Steam rose up from the giant hole. As Pharh watched, chunks of ice around the rim of the gap broke away and the crack under his feet grew wider as the heat from the engines and the friction on the hull thawed this part of the lake. Everyone seemed to grasp this fact at the same moment and moved away from the hole, farther and farther apart until the mass of Klingons was either pressed back into the canyon or fanned out on the still-frozen portion of the surface.
Only one figure, standing right at the edge of the crumbling shore, about fifty meters away, did not move. Pharh squinted against the glare of reflected sunlight, but he didn’t need to see the figure’s face. The slouch of the shoulders and the spread of his legs told Pharh everything he needed to know: Martok.
The general appeared to be straining to hear something, his head cocked to the side, his left ear down. The ice directly before him broke away and spun off into the lake, forcing Martok to take a half step backward, but he didn’t change the tilt of his head.
The wind from the plain whipped across the lake, churning up shushing and crashing whitecaps. No one spoke; no one stirred or changed stances. Every warrior stood still, watching the man who literally stood on the brink of oblivion, and listened.
A foot crunched in the snow behind Pharh and he turned his head quickly to see if he was being attacked, but the Klingon was staring out at Martok as intently as the Ferengi had been. Unlike every other man and woman on the ice, this warrior wore no robe or coat, nor glimmered with a blue environment field. In fact, if anything, he appeared a little warm—charred, even. Much of the hair on the left side of his head was burned away and there were raw, red marks on his cheek. He glanced at Pharh, grinned sheepishly, whispered, “Hi,” but immediately returned his attention to the lake.
“Alexander?” Pharh asked.
Alexander nodded, but didn’t look at him. Pharh turned to look over his other shoulder and saw Worf standing behind him. He, too, looked a little the worse for wear, but when Pharh considered the ship on the bottom of the lake was probably Rotarran, maybe not too bad. “How did you…?”
“Shh,” Worf hissed. “Watch.”
Pharh obeyed.
Martok now knelt at the edge of the crack, his feet half submerged in the icy water that lapped up over the frigid shore. Opening his hand, he dropped his weapon into the snow without a backward look and then remained motionless, waiting, silent, every sense straining.
And then a shaft of light broke the surface of the lake and danced before him. A silver hand equally dazzling held the lightning bolt, the two so bright that Pharh turned his face away, stripes and glimmering aftereffects prancing behind his closed eyelids. When he turned back around, the shaft of light rose up out of the waters and Martok backed away from its brilliance toward the firmer shore. The silver glove was followed by an arm, then a burnished head, then a barrel chest, then two legs, which moved slowly as sheets of water sluiced down, forming broken puddles.
Martok stood erect now, his arms held wide, and hair blown back from his face by the icy wind. The armored figure knelt before him and presented the general with the shaft of light.
Pharh suddenly realized it was a blade, a bat’leth, but one unlike any he had ever seen. Even he, a Ferengi, could sense the astonishing craft that had gone into the creation of this weapon, this work of art. For the first time, Pharh understood the expression “A Klingon’s honor shines only as brightly as his blade.”
Reverently, Martok reached out and gripped the blade by its handle and slowly lifted it out of the armored figure’s grasp. As he did so, every warrior who saw him exhaled as one and Pharh realized that he, too, had been holding his breath and was once again breathing with all the others. Friend and foe alike seemed suspended, unable or unwilling to move, and yet, despite the reverential stillness, Pharh began walking. Lifting his foot was like trying to loosen it from setting concrete, but as soon as he had one foot up, the other followed behind as if it had a will of its own. One step, then the next, then the next until he felt like everyone on the plain was frozen in time and he flew between seconds. A voice in his head exhorted, Run, little warrior! Run as fast as you can!
As Pharh ran, he never took his eyes off Martok, who stared transfixed at the blade, seemingly unwilling to blink for fear the bat’leth would dissolve into motes of sunlight. All around him, Pharh heard a low groan, the first note of a thousand-throated roar, and knew that Martok was about to lift up the blade for all to see. And that will be the sign, the voice said.
The thunder rose all around him and Martok flexed his shoulder, tilted back his head, his mouth split in a victorious grin.
Pharh plodded through the snow, crashed into a huge Klingon who was lifting his own sword, bounced off him and collided with another. His feet slipped in the icy slush, but he regained his footing. He found himself remembering that night on the roof of his house when he had rolled over the edge and had to almost dance on motes of air to keep his balance. Gripping the handle of the small shield the katai gave him, Pharh recentered himself, dug his feet into the slush, and pushed off.
The roar rose up, the bat’leth gleamed in the air. Martok opened his mouth wide in a wordless bellow of profound certainty.
Here it comes, the voice whispered in Pharh’s giant ear. Are you ready? Can you do this?
Pharh measured the distance between himself and Martok, counted twelve paces, and pumped his legs as hard as he could. Time slowed down just for him and with it sound and motion, but soon it would all speed up again. He didn’t have much longer.
I can do this, he thought in response to the voice.
The voices—the storm—rose, cresendoed, then broke. A roar—a name—his friend’s name. The Klingons, the stupid, stupid Klingons who couldn’t pay attention to what was really going on around them when there was a spectacle to be watched, a moment, a little bit of legend played out. Only Pharh knew, only little Pharh, except Pharh wasn’t so little, and Pharh had excellent hearing.
Six paces now…
Back toward the canyon, he heard another voice, one other voice, and it was not shouting his friend’s name, he was bellowing, “NOOOOOO!!”
Morjod stood on a small hillock where he had been gathering the last living Hur’q for the final assault, just high enough to see over the heads of all the others, just high enough to see Martok’s men and even quite a few of his own watching his father.
Three paces now…
Two…
Pharh knew Morjod was there on his hill with a disruptor rifle, though Pharh didn’t know how he knew.
I can do this, he thought and, shield stretched out before him, he jumped.
* * *
Ezri was freezing. Her teeth chattered and the blinking telltales inside the armor told her, in no uncertain terms, Get some oxygen! Martok had his damned sword and now she was down on her knees before him, the batteries in the suit drained down into their reserves. Soon, occupying this spot on Boreth was going to be several hundred kilos of soggy, immobilized Klingon machinery with a frozen Trill at its center.
Pop the helmet seals while you still can, Ezri, she said to herself, her gasps echoing hollowly in the shell that was about to become her coffin. She fumbled with the release switch, but the light blinked red: not enough battery power left. Okay, the manual release. Her fingers were so clumsy, though, that it was hard to find the lever. Ezri tried to see what was happening two feet in front of her face, but condensation ran down the inside of her faceplate. Dimly, she heard a rumble rise up around her and the ground seemed to shake, but she couldn’t stop to see what was happening. Damned Klingon spacesuit! She wanted to scream. Why don’t these people put the release switch in a spot where you can find it?!
Something crashed down in front of her, but Ezri couldn’t see what it was. Why wasn’t anyone helping her? Were they fighting? Had she arrived in the middle of a fight, interrupted it long enough to give Martok a new weapon just so he could go back to breaking heads with a more decorous blade? It made her
unaccountably angry to think this might be happening. And what about the rest of Rotarran’s crew? Had any of them survived the beam-out? She had barely survived and look at what she wore….
Her finger caught on something and she yanked at it. Instantly, she could hear other voices and not just her own breathing. Almost afraid to take the chance, Ezri let go of the lungful of air she had been holding and inhaled deeply.
Air! Blessed air! The inrush of sweet oxygen almost froze her lungs, but thank the Womb, she could breathe! Her arms collapsed under her and her head fell forward, helmet tumbling from the collar ring. Gasping, eyes shut, snow melting against her forehead, Ezri felt nearly frozen water trickle down her cheeks and drip off onto the ground. Hearing wavered in and out, voices shouting, feet running, but nearer, almost beside her, two voices spoke in low tones. One, she realized, belonged to Martok and the other, softer, and high, sounded familiar. She knew she had heard it before…. The Ferengi. The one Martok had brought with him from Qo’noS. What was his name?
* * *
“Pharh?” Martok called, cradling the Ferengi’s head. “Can you hear me?”
Warriors stood ringed around them, eyes out, searching for more snipers. Whoever had fired the shot had disappeared, but Martok’s men were watching. Nearby, Ezri Dax was clawing at the helmet to her armor and Martok was just about to order one of the men to pop the seals for her, but the Trill apparently knew what she was doing. She yanked the manual control, the seals parted, and the helmet tumbled down into the snow. Dax was breathing, Martok saw, so he turned his attention back to his kr’tach.
“I can hear you,” Pharh said, but almost too softly to be heard over the increasing sounds of battle. “Did I make it?” he asked. “Did I get my shield up in time?”
Martok looked down at the small, undamaged, and probably useless shield that was still strapped to the Ferengi’s arm. Then he looked at the charred hole bored through his friend’s lower abdomen and the ever-widening stain on the snow beneath him. “You did fine, Pharh. Yes, you got your shield up in time.”
Pharh grinned a snaggletoothed smile and said, “You are such a liar, Martok.” He scrunched his eyes shut, overcome by a wave of pain, then gasped. “This really hurts. Has anyone ever mentioned that working for you can be really painful?”
“You are the first to dare comment,” Martok said, his voice mock stern. “I do not think there is anything I can give you for the pain.” He paused, uncertain if he should go on, but then decided Pharh knew what was coming. “Is there anything I can do to compensate you for your service? You have been a reasonably competent kr’tach. I could notify your family that you have been of service to the empire….”
“Assuming you live,” Pharh said sarcastically. “I don’t think they would care much and even if they did …” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m going to give ‘em the satisfaction.” Pausing, the Ferengi’s breath suddenly grew sharper and he gasped, “But there is one thing …”
“What?”
“Darok … he said …” Pharh coughed and there was blood between his teeth. Martok wiped it away with his sleeve. Behind him, he heard the cries of warriors as they ran into the plain.
“I have to go soon, Pharh,” Martok said as gently as he could.
“So do I, Martok,” Pharh said. “And I really don’t want to go to the Final Audit. I don’t think I’m going to do well….”
“So?”
“Darok said Klingons could maybe buy their friends a spot in the Ko-Vo-Store.”
Ko-Vo-Store? Martok wondered, then moved the sounds around and got it. “Yes,” Martok said. “If we dedicate the victory to the fallen. But it only is necessary if the warrior does not die in battle.”
Pharh furrowed his brow. “Do you think this counts?”
Martok considered, then answered, “Probably. But I’m not sure.”
“I don’t think I want to take any chances,” Pharh said. “Could you take care of this for me?”
“For the opportunity to have you haranguing me and asking me stupid questions throughout eternity?” Martok asked. “Absolutely. It will be done, my friend.”
Pharh’s anxious expression relaxed and he began to weakly fumble at the front of his tunic. “Good,” he said. “I have the down payment.” Patting his shirt, his movements became both weaker and more frantic and the familiar lines of worry creased his brow. “I can’t find it. Help me, Martok.”
Martok reached down and patted the front of the Ferengi’s shirt, uncertain what he was seeking. Then, he found it: a small, hard lump inside the tunic lining. “What is it?” Martok asked.
“It’s yours,” Pharh said weakly. “Cut the cloth if you want. I don’t care.”
Martok pulled off his gloves, then drew his blade and carefully slit open the tunic. A moment later, he touched a cold, metallic lump and his memory raced back to the strip of narrow dusty road a few kilometers outside the First City.
“I’ve been holding on to it,” Pharh said. “Just like you said.”
Martok stared at the chancellor’s ring in the palm of his hand and tried to think of the appropriate words of thanks, but knew there were none. “I had forgotten …” he murmured.
“I know,” Pharh replied, his voice barely discernible above the whispering wind. “I figured you would. What are you going to do without me to remind you of these things?”
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 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 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 s
hooting 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 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.
The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Page 24