by John M. Ford
Meanwhile, Lomakh and Tichar led them through one winding passageway after the other, their heels clattering on the stone floors. But they couldn’t shake their pursuers. Kahless was like a bulldog, refusing to let go. And though the captain was no longer the youth who had won the Academy marathon, he was hardly a laggard either.
Of course, their chase couldn’t go on forever, Picard told himself. Sooner or later, Lomakh and his comrade had to hit a dead end of some sort. Then they would have no choice but to turn and fight.
Events quickly proved him right. Racing down a short, straight hallway, the captain got the impression of a large, dim room beyond. As he and the clone entered it, they saw it had no other exit.
Lomakh and Tichar were trapped inside. But that didn’t mean they intended to go down without a struggle.
As luck would have it, they had stumbled onto an armory of sorts. There were bladed weapons of all shapes and sizes adorning the far wall, along with a variety of other, more arcane devices. Unarrh, it seemed, was a collector of such things.
First Lomakh reached for a bat’leth, then Tichar did the same. Grinning, they advanced on Picard and his companion, shifting their weapons in their hands as if looking forward to what would come next.
“Bad luck,” Kahless muttered.
“It seems that way,” the captain agreed.
He gauged his chances of getting past the conspirators to obtain a bat’leth of his own. The odds weren’t very good at the moment. Gritting his teeth, he weighed his other options.
He and Kahless could give ground, perhaps go back the way they came. But if they went back far enough, Lomakh and Tichar might find a way out of Unarrh’s complex. And once they did that, they would have a chance to escape.
Picard knew he couldn’t live with himself if these two got away. He recalled the faces he saw in the ruins of the academy on Ogat—the faces of the innocent children who died at the hands of the conspirators.
No one should be able to do that with impunity, he thought. Lomakh and Tichar would have to pay for their crimes. And if they had some other outcome in mind, they would have to go through the captain in order to obtain it.
“Out of our way!” growled Lomakh.
“Not a chance in Hell,” Kahless shot back.
“You’d rather die?” asked Tichar.
The clone’s eyes narrowed. “There are worse things, p’tahk!”
Kahless’s lips pulled back past his teeth in a feral grin. He rolled his d’k tahg in his hand. Clearly, he had come too far and fought too hard not to see this through to its conclusion.
Picard had to admire his courage and his persistence. Perhaps this was not the Kahless of legend, but the clone had the heart of a hero.
The conspirators seemed to think so, too. The captain could see it in their eyes, in the way they hunkered down for battle. Despite their advantage in the way they were armed, they knew this would not be easy for them.
For a moment, there was only the echo of advancing footfalls on the floor, and the glint of firelight on their blades, and the pounding of Picard’s heart in his chest. Then Kahless sprang forward like a maddened bull and the combat was joined.
The armory clattered with the clash of metal on metal as the powerful Tichar met the clone’s attack with his bat’leth. At the same time, the captain saw Lomakh come shuffling toward him sideways, bringing his weapon up and back for a killing blow.
Picard didn’t waste any time. Darting in close, he ducked and heard the whistle of the blade as it passed harmlessly over his head. Then he stabbed at the conspirator with his d’k tahg, hoping to find a space between the Klingon’s ribs.
It didn’t work out as he’d hoped. Not only did Lomakh ward off his blow, he struck the captain in the mouth with the heel of his hand. Staggering backward with the force of the blow, Picard tasted blood. As he tried desperately to steady himself, he felt something hard smack him in the back—and realized it was the wall.
The conspirator’s eyes gleamed as he saw his chance. With a flip of his wrists, he swung his bat’leth a second time. But Picard regained control in time to roll to one side, removing himself from harm’s way.
The bat’leth struck the wall where he had been, giving rise to a spray of hot sparks. Enraged, Lomakh turned to his adversary and went for him again, thrusting with the point of his blade.
But this time, the captain had a better plan. After all, he had studied fencing as a youth, and his instructor had emphasized the importance of distance. Peddling backward suddenly, his dagger held low, he managed to keep his chin just beyond the leading edge of Lomakh’s bat’leth.
As the conspirator came on, trying to extend his reach, Picard maintained his margin of safety. Then, without warning, he drove Lomakh’s blade aside with a vicious backhand slash. His adversary lurched forward, unable to regain his balance, much less protect himself.
Taking advantage of the opening, the captain grabbed the front of Lomakh’s tunic with his free hand and dropped into a backward roll. Halfway through the maneuver, he planted his heel in the Klingon’s chest and allowed Lomakh’s momentum to do the rest.
As Picard completed his roll, he saw the Klingon sprawl, a tangle of body and limbs and razor-sharp bat’leth. Lomakh bellowed with pain before he came to a stop. A moment later, the captain saw what had caused the warrior so much discomfort.
The bat’leth had imbedded itself in Lomakh’s tunic, cutting through flesh as well as leather. With a guttural curse, the Klingon tore the blade free and staggered to his feet.
“For that,” he spat, “your death will be slow and painful!”
Picard smiled grimly, caught up in the interplay of bravado. “This may surprise you,” he said, “but I have heard that before.”
Again, Lomakh charged him. And again, the captain let him think he was on the verge of achieving his goal. Then, at the last possible moment, Picard turned sideways, flung up his arms, and let the conspirator’s bat’leth shoot past him.
As Lomakh followed through, the human brought the hilt of his dagger down on the base of the Klingon’s skull. With a grunt of pain, his adversary fell to his knees. His weapon slipped from insensible hands. And before he could recover, Picard’s knee was in the small of the Klingon’s back.
Driving Lomakh down with all his weight, the captain gripped the conspirator’s hair with his left hand and pulled. Then, with his right hand, he placed the edge of his blade against Lomakh’s eminently exposed throat.
“Bljeghbe’chugh vaj blHegh!” Picard growled. “Surrender or die!”
The conspirator tried to twist his head free, but the captain only increased the pressure of dagger against flesh. He repeated the order, this time in the short form.
“Jegh!”
Lomakh groaned, awash with shame—but not so much he would die to rid himself of it. “Yap,” he rasped. “Enough.”
Careful not to let his guard drop, Picard looked up—in time to see Kahless dodge a sweeping attack from Tichar. As the human watched, the clone struck back—once, twice, and again, battering down the conspirator’s defenses. Tichar looked a little clumsier and a little more fatigued with each blow leveled against him.
But then, Kahless was wearing down too. Sweat streamed down either side of his face and his barrel chest was heaving for air. Besides that, there was a nasty cut on his forehead just below his hairline, and the blood from it was seeping into his eyes.
Finally, the clone seemed to find an opening, a gap in his opponent’s defenses. Taking advantage of it, he darted in for the kill—and Tichar was too weary to stop him in time. With a savage thukt, Kahless’s bat’leth buried itself deep in the conspirator’s belly, just below the sternum.
The clone snarled as he drove his point upward, lifting his enemy off the ground despite his bulk. Picard winced as he watched Tichar scream in agony. Finally, Kahless let the conspirator down.
Tichar sank to his knees, mortally wounded. Applying his boot to the conspirator’s chest, the clone p
ulled his blade free and let Tichar sprawl backward. Then Kahless turned to the captain and grinned through his own gore, more like an animal than a sentient being.
But then, thought Picard, that is and always has been the nature of the Klingon dichotomy. Canny intelligence mingled with the most relentlessly violent impulses. A dream of greatness floundering in a sea of blood.
Unable to contain his exuberance, the clone bellowed in triumph. He sounded like a storm, like a force of nature. The walls echoed with it and the rafters seemed to quiver.
This was joy pure and unbridled, an emotion as honest as it was repugnant to the human sensibility. It was Kahless’s answer to those who questioned his authenticity, his challenge to those who would stand against him.
Here I am, he seemed to say. Neither legend nor fraud, but a Klingon in all my earthly glory. Strive to be like me if you dare.
Ultimately, that was his appeal—and his greatness. Kahless was the Klingon Everyman, a mirror in which every last son of Qo’noS might find the noblest parts of himself.
The captain was so taken with the passion of the clone’s display, he almost didn’t see Tichar sit up, mortal wound and all. And even when he saw it, all he could do was cry out.
“Kahless!” he roared.
But it was too late. With his last reserve of strength, the conspirator hurled his bat’leth at the clone. As it whirled end over end, Kahless saw the look in the human’s eyes and turned.
He had no time to ward the bat’leth off—not completely. All he could do was bring his own weapon up and hope for the best.
Unfortunately, the clone’s action didn’t slow the blade down one iota. The bat’leth punctured his tunic in the center of his chest. Staggered, he sank to one knee.
His face a mask of pain, Kahless gripped the bat’leth with both hands and tugged it free. Then, with a curse, he flung it from him. The blade scraped along the floor.
“My God,” whispered Picard.
Was it possible the Klingon had come all this way just to perish in the end? Could Fate be so cruel?
He saw Kahless find him with his eyes. For a moment, they stared at one another, neither one knowing what to expect. Then the clone’s teeth pulled back in a grin again, and he howled louder than ever.
The captain stared openmouthed. He didn’t understand. He had seen the point of the bat’leth bury itself in Kahless’s chest.
But as the Klingon approached him, caught up suddenly in the throes of laughter, he made the answer clear. Reaching into his leather tunic, he pulled out the betrothal amulet he wore—the one modeled after that of the original Kahless.
It was badly dented. In fact, the closer Picard looked, the more it seemed to him the thing had taken the brunt of a bat’leth thrust.
“Apparently,” the clone boomed, “there is something to be said for tradition after all!”
Before the armory stopped ringing with his words, reinforcements arrived in the form of Worf, Kurn, and Gowron. And several of Gowron’s guards, whom he had left outside at first, were there to back them up.
Relieved, the captain released Lomakh and got to his feet. At last, he told himself, it was over.
Thirty-six: The Heroic Age
Emperor Kahless looked out the window. There were endless crowds gathered on either side of the road that led from his citadel—once Molor’s citadel—to the eastern provinces. Though he hadn’t shown himself yet, they were cheering and pumping their swords in the air.
The old warchief sighed. He had intended for only his closest friends and servants to know that he was leaving. Somehow, the word had leaked out.
“It wasn’t me,” said Anag.
Kahless turned to look at his chief councilor. Anag was a lean, dark-skinned man with a big, full beard. He was also Kahless’s handpicked choice of successor.
“What wasn’t you?” Kahless asked, confused by the declaration.
“It wasn’t me who told the people of your departure,” the younger man explained.
The emperor grunted. “Oh. That.” He shrugged. “And if it were you, Anag? Would I have boiled you in en’tach oil for your transgression?” He laughed. “There hasn’t been a secret kept in these halls since I took the tyrant’s life. Why should my leaving be any exception?”
Anag frowned. “You are…certain about this?”
Kahless nodded. “I am certain. Let us not have this conversation again, all right? I am an old man. I need to leave under my own power, and I will not have the chance to do that much longer.”
He went over to his bed, where he had left his traveler’s pack—a cracked leather relic of his days as an outlaw. There were still a few things he wanted to add to it.
Anag shook his head. “I still don’t see the need for it. If you died in your bed, what difference would it make?”
The emperor looked at him. “You are right.”
His councilor seemed surprised. “About your staying, you mean?”
“No,” said Kahless. “About your not understanding.”
Morath would have understood. Hell, he would have come up with the idea in the first place.
After all, it had only been a few decades since Kahless overthrew Molor and united the Klingon people. But in that time, he had seen his deeds magnified into the stuff of legend. If he could make a myth of his passing as well, it would only strengthen his legacy.
And a true legacy it was. With the tyrant overthrown, he had given the Klingons a set of laws by which they could conduct themselves honorably. Naturally, the basis for those laws was the principles Morath had lived by.
Keep your promises to one another. Deal openly and fairly, even with your enemies. Fight a battle to its end, giving no quarter. And when it is necessary to die, die bravely.
His people had embraced these precepts as a man dying of thirst might embrace a skin full of water. What’s more, they had been quick to give Kahless credit for them. But he had insisted that Morath be known as the source of their wisdom—thereby fulfilling the vow he had made to his friend more than thirty years earlier.
Kahless had also set free the provinces that used to pay Molor tribute, inviting them instead to join his confederacy of free states. As he could have predicted, the provinces swore allegiance to him—and instead of tribute, they now paid taxes.
The same situation, of course, but a different appearance. Over the years, Kahless had learned to play his role well.
Morath would no doubt have been proud of all his friend had accomplished—if not of Kahless himself. After all, the emperor took no pride in what he had done for his people. His only motivation had been to please Morath’s ghost—to keep his word to the man.
To remind himself of that promise, he had kept the dagger that killed Morath—still black with Morath’s blood—in a glass case in his throne room. People had tried to confuse its significance, to say it was Kahless’s blood on the thing—but again, he had insisted on the truth.
It was Morath’s blood. Morath’s. And it was important to him that they remembered that.
After all, Morath had been a man of honor. And Kahless himself was just a fraud in honor’s clothing—a fake, playing the part of the beloved emperor—even if he was the only one who knew it. Fortunately, he would not have to maintain the pretense much longer.
“What is that?” asked Anag.
Kahless looked at the scroll in his hand—the last thing he meant to pack. He chuckled. “Nothing, really. Just a collection of maps to guide me in my travels.”
It was a lot more than a collection of maps. It was an account of his life—not the one shrouded in legend, but a true story with all its blemishes. He believed it would be of value someday, when myths were no longer quite so necessary, and Klingons had learned to embrace truth.
His councilor sighed. “There’s nothing I can say, then, to talk you out of this? Nothing I can do to make you stay?”
Kahless put his hand on Anag’s shoulder. “You are a wise man,” he said, “and an honorable one. Bu
t you talk entirely too much. Now come, son of Porus, walk me downstairs.”
With that, he hefted his pack and made his way to the ground floor. Anag followed a step behind him, saying nothing, no doubt still puzzling over his emperor’s motives.
Kahless wished he could have stayed and seen how Anag ruled. He wished he could have been assured of a smooth succession, and prosperity for his people, and the survival of Morath’s laws.
But there were no assurances in life. He had learned that long ago. Men might keep promises, but Fate bound itself to no one.
The emperor reached the foot of the stairs, crossed the anteroom, and made his way out into the courtyard. The gates were open. Beyond them, he could see the multitude that had gathered on either side of the road.
Some of the faces closest to him were familiar ones. They were his retainers, those charged with seeing to his safety. No doubt, the news of his leaving had been more confusing to them than to anyone.
For a single, astonishing moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of Kellein in the crowd. She seemed to be waving to him, standing tall and beautiful in the fading light.
His heart leaped in his chest. How was it possible…?
Then he realized his eyes were playing tricks on him, and his heart sank again. But then, that happened when one got old.
Putting one foot before the other, he walked out through the gates, leaving Anag behind. Nor did he look back.
On one side and then the other, people pushed out from the crowd to speak to him. To appeal to him with their eyes. To pose the same question in different forms, over and over again.
“Master, where are you going?” asked one of his retainers.
He smiled, exposing teeth that were still sharp and strong. “To a place called Sto-Vo-Kor,” he answered. “Where no one lacks sustenance or bends his knee to anyone else. Where in every hall, the clash of swords rings from the rafters. And where men hold honor above all else.”
In truth, he didn’t know where he was going, or how long he would survive. But it didn’t matter. Like an old rach’tor who couldn’t hunt anymore, he knew it was simply his time to go.