Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (51 page)

The outlaw stared at the flesh that had once been Morath. He couldn’t believe his friend was dead—and he, Kahless, was still alive. If anything, he had expected it to be the other way around.

Abruptly, all his exertions and his wounds tried to drag him down at once. He bowed his head under the terrible weight of them.

How could it have happened this way?
he asked.
How?

He was supposed to have gotten rid of all his burdens. Now he had undertaken more of them than ever. No longer merely a rebel hungry for vengeance, he would become a thrice-cursed king.

With a grimace of disgust, Kahless found the strength to get to his feet. Picking up Morath’s body, he slung it over his shoulder. Then he righted Molor’s
m’ressa
table and lowered the body onto it.

Grasping his
d’k tahg
by its handle, he tugged it free of his friend’s chest. Then he tucked it into his belt, still slick with Morath’s blood.

Finally, he turned back to Morath’s body—to the eyes that still stared at him, refusing to release him from his vow. Kahless scowled.
Even in death,
he thought.
Even in death.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. When warriors sang of this day, they would not forget the son of Ondagh. This, he swore with all his being.

And Kahless would remember too. Morath the warrior and the liberator, who was a better man than Kahless by far. Morath his pursuer and his tormentor, who was more a brother to him than a friend.

Unexpectedly, a wellspring of grief rose up in him, and he raised his voice in a harsh yell—just as he had raised it over the body of Kellein those long months ago. He yelled until he was hoarse with yelling, imagining that his noise was speeding Morath’s soul to the afterlife.

Not that Kahless believed in such things. But Morath did. For his friend’s sake, the outlaw would give in just this once.

There was just one more thing to do while he was up here.
Better to do it quickly,
Kahless thought,
before any more blood is shed.

Molor’s head was lying in a corner of the room, soiled with a mixture of gore and dust. Picking it up by the strands of hair still left on the tyrant’s chin, he pulled aside a curtain to reveal another winding stair—a much shorter one, which led up to a high balcony.

One by one, he ascended the stone steps. The last time the outlaw had negotiated them, he hadn’t been an outlaw at all, but chief among Molor’s warlords. The tyrant had wished to show him what it was like to hold the world in the palm of one’s hand.

Those days were long gone. Now it was
Molor
he held in his hand, and the world would have to find somewhere else to reside.

As Kahless emerged into the wind and sky, he saw the battle still raging below him on the battlements and in the courtyard. He could hear the strident clamor of sword on sword, the bitter cries of the dying, the urgent shouts of the living.

“Hear me!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Not everyone turned to him at once. But some did. And as they pointed at him, amazed by the sight, so did others. In place after place, adversaries stepped back from one another, curious as to how the outlaw had reached Molor’s balcony—and what that might mean to them.

Kahless filled his lungs. The wind whipping savagely at his hair, he cried out again.

“The tyrant Molor is dead! There is nothing left to fight for, you hear me? Nothing!”

And then, to substantiate his claim, he lifted Molor’s head so all could see. For a second or two, he let it hang there, a portent of change.

Then, drawing his arm back, he hurled it out over the heart of the battle like a strange and terrible missile. It turned end over end, rolling high and far across the sky, until gravity made its claim at last and the thing plummeted to earth.

“There,” the outlaw said, in a voice only he could hear. “That should put an end to it.”

On shaky and uncertain legs, he came down from the balcony. Out of the wind, into the quiet and the shadows.

Now,
he thought,
comes the hard part.

Worf was closer than anyone else to Unarrh’s high seat. When the council member started firing his disruptor at Gowron’s men, the lieutenant knew he had only two choices.

He could retreat and flee Unarrh’s hall—perhaps the safer route. Or he could go forward and try to wrest the disruptor from Unarrh’s grasp.

In his years with Starfleet, the Klingon had learned there was no shame in retreating. Often, it was the wiser course. But in his heart, he was a warrior, and a warrior always preferred to attack.

Besides, it was a good day to die. And the rightness of his cause made it an even better day.

Lowering his head, he put aside any thought of danger to himself and charged the high seat. Just before he reached Unarrh, he caught a glimpse of his enemy’s weapon, its barrel swinging in his direction.

Even as Worf hurled himself at the council member, he was blinded by the blue flash of disruptor fire. But a moment later, he felt the reassuring impact of bone and muscle as he collided with Unarrh.

Apparently, he thought, the blast had missed him. He was not dead—at least, not yet.

Then his momentum carried both him and Unarrh backward, toppling the man’s chair in the process. They landed heavily on the stone floor, Worf’s left hand gripping the council member’s powerful wrist.

Unarrh tried to roll on top of him, to pin the lieutenant with his considerably greater weight—but Worf was too quick for him. Using a
mok’bara
technique he had demonstrated on the
Enterprise
only a week ago, he brought his right hand around his adversary’s head and grabbed Unarrh by his left ear. Then he pulled as hard as he could.

Screaming for mercy, Unarrh rolled onto his back to lessen the pain. Taking advantage of the council member’s discomfort, Worf smashed Unarrh’s weapon hand against the floor. The impact was enough to dislodge the disruptor and send it skittering over the stones.

But Unarrh wasn’t done yet. Far from it. Continuing to roll, he drove his elbow into Worf’s ribs, knocking the wind out of the security officer—and forcing him to release Unarrh’s ear. And once free, the council member lunged for his weapon again.

Still on his back, Worf grabbed Unarrh by his calf and kept him from reaching his goal. Then, flipping onto his stomach, he got to his knees to improve his leverage.

But Unarrh lashed out with his heel, hitting the Starfleet officer in the shoulder. The shock forced Worf to release him again—but the lieutenant wouldn’t be denied. Leaping on Unarrh’s back, he grabbed the back of the council member’s hairless head as best he could.

With all his might, he drove Unarrh’s chin into the stone floor. Not once, but three times. Finally, after the third blow, Unarrh went limp.

Just in case it was some kind of trick, Worf launched himself over his adversary and grabbed the disruptor. But it wasn’t a trick after all. Unarrh remained right where he was, clearly unconscious.

The lieutenant snarled—all the victory celebration he would allow himself. Then he looked to his comrades.

Picard saw Worf topple Unarrh as Lomakh and his friends drew their daggers. Trusting to his lieutenant’s fighting skills, he drew his own
d’k tahg
and blocked the entrance to the hall.

Unfortunately, there were other ways out—and the conspirators took one of them when they bolted. Seeing the way to the front door guarded, they fled the other way, deeper into Unarrh’s mansion.

Even then, as it turned out, their path wasn’t exactly clear. Kurn and Kahless managed to tackle two of the conspirators from behind. And a moment later, Gowron flung his knife into a third.

Two were still on their feet, however. As they disappeared, the captain raced after them. Crossing the hall, he saw Kurn tumble end-over-end with his adversary. But the clone was more expedient, slamming his opponent headfirst into a wall.

When the conspirator slumped to the floor unconscious, Kahless looked up and saw Picard. There were no words exchanged between them, but the clone seemed to understand two of the traitors were unaccounted for. Without hesitation, he joined the captain in his pursuit.

As they darted out of the hall into a curving corridor, Picard caught sight of their objectives. One was Lomakh, the conspirator they had spied on in Tolar’tu. The other was an even taller and stronger-looking Klingon named Tichar.

No doubt, Kahless would have been perfectly willing to take on both of the plotters by himself. Fortunately, that wouldn’t be necessary. The clone may have begun this fight all on his own, but it wouldn’t end that way. He had help now.

Meanwhile, Lomakh and Tichar led them through one winding passageway after the other, their heels clattering on the stone floors. But they couldn’t shake their pursuers. Kahless was like a bulldog, refusing to let go. And though the captain was no longer the youth who had won the Academy marathon, he was hardly a laggard either.

Of course, their chase couldn’t go on forever, Picard told himself. Sooner or later, Lomakh and his comrade had to hit a dead end of some sort. Then they would have no choice but to turn and fight.

Events quickly proved him right. Racing down a short, straight hallway, the captain got the impression of a large, dim room beyond. As he and the clone entered it, they saw it had no other exit.

Lomakh and Tichar were trapped inside. But that didn’t mean they intended to go down without a struggle.

As luck would have it, they had stumbled onto an armory of sorts. There were bladed weapons of all shapes and sizes adorning the far wall, along with a variety of other, more arcane devices. Unarrh, it seemed, was a collector of such things.

First Lomakh reached for a
bat’leth,
then Tichar did the same. Grinning, they advanced on Picard and his companion, shifting their weapons in their hands as if looking forward to what would come next.

“Bad luck,” Kahless muttered.

“It seems that way,” the captain agreed.

He gauged his chances of getting past the conspirators to obtain a
bat’leth
of his own. The odds weren’t very good at the moment. Gritting his teeth, he weighed his other options.

He and Kahless could give ground, perhaps go back the way they came. But if they went back far enough, Lomakh and Tichar might find a way out of Unarrh’s complex. And once they did that, they would have a chance to escape.

Picard knew he couldn’t live with himself if these two got away. He recalled the faces he saw in the ruins of the academy on Ogat—the faces of the innocent children who died at the hands of the conspirators.

No one should be able to do that with impunity,
he thought. Lomakh and Tichar would have to pay for their crimes. And if they had some other outcome in mind, they would have to go through the captain in order to obtain it.

“Out of our way!” growled Lomakh.

“Not a chance in Hell,” Kahless shot back.

“You’d rather die?” asked Tichar.

The clone’s eyes narrowed. “There are worse things,
p’tahk!
”

Kahless’s lips pulled back past his teeth in a feral grin. He rolled his
d’k tahg
in his hand. Clearly, he had come too far and fought too hard not to see this through to its conclusion.

Picard had to admire his courage and his persistence. Perhaps this was not the Kahless of legend, but the clone had the heart of a hero.

The conspirators seemed to think so, too. The captain could see it in their eyes, in the way they hunkered down for battle. Despite their advantage in the way they were armed, they knew this would not be easy for them.

For a moment, there was only the echo of advancing footfalls on the floor, and the glint of firelight on their blades, and the pounding of Picard’s heart in his chest. Then Kahless sprang forward like a maddened bull and the combat was joined.

The armory clattered with the clash of metal on metal as the powerful Tichar met the clone’s attack with his
bat’leth.
At the same time, the captain saw Lomakh come shuffling toward him sideways, bringing his weapon up and back for a killing blow.

Picard didn’t waste any time. Darting in close, he ducked and heard the whistle of the blade as it passed harmlessly over his head. Then he stabbed at the conspirator with his
d’k tahg,
hoping to find a space between the Klingon’s ribs.

It didn’t work out as he’d hoped. Not only did Lomakh ward off his blow, he struck the captain in the mouth with the heel of his hand. Staggering backward with the force of the blow, Picard tasted blood. As he tried desperately to steady himself, he felt something hard smack him in the back—and realized it was the wall.

The conspirator’s eyes gleamed as he saw his chance. With a flip of his wrists, he swung his
bat’leth
a second time. But Picard regained control in time to roll to one side, removing himself from harm’s way.

The
bat’leth
struck the wall where he had been, giving rise to a spray of hot sparks. Enraged, Lomakh turned to his adversary and went for him again, thrusting with the point of his blade.

But this time, the captain had a better plan. After all, he had studied fencing as a youth, and his instructor had emphasized the importance of distance. Peddling backward suddenly, his dagger held low, he managed to keep his chin just beyond the leading edge of Lomakh’s
bat’leth.

As the conspirator came on, trying to extend his reach, Picard maintained his margin of safety. Then, without warning, he drove Lomakh’s blade aside with a vicious backhand slash. His adversary lurched forward, unable to regain his balance, much less protect himself.

Taking advantage of the opening, the captain grabbed the front of Lomakh’s tunic with his free hand and dropped into a backward roll. Halfway through the maneuver, he planted his heel in the Klingon’s chest and allowed Lomakh’s momentum to do the rest.

As Picard completed his roll, he saw the Klingon sprawl, a tangle of body and limbs and razor-sharp
bat’leth.
Lomakh bellowed with pain before he came to a stop. A moment later, the captain saw what had caused the warrior so much discomfort.

The
bat’leth
had imbedded itself in Lomakh’s tunic, cutting through flesh as well as leather. With a guttural curse, the Klingon tore the blade free and staggered to his feet.

“For that,” he spat, “your death will be slow and painful!”

Picard smiled grimly, caught up in the interplay of bravado. “This may surprise you,” he said, “but I have heard that before.”

Again, Lomakh charged him. And again, the captain let him think he was on the verge of achieving his goal. Then, at the last possible moment, Picard turned sideways, flung up his arms, and let the conspirator’s
bat’leth
shoot past him.

As Lomakh followed through, the human brought the hilt of his dagger down on the base of the Klingon’s skull. With a grunt of pain, his adversary fell to his knees. His weapon slipped from insensible hands. And before he could recover, Picard’s knee was in the small of the Klingon’s back.

Driving Lomakh down with all his weight, the captain gripped the conspirator’s hair with his left hand and pulled. Then, with his right hand, he placed the edge of his blade against Lomakh’s eminently exposed throat.

“Bljeghbe’chugh vaj blHegh!”
Picard growled. “Surrender or die!”

The conspirator tried to twist his head free, but the captain only increased the pressure of dagger against flesh. He repeated the order, this time in the short form.

“Jegh!”

Lomakh groaned, awash with shame—but not so much he would die to rid himself of it.
“Yap,”
he rasped. “Enough.”

Careful not to let his guard drop, Picard looked up—in time to see Kahless dodge a sweeping attack from Tichar. As the human watched, the clone struck back—once, twice, and again, battering down the conspirator’s defenses. Tichar looked a little clumsier and a little more fatigued with each blow leveled against him.

But then, Kahless was wearing down too. Sweat streamed down either side of his face and his barrel chest was heaving for air. Besides that, there was a nasty cut on his forehead just below his hairline, and the blood from it was seeping into his eyes.

Finally, the clone seemed to find an opening, a gap in his opponent’s defenses. Taking advantage of it, he darted in for the kill—and Tichar was too weary to stop him in time. With a savage
thukt,
Kahless’s
bat’leth
buried itself deep in the conspirator’s belly, just below the sternum.

The clone snarled as he drove his point upward, lifting his enemy off the ground despite his bulk. Picard winced as he watched Tichar scream in agony. Finally, Kahless let the conspirator down.

Tichar sank to his knees, mortally wounded. Applying his boot to the conspirator’s chest, the clone pulled his blade free and let Tichar sprawl backward. Then Kahless turned to the captain and grinned through his own gore, more like an animal than a sentient being.