Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (38 page)

Picard watched as Worf lashed out with his foot, cracking an opponent’s rib, then faced off with another. And Kahless wove a web of steel with his dagger, keeping two more at bay.

As the captain turned back to his own assailants, he found them separating in an attempt to flank him. A sound strategy, he thought. Cautiously, he backed off, hoping to buy some time.

It would have been the right move, if not for the recovery of the Klingon he thought he’d knocked unconscious. Hearing the scrape of the warrior’s boots, Picard whirled in time to catch a downstroke with crossed blades—but the maneuver left him open to the other two.

The captain could almost feel the shock of cold steel sinking into his back. But it never came. Instead, he saw his adversary withdraw into the alley that had spawned him. Turning, Picard saw the other masked ones retreating as well.

Then he saw why. A group of warriors were approaching from the direction of the dining hall, eager to even the odds. Fortunately, there was nothing a Klingon disliked more than an unfair fight.

Kahless started after the masked ones, caught up in a bloodlust, but Worf planted himself in the clone’s way and restrained him. Seeing that his officer would need some help, Picard added his own strength to the effort.

“Let me go!” bellowed Kahless, his eyes filled with a berserker rage.

“No!” cried Worf. “We have got to get out of here, before people start asking questions!” Then he caught sight of the captain and his lips pulled back from his teeth. “Sir!” he hissed. “Your hood!”

Picard groped for it—and realized it had fallen back, exposing his all-too-human face to those around him. He pulled it up again as quickly as he could and looked around.

As far as he could tell, no one had seen him. The newcomers were far too eager to plunge after the attackers to notice much else.

Worf turned back to the clone. “Now we have even more reason to leave,” he rasped.

Kahless scowled and made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. Thrusting Worf away from him, he probed the wetness around his shoulder with his fingers. They came away bloody.

“The
p’tahkmey,
” he spat. “This was a perfectly good tunic. Mark my words, they’ll pay for ruining it.”

“You’ll need medical attention,” remarked Picard.

The Klingon looked at him and laughed. “For what?” he asked. “A flesh wound? I’ve done worse to myself at the dinner table.”

Then he gestured for Picard and Worf to follow, and started for the square again. Behind them, their rescuers were still hooting and shouting, but there was no din of metal on metal. Apparently, the attackers had gotten away.

The captain saw Worf turn to him, his brow creased with concern.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Picard nodded. “Better than I have a right to be. And you?”

The Klingon shrugged. “Well enough.”

The captain cast a wary glance down an alley as they passed it. “It seems we were not as circumspect as we believed. Someone realized we were on Lomakh’s trail and sent us a message.”

Worf grunted in agreement. “Stay clear of the conspiracy or die.”

Kahless looked back at them. “Is that what you’ll do, Picard? Stay away, now that I’ve shown you the truth of what I said?” His eyes were like daggers.

The captain shook his head. “No. Staying away is no longer an option. Like it or not, we’re in the thick of it.”

The clone smiled, obviously delighted by the prospect. “You know,” he told Picard, “we’ll make a Klingon of you yet.”

Then he turned his massive back on them and walked on with renewed purpose. After all, his point had been made, albeit at the risk of their lives.

Kahless cursed deep in his throat. His breath froze on the air, misting his eyes, though it couldn’t conceal the urgency of his plight.

Up ahead of him, there were nothing but mountains, their snow-streaked flanks soaring high into wreaths of monstrous, gray cloud. As his
s’tarahk
reared, flinging lather from its flanks, the outlaw chief turned and saw the army less than a mile behind them.

Molor’s men. With Molor himself leading the hunt.

Again, Kahless cursed. The tyrant had come out of nowhere, surprising them, rousting them from their early Cold camp. He had forced them to fly before his vastly more numerous forces, and the only direction open to them had been this one.

So they’d run, and run, and run some more, until their mounts were slick with sweat and grunting with exhaustion. And all the while, Kahless had had the feeling they were being herded somewhere.

His feeling had been right. Now they were pinned against a barrier of steep, rocky slopes, which their
s’tarahkmey
had no hope of climbing. They had no choice but to turn and fight, and acquit themselves as well as possible before Molor’s warriors overran them.

Nor would their deaths be quick—Kahless’s, least of all. Molor had to be half-insane with his thirst for vengeance. Starad had been the most promising of his children, after all. The tyrant would make his son’s killer pay with every exquisite torture known to him.

As Molor’s forces grew larger on the horizon, the outlaw glanced at his men. They were watching their pursuers as well, wondering how they could possibly escape. Kahless wondered too.

No doubt, the tyrant had been tracking them for some time, feeding on rumors and
s’tarahk
prints, edging ever closer. That was the way he stalked those who defied him—with infinite patience, infinite care. And then he struck with the swiftness of heat lightning.

And this trap—this too was in keeping with Molor’s method. Many was the time Kahless had engineered just such a snare, in his days as the tyrant’s warchief. And to his knowledge, no one had ever escaped.

“Tell everyone to be ready,” he barked, eyeing Morath and Porus and Shurin in one sweeping glance. “Molor won’t hold any councils when he arrives. He’ll pounce, without warning or hesitation.”

For emphasis, Kahless drew his sword, which had become nicked from hewing tough, gnarled
m’ressa
branches. But he had had little choice. It was either that or go without cover from the snow and rain.

“Kahless!” called a voice.

He turned and saw Morath sidling toward him on his
s’tarahk.
His deepset eyes were darker than ever—but not with hopelessness, the outlaw thought. It seemed to him the younger man had an idea.

Kahless couldn’t imagine what it might be, or how it could possibly help. But he wasn’t about to reject it out of hand.

“What is it?” he snapped, never quite taking his eyes off the approaching line of Molor’s men.

Morath came so close their mounts were nearly touching. “I’ve been in these hills before,” he said. “At least, I think I have. It was a long time ago.”

Kahless had no time for fond reminiscence. “And?”

“And I think there’s a way out,” Morath declared.

The outlaw looked at him. “What way?” he asked. “Are you going to sunder the mountains and let us through? Because there’s no way I can see to get
over
them.”

Morath ignored the derision in the older man’s voice and pointed to the gray slopes towering behind them. “We don’t have to make it
over
them,” he insisted. “We only have to make it
into
them.”

Kahless was sure Morath had gone insane, but there was no time to argue with him. Scowling, the outlaw signaled to the others to follow. Then Morath took off, with Kahless right behind him.

Despite his leader’s skepticism, the younger man seemed to know exactly where he was going. Turning first this way and that, as if negotiating an invisible trail, he urged his
s’tarahk
ever upward. And if the slopes grew steeper as he went, that didn’t seem to faze him in the least.

From behind, Kahless could hear the cries of Molor’s men. They were gaining on them now, perhaps half a mile away at most. If Morath was going to work some magic, it would have to come soon.

Suddenly, though the outlaw chief had had his eye on Morath from the beginning of their ascent, the younger man seemed to drop out of sight. Thinking Morath might have fallen into an unseen crevice, Kahless dug his heels into his
s’tarahk’
s flanks and urged the beast forward.

But it wasn’t a crevice that had devoured Morath. It was a narrow slot in the mountainside, just big enough for a warrior and his mount to fit through. Morath stopped long enough to beckon his comrades—to assure them with a gesture that he knew what he was doing.

Then he vanished into the slot.

Still wondering where Morath was leading them, Kahless guided his
s’tarahk
into darkness. The walls of the slot scraped his legs where they straddled his beast, but he got through.

Further in, there was a strange sound, almost like the sighing of the north-country wind. It took the outlaw a few seconds to realize it was the murmur of gently running water.

It was shattered by a splash. As Kahless’s eyes adjusted to the scarcity of light, he saw Morath moving forward like a shadow, a web of perfect ripples spreading out around him. Gritting his teeth, Kahless followed him into the icy water. Behind him, others were doing the same.

It was some kind of underground stream, flowing from a high point in the mountains. A mysterious black river which had carved a path for itself over the centuries, known only to the tiny creatures who must have inhabited it. And, of course, to Morath.

After a while, there wasn’t any light to see by, no matter how well Kahless’s eyes had adjusted. He was forced to travel blind, listening for the snuffling of Morath’s mount up ahead and heeding the man’s occasional word of guidance.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to remain in the river for long. When several minutes had gone by, it seemed to Kahless that the level of the water was dropping. A couple of minutes more and they were on solid rock again.

“Morath,” the outlaw rasped, careful to keep his voice low.

Molor couldn’t have reached the opening in the mountainside yet, but even so, he didn’t want to take a chance on making any noise. Why give the tyrant any help in discovering their exit?

“What is it?” asked the younger man.

“Where does this lead?”

“To another stream,” Morath told him, “more treacherous than the first. And from there, to a beach by the sea.”

Kahless could scarcely believe what he’d heard. “But the sea…”

“Is ten miles distant,” the younger man finished. “I know.”

The outlaw would normally have been annoyed by the prospect. However, the trek might well prove to be their salvation.

Molor would have a hard time finding the slot. And when he finally discovered it and realized what had happened to them, it was unlikely he’d follow them into what could easily turn out to be an ambush.

Despite himself, the outlaw laughed softly. “That’s twice you’ve saved my hide now,” he whispered to Morath.

There was silence for a while. Then Morath spoke again.

“I would have preferred to stay and fight,” he said, “if our forces had been more equal.”

The chief shook his head. Morath was still young. With him, it was easy to forget that.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Kahless replied, “each morning I wake to is a victory. There’s no shame in running if it allows you to survive.”

Morath didn’t speak again as he led them through the darkness. But Kahless could tell that his friend disagreed.

Despite his acquisition of a seat on the High Council, which had brought with it the governorship of the colony world Ogat, Kurn didn’t seem to have changed much since Picard saw him last. The Klingon was still lankier than his older brother, favoring what the captain understood to be their mother’s side of the family.

As they entered the garden of standing rocks, Kurn was conversing in bright sunlight with a shorter, stockier Klingon, whose jutting brow was easily his most distinguishing characteristic. Both men wore stately robes, which gave them an air of haughty authority.

At least in Kurn’s case, that illusion was quickly dispelled. When Worf and his companions caught his eye with their approach, Kurn grinned like a youth reveling over his first hunting trophy.

“Worf! Brother!” he bellowed, so that the greeting echoed throughout the garden. “Let me look at you!”

Picard’s security chief was just as glad to see Kurn. However, as always, he was somewhat less demonstrative in his enthusiasm.

Growing up in an alien culture—that of Earth, for the most part—Worf had learned all too well to hide his innermost feelings. His stint on the
Enterprise
had encouraged him to open up somewhat, but old habits were hard to break.

Kurn pounded Worf on the back and laughed: “It is good to see you, Brother. I miss your companionship.”

“And I, yours,” the lieutenant responded. “Though I see you have managed to keep busy, with or without me.”

Kurn grunted and made a gesture of dismissal. “Serving on the Council is more drudgery than I had expected. It leaves little time for my more pleasant duties—like the inspection I’ve agreed to carry out today.”

Picard saw Kurn’s companion approach them then, as if that had been his cue. He inclined his head respectfully—though his dark, deepset eyes were clearly drawn to Kahless more than to Worf or the captain.

“This,” said Kurn, “is Rajuc, son of Inagh, esteemed headmaster of this academy. You will find him to be a gracious host.”

Rajuc smiled, showing his short, sharp teeth. “My lord governor is too generous with his praise. Still, I will do what I can to make you comfortable here.” He turned to Kahless. “I have long been an admirer of your exploits, Emperor. This institution is honored beyond measure by your presence.”

Kahless shrugged. “Tell me that after I’ve bloodied your furnishings and ravaged your women,” he instructed.

For a moment, the headmaster seemed to take him seriously. Then his smile returned. “You may do your worst, great one—and I will be honored to be the first to match blades with you.”

Beaming, the clone slammed his fist into Rajuc’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he hissed. “Give ground to no one.”

“I never have,” the headmaster informed him, warming to the subject. “Especially not to the rumor-mongers who would have us believe Kahless was a fraud. I assure you, Emperor, I place no credence at all in the scroll they claim to have found. As far as I am concerned, the stories we learned as children contain the truth of the matter.”

Kahless looked as if someone had rammed him in the stomach with the business end of a painstik. “Indeed,” he said tightly. “I am grateful for your loyalty, son of Inagh.”

No doubt true,
thought Picard.
However, the clone didn’t seem to like being reminded of the scroll—not in any context. It was quite simply a sore subject with him.

“You will be interested to know,” Rajuc continued, “that our eldest students plan to reenact Kahless’s departure for
Sto-Vo-Kor
in two days’ time.” For the sake of protocol, he included Worf and Picard in his glance. “Perhaps you can stay long enough to see it.”

“I am afraid not,” Kahless replied. “As much as I enjoy such dramas, we have business elsewhere which cannot wait.” He turned his attention to Kurn. “Which is what we came to speak with you about, Lord Governor.”

Worf’s brother inclined his shaggy head. “Of course, Emperor.” He gestured to a remote cul-de-sac in the garden, obscured by tall, oblong boulders on three sides. “I believe you will find that spot over there to your liking.” Placing his hand on Rajuc’s shoulder, he added: “I will see you shortly, Headmaster. There is still much we need to discuss.”

Rajuc inclined his head again—first to Kurn, then to Kahless, and finally to Worf and Picard. Then he departed.

“He does good work here?” asked the clone.

Kurn nodded. “Fine work. He turns out warriors of the highest caliber.”

“Good,” Kahless remarked.

Then, taking Kurn’s arm, he led him toward the cul-de-sac. Nor did he wait until they reached it and took their seats to tell the governor why they had come. He began as soon as they were out of the headmaster’s earshot.

As Picard watched, Worf’s brother listened to Kahless’s suspicions. It took a while, but Kurn didn’t comment until he was certain the emperor had told him all he wished to tell.

“These are grave accusations,” he said at last. “Had they come from someone else, I would have dismissed them out of hand. But from Emperor Kahless, the Arbiter of Succession, and my own brother…” Kurn scowled. “I will conduct an investigation through my contacts in the Defense Force. Then we will speak of a next step, if one is required of us.”

Kahless nodded. “Thank you, son of Mogh. Worf told me you would not fail us.”

Kurn flashed a smile at his brother. “Yes, he
would
say that.” With that, he rose. “Unfortunately, I must complete my review of the Academy. But if you can linger a while, we’ll eat together. I know of a feasting hall in town where the heart of
targ
is worth dying for.”

“Done,” replied Kahless, obviously cheered by the prospect. “We’ll meet back here just before dusk.”

“Before dusk,” Kurn agreed. He acknowledged Picard, then Worf. “I will see you later, Brother.”

“Yes, later,” the lieutenant repeated.

He watched his brother leave them with a vaguely uncomfortable expression on his face—one which didn’t escape the captain’s notice. What’s more, Picard thought he knew the reason for it.

“He was holding something back,” he said to Worf. “Wasn’t he?”

The lieutenant was still watching his brother withdraw. “Or covering something up,” he confirmed, with obvious reluctance. “But what?”

Kahless looked at them. “What are you saying?” he asked.

Worf drew a deep breath, then let it out. “I am saying,” he explained, “that my brother lied to us when he said he would help. There is something preventing him from doing so—though I cannot imagine what it would be.”

The clone eyed him. “You’re sure of this?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Regretfully, I am sure of it. And I intend to confront him with it when the opportunity presents itself.”

“Dinner would be such an opportunity,” the captain suggested.

Kahless made a sound of disgust. “Why wait for dinner? Let us pin him down now, while his lie is still fresh on his lips. Who knows? Maybe he’s part of the damned conspiracy.”

Worf grabbed him by his arm. Instinctively, Kahless spun around, ready for anything.

“My brother is not a traitor,” the lieutenant snarled.

The emperor’s eyes narrowed. “Then let him prove it.”

And without waiting to see if his companions would follow, the clone took off after Kurn with that swaggering, ground-eating pace by which he’d become known.

Worf made a noise deep in his throat and followed. Picard did his best to keep up, though it wasn’t easy. Klingons were damned quick when they wanted to be.

But just as Kahless caught up with his prey, Kurn was swarmed by a group of young admirers—warriors-in-training, wearing the black-and-crimson colors of their academy. The governor had barely expressed his surprise before he was assailed with questions—mostly about his encounters with the Romulans following Gowron’s succession.

Kurn would likely have answered them, too, had Kahless not shooed the youngsters away like a gaggle of young geese. When the emperor wanted something, he tolerated no delays.

Worf’s brother looked at Kahless, no doubt trying to conceal his displeasure at the students’ dismissal—but falling short. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Worf answered for the emperor. “You
know
there is, Brother. You lied to us when you said you would investigate Kahless’s concerns. And I want to know why.”

“Yes,” the clone added. “Unless you’re a conspirator yourself. Then you may want to go on lying.”

Kurn bared his teeth. For a moment, he glared at Kahless and then Worf, apparently liking his brother’s challenge even less than the emperor’s audacity. Then his temper seemed to cool.

“All right,” he said. “I
was
deceiving you. But I had the best of intentions. And I am
not
a conspirator.”

“There is a Terran expression,” Picard remarked, “about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions. I’d like to hear more before I decide to exonerate you.”

Kurn’s nostrils flared. Obviously, this was information he wasn’t eager to part with. He looked around and made certain they were alone before continuing.

“Very well,” the governor growled. “But this must not become common knowledge, or I’ll
truly
have become a traitor.”

Worf thrust his chin out. “You
know
none of us will repeat anything you tell us.”

Kurn thought for a moment, then nodded. “I believe you’re right.” He heaved a sigh before he began. “The reason I wished to dissuade you from investigating the Defense Force is simple. Close scrutiny of its activities would have revealed a significant number of concurrent absences on the parts of two particular officers—a male and a female, each one with a mate outside the Defense Force.”

Picard grunted. The Klingon family was held together by almost feudal bonds. Such philandering was a violation of those bonds—at least, on the part of the male Klingon involved.

The female’s situation was different. She could have initiated a divorce anytime she wanted—though she apparently had her reasons for not doing so.

Kurn turned to Picard. “This is not a thing to be taken lightly,” he explained, just in case the captain didn’t understand. “The response of the cuckolded husband, in this case, must be to seek revenge—as if a challenge had been made. Worse, the cuckolded wife in this situation may have her husband slowly drawn and quartered by four powerful burden beasts—while his lover is forced to watch.”

“And yet,” said Picard, “they risked this. And despite the fact that your society frowns on it, you yourself condone it.”

Kurn scowled at the remark. “You must understand, Captain. These philanderers are members of prominent Houses, which have long been allies of Gowron. If their affair became public, it would drive a wedge between their families and severely erode Gowron’s power base.”

Kahless snorted. “So these liaisons must be kept secret?”

“Exactly,” said Kurn. He turned to his brother. “Of course, if you and your companions had proof of your claims, that would be a different story. But until you do, I cannot help you.”

Picard looked to his lieutenant, but Worf said nothing. Apparently, he accepted Kurn’s answer as sufficient. Morality aside, the captain wasn’t sure he disagreed, given the importance of Gowron’s survival as Council Leader.

This time, Kurn didn’t bother with niceties. He merely turned his back on them and resumed his progress toward the academy’s main hall.

In other words,
Picard thought,
they had gained nothing at all.
Frowning, he watched Worf’s brother disappear into the building—and with him, their best hope.

Kahless looked to Worf, then Picard. “What now?” he asked. “Who else can we turn to, if not Kurn?”

The words were barely out of his mouth when an explosion ripped through the academy building like a fiery predator, shattering the peacefulness of the grounds and sending debris flying in every direction.

Worf’s eyes flashed with anger and fear. “Kurn!” he wailed—and went running toward the site of the explosion, where flames were already starting to lick at the ruined masonry.

A moment later, the captain and Kahless took off after him. Picard could hear shouts of fury arising from the building. Also, cries of agony. Unfortunately, all of them were the voices of children.

Before they could reach the building, a door burst open and a gang of students came rushing out, carrying an adult—Rajuc. The captain winced at the sight of the headmaster. The man was half-covered with blood and his arm hung limply at his side, but at least he was still alive.

Brushing past the students and their burden, Picard followed Worf into the edifice itself—or what was left of it. A ruined corridor stretched out in either direction, choked with rubble.

At one end of it, the captain could see a gaping hole in the ceiling, where daylight tried to lance its way through a curtain of rising smoke and flames. As he approached it, following Worf’s lead, he caught a glimpse of the carnage behind the curtain.

A lanky figure was hauling smaller ones away from the blaze. He raised his head at their approach, his face smeared with soot and taut with urgency.