Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (46 page)

The installation that included Ter’jas Mor’s defense armory was so big and stark and gray, Picard had trouble believing even a Klingon would have found it esthetically pleasing. But then, it was built more for security than esthetics.

And certainly, under normal circumstances, the place’s state-of-the-art security systems would have kept intruders from getting in. But these were not normal circumstances—and Kurn, with his thorough knowledge of Defense Force design methods and codes, was hardly the average intruder.

Kahless grunted. “I never thought the day would come when Kahless the Unforgettable wore a mask like a lowly sneak thief.” Reaching underneath his hood, he scratched some part of his face to relieve an itch.

“I sympathize,” said the captain.

He, too, felt funny wearing a mask—and he doubted that Worf and Kurn liked it any better. Among Klingons, as in many other cultures, masks were badges of dishonorable intent.

However, it was important that they not reveal themselves here in the heart of a Defense Force installation. Hence the additional precautions, which included concealing themselves in the shadows until their prey entered their trap.

Picard had barely completed his thought when he heard footfalls approaching from the far end of the alley. Exchanging looks with Worf, he pressed his back that much harder against the wall that concealed them.

As their objective came closer, the captain all but stopped breathing. It was important that this be as quick and silent as they could make it. If anyone else heard what was going on, all their hard work might go for nothing.

Luck was with them. The Klingon armory worker didn’t have the slightest inkling they were about. Without a care in the world, he approached his door and tapped in the security code on the well-worn padd beside it.

It wasn’t until the door began to slide aside that he heard even the slightest sound. And turned. And opened his mouth to cry out.

But by then, it was too late. Grasping the man by the back of his neck, Kahless pushed hard—sending him hurtling into his abode, where he sprawled on the hard, smooth floor.

Twisting about to see who had attacked him, the Klingon might have had ideas about getting up or sounding an alarm—but it was too late for that as well. Worf was already standing over him, the disruptor in his hand pointed directly at the center of the Klingon’s forehead. And at this range, it was highly unlikely he would miss.

Of course, as far as Picard could tell, Worf had no intention of using the weapon, except as a bluff. But the object of their attentions didn’t know that.

Picard touched a wall padd beside the door and the metal panel slid closed. That left the four of them alone with their newfound friend.

“What…what is it you want from me?” the Klingon grated.

He was a lean man with a head that somehow seemed too large for his body. Though his skin was dark, his eyes were large and blue, and his only real facial hair was a tuft of beard in the center of his chin.

Kahless knelt beside the armory worker and grabbed a fistful of his tunic. When he spoke, his voice dripped with deadly intent.
What’s more,
the captain thought,
the clone wasn’t just pretending—he
meant
it.

“What do we want?” Kahless echoed. “We want to know what possessed you to steal a bomb from the place where you’re employed.”

The man shook his head vigorously. “Whoever you are, you’re mistaken. I stole no bomb.”

Kahless leaned closer, his eyes smoldering through the slits in his mask. “Do not lie to me,
p’tahk.
I hate liars more than anything. Now tell me—why did you take the bomb? Do you get some sort of perverse satisfaction from destroying innocent children?”

“I know nothing of this,” their host complained. “You must be thinking of someone else.”

Kahless tilted his head as he studied the worker. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we have the wrong man.”

Abruptly, he struck the Klingon across the face with his free hand. The captain winced beneath his mask and the worker flung his hands up to protect himself from a second blow.

But it was unnecessary. Kahless had made his point.

“Perhaps that is so, Adjur, son of Restagh. Perhaps we have made a mistake. But,” the clone growled, “I do not think so. I think we have
precisely
the man we are looking for.”

“We know you stole the bomb,” said Worf, a voice of reason in comparison to Kahless. “Tell us who else was involved. Your accomplices, your contacts in the Defense Force, everything. Or you will not live long enough to regret the blood you’ve shed.”

The Klingon looked from one masked and hooded face to the next, his blue eyes full of fear. By now, he must have known how slim his chances of survival were—unless he cooperated.

There was still the chance that he was telling the truth, of course, and was completely innocent of the charges against him—but Picard doubted it. He’d been a captain long enough to know when someone had the stench of treachery about him—and this one stunk to high Heaven.

“All right,” Adjur relented. “I’ll talk.” His eyes narrowed. “But first, you must tell me what you meant about the children.”

Was it possible he didn’t know? Certainly, his question seemed sincere enough. Or was he simply building a case for his ignorance?

Kurn spat. “The bomb was used to destroy an academy. Some of the victims weren’t tall enough to cut your throat.”

That got a reaction from the Klingon—an expression of shame and disgust. “I did not know,” he swore heatedly. “If I had, I would never have gotten involved with them.”

“With who?” asked Kahless.

Adjur scowled. “The one who came to me was a Klingon named Muuda. He’s a merchant of some sort.”

“Tell me more,” the clone advised him.

Adjur’s scowl deepened. “Muuda said he represented a conspiracy to overthrow Gowron, and to replace him with someone else. But he never said who the other conspirators were or who they proposed as council leader.”

“And you didn’t care enough to ask?” Worf prodded.

The armory worker shrugged. “What difference would it have made to me? Besides, Muuda was willing to offer me latinum in exchange for my cooperation. One in my position does not often get such an offer.”

“Who else accepted this offer?” asked Kahless.

Adjur went silent. “No one,” he said.

Based on Godar’s comments, they suspected otherwise. This was their chance to have the suspicion corroborated.

“A lie,” snarled the clone, tightening his grasp on the Klingon’s tunic. “Tell me the truth, son of Restagh, or I’ll see to it you never walk the same way again.”

Adjur swallowed. “His name is Najuk, son of Noj. We made the deal with Muuda together. Najuk got one bomb and I got another.”

Picard nodded. Godar had been correct. Besides, he recalled seeing two separate explosions at the academy.

Kahless pulled the armory worker’s face closer to his own. “Listen carefully,” he rasped. “I should turn you in for what you’ve done—but I won’t, if you continue to help me. I want to know how to find this Muuda.”

Adjur saw he had little choice in the matter. “That goes for all of you?” he asked. “You won’t turn me in?”

“All of us,” Worf confirmed.

That was good enough for Adjur. “He lives on Kerret’raa, just north of the city of Ra’jahn. He once described the place to me.”

“Anything else we should know?” asked Kurn.

The armory worker thought for a moment. “Yes. You’ll know Muuda at a glance because he has only one arm. He lost the other in a battle with the Romulans twenty years ago.”

Kahless made a sound of disgust as he thrust Adjur away from him. “A real patriot, this Muuda. Good. Then we won’t have to twist off his other arm to get some information out of him.”

The armory worker must have thought his ordeal was over. But as the clone turned away from him, Kurn pinned Adjur hard against the wall. Behind his mask, the governor seemed to be smiling.

“If I were you,” he said, “I would pack up and run.
Tonight.
Otherwise, you will be
kraw’za
food before you know it.”

The Klingon looked confused. “But I told you what you wanted to know. You said you wouldn’t turn me in.”

“And we won’t,” Kurn assured him. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t tell the families of those who were killed.”

Adjur paled. His eyes grew larger than ever. “You wouldn’t,” he moaned.

Worf’s brother didn’t answer. He just released the armory worker as if he were some diseased animal. Then he tapped the appropriate keys on his wrist controller.

The next thing the captain knew, they were back on Kurn’s ship, and its master was setting the controls for Kerret’raa.

Like a man who had discovered how to see for the first time, Kahless opened his eyes. He was standing in a courtyard.

The stones beneath his booted feet were small and gray, deftly cut and fitted together. The walls around him were gray as well, and taller than he had ever imagined walls could be. Even the barriers around Molor’s fortress at Qa’yarin seemed small and frail-looking by comparison.

The doors to the keep here were made of heavy wood, and bound between sheets of tough, black iron. As Kahless watched, they opened for him. A din of music and laughter poured out, making the courtyard ring. Curious, he ventured inside.

There was no one in the anteroom to ask him his name or his business there, no one to stop him. Glad of it, he hurried on into the feast hall.

It was huge and imposing, with beams and poles and rafters made of rich, red
teqal’ya
wood and a flock of exotic birds roosting in the recesses of its high vaulted ceiling. The place was ringed with benches, on which sat a veritable host of armed men. And in the center of the hall, two warriors in leather armor clashed and clattered and raised a terrible commotion with their swords, though neither seemed to sustain any wounds.

Kahless shook his head in wonder.
Whose hall was this? How had he gotten here? And who were these warriors?

Suddenly, he noticed that someone was standing next to him. Expecting a threat, he whirled.

But it wasn’t a threat. A cry stifled in Kahless’s throat. Reaching out, he touched the side of Kellein’s face with infinite gentleness.

“How…?” he stumbled, drinking in the sight of her.

Kellein grasped his hand and placed it against her breast. He could feel her
jinaq
amulet.

“Do not ask how,” she told him. “Nor when, nor where, nor why. Only trust that I am who I seem I am, and that we have a pitifully short time to be together.”

He drew her closer. “Kellein…I wish I…if only…”

She shook her head. “You did not fail me, Kahless, son of Kanjis. I was meant to perish along with the rest of Vathraq’s people. There is nothing you could have done about it.”

He couldn’t accept that. “But if I had turned down your father’s invitation, if I had kept riding—”

“The same thing would have happened,” Kellein insisted, “albeit it in a different way. We were meant to find this place.”

Kahless looked around and realized where he was. He swallowed hard. Until now, it had only been a legend to him, a tale told to children around the fire. Now it was wonderfully, painfully real.

“Enough of me,” his betrothed said. “I need to speak of you, Kahless. Soon, you will leave this place, because you do not belong here. And when you return to the world, there is something you must do.”

He looked around at the warriors seated on the benches, and he began to see among them faces that he recognized—faces of men who fought beside him on the frontier. And also, the faces of those who had fought against him.

Finally, he turned to Kellein again. Her hair was black as a
kraw’za’s
wing and her eyes were green as the sea. She looked every bit as strong and defiant as the day he saw her in the river.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” he told her. “I want to stay.”

Her eyes flashed. “No, Kahless. You
must
go back. You have come a long way toward tearing down the tyrant Molor, but there is yet much to do.”

“Molor means nothing to me,” he declared. “The rebellion means nothing, except for my promise to Morath. I would give it all up in a moment to have you with me again.”

Even before Kellein spoke, he knew the truth of the matter. “It is not possible,” she said. “At least, not now. You have a destiny to take hold of—and in their hearts, all who follow you know that. But to succeed in your quest, you will need a sword.”

Kahless shrugged. “There are plenty of swords in the world.”

She grasped his arm. “No. This one is different. It will be a friend to you in battle. It will make you unbeatable.”

Kahless wanted to laugh, to tell her that a sword was no better than the warrior who wielded it. But he could see his Kellein was not in a joking mood.

“Listen carefully,” she told him.

Kellein gave him directions on how to make the sword. First, he had to take a lock of his hair and dip it in the hot blood of the Kri’stak Volcano. Then he had to cool the thing in the waters of Lake Lusor. Finally, he had to twist it just so.

“Only then,” she said, “will you have the kind of weapon you need to overthrow the tyrant.” She squeezed his hand harder than ever. “Only then will you achieve a victory unequaled in the history of the world.”

Kahless moved his fingers into the softness of her hair. He didn’t want to be talking with her about swords and tyrants. He wanted to tell her how much he ached for her still, how he would never forget what she meant to him.

But before he could utter a word, Kellein faded like smoke on the wind. And before he knew it, he held nothing in his hands but empty air.

He would have bellowed then like a wounded
minn’hor,
making the rafters ring with his agony, except someone had leaped off one of the benches and was approaching him. Someone he knew all too well.

It was Starad, Molor’s son. And he was whole again, unscathed.

The warrior had a sword in his hand, and it seemed he was looking for trouble. But something told Kahless that he could not be harmed here. After all, Kellein had said he had a destiny to seize elsewhere.

“Kahless?” Starad laughed, brash as ever. “Is it really you?”

The rebel held his ground. “You can see it is.”

Molor’s son stopped in front of him and sneered. “I know what you’re up to, Kahless. But you’re just a
yolok
worm beneath Molor’s boot. Oh, maybe you’ll win a battle or two, but in the long run you can’t hope to accomplish anything.” He leaned closer to the rebel, grinning with his long, sharp teeth. “Why not give yourself up and save everyone some trouble?”

Kahless could feel his own lips pulling back. “You were a fool when you were alive, Starad. I never thought to seek your counsel then, so why would I heed it now?”

Molor’s son raised his sword before his face. Catching the light, the blade glinted murderously.

“Ignore me if you want,” he rasped, “but you will not be able to ignore my father’s power. When the deathblow falls and your wretched rebellion falls along with it, you will remember me.” His eyes slitted with barely contained fury. “You will remember Starad.”

Kahless cursed him. “You think I wanted this?” he hissed. “You think I wanted to be hunted like an animal? To see my mate lying dead on her father’s ground? To be deprived of comfort everywhere I turn?”

Starad opened his mouth to reply—but nothing came out. And a moment later, he had faded to smoke, just like Kellein before him.

Kahless felt a hand on his arm. He turned and found himself face to face with Rannuf, Edronh’s son. The boy was just as he had been in the forest that snowy day, ruddy-cheeked and full of life.

“Rannuf,” he said, his anger abating. In its place, he felt only heavy-hearted remorse. “I am sorry you had to die. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise.”

Rannuf shook his head. “You misunderstand, Lord Kahless. I have not come to exact an apology from you, or to blame you for my death. I have come to warn you about impending treachery.”

“What treachery?” the rebel asked.

“It is my father,” Rannuf explained. “Edronh plans to sell you out to Molor’s forces. He grows weary of losing his family and his possessions—weary of the bloodshed. The only way it will end, he believes, is when the tyrant has your head.”

“No,” said Kahless. He shook his head. “That is not possible. Edronh has never shown me anything but loyalty.”

The youth smiled grimly. “Molor might have said that about
you
once, my lord. Men change.”

Kahless frowned. He couldn’t ignore Rannuf’s advice—not under the circumstances. It was said the dead had knowledge that was denied the living.

“All right,” he replied. “What does your father intend to—?”

He never finished his question. Like the others, Rannuf wavered and blew away on a puff of air.

Kahless turned to the center of the hall, where the two warriors were still raising a terrible noise. The multitude of spectators egged them on from their seats. Up above, strange birds flew from one rafter to the next.

Kellein had said he didn’t belong here. It seemed to him that she was right—that he wasn’t meant to leave the world of the living quite yet. But how was he supposed to get back?

What offering did he have to make, and to whom? There was no sign of the serpent said to guard this place and keep it inviolate, or of the ancient ones who had challenged it….

Just as he thought that, the hall itself began to quake and come apart, as if under the influence of a powerful wind. Oblivious to it, the warriors on the benches continued to cheer for one fighter or the other, and the birds continued to fly. But Kahless could see the hall shiver and dissipate, and its occupants along with it.

Finally, he himself began to lose his shape, to twist in the wind and drift away. He cried out…

…and found himself sitting upright in a tent, the air cold on his skin. His heart was pumping like a bellows and his eyes stung with sweat that had pooled in the hollows of their sockets.

Kahless wasn’t alone, either. Morath was sitting in a corner, alongside Porus and Shurin, and a heavyset man he didn’t recognize at first. Then he remembered. The man’s name was Badich. He had professed to be a healer when he joined them.

“Kahless is awake!” snapped Shurin.

Morath got to his feet and came closer. “He looks better, too. I think the fever has broken.”

“What did I tell you?” asked Badich, getting to his feet as well, albeit with a good deal more difficulty. “It was the poultice I made him. There’s nothing it can’t cure.”

“How long have I been here?” asked Kahless.

“Two days,” said Porus. “Your wounds became infected. You were so feverish, we thought we had lost you. How do you feel?”

Kahless didn’t answer him. He just grabbed his tunic and slipped it on. It wasn’t easy, considering he hurt in a dozen places, all of which were dressed and bandaged.

“What are you doing?” asked Morath.

Kahless found his belt and cinched it around his waist. Then, with an effort, he pulled his boots on.

“Where’s Edronh?” he wanted to know.

The others looked at one another. Judging by their expressions, his question was a surprise to them.

“Edronh?” echoed Shurin. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference,” Kahless insisted. “Where is he?”

Porus shrugged. “With his men, I suppose.”

Kahless grunted. “Let us see if that is so.”

Doing his best to forget how much he still ached, he emerged from the tent. It was dusk. The fires of his followers stretched for a distance all around him.

“Edronh and his men are
that
way,” said Morath. He pointed in the direction where the sky was lightest and the stars already dwindling. “They’re guarding our front against the enemy.”

“Show me,” Kahless ordered.

Morath led him and the others to the place where Edronh was supposed to be encamped. Neither the northlander nor his warriors were anywhere to be seen, nor had their fires been tended lately.

“Maybe we were wrong,” said Porus. “Maybe they bedded down somewhere else.”

Kahless sniffed the wind. Nothing yet. But soon, there would be plenty.

“You were not wrong,” he told Porus. “They were supposed to be here and they are not. They are off betraying us instead.”

Morath looked at him, his brow wrinkled with concern. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

“I heard it in a dream,” Kahless replied. “Now listen closely. We have to move before Molor takes Edronh’s treachery and skewers us on it.” He turned to Porus. “Stay here with a hundred warriors. Pretend to sleep, but keep your blades at hand.”

“And what of the rest of us?” asked Shurin.

Kahless clapped him on the shoulder. “The rest of us will slip away quietly and take up positions along the enemy’s flank.”

“But the enemy is not in the field,” Badich protested. “He
has
no flank.”

“Not yet,” Kahless agreed. “But he will soon enough.”