* * *
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 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 disruptor 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. 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 dispatched. 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.
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 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.”
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 slo
pe, 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 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.
“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 employ 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 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 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.
“Martok,” he called, voice husky with surprise. “Something is wrong.”
“Of course something is wrong,” Martok said, slashing off another strip with his bat’leth. “He’s dying from blood loss….”
“No. Something else. Look!”
Martok looked. Morjod had not lapsed into shock. If anything, his movements, jerky before, were becoming positively spastic now. His arms and legs, his entire body, vibrated. Even as they watched, flesh split and reknit around bones that were growing longer and thicker. Martok heard a stretching and snapping noise that could only be tendons.
Morjod began to groan, shaking his head back and forth in quick, sharp wrenching movements. He reached up to his face, but could not move his arms.
Martok tried holding the boy down until the spasms passed, but the tremors became worse. The cuts on Morjod’s face had healed, but now new ones formed as the muscles beneath grew at a furious pace. His teeth shattered as his jaw re-formed; sharp new incisors pierced the raw, pink flesh. The orbits of Morjod’s eyes turned into putrid butter, sloughed away, then seemed to reharden as the eyes themselves grew wider and darker.
“Get away, Worf,” Martok shouted. “A weapon! I need a weapon!”
Whatever hint of intelligence that had once been in Morjod’s eyes faded before the transformation completed. When the body ceased to shiver and shake, the creature, the Hur’q, climbed to its feet and tore at the tatters of clothing still hanging on its lanky body.
Martok rolled to his feet even as the beast that had been Morjod first tried balancing itself on its long legs. No sooner was the Hur’q standing than it swiped one of its long-clawed hands at Martok’s head. The general lifted his arms to block and found that someone had put the Sword of Kahless in his hands. Daring only to glance behind himself for a moment, Martok saw a bent, white-haired warrior step back into the crowd. Darok? he wondered.
Warriors all around them drew their disruptors and aimed at the monster’s head and chest, but Martok shouted, “No one fires!”
No one did. The Hur’q looked from side to side, searching for a way out of the ring, but, finding none, began to hiss at the faces and shining weapons. There was almost, almost a kind of desperate knowledge behind the monster’s movements, as if some sliver o
f identity still lived within it.
But that could not be true. Martok could not accept that.
Martok stepped forward and the creature stepped back. It raised a weapon and slashed at Martok, but only succeeded in cutting itself on the sword’s edge. Wounded, it howled and drew back, the warriors behind it shuffling out of range of the long, clawed feet.
Then, leaping to the right, Martok waited for the monster’s eyes to track after him so he could flick the blade, shining reflected light into its eyes. Squinting, the Hur’q turned its head away and at that moment, Martok rolled forward under its sweeping arms, leapt up, and pierced its heart with the tip of the blade.
When he had fought Hur’q back on Qo’noS, he had barely been able to cut their flesh with a bat’leth, though admittedly it had been an old blade he had recovered from a city guardsman. The Sword of Kahless, though, easily sliced into the beast’s flesh.
Martok struck a vital organ and the beast that had been his son gasped, falling forward, leaning its weight into the blade. Blood flowed out around Martok’s hands and he saw that it was now a deep indigo blue. She changed even the color of his blood, Martok thought. I will find you, Gothmara, and you will hope that the Fek’lhr of Gre’thor treats you with more mercy than I.
Tugging on the bat’leth, Martok twisted his son onto his back and tried to lower him to the ground as slowly and gently as possible. More blue-black blood gushed up between the creature’s lips and Martok believed it actually sobbed. It extended an open hand, and Martok saw that it held a communicator. Its oversized lips and jaws moved spastically as it tried to form a word, but could not.
Even now, he calls her. Martok took the communicator from his son’s hand. “I am sorry, boy,” he whispered, cradling its head. “I will make it right.”
* * *
In the crowd around the chancellor and his dead son, one of the younger warriors began to raise a cheer, but others turned on the poor, ignorant soul and hushed him. Others waited for Martok to hold open the creature’s eyes and begin the howl, reasoning that as he had done it for the Ferengi, would he not also do it for one who had once been a Klingon? But Martok did not. Instead, he sat for a long, long time with the creature’s head cradled in his lap, head bowed, blood leaking down over his hand and over his legs. He did not mourn openly, not even in the stilted way that Klingons do for the loss of loved ones to illness or untimely death. He appeared to only be meditating, though about what no one would ever be able to say.
The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Page 25