The Klingon Art of War

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  K’mpec wasn’t, but he also knew that Kravokh’s response to B’alikk—ignore him and hope he would go away—would not work, especially since he was gaining support among a group of militant scientists. K’mpec had another councillor casually ask B’alikk if he’d ever actually hunted.

  B’alikk was aghast. “Of course not!” he shouted, recoiling as if struck. “I do not engage in primitive barbarism from the time when Klingons wore loincloths!”

  When word of his response got back to K’mpec, the chancellor had the information he needed. He sent formal invitations to the councillors, inviting them to go hunting with him. Ostensibly, it was an opportunity for a new leader of the High Council to get to know the warriors he was leading in the political arena.

  B’alikk tried to refuse the invitation. After all, he reasoned, K’mpec had served on the High Council for many turns before he challenged Kravokh. The only change to the council was the appointment of Qurrt to take his place. B’alikk and K’mpec already knew each other well.

  Ultimately, however, B’alikk could not refuse a direct request from the supreme commander of the Empire. So he went to the imperial hunting grounds in Ketha Province and reluctantly joined K’mpec for a lingta hunt. The councillor himself described the experience in a lengthy speech he gave in open council, during which he made it clear that he would never introduce a resolution to outlaw hunting again. An excerpt from that speech:

  “I went to Ketha with dread, endeavoring to focus primarily on the opportunity for a day’s unfettered access to the chancellor and endeavoring not to think about the insanity of what we would be doing. I have lived all my life in the First City, where the odors are vile, or on space ships, where the atmosphere is regulated. This was my first time in a region of pure nature, and it was eye-opening—and nose-opening. The scents overwhelmed me at first, but also did much to get my blood boiling in a way it hadn’t since my youth. The flowers, the bushes, the birds, the beasts—it all amazed and astounded me. And when I tracked down the lingta and slew it, I felt more alive than I had in many turns.”

  Just as combat is a crucible, so too is hunting. At its finest, the hunt dissolves away irrelevancies until it is just you, your prey, and the wind. B’alikk learned what should have been obvious to him by seeing for himself what the hunt entails. And he had the integrity to change his mind. A mind that cannot change is a door that cannot open: both are useless.

  And then we have the mok’bara. The main reason why this precept has been of particular interest to me is due to my own mok’bara studies. As I write this I am preparing for the weeklong ordeal that will grant me—if I survive—master status in the mok’bara.10

  Since qeS’a’ was first published, scholars have been able to determine some of the origins of the mok’bara. Classes in the art were first taught by Koshi and his daughter, Gijin. Koshi lived on the island of Qirak’a, which later, decades before Kahless’s birth, sank in a tectonic shift. But by that time, the art had spread to the entire world, thanks to the adherents of Koshi’s and Gijin’s tireless traveling.

  It was an excavation on Qirak’a that unearthed documents telling us of Koshi and Gijin, including letters exchanged between father and daughter. Koshi said that the mok’bara “would bring focus and energy to warriors’ techniques.” Koshi focused primarily on combat, while Gijin was more interested in the enriching of the spirit.

  “A warrior,” Gijin wrote, “can learn techniques through the mok’bara, but what I find most valuable is that anyone may practice the forms. The elegance of the motions and the grace of the techniques are such that they can be taught to all.” In fact, today there are mok’bara schools across the Empire, and many of them begin with teaching small children. Even a child may easily learn nap chenmoH, as can others who may not be of the warrior class, but who still wish to master the techniques of combat. As one advances, one learns more difficult techniques, of course.

  Where combat is the embodiment of wild, intoxicating chaos, mok’bara brings order. In fact, that was what appealed to me when I first began studying. At the time, I was but a callow youth who had difficulty concentrating on anything. I was too uncoordinated for combat, too uninterested to focus on anything else. At their wits’ end, my parents enrolled me in a mok’bara school, one in Kopf’s Cliff taught by K’Dar, a master of the art. He recognized my youthful stubbornness and challenged me by declaring me unfit to take the class. Angered, I pushed myself to prove him wrong. For the first time in my young life, I found something to concentrate on. I was bound and determined to move on beyond chu’wI’.11 That adversity shaped me. It was the anvil upon which I was beaten and molded. K’Dar knew that the wise teacher forces students to teach themselves.

  But still, though I practiced, I could not master way’yeb.12 It didn’t seem like a difficult technique—K’dar, of course, performed it effortlessly, and even students who began their studies after me mastered it even while I continued to struggle. It was one of a dozen defenses I had to be able to execute perfectly before I could go for chu’wI’Hey.13

  Months went by, and four people who had begun their tutelage after me were granted chu’wI’Hey status while I remained a beginner. And so one day I stayed at the school after it closed and did nothing but practice way’yeb over and over and over again until I finally did it without flaw—and then I did it a hundred more times.

  When I told K’dar of this, he laughed heartily, and told me the story of Woliv, the master who had taught K’dar’s master the art. Woliv also had a technique he could not perfect, and so his teacher told him he could not advance. Irritated, Woliv went into the woods and proceeded to strike at the trees—one of the strikes he used was the one he hadn’t mastered, and he used it to shatter the tree. It was a complete accident, and he tried to re-create what he did. When he finally did so, he then executed it a hundred more times—just as I had. Woliv called this poHmey vatlh.14 K’dar granted me chu’wI’Hey status right then and there, for I had learned a valuable lesson of the mok’bara without even knowing it.

  I had sought adversity and become stronger for it. The focus I gained as a student of mok’bara is directly responsible for my ability to write, which in turn led to my career. In many ways, I owe everything in my life to the art—and to this precept, for had I not sought adversity, I would not be writing this commentary today.

  I still teach mok’bara classes when my schedule permits it, at the same school where I trained. K’dar still teaches as well, though he has grown old. They say old warriors are as rare as wise fools. K’dar is one of the rare ones, then. He does not shy from battle, but—as one of his students, Captain Klay, commander of the Tenth Fleet, put it—“He simply has yet to come across a foe worthy enough to send him to his death.” One of the finest mok’bara masters in the Empire, he is seldom challenged, but due to his age, he is rarely able to teach a full slate of classes. Luckily, many of his grateful students, like me, happily step in.

  About a year ago, there was one student who was incredibly difficult. The youth was recalcitrant, refusing to follow simple instructions, and he responded poorly to attempts at correction. Furthermore, he came with two bodyguards to every class. I quickly learned—because he announced it boldly—that his name was Torvol, and he was of the House of K’Tal, a family that has served on the High Council since the days of Chancellor Kravokh. His father was K’vel’kar, the owner of one of the premier bat’leth smithies in the Empire, his uncle was General Talak, and the head of his House of course served on the High Council. The warrior without a reputation borrows his family’s. And a borrowed reputation is a threadbare cloak. However, threadbare though Torvol’s cloak may have been, it was enough to prevent me from properly disciplining him, which meant there was nothing I could teach him.

  I asked K’dar what the boy was doing in the class, and the master simply sighed. The House of K’Tal was not to be trifled with, and if K’vel’kar wished to enroll his son in the school “to make a warrior of him,” then K’dar
was to try. My own opinion was that Torvol lacked the equipment for such a manufacture. In the last class I taught before I went on a lengthy voyage offworld, I told Torvol that he was wasting his time, that he would never master the mok’bara because the forms teach combat, and Torvol’s upbringing had guaranteed that he would never see combat. As if to prove my point, his two bodyguards moved to stand between us. I turned my back on him and the bodyguards both. Later, I was told that K’dar had to talk Torvol out of ordering my death.

  I wouldn’t have given the youth a second thought, but shortly after our encounter, his personal transport was ambushed by Kreel pirates. While Torvol survived, he lost his left arm in the attack. After he recovered, he returned to K’dar’s school just as I was there to teach a few classes. Although there were many forms he could not do, Torvol tried harder than anyone in the class, and mastered every form that he could in a remarkably short time. He even managed to get through pa’Qaw’ chenmoH,15 a difficult one to perform with only one arm, for it has many instances of jen lol, requiring balance that is hard to manage one-armed.

  In his case, he had not sought out adversity, but rather it sought him out. The result was the same: he became stronger. Had he sought the adversity on his own by studying the mok’bara more thoroughly, he might have become a proper warrior on his own instead of the coddled scion of a noble House that shielded him from his weaknesses. But adversity was provided for him, thus at last permitting him the opportunity to overcome the weaknesses that had so crippled his honor. When K’vel’kar died, Torvol was able to take over the smithy.

  Safety breeds weakness. Adversity creates strength.

  * * *

  1. Circular parry.

  2. Palm-heel strike.

  3. Front stance, which involves leaning forward on one bent leg in front of you, while the other leg is angled and straight behind you.

  4. High stance, where you stand on one leg, the other off the ground and braced behind the knee of the standing leg.

  5. Low stance, where one foot is slightly in front of the other and both knees are bent so that you’re almost crouching.

  6. Khrun stance, where you stand very low with feet wide apart, imitating how one rides a khrun.

  7. Form (the equivalent of a kata in Japanese martial arts on Earth).

  8. Simple form.

  9. Advanced form.

  10. K’Ratak did, in fact, survive, and as of the printing of this volume has achieved master status.

  11. Novice.

  12. Wrist parry.

  13. Advanced novice.

  14. The hundred repetitions.

  15. Literally “destroy the castle.” This form simulates a single warrior fighting all those who defend a mighty castle.

  FIFTH PRECEPT

  REVEAL YOUR TRUE SELF IN COMBAT.

  “We do not fight merely to spill blood, but to enrich the spirit.”

  —KAHLESS

  But B’Ennora looked at Volagh, who was not yet dead. They exchanged a glance, and B’Ennora knew instantly that Volagh was no traitor. Before Taklat could speak or attempt to conceal himself once more, she killed him.

  DICTUM: THE SHATTERED MASK

  WARRIORS MUST VENTURE INTO THE LABYRINTH. COMBAT IS THE WAY, AND AT THE CENTER IS THE SELF. DISCOVER AND DECLARE YOUR TRUEST SELF, THAT WHICH LINGERS WHEN EVERYTHING ELSE HAS BEEN STRIPPED AWAY. BEYOND VICTORY, BEYOND DEFEAT. BEYOND EVERY NEED AND THE SATISFACTION OF EVERY NEED. HAVING PASSED THROUGH THE WASTES, THE DESERTS SOWN WITH DEATH, YOU MUST HOLD YOUR BANNER HIGH AND UNFURL IT. THERE, ON THE BATTLEFIELD, SHATTER YOUR MASK, FOR IT SERVES AN OBSOLETE PURPOSE. BY YOUR WARRING, YOU HAVE ALREADY MADE YOURSELF PLAIN. A WARRIOR HAS NO MORE SECRETS.

  STRENGTH FROM WEAKNESS

  When two warriors come together in battle, it is not a time for sorrow, dismay, or fear, but for celebration.

  Warriors are at their finest when they have a battle to fight, a cause to fight for, and a worthy foe to face.

  The one certainty of life, the one thing that everyone, warrior to beggar, can count on is death. Death can be bought but never sold. For that reason, nothing is more important than how one faces death.

  Simply waiting for death is foolish and dishonorable. Death will arrive regardless, so why wait? Embrace the inevitable. Seize it and bring death closer! No treasure was ever won by waiting.

  Death is the one foe that everyone faces, the one foe that never loses. But to avoid the battle will only allow death to stab you in the back. Like any foe, death must be challenged and it must be battled. To do otherwise brings shame to the greatest battle of all, that of life.

  The will required to do battle is tremendous. Not all are born with it, which is why we train, so we can achieve that will.

  Once Kahless told the story of two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was already strong, and declared his intent to become a warrior. The girl was smaller and also younger, but she too wished to be a warrior. The boy laughed at the girl, saying she could never be as strong as him.

  Years passed. The boy, knowing himself to be strong, did not bother to train, assuming that his strength would always carry the day. The girl, though, studied the mok’bara, played games of strategy, and tutored with a blade instructor. She remained physically frail, but she fought to overcome her weakness of body by the strength of her spirit. Battle is the finest teacher, and the girl was an apt pupil.

  She met the boy again, and challenged him, tik’leth in hand. He laughed and mocked her sword, but unsheathed his own weapon. At first, the fight was one-sided, and the boy’s strength was his advantage. He had no skill with the sword, so he attempted simply to club her with it. But the girl had been trained to use her smaller size and relative weakness as assets. The blind can still hear the truth of things, after all. So she dodged his blows, avoided his strength.

  In the end, she defeated him. She moved in close, leaving him unable to benefit from his longer reach. She plunged her sword into his chest.

  Kahless explained then that the body is just a physical shell. It is the heart that determines a warrior, and battle that determines the heart. A casual observer would believe the boy to be the fighter and the girl to be weak, but combat revealed the nature of their truest selves. One may never judge the sharpness of a blade by its sheath.

  There are other methods of combat just as revealing, even where no weapons are raised.

  KLIN ZHA

  During his travels following his battle against Morath, Kahless journeyed from the First City to the distant peninsula of Kalranz. He wished to bring the laws of honor to the people there. In a park near the cliffs that overlooked the great ocean, Kahless saw a man and a woman playing a game with pieces on a board. He had never seen such a game before. He asked the players, who were mates named Kaprav and Vis’Ar, to explain it to him. They called it klin zha, which derives from very old Klingon, and it translates roughly as “the game of the people.”

  The game had eighteen stones, nine green, nine gold. Each stone could move in a different manner and each was maneuvered to capture a neutral piece, called the Goal. Kahless admired the game and immediately asked to be taught to play. He spent the entire day in that park, playing first Kaprav, then Vis’Ar.

  Kaprav and Vis’Ar told Kahless they created the game as a method of refining one’s combat strategies. They told him nobody had mastered the game as quickly as Kahless had, which indicated his wisdom.

  Other games Kahless was familiar with test strength and accuracy. Many times, Kahless spoke of the times he played B’aht Qul1 with his brother Morath when they were youths. That game has two warriors face each other across a table as each presses the back of his hand against other’s. Whoever can push the other’s hand to the table surface first wins.

  From the moment they can pick up a spear, every Klingon child plays Qeq ghIntaq,2 which measures aim.

  However, Kahless realized that the true heart of a warrior can be found in klin zha. Only klin zha tests the mind of a warrior, the ability to strategize
and anticipate one’s foe’s next move and to counteract it.

  When he left Kalranz, Kahless brought a board and game pieces on his travels. He taught the game to everyone he knew. He met with many warlords, kings, tyrants, and warriors. Some flew to his banner right away. Others resisted. All of them were challenged to a game of klin zha.

  The leader of the island nation of Kall’ta did not believe that Kahless’s cause was just, but he did accept the challenge of a game. His strategies were simplistic, he did not think past the current move, and Kahless defeated him easily every time. Kahless knew he would be easily conquered. His armies accomplished that task within a month.

  Another warlord, this one from the mountains of Pak’thar, felt the same as the Kall’ta leader. But he played klin zha with verve and brilliance, defeating Kahless as often as Kahless bested him. This was a foe who would be difficult to challenge, so Kahless let him be until his own position was stronger. Months later, the lands surrounding Pak’thar had all adopted Kahless’s banner, and the warlord pledged himself to Kahless as well.

  When that warlord did so, he told Kahless that he admired the strategy, as it was very much like a klin zha maneuver. If you cannot take the Goal, occupy the territory surrounding it. The Goal will eventually fall to you.

  Games of strategy reveal much about a warrior’s heart. Not only do they reveal how a warrior reasons, but also the tactics the reasoning will devise. Two warriors may target the same goal but acquire it differently. Klin zha helps show the differences and similarities among warriors. It shows them their own paths to victory.

  TO GRIP A WEAPON

  Another manner in which a warrior’s true face can be revealed is in the holding of a weapon. One of Kahless’s followers was the great warrior Amar, who trained warriors in the use of the bat’leth, the mighty sword that Kahless first forged.