The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2 Read online

  Drex nodded and drew his weapons. “Was that a Hur’q you killed?”

  “Yes, but it was already half-dead from exposure, I think, or it wouldn’t have died so easily. Whoever’s in charge out here isn’t paying much attention to the condition of their troops.”

  “Easier to kill, then,” Drex said.

  “The Hur’q, yes,” Darok said. “But not the Klingons. Kahless says we should try to save as many as we can.”

  “They’re traitors.”

  “When you live to be my age— if you live to be my age—you’ll someday see that we all betray something someday,” Darok retorted. “Try to save as many as you can.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Drex said, and turned away toward the cave. “None of them would stop to save you.”

  * * *

  “That doesn’t make me a fool,” Darok said into the teeth of the wind, knowing Drex did not hear him.

  Another blue-lined shape appeared out of the windswept snow and stood beside him. “It doesn’t,” Kahless said. “He may survive to understand that.”

  Darok grunted. “If he would learn to listen.”

  “Did you learn to listen?”

  Darok paused, then answered, “Eventually. There comes a point where brute strength isn’t enough, when you listen or you cannot survive.”

  “I know,” Kahless said. “But, like you, I am a terrible old man. We know many things the young will not learn. Such as: Keep moving on a battlefield. Enemies are all around us and any second now this gale will die down and we’ll have lost our cover.”

  “How do you know it’s going to die down?” Darok asked, and it was almost as if voicing the question made it occur. Suddenly, the wind stopped and the sheets of crystalline flakes parted around them like the opening curtain of a stage play.

  The force shields muted sound, but Darok didn’t need to hear clearly to know that the half-dozen Hur’q ringed around him roared in happy surprise.

  Kahless lifted his bat’leth and smiled grimly with deep satisfaction. Darok, less happily, drew his disruptor and wondered if Drex would be able to identify his remains or even look for them. The general would be disappointed, but, ah—looking on the bright side—he would see the Lady Sirella again soon. Bearing that pleasant thought in mind, he carefully sighted down the barrel of his weapon and fired the first shot into the Hur’q’s gaping maw.

  16

  “What do you call these beasts?” Martok asked. Seven stalls were lined up along each side of the long, narrow cave, and as soon as the fourteen of them entered, fourteen huge steaming noses were pressed against the slats of the stall doors.

  “Jarq,” Angwar replied, opening the first stall door. “This is Sithala.” The beast bent its neck and touched its wet, quivering nose to the man’s forehead and inhaled deeply. Snorting in welcome, the shaggy, four-legged beast pranced happily, its great hoofs clacking loudly on the cave floor. “We are old friends, aren’t we, Sithala?”

  Martok took a step back, then two, then three as Angwar led Sithala from his stall. The jarq’s coat was a dusky off-white, yellow at the fringes and a buttery gold at the roots. Its eyes and ears were well protected by long guard hairs, and the stub of a tail was bound with white thread. Heavily shod, its hooves struck sparks wherever it stepped.

  But none of these things was the jarq’s most notable characteristic.

  “By the Grand Nagus’s credit chip,” Pharh said, gripping his nose. “These things smell worse than my mother’s private bathroom!”

  Angwar asked, “If it’s a private bathroom, why do you know what it smells like?”

  “That’s not the point!” The Ferengi waved his hand in front of his face. “I think I’m allergic! My nose is running!”

  Angwar shook his head. “Don’t worry. Everyone reacts that way at first. It will pass … eventually.”

  Martok’s vision shimmered for several seconds and his sinuses burned, but the wave of nausea passed quickly. Sithala butted his massive head against Martok’s chest, almost knocking him over, then lowered it.

  “He wants you to scratch his ears,” Angwar said.

  Martok complied and the beast began to trill, a surprisingly soft sound coming from such a cavernous chest.

  “Are they native to Boreth?” Martok asked, finding enjoyment in Sithala’s obvious pleasure.

  “Nothing is native to Boreth,” Okado inserted. “Boreth is an icy rock. Jarq are well adapted to living here, if you feed them….” He paused, listening, then said, “Our sister has defeated those who were pursuing us, but she has fallen. More are coming from outside.” Drawing his weapon, he said, matter-of-factly, “I will go.”

  Angwar said, “Master, no. Let me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Okado said brusquely. “I’m old and ready to die. And I hate riding these things.”

  “Okado,” Angwar said. “I would make you stay.”

  “You could try,” Okado replied. “But then you would have to fight this mob one-armed and that would throw off your balance.” He shook his head. “Stay with Martok and guide him. He will require your advice.” To Martok he said, “She will try to trick you. Depend on it.”

  “I will be ready.”

  “No,” Okado said. “You won’t. That’s why I’m warning you now. Do your best.” He glanced at the Ferengi and said, “And keep your shield at hand.”

  Without another word, he pulled up his hood and slipped out the cave entrance into the main tunnel. The remaining eleven katai remained silent for several seconds, all of them listening for something Martok could not hear, then resumed tending the jarq.

  “There are fourteen,” Pharh said.

  Angwar, who was in the process of lifting a bridle over Sithala’s snout, said, “Yes.”

  “And there are eleven of you here.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then there is Okado and her … the girl.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did the fourteenth belong to?”

  “To my son, Grot.”

  “Where is he?” Pharh asked.

  “He died yesterday while leading a search party here.”

  “Leading a search party here?”

  “They did not know they were being led and he killed twenty of them to make it look proper,” Angwar explained while dropping a high-backed saddle onto the jarq’s back.

  “Why did you want anyone to find this place?” Pharh asked incredulously. “You were all perfectly safe here.”

  Angwar did not reply, but looked at Martok for an explanation.

  “Forgive him,” Martok said. “He doesn’t understand.” Turning to the Ferengi, he said, “Pharh, their purpose isn’t to be safe. Their purpose—our purpose—is to bring about a change. We cannot do that hiding here in these caves. We have to meet Gothmara head-on.” Starn led one of the outfitted jarq to Martok and handed him the reins. The beast, surprisingly, did not shy away. Never having been much of a rider, Martok expected the obviously intelligent creatures to immediately pick him out as an easy mark and refuse to cooperate. “And who am I going to ride?” he asked, looking up into the jarq’s great brown eyes.

  “Sithala,” Starn told him. “She belonged to Okado, who considered her to be wiser than most creatures who walked on two legs.”

  Martok set his foot into a stirrup and pulled himself up into Sithala’s saddle. The jarq danced from side to side, moving responsively to light tugs on the reins. “She needs only a light touch,” Starn explained. “And she knows how to move on a battlefield.”

  “I am indebted to you all,” Martok said. “Should I ride at point?”

  “Sithala would not permit otherwise,” Starn said.

  Martok looked down at Pharh, who, for the first time since they had met, seemed quite small. “What about you, kr’tach? Will you ride?”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” he said. “These things don’t come with handles, do they?”

  “Only reins.”

  Pharh reached up his h
and and Martok thought for a moment that they were finally parting ways, which, surprisingly, saddened him. Martok took the proffered hand and made as to shake it, then was confused when the Ferengi didn’t release his grip. “What are you doing?” Martok asked.

  “Trying to get up there, too,” Pharh said.

  “What?”

  “It looks like it could carry us both easy.”

  “Pharh,” Martok tried to explain, and somehow—unaccountably—pulled his friend up behind him on the saddle. “We’re going into battle. We’re going to fight Gothmara….”

  “Right,” Pharh replied, trying to squeeze in behind Martok. “And you don’t think you’re going to need me? You still owe me for the Sporak.”

  “I’ll pay you for the damned Sporak!”

  “Damned right you will. Let’s go finish this thing so I can get my money.”

  Laughing, Martok dug his heels into the beast’s flanks and clucked at it. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do that.”

  * * *

  As soon as she popped the latches on her helmet and yanked it off, Ezri immediately regretted that she had done so. The atmosphere in the transporter room was foul, gray with particulates and so thin that she could barely draw a breath. Alexander was standing behind the transporter controls.

  “Shouldn’t you … be on the bridge?” she gasped, finding it difficult to speak in complete sentences.

  “Father sent me,” Alexander said, having nowhere near as much trouble speaking.

  Klingon redundant physiology, she thought. Nothing like it in a crisis. In addition to being smaller and less robust, her Trill physiology was also hampered by the fact that much of her system was organized around keeping her symbiont alive. Though overall, as a host, she greatly benefited from her relationship with the sluglike creature in her gut, this was one of the few shortcomings. Proportionately, the host needed more air to stay alive, but the symbiont would receive the last molecules after Ezri expired.

  “We took a hit,” Alexander explained. “Everyone down here is either injured, working on emergency crews, or …” He glanced down and for the first time Ezri saw the body of what must have been the transporter technician. “Come on. We have to get to the bridge.”

  Ezri took a step forward to follow, then paused, suddenly panicking. “The sword! Where is it?!”

  “At your feet,” Alexander said, pointing. “You must have dropped it.” He approached her and lifted it up. “Let me attach it to your back so you don’t lose it again. The suit has clamps.”

  Ezri turned around and waited to feel Alexander’s hands on her back, but several seconds passed while nothing happened. “What’s taking so long?” she asked as she turned to look at him. To her surprise, she saw Alexander holding the weapon in one hand, staring at it transfixed, and gently tracing his fingertips over the carved surface. “Alexander?” Ezri said as loudly as she could.

  “It’s … it’s beautiful,” he whispered.

  “You should see it … when it’s got a coat of polish on it,” Ezri gasped, trying to invest her tone with some sarcasm despite the lack of air. She jerked her thumb at her back. “Strap it on me!”

  Jumping as if slapped, Alexander did as he was ordered, then sheepishly led Ezri out the door. What is it with Klingons and this damned sword? she wondered.

  The corridor from the transporter room to the turbolift was littered with equipment and bodies, both living ones working on repairs and others who were either dead or dying. Klingons did not bother with the niceties of clearing away the dead until the battle was won.

  Inside the turbolift, Alexander fished out a small rebreather from inside his tunic, took several deep breaths, then handed it to Ezri, who did the same, then offered to give it back. “Keep it,” Alexander said.

  Ezri shook her head. “I have my helmet.”

  Alexander shrugged, but did not otherwise respond.

  “How are we doing?” Ezri asked, tucking the rebreather into her belt.

  “Not well. Father is keeping us ahead of Morjod, but only barely. He thinks Morjod is playing with us. His ship should be able to catch up to us.”

  “We’re not being chased, but herded?”

  Alexander nodded, waving his hand in front of his face. Even in the turbolift, the dense smoke made it difficult to see.

  “Any ideas what he has planned when we get to Boreth?”

  “Nothing except follow through with the original mission: Get the sword to Boreth …”

  “… And hope Martok is there to take it.”

  “Right.”

  The ship shuddered and the lights in the turbolift car faded. The car’s momentum carried it as high as it could go, and then it began to slip back down the shaft.

  “Free fall!” Alexander shouted, and began to frantically pat the walls to find the emergency brake.

  As Alexander flailed about the car, Ezri calmly punched the switch and they shuddered to a halt.

  Panting, Alexander asked, “How did you know where that was?”

  “When Klingons find a design they like, they stick to it,” Ezri said. “And I’ve been riding in these ships for ninety years.” The lights flickered back to life and they resumed their journey up to the bridge.

  * * *

  Darok had often complained to Martok (and, in truth, anyone who would sit still for two minutes) that the young warriors of the day only seemed to know how to posture and pose with their impressive weapons, but few of them truly knew how to fight. When he had been a lad, back in the day when the empire and the Federation skirmished along their borders, the Defense Force and Starfleet were like packs of wild gon, snapping at each other’s heels. Those had been the days.

  A pair of ships would meet, they would fire shots at each other (nobody meaning to do much damage to anyone else), then bands of warriors would beam down to a planet and beat on each other for a few hours. Why, Darok had himself fought with one of the original Constitution-class captains, a savage man named Decker, who had been dishonorable enough to shoot Darok in the leg when they were locking hand weapons. Oddly enough, when the battle ended (not well for the Klingons), Decker himself had patched up Darok’s wound and signaled the ship that he needed to be beamed up. Darok’s shipmates had mocked him mercilessly until he had slammed a couple of prominent faces into bulkheads, but he had formulated an interesting theory that day: Fighting to win is not dishonorable even if you occasionally do dishonorable things along the way to victory.

  Darok had tested his theory on many occasions since that day and every experiment had confirmed his initial impulse. As he shot the third Hur’q through the head (he had shot the first one in the knee and the second in the groin) he formulated a corollary: namely, there is no dishonorable way to kill monsters. The only thing that matters is that they die.

  Unfortunately, as he had learned, monsters do not die easily and his disruptor’s energy cell was almost depleted.

  The monster’s carcass dropped into the snow, its liquefied brains staining the ground. Right behind it, another Hur’q, this one less than ten meters away, sniffed the air and turned toward Darok. He lifted his weapon, but knew even before he brought it level with his eye that the warning light was flashing gold and blue: not enough energy for another shot on the previous setting. Quickly resetting the power level, Darok fired once, staggering the beast, then drew a disruption grenade from an inner pocket and tossed it expertly into the monster’s path. As designed, the blast flashed upward in a field of three meters just as the Hur’q moved over the grenade, disintegrating it.

  “Well done,” Kahless said as he drew a small tricorder from his inner pocket. He had gracefully decapitated the first Hur’q who had attempted to gnaw on him, had severed the limbs of the next as it swiped at him, and had hamstrung the third as it attempted to kick him, all with a dancer’s poise. Darok had never seen anyone who fought with quite so much artistry. There was a single word that came to mind and that word was “elegant.” The general, too, had exhibited a
peculiar beauty when he fought, but it was the natural beauty of a large animal in its natural setting. “Artistry” was not the word that came to mind and “elegant” was totally out of the question.

  “How goes the battle?” Darok asked.

  Studying the sensor display, Kahless said, “I cannot distinguish which are our Klingons and which are Gothmara’s, but the number of Hur’q has dropped by several dozen. Unless Gothmara’s warriors are killing them, too …”

  “Don’t discount that possibility.”

  “I shall not,” Kahless said. “But unless they are, we are doing well enough.” He pointed at an indistinct gray hulk that was slowly becoming visible through the thinning mist. “That way. Gothmara’s stronghold is there.”

  Darok picked up his feet and trudged through the calf-high snow. The blue forcefield was wearing off. He could feel the cold slipping into his feet and legs. “And when we get there?”

  “Find Martok,” Kahless said. “Then find Gothmara if we can.”

  “What about Worf and the thing he went to retrieve?”

  Kahless shrugged—elegantly—and said, “If he arrives after the fight is over, we’ll tell everyone Martok had it all the time.”

  Darok was surprised. “That’s a remarkably cynical attitude for you.”

  “My apologies,” he said, then paused to wave at a pair of warriors whom he recognized from the Ch’Tang. “K’moth! Tong! Here! Form up on us!” The two warriors immediately made their way over the snow to Kahless.

  Darok was dazzled. In the few short hours that the emperor had been aboard the ship, Kahless had learned the names of two-thirds of the crew. The only reason he hadn’t learned the names of the remaining third, Darok felt, was because they had been asleep. One more shift in turnaround and the old man would have memorized them all. The emperor was, in short, everything the myth of Kahless indicated he should be.

  “You were saying?” Kahless asked. “Oh … cynicism. Yes, well, I’ve had to learn to conceal it, but I was the ruler of an empire for many years. You don’t last long in politics without developing some sort of cynicism.”