Another wave of pain rippled through the Ferengi’s thin body and Martok heard him whimper. “I’m really not very brave,” Pharh said softly, his eyes shut. “It’s very dark in here. ...” His breath caught in his throat and he suddenly grew rigid.
Martok leaned forward and roughly pushed the Ferengi’s eyes open with his thumbs. He whispered sternly into his ear, “Don’t let them see your fear, my son. Klingons do not fear the gods. ...”
And with his last breath, Martok’s kr’tach whispered, “They fear us.”
Ezri was roused from her stupor by a shout of rage and grief and defiance. She looked up and saw Martok kneeling beside the Ferengi’s body, his thumbs holding Pharh’s eyes open and bellowing to the heavens. The cry seemed to go on and on and all around the chancellor, his warriors, at first puzzled, were moved by the shout and took it up until half the hillside howled up into the sky.
At last, the cry died away and Martok stood, the Sword of Kahless in his hand. He pointed at the canyon where Morjod waited with his army. “This battle,” he [295] cried, “is for the right of this warrior to enter Sto-Vo-Kor! WILL YOU FIGHT FOR HIM?!”
The hills shook with the response: “KAI!”
Martok held the sword aloft and roared, “TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!”
And the storm, at long last, broke.
20
“Mother,” Morjod said. “He has the sword.”
Sword? Gothmara thought. What sword? But she did not want to say that to her son, having learned that children should always be under the impression that their parents know everything. So instead she asked, “Who brought it to him and how are the warriors reacting?”
“How are they reacting?” Morjod said, his voice practically a screech. “How do you think they’re reacting. It’s the damned Sword of Kahless! Or so they think!”
The Sword of Kahless! How did Martok get it? And how does Morjod know about it and I do not? Her son, she sensed, had been hatching plots, a very bad sign.
“Rotarran brought it to him,” Morjod continued. “They crashed the ship and someone brought it to him from the wreckage. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. You could hear the ice melt while he was staring at it. I [297] had gathered the monsters up on a bluff so everyone could see me with them, but no one was paying attention. They were all watching Martok play with his new toy.”
That explains the seismic activity, Gothmara thought, glancing at her sensors. And now he has the symbol he’ll need to wrest back control of the empire ... unless we can claim it. “Can you take it from him?”
“OF COURSE!” Morjod shouted. “I tried shooting him, but some mongrel-lover threw himself in front of the shot and now Martok’s surrounded!”
Gothmara realized that any semblance of self-control the boy might have once possessed was long gone. Indeed, any semblance of control she had over him had all but disappeared. The time has come, I think.
“Have you assembled your men?”
“Yes,” Morjod reported. “As many as I can. Some of them ... have changed sides, I believe. It’s because of the sword. The damned sword! It has some kind of power!”
It’s not the sword that has the power, you little fool, she thought. But the wielder. An uncharacteristically parental thought intruded and Gothmara wondered, Did I ever try to explain that to you? She shrugged. Too late now. This battle may be lost, but if I can kill Martok the war is won. Time to play my trump card. “My son,” she purred seductively. “You must show your mettle and prove your love for me. Break through the lines, find Martok and fight him. Use any resource at your disposal. I will come and find you so I can watch your victory.” She used the Voice then and set her seal on her son. “You must defeat him, no matter the cost. Do you understand?”
Morjod hesitated as if in a stupor, as Gothmara knew [298] he would. “I ... I do understand, Mother. It shall be as you say.”
“Excellent. Go find your father. Kill him.”
“I will,” Morjod said, and cut the circuit.
You won’t, Gothmara thought. Not right away in any case.
She wrapped her furs around her and ordered the driver to take her as close to the battlefield as they could get. Gothmara would have to get out and walk through the canyon, but not right away. And there was a cave nearby, if she remembered correctly, one she had outfitted during her explorations. She would be able to rest there and, if necessary, even hide until the battle ended, regardless of who won. Her plan might not be working as she had envisioned it would, but the battle was not yet over.
Alexander’s father fought joyfully, with skill and abandon, like a warrior out of legend. No blade or disruptor bolt could come near Worf. Three or four warriors would attempt to bring him down, but every time Alexander watched his father shrug off attacks like rainwater. The display of his glorious battle powers was, at once, wonderful and frustrating, because Alexander Rozhenko knew that he would never have his father’s skill. On the other hand, Alexander thought, neither will anyone else. Not even Martok or Kahless could beat him. Then, uncharacteristically, as he drew a bead on an attacking figure, he preened with pride and decided, But I have skills of my own. Though born out of desperation, his idea to charge the transporter by hooking the system into turbines on Rotarran’s wings had been inspired. The chargers were almost never used, but that was one [299] of the values of being the one assigned to clean the little-used pieces of any ship: You learned where everything was.
And so they were alive so that they could fight and die for their chancellor, his father’s brother. Maybe it was a good day to die, but Alexander hoped not. He wanted very much to taste his grandmother’s borscht once more and take a long ramble through the streets of the First City (a place he had grown to like before the stupid bastard had crushed part of it). Maybe he could even find a nice girl who would love him the way he loved her. All these ideas motivated Alexander, but they did not make him desperate or hasty or stupid. He pressed the firing stud on his disrupter and the enemy who had been studying his father’s back fell to the ground.
In his heart, he decided that if he survived this day, he would ask the chancellor to consider amending the ancient battle cry to “Today is a good day to die, but, all in all, it’s good to be alive.” He seriously doubted if anyone would listen, but it never, in Alexander’s experience, hurt to ask.
Worf, son of Mogh, slid a half step to his left, pivoted his hip, and kicked back with a heavily booted foot. The pelvis of the man who had been attempting to attack him from behind shattered into three pieces and, naturally, he fell to the ground. Bending his right knee, Worf tumbled to that side, rolled onto his shoulder, and popped up out of the tuck with his bat’leth held high to block the blow that had been whistling toward his head. The warrior who had been attacking him appeared confused, as if he could not believe what had just happened. [300] Worf could not forgive the man’s inflexibility, knocked his blade back with a quick twist, then slashed open his abdomen with another.
Feeling a stir of air behind him, Worf tugged a small throwing knife from his belt, palmed it, spun, and threw it into the lower back of a warrior who was attempting to outflank his son.
Alexander was doing quite well, he noticed, methodically picking the most dangerous targets and bringing them down with, at worst, two shots. Worf, naturally, could have hit each with one, but they were not, as Jadzia had patiently explained, the same person.
Do not allow yourself to be distracted, Worf chastised himself. Scanning ten meters on all sides, he picked his next target. And his target after that. And after that. The day was not yet won for his brother, but Worf would do his part to assure victory.
Martok wished to fight, but instead, watched the battle unfold. This is not to say he did not kill enemies. He could not have done otherwise, considering the number of warriors who ran straight at him apparently with every intention of disconnecting his head from his shoulders. Few made it close enough to try, and any that made it past Martok’s guards were quickly dispatch
ed. When the third man made it through, Martok began to suspect that his ring of protectors simply enjoyed watching him use the sword. No denying, the blade was a thing of beauty. Lighter than air, it was as quick and responsive as a living entity. Martok even began to wonder if perhaps the blade was in fact some sort of bound spirit, but then rolled his eye at the ridiculous fantasy. A sword was a sword and nothing more. This just happened to be a very good sword.
[301] Behind him, in the center of the circle, lay Pharh’s body, watched over by one of the guards, no doubt confused by the honor being bestowed on the Ferengi, but none could deny the little alien’s courage. How had Pharh known what Morjod was planning? Martok was baffled, but so many strange things had happened in the past couple of weeks. The old gods of Qo’noS, if that’s what they were, had made themselves felt in ways few would have believed possible. Martok now felt that he might have been more correct than he suspected when he had said, “Klingons may not rely on gods, but we ignore them at our peril.”
Angwar rode up to Martok and brought his steed to a sudden halt with a shower of slushy snow. “Hail, Chancellor.”
“Hail, leader of the katai. How goes the battle?”
“We will take the day, Chancellor, if all continues as it is now. Morjod’s forces have lost heart. Many have left the field and some have even thrown down his colors and now fight against their former comrades.”
“Make note of their faces,” Martok said. “And make sure to point them out to me later.”
“As you say, Chancellor.”
“What of the Hur’q?”
Angwar’s face radiated satisfaction. “They are gone. Defeated in a last stand not ten minutes ago.”
That at least is over, Martok thought. Gothmara may have a few in reserve, but she would have used the bulk of them in this attack.
“Have you seen Morjod or Gothmara?”
“The witch? No. Her son? Yes. He was positioned on a small hill near the canyon mouth and fights like a demon. Whatever else you may wish to say about [302] Gothmara’s spawn, his prowess as a warrior is extraordinary.”
Martok gripped the sword’s handle and muttered, “Truly?”
“Starn fell before him, as did two of my brothers.”
Stunned, Martok felt his mouth hang open. “I can scarcely believe anyone could defeat a katai, least of all Starn.”
“And yet, your son did.”
Martok considered his options. A general might battle side by side with his warriors, but a chancellor was responsible for more than merely winning a battle. Sirella’s voice rang in his head: “You have a responsibility to your people. ...”
“What kind of a leader can I be if I stay here while others die?” Martok asked in response.
“What?” Angwar asked.
“Where is he,” Martok asked. “My son—Morjod. And for that matter, if you see my other son ... But wait, you’ve never met him. His name is Drex. He is somewhere on this field. A good warrior, but neither as seasoned nor as patient as either of us old men.”
“There are many like that here today,” Angwar said. “But I will watch for him.”
He pointed up the slope to the cleft that led to the canyon. “Morjod is up there. I wasn’t going to say, but he calls for you.”
Martok lifted the bat’leth and said, “Stay here with my kr’tach, Angwar. And my friend who brought the blade.” He pointed at Ezri, who sat nearby, teeth chattering but otherwise unharmed. “They must not be molested by the battle.”
“As you wish, my chancellor.”
[303] Martok pushed between two of his guards, both of whom looked as if they planned to follow, but he waved them back. Finishing the fight in this manner required that he battle Morjod alone.
Though several guards remained behind as they had been ordered, others joined Martok as he walked toward the canyon. Without warning, Worf was there, flanked by Alexander. Still no Drex, Martok thought. And no Darok. This does not bode well. But he pushed the thoughts away and continued his trek, deciding to slow his walk so that others could see and join the throng.
Nerves up and down Morjod’s spine prickled and burned. His arms felt light; his legs seemed to move of their own volition. He fought better than he had ever fought in his life, and he was, by any measure, a fine warrior. The Hur’q had been dragging the bodies away as Morjod defeated them, but he was certain that if they hadn’t he wouldn’t be able to move without climbing over a pile of them. Looking down the small slope, Morjod saw a crowd of warriors milling about and decided to taunt them: “More blood! Bring me more!”
The smell was intoxicating. As he watched the monsters make away with the corpses, he couldn’t help but think about the last time he had eaten. During his fight with the horseman, his blade had nicked one of the beast’s arteries, spraying him in the face with a geyser of blood. Morjod had wiped away the sticky syrup with the sleeve of his tunic, but then had surreptitiously sucked on the sleeve when he thought no one was watching.
Suddenly, the milling at the bottom of the slope [304] ceased and the warriors formed themselves into a line. Moving slowly, the line moved up the hill, the figure at the center two paces in front of the others.
“Father,” Morjod whispered expectantly, and knew fate came to greet him.
Morjod ran down to Martok recklessly, heedlessly, without any semblance of skill or finesse. How has he survived this long? Martok wondered, lifting his blade.
His entourage fell back as the usurper came at him screaming wordlessly. Madness has consumed him, Martok decided. Then, unexpectedly, three steps away, Morjod switched grips on his bat’leth and swung under and up, a difficult and dangerous maneuver for a running attacker to perform.
However, Martok’s experience with a blade was unrivaled and he changed his position with no more than a quick shuffle step and a twist of his wrist. The two blades struck each other at their midpoint and Morjod’s shattered into a dozen shards. Several splinters bounced back and cut the boy on the face, but he seemed oblivious to his wounds.
Undaunted, Morjod picked up two slivers of metal and first threw one at Martok’s head, then attempted to stab him in the thigh with the other. After deflecting the first attack with his bat’leth, Martok sidestepped out of range and butted the bastard on the back of the head with the blunt side of his weapon.
Martok meant for the blow to knock Morjod unconscious, but his now weaponless attacker instead stumbled back, unaware of the narrow seam creasing his skull, and began to gibber nonsense about the fight not being fair if he didn’t have a weapon, too.
[305] “Fair?” Martok asked. “What is fair about the thousands killed in the First City? Or my dead daughters?”
“I didn’t kill your daughters!” Morjod shouted, pointing back over the mountains. “She did it!”
Gothmara is near, Martok realized. He had expected she would have escaped by now, but perhaps not. He knew now that her goal had never been victory for Morjod, but only that he, Martok, die. To find Gothmara, Martok would have to finish off Morjod, but his warriors would be displeased if he simply shot the madman or ordered him captured. Final victory stood on the edge of a blade, Martok knew.
He stabbed the sword into the ice and called back over his shoulder. “Give me another blade,” he said, never taking his eyes off his son. “And give him one, too.”
Morjod grinned happily. Blood dripped from a half-dozen wounds. When a warrior stepped forward and handed him a bat’leth, the boy swiped at the messenger as soon as he gripped the haft. The crowd groaned at this dishonorable display and Martok suddenly felt the pinch of anxiety: He seems like one of his mother’s ravenous beasts! What foulness has come upon him?
Without thought, without planning or pausing to measure his foe, Morjod ran forward, savagely swinging his blade from side to side. “MOTHER!” he cried. “FOR YOU!”
Martok easily blocked every blow and focused on pushing his attacker back against a wall where he could be disarmed. Unexpectedly, Morjod did not emplo
y any of the fundamental blocks that even the most inexperienced fighter would have tried, and took three or four cuts on his forearms as a consequence. Rearing back, Morjod repeatedly struck at Martok, attempting to [306] overpower his father with brute strength; Martok parried every attack.
The crowd had formed a half circle around the fighters, and the open space they enclosed shifted across the ice as Morjod made his next flailing attack and Martok countered, usually by taking a half step to the side or behind. Each time Martok blocked one of Morjod’s moves, the boy was cut again; a dozen seeping wounds marked his arms, chest, and face. This is ludicrous, Martok said. I sought an honorable fight, but what honor is there in an opponent slowly bleeding to death?
In his next pass, Morjod swiped at Martok’s knees, the clumsiest, most amateurish attack in the book. “Enough,” Martok muttered, jumping up as the blade swung down. He landed squarely on it, burying the tip in the ice. A sharp kick and the bat’leth snapped in half, leaving Morjod defenseless again.
“Surrender, usurper,” he said. “And I will let you live.” Grumbles from the crowd indicated that this was not a popular idea, but Martok cared nothing for the crowd’s opinion. Strangely, he was beginning to think like a father, wondering what horrors the boy’s mother had perpetrated on him.
Morjod laughed madly, then shouted, “Let me live? To cage me and mock me? I think not, Father!” Yanking back on the broken stub of his bat’leth, Morjod slashed at the backs of both of his legs, opening large vessels that immediately gushed thick arterial blood. The boy tumbled forward, blood pressure in his brain plummeting to nothing in only seconds.
“Medic!” Martok shouted, though he knew there were no medics on Klingon battlefields. Instead, he tore [307] strips of cloth from his tunic to make a tourniquet. Morjod flopped around feebly on the ice. Unless his blood pressure was stabilized, Martok expected Morjod would go into shock, followed quickly by cardiac arrest. The crowd closed in around him, cutting off the light and adding confusion until Martok shouted them all away unless they offered him assistance. Worf pressed through the mob and began helping, but even as he began to wrap the first strip around Morjod’s legs, he drew his head back, eyes wide.
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Left Hand of Destiny, Book Two Page 25