The Hand of Kahless

by John M. Ford

  The warrior’s brow knotted. “How do you know he’s up there?”

  Kahless grunted. “I was one of his warchiefs, remember?”

  “But you’ve never seen him defend against a siege,” Morath protested. “He could be anywhere.”

  Kahless didn’t answer. He just started up the stairs again. After all, he knew the tyrant as well as any man.

  Besides, he had been gambling and winning battle after battle for months now. Why stop?

  Halfway up the steps, he heard something. Barely a sound—more like the absence of one. Slowing down ever so slightly, he braced himself.

  Suddenly, a spear came thrusting down at him. Though he was prepared, it was no easy task to batter it aside with his bat’leth—or to keep from staggering under the weight of the warrior who came after it.

  Still, the outlaw managed to keep his footing, and to grab his adversary’s wrist before the man’s hand could find Kahless’s throat. Then, off-balance as he was, he smashed his bat’leth into the guard’s face.

  There was no cry, no bellow of pain. Just a gurgle, and the man collapsed on him. Pressing his back against the wall, the outlaw allowed the corpse to fall past him, end over end. Farther below, Morath did the same.

  It was not the last obstacle Kahless would face on his way up the steps. He had to dispatch two more warriors, each more fierce than the one before, in order to reach his destination. But reach it he did.

  And all the while, Morath pursued him, ready to take his place if he was cut down. Fortunately for both of them, it was not necessary.

  Reaching the top of the stair, Kahless emerged onto a dark, windowless landing. At the opposite end, he saw a door.

  If he was right, Molor would be behind it. And some guards as well? he wondered. Or had he dispatched them all already?

  Morath came up beside him. For a moment, both of them listened—and heard nothing. Shrugging, the younger man pointed to the door. Kahless nodded and took its handle in his hand. And pushed.

  It wouldn’t move. It had been bolted from the inside.

  Clenching his teeth, the outlaw slashed the door with his bat’leth—once, twice, three times, until it was a splintered ruin. Then, with a single kick, he caved in the remains.

  As Kahless had suspected, Molor was inside.

  The tyrant was plotting his next move at his m’ressa-wood table. His large and imposing frame was hunkered over a map of his citadel, casting a monstrous shadow in the light of a single brazier.

  The outlaw had looked forward to the expression on the tyrant’s face when he saw his warchief coming back to haunt him—to exact revenge for Kellein, and for Rannuf, and for all the other innocents Molor had trampled in his hunger for power.

  But what Kahless saw was not what he had expected. Halfway into the room, the outlaw stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as badly as if someone had bludgeoned him in the head.

  “Blood of my ancestors,” he breathed.

  Molor looked up at him, his eyes sunken into his round, bony head like tiny, black dung beetles. The tyrant’s skin was intricately webbed as if with extreme old age and riddled with an army of open purple sores. His once-powerful body was hollowed out and emaciated, his limbs little more than long, brittle twigs.

  “Greetings,” he rattled, his voice like a serpent slithering through coarse sand. “I see you’ve found me, Kahless.”

  Molor said the outlaw’s name as if it fascinated him, as if it were the very first time he’d had occasion to say it out loud. His mouth quirked in a grotesque grandfatherly smile, revealing a mottled tongue and rounded, worm-eaten teeth.

  A moment later, Morath came into the room behind his friend. Glancing at him, Kahless saw the horror on the younger man’s face—the loathing that mirrored Kahless’s own.

  “As I expected,” the tyrant hissed gleefully, “your shadow is right behind you.”

  Molor wheezed as he spoke, the tendons in his neck standing out with the effort it cost him. Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth.

  “What happened to him?” asked Morath, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the tyrant.

  “What happened?” echoed Molor, his voice cracking. “I’ll tell you. I fell victim to the plague that’s been killing all the minn’hormey.”

  He tossed his head back and made a shrill, harsh sound that Kahless barely recognized as laughter. Threads of saliva stretched across the tyrant’s maw. Then, with a palsied, carbuncle-infested hand, he closed his mouth and wiped the drool from his shriveled chin.

  “Funny,” he said, “isn’t it? My physicians tell me the disease afflicts one Klingon in a thousand. And of all the wretched specimens on this wretched continent, whom should it bring down but the most powerful man on Qo’noS?”

  Molor started to laugh again, but went into a coughing fit instead. He had to prop himself up on the table for support. When he was done, he looked up at his enemy again.

  “I hope you are not disappointed,” he rasped. “I would give you a fight even now, Kahless, but it would not be much of a match. You are such a strong and sturdy man still, and I…” The tyrant’s face twisted with revulsion, with hatred for the reedy thing he had become. “I do not believe I would stand up to a stiff wind.”

  The outlaw shook his head. He had come here thirsting for vengeance with all his heart. But he knew now he couldn’t slake that thirst. As long as he lived, he could never slake it.

  He would get no satisfaction from killing a plague victim, no matter what Molor had done. But he couldn’t let the p’tahk live, either. The tyrant had to pay for his crimes somehow.

  With that in mind, Kahless used his left hand to remove his dagger from the sheath on his leg. With a toss, he placed it on the table in front of his enemy. It clattered for a moment, then lay still.

  “What are you doing?” asked Morath.

  “I am giving him a chance to take his own life,” the outlaw answered, “before my warriors tear him limb from limb. It was more than he did for Kellein and her people. And it is certainly more than he deserves. But nonetheless, there it is.”

  Molor picked up the d’k tagh with a trembling hand. And with difficulty, he opened it, so that all three blades clicked into place.

  “You’re right,” he told Kahless, as he inspected the weapon. “This is considerably more than I deserve. However—”

  Suddenly, the tyrant’s eyes came alive. He drew back the dagger with an ease that belied his appearance and balanced it gracefully in his hand.

  “—it is precisely what you deserve, son of Kanjis!”

  In that moment, the outlaw realized how badly he’d been duped. He saw all he had worked for—all his friends had given their lives for—about to vanish in a blaze of stupidity.

  Before he could move, Molor brought the knife forward and released it. But something flashed in front of Kahless—and with a dull thud, took the blade meant for him.

  Openmouthed, the outlaw stared at his friend Morath. The d’k tahg was protruding from the center of the warrior’s chest. Clutching at it, Morath tried to pull it out, to no avail. Then, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, he sank to his knees.

  Kahless was swept up in a maelstrom of blind, choking fury. He turned to Molor, the object of his hatred now more than ever.

  The tyrant was drawing a sword from a scabbard hidden underneath his m’ressa-wood table. With spindly wrists and skeletal fingers, Molor raised the weapon. And brought it back. And with a cry like an angry bird, braced himself for his enemy’s attack.

  But it did the tyrant no good. For the outlaw was already moving forward. Tossing the heavy table aside with his left hand, he brought his bat’leth into play with his right.

  First, Kahless smashed the sword out of Molor’s hand. Then, putting all his strength behind the blow, he swung his blade at the other man’s neck. With a bellow—not of triumph, but of pain and rage—he watched the tyrant’s head topple from his shoulders.

  As Molor’s skull clattered to the
floor, followed by a splash of blood, the outlaw turned to Morath. His friend was sitting on his haunches, still trying to draw the d’k tahg from his chest. With Kahless watching, Morath toppled to one side and lay gasping on the floor.

  Tossing his bat’leth aside, the outlaw fell to his knees and lifted his friend up in his arms. Kahless wanted to tell him there was hope he might outlive his wound, but he knew better. And so did Morath.

  “This is wrong,” the outlaw railed. “You cannot die now, damn you. Not when we have won.”

  “Your promise to me,” Morath began, his voice already fading. “It is not yet…not yet done….”

  Kahless shook his head, his sweat-soaked hair whipping at his face. “No,” he snarled, like a s’tarahk struggling against its reins. “I told you I would tear the tyrant down. And I have done that.”

  “A life,” Morath reminded him, his mouth bubbling with blood. “You said you would pay with your life. The people…they still need you….”

  The outlaw’s teeth ground in anger. But his friend was dying, having taken the dagger meant for Kahless.

  How could he deny Morath this last request? How could he think of himself after all the man had done for him?

  “A life,” he echoed, hating even the sound of the word. His lip curling, he swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. “As I promised you in the wilderness, a life.”

  Morath managed a thin, pale smile. “I will speak well of you to your ancestors…Kahless, son of Kanjis….”

  Then, with a shudder, his body became an empty husk.

  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.

  Thirty-five: The Modern Age

  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.