by John M. Ford
Then, almost before he knew it, Kahless was among them, slashing and cursing, whirling and rending. He could hear the bellows of warriors seeking their courage and the clangor of clashing weapons. He could smell the sweat of their beasts and the metallic scent of blood, feel the numbing impact of the enemy’s weapons on his own.
This was battle. This was what it felt like to be a warrior, to pit strength against strength and fury against fury.
And as Molor advised, the warchief s actions were swift and ruthless. The blade of his axe grew slick with the outlaws’ gore—and still he smashed and cut and clawed, meeting savagery with even greater savagery. He refused to let up, refused to stop until the last of the brigands cried for mercy.
Nor was the enemy the only one who bled and fell, to be crushed under the hooves of the snarling s’tarahkmey. Many of Molor’s men perished that day as well. Kahless bore witness to it.
Then again, it was a good day to die. It was always a good day to die.
Only Molor had to live. It would be the greatest shame to Kahless and the rest of their army if their monarch fell in battle. It would be a failure that would haunt them the rest of their days.
So, even while he was trying to preserve his own life, the warchief was keeping an eye out for Molor. It was a good thing, too, or Kahless wouldn’t have seen the outlaw giant cutting and slicing his way in the master’s direction.
Of course, Kahless had noticed the giant before, catching sight of him as they pursued the brigands across the plains of Molor’s kingdom. It would have been difficult not to notice; the man stood a full head taller than most of the other outlaws and had shoulders like crags.
Warriors that tall were often clumsy and plodding, but this one was an exception. As immense as he was, as difficult to knock down, he was also as quick with a blade as anyone Kahless had ever seen.
No one could seem to slow the giant down, much less stop him. And before long, he had hacked away the last of Molor’s defenders, leaving the emperor alone to face his fury.
No—not quite alone. For as the giant’s sword whistled for Molor’s head, Kahless leaped from his s’tarahk and dragged his lord to earth, saving his life in the process.
When they hit the ground, Molor was stunned. But Kahless was not. Rising in his emperor’s stead, he challenged the outlaw.
“My name is Kahless,” he roared, “son of Kanjis. If you wish to kill my lord, you must kill me first!”
The giant leered at him, revealing a mouthful of long, stakelike teeth. “It will be my pleasure!” he spat.
He had barely gotten the words out before he lifted his blade and brought it slicing down at Kahless. But the warchief was quick, too. Rolling to one side, he got to his feet again and launched an attack of his own.
The giant parried it in time, but had to take a step back. It was then, in a moment of strange clarity, that Kahless remembered Molor’s words: “Strike swiftly and unexpectedly, like a bird of prey, and show not an ounce of mercy.”
Surely, the giant wouldn’t expect him to press his attack—not when they were so clearly mismatched. But, heeding his master’s advice, that is exactly what the warchief did.
He rushed forward and swung his axe with all his might. To his surprise as well as the giant’s, he buried it deep in the place where the outlaw’s neck met his shoulder.
The giant screamed, dropped his own weapon, and tried to pull the axehead free. But with his life’s blood soaking his leather armor, he no longer had the strength. He sank to his knees, still striving with the axe.
Kahless didn’t have the luxury of watching his enemy’s blood pool about him on the ground. There was still work to do. Plucking up the giant’s sword, which was not that much bigger or heavier than those he was used to, he whirled it once around his head.
Then, in a spray of blood, he used it to decapitate the mighty outlaw. As the giant’s head rolled off his shoulders, it was trampled under the hooves of a riderless s’tarahk.
After that, the outlaws seemed to lose their lust for battle. And before the sun met the horizon, Molor’s men had carried the day.
In the aftermath of the fighting, the monarch embraced Kahless and awarded him first choice of the spoils for his work that day. Molor slapped the warchief on the shoulder and said out loud that Kahless, son of Kanjis, was his fiercest and most loyal warrior.
In Kahless’s ears, there could have been no more pleasing sound than the praise of his master, or the resultant cheers of his men. He had wrapped himself in glory. What else was there?
Three: The Modern Age
When the Muar’tek Festival comes to Tolar’tu, even the heavens lift their voices in celebration.
Kahless reflected on the uncanny accuracy of the saying as he made his way through the milling crowd toward the town square. The afternoon sky, packed tightly with low, brooding clouds, rumbled softly, as if in willing accompaniment to the brave sounds sent up by the festival musicians.
The Klingon felt himself drawn to the tumult—to the hoarse whistling of the long, tapering abin’do pipes, to the insistent strumming of the harps, and to the metallic booming of the krad’dak drums that echoed from wall to age-stained wall.
If all went well, the coming performance in the square and the mounting storm would pace one another like a matched pair of hunting animals, reveling in their power and their beauty as they ran down their quarry—only to reach it at the same time.
As Kahless edged closer to the ancient plaza and the space that had been cleared out in the center of it, he caught the briny scent of the fresh serpent worms offered by the street vendors. And as if that were not enough to set one’s belly grumbling, one-eyed Kerpach—whose shop was set into the western wall of the square—was bringing out a particularly pungent batch of rokeg blood pie.
Glancing around, he saw that few of those who’d come here for the festival wore their everyday dark clothes without embellishment. That was a change. Just a few years ago, one might see only a few of the elderly sporting a blood-red glove or band in keeping with the festival’s traditions. These days, even the smallest children wore red headbands as a matter of course.
But then, to this square which had seen so much, these were all children—young and old, traditionalist or otherwise. And it welcomed them with open arms, as long as there was joy and honor in their hearts.
After all, this was the oldest part of Tolar’tu, the only part that escaped the ravages of Molor more than fifteen hundred years ago. The town’s ancient center, where—it might be said—Klingon civilization first took hold. And had it not been for Kahless, he mused, even this place would have been consumed by the tyrant’s greed.
He took considerable pride in that accomplishment. Perhaps he was not the historical Kahless, as he’d once believed. Perhaps he was only a clone of that warrior-prince, created by the clerics of Boreth from the blood on an ancient dagger to restore a sense of honor to the Empire.
Still, he felt responsible for everything the first Kahless had accomplished. And why not? Could he not remember the salvation of Tolar’tu as if he had been there? Could he not recall in detail his every stroke against Molor’s armies?
Thanks to the clerics, he had all his predecessor’s memories—all his wisdom and ethical fiber. And, of course, all his good looks.
That was why he had to conceal his face under a hood sometimes—today being a case in point. Most days, he was glad to be the Empire’s icon, a symbol held high for all to emulate. But even an icon had to be by himself once in a while, and now was such a time.
No sooner had Kahless edged up near the front rank of onlookers than the musicians changed their tune. The music became louder—more strident, more urgent. It sounded more and more as if the instruments were yearning for something.
And then that very something had the grace to appear. With a great, shrill burst of delight from the abin’do pipes, the afternoon’s performers darted out into the center of the square. One was dressed all in red, the other
all in blue. They glared at each other, feigning hatred, as if already in the midst of a savage combat.
To the audience’s delight, the performer in red bellowed his purpose in a deep baritone: to teach his opponent a lesson about honor. A moment later, his opponent answered in just as deep a voice, echoing the words that had been handed down through the centuries….
“I need none of your wisdom, brother.”
The crowd cheered with mock intensity—and awaited the gyrations sure to follow the brothers’ challenges. For this was no choreographed ritual, predictable in its every gesture. Though no injury was intended, there was no telling who would do what to whom.
And yet, when the performance was over, the actor in red would somehow emerge victorious. That was the only certainty in all of this, the only predictability—that in the end, Kahless would exact from his brother Morath the price of telling a lie.
Needless to say, this was only symbolic of the combat in which the real Kahless had engaged—a combat that lasted twelve days and twelve nights. Kahless recalled it as if it were yesterday—at least, the beginnings of it. The rest was all but lost in a stuporous haze, born of sleep deprivation and lack of nourishment.
But Morath had learned his lesson. And from that point on, he had never compromised the honor of his brother or his clan.
There in the square, the actors wove in and out of each other’s grasp. They barely touched one another, but their grunting and their flexing gave the impression of unbridled exertion. Sweat poured from their temples and ran down their necks, turning their tunics dark with perspiration.
Up above, the stormclouds shouldered one another, as if to get a better view of the performance. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked unmercifully. And the musicians answered, not to be outdone, as the first fat drops of rain began to fall.
A second time, the actor in red called out to his adversary, demanding that he regret his act of betrayal. A second time, the actor in blue refused to comply, and the audience roared with disapproval.
As well they should, Kahless remarked inwardly. The only thing worse than incurring dishonor was refusing to recognize it as such.
He wished that puny excuse for a cleric—the one who claimed to have discovered that damned scroll on the road to Sto-Vo-Kor—could have been here to witness this. He wished the little p’tahk could see what real honor was.
Then, perhaps, he might understand the gravity of what he had done—the purity of the faith he had assailed, and the disgrace that attended such a bald-faced lie.
The scroll was a fake. No one knew that better than Kahless, who had lived the events it attempted to question.
For whatever reason, Olahg was lying through his teeth. But there were those who seemed to take stock in his blasphemy. After all, he was one of the clerics of Boreth, wasn’t he? And as a result, beyond reproach?
In the end, of course, Olahg would be brought low for his deception. Kahless promised himself that. And like Morath, the damned initiate would pay the price for his crimes.
As Kahless emerged from his reverie, he realized the rain had begun to fall harder. Some of the onlookers, mostly old women and little children, went rushing for cover, of which there was blessed little in the square. But most stayed for the balance of the performance, which they sensed was not all that far off.
Sure enough, as the ground turned dark with heavy, pelting raindrops, the actor in red struck his adversary across the face—or so it seemed. Then again. And again. The actor in blue sank to his knees, defeated.
“I yield,” he cried, again citing the ancient words.
Finally, the Klingon in red lifted the exhausted figure of Morath to the heavens and bellowed his triumph. It was echoed by the abin’do pipes and the krad’dak drums. And as the music rose to a harsh, discordant crescendo, lightning blanched the sky in a great, white burst of glory, blinding them all for a single, dizzying moment.
They were still blinking when the thunder descended on them like a horde of wild s’tarahkmey, crashing about their ears and drowning out all else. Only when it finally showed signs of relenting did the actor in red let his “brother” down, and both of them bowed deeply to the crowd.
The people thrust their fists into the air and beat on one another’s shoulders, delirious with approval. Even Kahless found himself butting heads with a young warrior who’d been standing beside him, enjoying the performance.
The clone laughed. He was right to have come here, he told himself. This was what he had needed to lift his spirits. A reaffirmation of his legacy, an assurance that this was still Kahless’s world and not that of some mewling degenerate seeking an undeserved place in the sun.
As the rain let up a bit, the actors gave way to a big, bald-headed Klingon in a large black robe. Kahless recognized him as Unarrh, son of Unagroth, a powerful member of the high council and one of Gowron’s staunchest supporters.
Unarrh lived near Tolar’tu, in a place called Navrath. It must have been he who had sponsored the street drama. If so, it was only proper that he should address the crowd afterward.
“I trust you enjoyed the performance,” said Unarrh, his teeth exposed in a broad, benevolent smile, his voice deep and inexorable as the tides of the Chu’paq Sea. “However, let us not forget the meaning of what we have seen—indeed, the meaning of the entire festival.”
Good, thought Kahless. That is what the people needed to hear, now more than ever. It was to Unarrh’s credit that he should be the one to remind them of this.
“Let us rejoice in the tradition handed down to us by our fathers,” the council member intoned. “Let us place honor above all else, despite the temptations laid in our path by treacherous men—”
“How do you know?” called one of the warriors on the fringe of the crowd.
Heads turned with a rustling of cloaks and hoods. The rain beat a grim tattoo on the hard ground.
“How do you know,” the man repeated, “that the cleric Olahg is treacherous? How do you know he’s not speaking the truth?”
“That’s right,” called another warrior, from elsewhere in the assemblage. “He says he has proof.”
“What if Kahless was a fraud?” asked a woman. “What if all the myths about him are lies—as dishonorable as those for which Morath was punished?”
“They are not lies,” Unarrh maintained, anger flashing in his dark, expressive eyes. “The stories are as true now as they have ever been. In time, this upstart initiate will be exposed for the fraud he is. But until then, I will continue to believe in the virtues Kahless taught us—and more than that, in Kahless himself.”
Well said, the clone cheered inwardly. Surely, that would silence the doubters in the crowd.
But it didn’t. If anything, it made their voices stronger as they rose to meet Unarrh’s challenge, their protests louder than the grumble of thunder from the persistent storm.
“What if Kahless did not invent those virtues?” asked the first man. “What if that was a lie too?”
“All our lives,” shouted the woman, “we’ve believed in him, worshipped him…never suspecting our beliefs were based on falsehoods which bring dishonor to us all. What will we believe in now?”
“Rest assured,” shouted Unarrh, “your beliefs were based on truth. Nothing can change that—certainly not a corrupt cleric, whose imagination exceeds his sense of propriety.”
He darted a glance at a subordinate who was standing off to the side. Kahless knew the meaning of the gesture. Before long, the protesters would be picked out of the crowd and taken bodily from the gathering.
As they should be. Yet, the prospect was of no comfort to him. The spirit of the occasion had been ruined, at least from his point of view.
Kahless snarled. His joy turned to bile, he left the square and headed for his favorite dining hall.
Kahless grunted as he walked in, still hooded, and felt the warmth of the firepit on the exposed portion of his face. It was a good feeling.
Not that he was col
d—at least, not on the outside. It wasn’t even close to being winter yet. The fire felt good because it was a diversion—because it took his mind off what had happened in the main square.
Also, the clone was comfortable here. He had eaten his midday meal in this hall for the last week or so, having become a creature of habit since his “return” a few years ago.
There were three empty tables. One was near the firepit, used every day by an elderly man whose name he didn’t know. The other two were located in the corners by the back wall.
One of them was his. Without removing his hood or his cloak, Kahless crossed the room and sat down.
In most places, a hooded man would have attracted attention. Stares of curiosity, perhaps a taunt or two. But not in this place.
It was run by an old woman whose husband had been killed long ago in the Romulans’ attack on Khitomer. Widowed, left with little or no property, she had opened a dining hall in her native Tolar’tu, on one of the narrow, twisting streets leading to the main square.
Because of the location, the woman’s first customers had been of the less-than-respectable variety—the kind with secrets to keep. She hadn’t done anything to discourage them, so more showed up. And more.
It was the fastest way to build a business that she could think of. More importantly, it worked. Before long, the widow was dishing out more bloodwine and gagh—serpent worms—than anyone else in Tolar’tu.
And if the fare wasn’t the best, and the walls were bare of decoration, so what? It was a refuge for those in need of one, and there was always someone with that kind of need.
Besides, Kahless had never felt comfortable lording it over others. Here, he didn’t have to worry about that. And though the customers were rough-hewn, they weren’t the kind to give up on tradition because of some worm-eaten, fungus-ridden scroll.