow mouth crying out silently for vengeance.

These were his brothers, the outlaw told himself, his kinsmen in spirit. He would do what he could to see all their demands fulfilled—for if he did not, he would almost certainly join them.

The corridor ended in the beginnings of a circular stairwell, one narrow and smoothed by age. Hunching over, Kahless took the steep, uneven steps as quickly as he could.

“Where are you going?” asked Morath.

The outlaw stopped long enough to look at him. “You want Molor, don’t you?”

The warrior’s brow knotted. “How do you know he’s up there?”

Kahless grunted. “I was one of his warchiefs, remember?”

“But you’ve never seen him defend against a siege,” Morath protested. “He could be anywhere.”

Kahless didn’t answer. He just started up the stairs again. After all, he knew the tyrant as well as any man.

Besides, he had been gambling and winning battle after battle for months now. Why stop?

Halfway up the steps, he heard something. Barely a sound—more like the absence of one. Slowing down ever so slightly, he braced himself.

Suddenly, a spear came thrusting down at him. Though he was prepared, it was no easy task to batter it aside with his
bat’leth
—or to keep from staggering under the weight of the warrior who came after it.

Still, the outlaw managed to keep his footing, and to grab his adversary’s wrist before the man’s hand could find Kahless’s throat. Then, off-balance as he was, he smashed his
bat’leth
into the guard’s face.

There was no cry, no bellow of pain. Just a gurgle, and the man collapsed on him. Pressing his back against the wall, the outlaw allowed the corpse to fall past him, end over end. Farther below, Morath did the same.

It was not the last obstacle Kahless would face on his way up the steps. He had to dispatch two more warriors, each more fierce than the one before, in order to reach his destination. But reach it he did.

And all the while, Morath pursued him, ready to take his place if he was cut down. Fortunately for both of them, it was not necessary.

Reaching the top of the stair, Kahless emerged onto a dark, windowless landing. At the opposite end, he saw a door.

If he was right, Molor would be behind it.
And some guards as well?
he wondered.
Or had he dispatched them all already?

Morath came up beside him. For a moment, both of them listened—and heard nothing. Shrugging, the younger man pointed to the door. Kahless nodded and took its handle in his hand. And pushed.

It wouldn’t move. It had been bolted from the inside.

Clenching his teeth, the outlaw slashed the door with his
bat’leth
—once, twice, three times, until it was a splintered ruin. Then, with a single kick, he caved in the remains.

As Kahless had suspected, Molor was inside.

The tyrant was plotting his next move at his
m’ressa-
wood table. His large and imposing frame was hunkered over a map of his citadel, casting a monstrous shadow in the light of a single brazier.

The outlaw had looked forward to the expression on the tyrant’s face when he saw his warchief coming back to haunt him—to exact revenge for Kellein, and for Rannuf, and for all the other innocents Molor had trampled in his hunger for power.

But what Kahless saw was not what he had expected. Halfway into the room, the outlaw stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as badly as if someone had bludgeoned him in the head.

“Blood of my ancestors,” he breathed.

Molor looked up at him, his eyes sunken into his round, bony head like tiny, black dung beetles. The tyrant’s skin was intricately webbed as if with extreme old age and riddled with an army of open purple sores. His once-powerful body was hollowed out and emaciated, his limbs little more than long, brittle twigs.

“Greetings,” he rattled, his voice like a serpent slithering through coarse sand. “I see you’ve found me, Kahless.”

Molor said the outlaw’s name as if it fascinated him, as if it were the very first time he’d had occasion to say it out loud. His mouth quirked in a grotesque grandfatherly smile, revealing a mottled tongue and rounded, worm-eaten teeth.

A moment later, Morath came into the room behind his friend. Glancing at him, Kahless saw the horror on the younger man’s face—the loathing that mirrored Kahless’s own.

“As I expected,” the tyrant hissed gleefully, “your shadow is right behind you.”

Molor wheezed as he spoke, the tendons in his neck standing out with the effort it cost him. Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth.

“What happened to him?” asked Morath, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the tyrant.

“What happened?” echoed Molor, his voice cracking. “I’ll tell you. I fell victim to the plague that’s been killing all the
minn’hormey.
”

He tossed his head back and made a shrill, harsh sound that Kahless barely recognized as laughter. Threads of saliva stretched across the tyrant’s maw. Then, with a palsied, carbuncle-infested hand, he closed his mouth and wiped the drool from his shriveled chin.

“Funny,” he said, “isn’t it? My physicians tell me the disease afflicts one Klingon in a thousand. And of all the wretched specimens on this wretched continent, whom should it bring down but the most powerful man on Qo’noS?”

Molor started to laugh again, but went into a coughing fit instead. He had to prop himself up on the table for support. When he was done, he looked up at his enemy again.

“I hope you are not disappointed,” he rasped. “I would give you a fight even now, Kahless, but it would not be much of a match. You are such a strong and sturdy man still, and I…” The tyrant’s face twisted with revulsion, with hatred for the reedy thing he had become. “I do not believe I would stand up to a stiff wind.”

The outlaw shook his head. He had come here thirsting for vengeance with all his heart. But he knew now he couldn’t slake that thirst. As long as he lived, he could
never
slake it.

He would get no satisfaction from killing a plague victim, no matter what Molor had done. But he couldn’t let the
p’tahk
live, either. The tyrant had to pay for his crimes somehow.

With that in mind, Kahless used his left hand to remove his dagger from the sheath on his leg. With a toss, he placed it on the table in front of his enemy. It clattered for a moment, then lay still.

“What are you doing?” asked Morath.

“I am giving him a chance to take his own life,” the outlaw answered, “before my warriors tear him limb from limb. It was more than he did for Kellein and her people. And it is certainly more than he deserves. But nonetheless, there it is.”

Molor picked up the
d’k tagh
with a trembling hand. And with difficulty, he opened it, so that all three blades clicked into place.

“You’re right,” he told Kahless, as he inspected the weapon. “This is considerably more than I deserve. However—”

Suddenly, the tyrant’s eyes came alive. He drew back the dagger with an ease that belied his appearance and balanced it gracefully in his hand.

“—it is precisely what
you
deserve, son of Kanjis!”

In that moment, the outlaw realized how badly he’d been duped. He saw all he had worked for—all his friends had given their lives for—about to vanish in a blaze of stupidity.

Before he could move, Molor brought the knife forward and released it. But something flashed in front of Kahless—and with a dull thud, took the blade meant for him.

Openmouthed, the outlaw stared at his friend Morath. The
d’k tahg
was protruding from the center of the warrior’s chest. Clutching at it, Morath tried to pull it out, to no avail. Then, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, he sank to his knees.

Kahless was swept up in a maelstrom of blind, choking fury. He turned to Molor, the object of his hatred now more than ever.

The tyrant was drawing a sword from a scabbard hidden underneath his
m’ressa-
wood table. With spindly wrists and skeletal fingers, Molor raised the weapon. And brought it back. And with a cry like an angry bird, braced himself for his enemy’s attack.

But it did the tyrant no good. For the outlaw was already moving forward. Tossing the heavy table aside with his left hand, he brought his
bat’leth
into play with his right.

First, Kahless smashed the sword out of Molor’s hand. Then, putting all his strength behind the blow, he swung his blade at the other man’s neck. With a bellow—not of triumph, but of pain and rage—he watched the tyrant’s head topple from his shoulders.

As Molor’s skull clattered to the floor, followed by a splash of blood, the outlaw turned to Morath. His friend was sitting on his haunches, still trying to draw the
d’k tahg
from his chest. With Kahless watching, Morath toppled to one side and lay gasping on the floor.

Tossing his
bat’leth
aside, the outlaw fell to his knees and lifted his friend up in his arms. Kahless wanted to tell him there was hope he might outlive his wound, but he knew better. And so did Morath.

“This is wrong,” the outlaw railed. “You cannot die now, damn you. Not when we have
won.
”

“Your promise to me,” Morath began, his voice already fading. “It is not yet…not yet done….”

Kahless shook his head, his sweat-soaked hair whipping at his face. “No,” he snarled, like a
s’tarahk
struggling against its reins. “I told you I would tear the tyrant down. And I have done that.”

“A life,” Morath reminded him, his mouth bubbling with blood. “You said you would pay with your
life.
The people…they still need you….”

The outlaw’s teeth ground in anger. But his friend was dying, having taken the dagger meant for Kahless.

How could he deny Morath this last request? How could he think of himself after all the man had done for him?

“A life,” he echoed, hating even the sound of the word. His lip curling, he swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. “As I promised you in the wilderness, a
life.
”

Morath managed a thin, pale smile. “I will speak well of you to your ancestors…Kahless, son of Kanjis….”

Then, with a shudder, his body became an empty husk.