The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Read online

  “Her first,” he said. “So he may watch.” As the guards lifted the still dazed Sirella to her feet, Martok tried to leap forward and block the path to the slab, but the attendants anticipated this action. One of them carried a painstick in the folds of his robe and he touched it to Martok’s lower back. He fell onto his knees and, whether by design or accident he did not know, Martok knew it must look to the crowd as if he was throwing himself at Morjod’s feet for mercy. The mob roared its approval.

  Time suspended while he watched them strapping the bonds around Sirella’s arms and legs. Either the device was more complicated than it looked or, more likely, they had been instructed to take their time and draw out the tension. Whatever the reason, by the time they finished Martok could feel his legs once more, and, more important, Sirella appeared to have regained her senses. Knowing that if he tried to stand the attendants would drag him farther away, Martok chose to remain on his knees, though the cost to his pride was almost incalculable. Worse would have been the sting of shame if he did not attempt to save his wife, though he still did not know how this could be accomplished. Martok had no choice but to trust their future to fate.

  * * *

  Sirella knew that she faced a most humiliating execution, but part of her did not care, because for the first time in almost three days she was lying down. The relief was almost enough to make death acceptable. She had not endured such agony for a long, long time—the pain in her knees and hips was almost unbearable—and Sirella was deeply shamed that she had become so soft in her later years. Still, she had borne up as well as she could and fulfilled her responsibilities. Even now, at the very last, she knew what she must do, the duty that all Klingons had drilled into them practically from birth: She must die well. She had always fulfilled her obligations and this was the last, the final one.

  As they bound her arms and legs to the device, her head throbbing where they had struck her, she found herself reflecting that it might be nice to finally be freed from her responsibilities. She regretted that she would be leaving behind her son Drex, but was pleased that she would soon see her daughters in Sto-Vo-Kor and that they would be united in a way they had never been in this existence. On the material plane, Sirella had always been obliged to play the role of the stern authoritarian, especially since her husband had been away from home so often. She would savor the chance to allow her children to see her in a different light: not the domineering mother, but the comrade-in-arms, the role she had daydreamed that she might someday play. To “play”: now, there was a word Sirella had not thought of or used in many years. Had she ever played, either with her children or when she was a child herself? She must have once, but could not recall when.

  And what had they played? Smiling, she felt a strap tighten around her left ankle. Ah, of course: they had played at war, and what was the greatest pleasure of that game but a glorious death scene? She looked over at her husband, who was on his knees, then looked into his eye and saw that, ah, he was planning something. He had not surrendered yet. Then why had she? Sirella did not understand. The woman, Gothmara—while they had held her, she had whispered something in Sirella’s ear, but what had it been? She could not recall now.

  Sirella craned her neck up and looked about her, tried to see if she could find Gothmara. Perhaps if she saw her face, the words would come back. But, no: Gothmara had disappeared behind Morjod and a phalanx of robed soldiers or ministers, she knew not which. Faces in the crowd bobbed and shifted, mouths opened and shut, but all Sirella heard was a murmuring roar, like the wind moving over fields of grain.

  The unexpected appearance of a small, motorized cleaning vehicle drew her attention. Perched at the top of the aisle she and Martok had been carried down, it was one of the tiny, one-man units usually employed to clean streets or parade grounds after a public display. Being an early riser and a frequenter of the public markets, Sirella had seen them on many occasions, usually piloted by retired old campaigners or those unfit to do any other work. But this one—what was he doing here at such an hour? Even the crowd on either side of the aisle was distracted from the spectacle on the platform. Some were even throwing their rotten food and other refuse down at the driver, who did not let it bother him as he was wearing a heavy robe and a mantle.

  Garbage bounced off the driver’s head onto the path, then disappeared up into the vehicle’s snout. Whatever the front vacuum missed was squashed flat under the treads and then swept up by the rear vacuum. It was all perfectly familiar except for the fact that it was so utterly out of place. Sirella grew annoyed. Though her neck muscles were beginning to ache as much as her hips and knees, she could not tear her gaze away from the sight. This is not the last thing I want to think about before I die, she thought. I must prepare myself. Despite this, she could not lie back down and compose herself for the coming ordeal, and suddenly she understood why: the vehicle accelerated.

  “Husband,” she called as loudly as she could. “You should stand up.” She dragged her gaze away from the vehicle and locked eyes with Martok. He could not see the aisle or the vehicle from where he knelt and did not understand what was about to happen. She spared a quick moment to glance up at Morjod, and she saw that he had not yet perceived what was about to happen, though he seemed to comprehend that something was amiss. Sirella sensed Gothmara attempting to push her way through a ring of guards and attendants, so she too perceived a snarl in her plans. Unfortunately, her husband had not shaken off his lethargy. She needed to shock him.

  “Martok!” she shouted. “Stand up!”

  Startled by the use of his name, her husband finally stood and immediately saw what she had been watching. Around them, some of the guards began to shift in response to Sirella’s shouted entreaties. Morjod put his hand to his sidearm. Martok balled his fists. One of the attendants, the one who had been assigned to her right leg, became confused and decided to strip off the bindings and start again. Sirella watched him examine the buckle and tongue arrangement that was supposed to be locked around her calf, then saw the rising understanding as the sound of the cleaning vehicle’s engine revving broke through the crowd noise. She glanced back at the aisle, and where she thought the vehicle should be, it was not. Instead, it flew over the platform, a bolt of bright orange flame flaring from its rear.

  And suddenly there was a robed figure lying on top of her. She thought it must be one of the guards, but Sirella realized it was too small and light to be a Klingon. The figure’s hood fell away from his absurdly large ears.

  A Ferengi.

  Straddling her chest, he grinned a toothy grin at her and pulled a small knife from a wrist sheath. “Have you out in half a sec,” he said, and then someone stabbed him in the chest.

  * * *

  Pharh. It was Pharh. Pharh was seated on his wife’s chest and Morjod was stepping forward, his mek’leth held low, poised for an underhand stab. One of the attendants struggled with a leg binding; another stood staring at the street sweeper that had just dropped out of the sky onto the attendant who had been working on Sirella’s right arm. The fourth attendant had vanished. Had Pharh struck him with the street sweeper? The possibility seemed like luck against all imagining, but Martok didn’t know what else to make of the situation.

  Morjod stabbed Pharh in the chest and Pharh’s small knife flew up into the air. Time suddenly slowed down, elongated, and Martok felt like he had endless amounts of time to step around one of his guards and into the path of the tumbling blade. He extended his hand as if he and Pharh were jugglers who had rehearsed the move a thousand times, and the hilt of the blade fell into his open palm. Dipping his right knee and pivoting to his left, Martok sensed rather than saw a blade pass behind him. He locked his wrists, tightened his grip on the blade, and continued his spin. The guard who had attacked him from the rear tripped over Martok’s extended leg so that he fell into the attendant. Effortlessly, Martok reached back and cut the cord around Sirella’s left arm.

  The attendant who had been struggling with
the binding came up behind Martok, but had made the mistake of not dropping the belt and straps. Martok simply yanked the belt out of the man’s hands, whipped it around his neck, and kicked him backward off the platform. The cord tightened as the man struggled and the trigger mechanism released. The bent pole sprung upward, its passage knocking two other guards off into the crowd. The attendant who had been dangling at the edge of the stage was gone, and despite the noise from the fight and the crowd, Martok was vaguely aware of a whip-crack sound.

  Martok turned back toward Sirella, who still had one leg and one arm tied to the poles of the cha’ta’rok. If Morjod or anyone else released the trigger, she would die just as surely as if she were bound by all four. Surprisingly, he saw that Pharh had not simply flopped onto the platform, but seemed to be gripping the edges of the slab with all of his strength while kicking out with both legs. Morjod, who was standing nearby, seemed more baffled than concerned, while Gothmara, who stood beside two guards, appeared greatly amused.

  “My son,” Gothmara said, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd noise. “Here is the chance to defeat the former chancellor’s armies with one mighty blow.”

  Morjod, finally understanding that there was no real threat, stepped between the flailing legs and grabbed Pharh by the collar of his cloak.

  A guard brought the flat of his bat’leth down on Martok’s wrist and the small knife fell on the platform. Suddenly, Martok felt absurd. The battle fever had come on him, and for a moment he had believed he might still win the day and reclaim his kingdom. A most ridiculous dream!

  Pharh dangled from Morjod’s grip and spun slowly. The mek’leth still protruded from his chest, but his chest was, Martok saw, protected by a very respectable piece of light armor. Morjod saw this too, and struggled to pry his blade free with one hand, while squeezing the Ferengi’s neck with the other.

  To his credit, Pharh did not, as Martok had expected, begin to whine or scream (a Ferengi’s physiological response to any threat, he knew). Rather, he reached up under his cloak and tapped on a small piece of metal on his shoulder. “Now would be a good time,” he gasped. “Really.”

  “We apologize,” came a gruff voice, distorted by interference, but it would be familiar to Martok even if molten lava had just closed over his head. “We were delayed. Defenses above the First City were better than we had anticipated.”

  “That’s too bad,” Pharh said, choking in Morjod’s grip. “And I can’t say how sorry I am to hear that.”

  “I said,” the voice said, “that we were delayed. I did not say that we had not made it.”

  Overhead, the morning sky rippled and shimmered; then a deafening roar filled the air. Thruster engines pulsed and washed over the crowd, forcing them away from the platform and scurrying up the edges of the pit. Around him and beside him, disruptor beams whined as a dozen—no, two dozen—figures shimmered into existence.

  Morjod’s eyes widened as Martok’s guards were torn away and thrown to the floor. Martok turned and saw his brother standing there, one arm bound in a sling, his bat’leth held in the other. “Chancellor,” Worf said. “We have come.”

  17

  “HELP ME FREE Sirella!” Martok said as he stepped over his fallen guards and took the bat’leth from Worf’s hand. Worf pointed at two of his men, but before they could step forward, two other men burst between them: Drex and Darok ran to Sirella and held on to the ropes while Martok hacked through the bonds around his wife’s arm and leg. As his wife struggled into a sitting position, Martok shouted at his son to be heard over the bird-of-prey’s impulse engines.

  “Protect her!” was all he said.

  Drex snarled, nodding his consent.

  Martok scanned the platform for Morjod and saw that he was still struggling with the Ferengi. Morjod had finally freed his mek’leth and swung it at the Ferengi’s neck, yet Pharh was able to squirm out of the way. The little alien leads a charmed life, Martok decided, then felt a surge of hope. If he can stay alive, all of us can stay alive. He ran toward Morjod with every intention of slashing the whelp’s spine with the point of his blade—there was a time and a place for honorable combat, but Morjod had not earned it—when he heard Gothmara shout, “Drop that fool.” Pharh fell almost at Martok’s feet and he had to jump out of the way to avoid stumbling over the Ferengi. As he regained his balance, Martok felt the hair on the back of his neck and arms stand on end, and the nasal passages around his eye sockets vibrated.

  Worf growled and drew his disruptor. “Subsonics,” he called, and his warriors drew in around Martok and Sirella. Morjod’s forces must have known what was about to happen and pulled together into a tight knot around him and his mother, though to Martok’s trained eye it was not to protect, but for protection. Martok thought his vision was playing tricks with him, but then he saw the others in his squad point at the thin, vertical lines appearing in midair all around them. The lines thickened, then grew wider until they sketched the shapes of doorways in midair. Recognizing the characteristic blue shift of an object emerging from subspace, Martok understood why the guardsmen had not seen the Hur’q since yesterday. Morjod had indeed penned his pets, but in cages he could make appear at will whenever he needed them.

  Stepping out into real space, ten furious Hur’q simultaneously threw back their heads and screamed their rage.

  Two of Worf’s militia broke ranks and ran forward. One even managed to raise his disruptor before the Hur’q snapped his head off with a casual backhand flick. The other warrior was unceremoniously crushed under a monstrous foot. Beside Worf, a cloaked figure called out, “Worf! Contact the ship, we must …” But Martok never heard the rest of the speech.

  More through sheer reflex than any plan, he managed to raise his bat’leth and deflect the beast’s attack when it swung its claw at his head. Nevertheless, the shock of the attack knocked Martok off his feet. Only the fact that the Hur’q seemed to have trouble reaching that low to the ground saved him from being crippled by the back-swing. As it was, Martok was almost crushed when it readjusted its footing and brought its giant splayed claw down beside his head. Before it could see him, Martok thrust the point of his blade into the flesh above its heel and slashed with all its strength. The beast screamed and its knee buckled as its tendon parted from bone. Thick magenta blood spurted out of the wound and nearly choked Martok with the foul smell. Even their blood is a weapon, he realized as he gagged and retched. Gothmara is a demon given flesh! What possessed her to bring these creatures back to life? But, in truth, Martok understood precisely why she had done it: to prove that she could, that there was nothing she could not accomplish. These monsters were the dark beasts that hid under the cot of every Klingon child. She had brought them out of the shadows and despite anything any mother had ever said they were more terrible in the light of day.

  Blinded, Martok rolled in the direction he thought was out of its path and prayed he wasn’t tumbling under another’s tread. He collided with something heavy and stout and, after a brief moment of panic, realized it was one of the four posts. Keeping the pole to his back as he pulled himself up, Martok wiped the gore from his eye and tried to make sense of the scene around him. Though bent at the waists, the Hur’q still towered above them all, front arms dangling low, claws slashing at anyone unlucky or unwary enough to come near. Two picked up weapons from fallen warriors and studied them carefully. One took a practice swing with a bat’leth and appeared to be delighted with the result. Another tapped the firing mechanism on a disruptor rifle and roared in appreciation when a Klingon warrior disappeared in a haze of superheated molecules. Fortunately, the shot seemed to have emptied the weapon’s power pack, because when it tapped the trigger again, nothing happened. In frustration, the beast threw the rifle at the nearest target—one of Morjod’s attendants—and the man’s head cracked open as if it were an egg.

  The Hur’q appeared to be confused about the precise nature of “us” and “them” except in two cases: Morjod and Gothmara. Both had a
pair of beasts standing beside them, one of each pair armed with either a disruptor or a blade, and the two groups on opposite sides of the platform were slowly inching closer together.

  The only plan that made sense was for Worf to have told the bird-of-prey to beam them all out when Sirella and Martok were freed, but they were all too widely scattered now. Martok studied the scenario and knew what he should do: regroup his troops and prepare for an orderly withdrawal. He must save his wife and son and prepare for the day when he could strike back at the mad woman and his bastard.

  Martok knew what he should do, but then he saw a Klingon warrior—he did not know if he was one of Worf’s or one of Morjod’s—stray too close to a Hur’q, and the creature casually reached down and picked the warrior up by his arm. Wearing an expression that might have passed for curiosity, the Hur’q flicked its wrist and watched as the warrior’s arm popped out of its socket and then fell to the ground. The man looked at the monster, then looked at where his arm had been, and before shock and pain could disable him, he ran at the beast screaming his defiance. Entertained by this sight, Morjod began to laugh lustily, as if he were watching a comedy someone had staged for his amusement, then laughed even harder when the monster kicked the warrior out into the stands. He’s like a child, Martok thought, who has never been disciplined. He glories in torture and cruelty, but understands nothing of the horror of battle. In truth, he is not only my son, but the son of every Klingon warrior who has not taught his child true honor.

  The scene passed and Martok felt a white-hot fury boil up inside him, raised his bat’leth, and bellowed, “MORJOD!”

  Eyes were on him. All around the platform, they saw Martok move, legs churning, hair flying wildly, mouth agape and foaming. Time oozed to a halt and as he ran, Martok saw a trio of warriors to his left hack at a fallen Hur’q; saw Worf trying to order men into groups; saw the hooded stranger wheel and spin through a crowd of three warriors, disarming each of them without injuring any; saw the creature he had hamstrung wander in small circles screaming, but otherwise unmolested; saw charred splinters fly into the air when a disruptor misfired; and saw, oh delicious vision, a look of fear creep into Morjod’s eyes as he approached.