The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Page 23

  It must end here. Martok knew that. If it did not, the conflict would absorb cities, planets, systems, and still not end. One of them must die. And then time resumed its paces and his boots struck the platform, one, two, three, and Martok launched himself at his bastard son.

  * * *

  A berserker’s rage had swallowed Martok. Cursing, Worf shoved a man into line and wondered what was keeping the transporter technician from energizing. Children! They are all children!

  He thought this and cursed them for their lack of discipline, then was shocked when he realized he was thinking of Klingons as something “other.” Worf had known the battle madness more than once in his life and understood its siren call, but for him it had been something he permitted to happen, when he knew he had the luxury of time and a significant advantage over his foe. But this—now—was insanity.

  Martok didn’t get any closer than three meters to Morjod before the Hur’q shifted its massive leg and blocked Martok’s charge. Martok saw the block coming and managed to shift his grip on the bat’leth so that he was using it as a spear, but the damage to the beast was inconsequential. The Hur’q were too powerful.

  One of Morjod’s guards raced at Worf, who blocked his attack and slashed the attacker’s chest open with a stroke. Too much analysis, Worf thought. Pay attention!

  Howling, the beast swung at Martok’s head, but he sidestepped out of range and tried to find a path through the fence of gigantic legs. Worf raised his disruptor and fired at the head of the creature Martok had just stabbed. While not at the highest setting (Klingon disruptors were notoriously fickle at that level—Worf fervently wished for a phaser rifle or an isomagnetic cannon), the shot should have at least seared the flesh off its skull. Amazingly, the Hur’q only staggered back, stunned, but unharmed. Seeing his break, Martok rolled forward with the speed and dexterity of a warrior half his age and came up onto his feet less than three meters from his quarry.

  An enemy warrior kicked Worf’s knee, then pressed the muzzle of a disruptor against the side of his skull. Distracted again, Worf thought, cursing himself, then quickly cycled through the half-dozen methods he knew for killing his attacker before he could press the trigger. Surprisingly, he didn’t need any of them. The warrior’s weapon—still held in his hand—flipped up end-over-end. Shimmering brightly, a bat’leth sang and ripped through his attacker’s throat. Worf expected to look up and see one of his men standing above him, but instead he saw Sirella’s scowling face. “Be more careful,” she scolded.

  Worf rose, simultaneously checking the charge on his disruptor and looking for the next foe. “My apologies, Lady Sirella. I was preoccupied with attempting to save Martok.”

  “Martok doesn’t need saving,” she muttered. “He needs sense. One of us must beat some into him.”

  Worf nodded and signaled to Drex and Darok to shield him. Both acknowledged his signal and formed up around him. Worf tapped his combadge: “Alexander.”

  “Father.”

  “Lock on and beam us out.”

  “I can’t take everyone in one sweep,” he said. “There are too many of you for this ship’s transporter. And I only have signals for the landing party. Sirella and Martok …”

  “I will see to them,” Worf said. “Begin transport in one minute.”

  “Yes, Father. … Damn!”

  “What?”

  “A squadron of fighters is approaching our airspace.”

  “How close?”

  “Two minutes.”

  “Then that should be enough.”

  Surprisingly, Worf heard no hesitation or uncertainty in Alexander’s voice. “More than enough,” he said. “Qapla’, Father.”

  “Qapla’, my son.”

  Worf raised his disruptor and shot a guard. He would need to drag Martok away from Morjod, and that would not be a simple thing.

  * * *

  The staggering beast changed direction and almost crushed Morjod. That would be too easy, Martok thought. Despite its agony, when Martok tried to close with it, the Hur’q dropped its massive head and snapped its jaws so close to Martok that he could smell the spoiled bits of its last meal that still hung between its teeth. Dodging back, Martok swung the blade and bit deep into the monster’s great eye. It reared back, roared, and shook its head, but Martok did not stop to see what other damage he might do. Morjod was within reach. All Martok had to do was slip between the creature’s legs as it struggled for balance, but the Hur’q must have sensed him and snapped its legs together. Agonizing pain shot up Martok’s left side as his leg was ground between the monster’s.

  He fell forward, almost at Morjod’s feet, but before he could either raise his weapon to defend or plan a retreat, Martok felt a blade pierce his right shoulder. Eyes blazing, Morjod withdrew the mek’leth and shouted, “Is it a good day to die, Father?”

  Martok knew he could not possibly block the next blow, but he could arrange it so that he would not die alone. His father had taught him this trick, a simple spin of the bat’leth and when Morjod fell on him he would be unable to prevent impaling himself on Martok’s blade.

  The Hur’q saved Martok, though in truth it was probably obeying its conditioning even as it was dying. A massive bony knee crashed to the ground beside Martok’s head, giving Morjod a warning that the other must be right behind. He spun back around and leaped aside just as the second knee fell on the spot where he had been standing. First tottering back and forth for the space of three heartbeats, the monster tumbled forward, its enormous head splintering the stone where it fell. Martok gasped as its body fell across his left knee just below where the first injury had been. For a moment—a brief, brief moment—he considered relaxing his grip on the bat’leth and closing his eye. Who would ever know? Even in Sto-Vo-Kor, how would they know? And then, laughing, he remembered: His father would be there. Old Urthog would know all. “Hold up your weapon, boy. Raise it or die. The battle is not over until you are dead. …” Had Urthog ever really said such a thing? Would he? It troubled Martok that he could not remember for certain.

  Morjod should have been standing over him by now. Martok was once again holding his bat’leth in position so that if his son attacked him, he would be able to slip it past the boy’s guard. So they would both die. … They could continue their battle in the next world and bring down the gates of the eternal. …

  A hooded warrior suddenly stepped into his field of vision and slapped something against Martok’s chest. “Lock on him and energize!” the figure cried in a familiar voice.

  No …

  The world shimmered and the fog lifted. Martok lay on the floor of a transporter bay, but only for a moment. There, behind the transporter controls, stood Worf’s son, Alexander, but he did not wear his usual expression of anxious perplexity. “Get him out of there! Go! The last pair is coming!” Drex and Darok stepped forward, grabbed Martok’s arms, and dragged him out, neither paying any attention to his shattered leg or any other injuries. The room was sheathed in battle lighting and a Klaxon screamed. Martok tried to twist around to see who was coming, but the pain was too intense.

  The transporter whined and two Klingons appeared: Sirella, bloody but unbent, and the short, broad hooded figure Martok had seen with Worf. Stepping from the bay, the hooded one shouted, “Order the bridge to depart!”

  “Father! Now! Engines to full!” Worf must have been on the bridge.

  The hooded one stood over Martok and said, “Chancellor? Can you hear me?”

  Martok tried to say, “Don’t call me chancellor,” but the words would not form. The world was going hazy, and he felt himself being pressed into the deck. Worf must have put everything into the impulse engines, and the antigravs and the inertial compensators were not coping well.

  Sirella was kneeling over him. “Husband,” she cried, appearing uncharacteristically concerned. “Hear my voice! Answer me!”

  Martok tried to lift his hand to touch her face, but he couldn’t. His hand, he realized, was still locked
around the bat’leth and he could not unclench it. Shifting his gaze to the hooded man, he attempted to ask, “Who?” and was distressed to discover that he could not accomplish even this simple chore.

  The stranger sensed Martok’s desire and obligingly reached up and pulled back his hood, but Martok’s vision was beginning to fade. Martok whispered, “Father?”

  He felt strong hands lift him carefully onto a stretcher, and a spasm of pain from his crushed leg almost sent him into unconsciousness, but he held on long enough for the other Klingon to bend down over him. “No, Martok,” he said. “Though I would be proud to call you my son.”

  When Martok saw whom he spoke to, anger rose up in him and gave him strength. “Kahless?” he asked, some of the fire back in his voice.

  “Yes, Martok.”

  “Where in the Seven Hells have you been?” They were moving now, the lighted panels in the ceiling sliding past. Kahless strode along beside the stretcher. They must be taking me to sickbay.

  “I’ve been trying to save your empire.”

  “Not my empire,” Martok hissed, pain taking his breath as they jostled his leg. “Yours.”

  Kahless shook his head. “No, Martok. It never was. Not really. I was just keeping watch over it until the right one came along.”

  “Not me.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” Kahless said, his voice full of good humor. He was enjoying this entirely too much. “You don’t have a choice in the matter. It is your fate.”

  “Mad,” Martok gasped. “You’re mad.” They were in sickbay now and someone was shooting him full of drugs. The pain in his leg faded, as did his leg, soon followed by everything else.

  As his vision dimmed, Martok heard Kahless say to himself, as if the idea had just occurred to him, “Quite likely. Yes, that is probably true.” And then Martok neither heard nor saw anything for quite some time.

  * * *

  Back in the center of the pit, everyone had fled except Morjod, Gothmara, the eight surviving Hur’q, a handful of guards, and one of the attendants. The bodies of more than twenty Klingon warriors were scattered around the platform and into the first row of bleachers. Gothmara could not help but notice that most of them were Morjod’s men. Sirella and Martok’s rescuers had fought well. She had not expected them to be able to do that in the face of the Hur’q and would have to factor this into future encounters. And they had killed two of her creatures. Another surprise. She had thought her pets to be practically invulnerable, yet Martok and the others had found ways to cripple and kill them. She shook her head in admiring wonder: the man astonished her.

  And Morjod? Morjod, of course, raged like a child. “He’s getting away!” he wailed, pointing at the spot in the sky where the bird-of-prey had disappeared almost five minutes ago. The squadron of fighters had pursued them, but they did not have a prayer of closing before the ship reached orbit and could switch from thrusters to impulse power. After that, it was no more than a few moments before it could jump to warp. I should have been prepared for this, she thought. I knew someone would attempt a rescue, but I hadn’t considered that they would have a ship. She should have been ready with interceptors in near-planetary orbit, but she had been more concerned with keeping up the appearance that all was stable in the empire. Under normal circumstances, there would be no reason to have cruisers so close to Qo’noS. Where did they get a bird-of-prey? Gothmara wondered. She had made certain that every small craft had been secured. Whoever had led them must have had the ship hidden away for weeks, even months. Someone had planned ahead for exactly this eventuality. Who could have known?

  “Mother!” Morjod cried. Gothmara rolled her eyes with impatience, but was careful not to let her son see it. It wouldn’t do to let him know how much he irritated her sometimes. Men! she thought. They’re all children! Then she glanced up at the spot in the sky where Martok had disappeared. Well, some more than others. …

  “Calm yourself, my son,” she said, employing her Voice. Morjod responded instantaneously, the lines of stress around his eyes disappearing. “He will not get far and even if he does, what of it? Who will aid him?”

  “The Federation …!”

  “… Would not dare to offer Martok assistance. They will not involve themselves in a dispute unless it specifically affects their interests, even if they did have any resources to spare, which they do not.”

  “But we took one of their embassies,” Morjod said much too loudly.

  “We did not,” Gothmara said, lashing him with the Voice. “A deranged employee killed some minor functionaries and we were asked to lend support while there were civil disturbances in the city. We will return the embassy to Federation control in a short while.” Leaning closer to him, she said confidentially, “We could not hope to indefinitely conceal what has happened here, but we needed time to consolidate our power. I believe we have done so now, my son.”

  Morjod looked less nervous, but obviously still needed some reassurance. “It would have been better if we had killed him,” he said sulkily.

  “Yes,” Gothmara agreed. “It would have. But there will be other opportunities. Make this your next goal, my son, your gift to me. Find him, then bring him before me. Then, we’ll kill him together.” She gestured at the cha’ta’rok, her son’s plaything. He had seen a picture in a history text once and had always dreamed of building one of his own. “This thing was too gaudy by half.”

  Morjod bowed his head. “Yes, Mother. You’re right, of course.”

  “Now please see to it that someone prepares my ship.”

  “You’re leaving?” Morjod asked, the idea obviously producing mixed feelings. Her son enjoyed having free rein sometimes, though he disliked being separated from her for too long. She had made sure of that.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Boreth,” she said. “I have other projects to tend to.”

  18

  I AM DYING, Martok thought, his soul drifting into the slow-moving currents of time. Lazily, he passed stars and the spidery brilliance of nebulae; he relished the freedom to move around the stars like solar winds.

  He had anticipated that death would dredge his memories; that he would journey through familiar landscapes, as a spirit, confronting his enemies, rejoining fallen comrades, paying homage to those whom he still owed debts. And then he would arrive at the gates of Sto-Vo-Kor.

  He had not expected his passage to be so peaceful.

  In a valley of ice, he rejoined his body gazing up at a night sky so clear, so deep and velvety that he felt he could reach up and pluck a glittering star or the wan-faced moon. Stillness squeezed out sound, save the thrub of his heart, and his puffs of breath made visible by the bone-cracking cold.

  He turned around slowly, taking in the whole landscape; on all sides, he was surrounded by snow-sheathedhills and craggy cliff faces bearded with crystal icicles. He could see crevasses where the ice and snow had gaped open, allowing the bedrock far below to breathe. The remains of glaciers sat like monoliths, watchfully guarding the valley. Before him, a wide lake of blue-black waters blanketed by a low-lying white mist carpeted the valley floor. If he listened closely, he could hear the lifeless water shush and slap the icy shore. No living creature could exist in this hostile climate.

  He discovered his aloneness.

  Dropping his gaze to his own form, he saw he wore a monk’s simple, unadorned robes, and though he wore no gloves or head covering or furs to warm him, he did not shiver in the biting winds.

  A silver glow on the opposite side of the lake caught his eye. Of their own volition, his feet began to move. He skirted the water’s edge, leaping from floating ice to floating ice. As he grew closer, he saw a woman dressed in pieces of ancient armor and fluttering scraps of diaphanous cloth. In her right hand, high over her head, she held not a bat’leth, but a weapon Martok recognized as a ch’tak, an edged club that had not been used in thousands of years. In the woman’s left hand, extended before her, she held an eart
henware cup. Who is this? Martok wondered. He felt like he should know. But just as his vision faded, he knew.

  Kar-Tela, she who had been called the goddess of destiny before the Klingons slew all their gods, had appeared to him. Kar-Tela was the only one of the old gods who escaped that slaughter. And why? Because she was Kar-Tela and no warrior could defeat destiny. She held the club and the cup that might hold water or might hold poison. The penitent could accept the cup and take hischances or he could dash it from her hand. If this happened, then Kar-Tela would joyously offer battle, but, of course, no warrior can defeat destiny.

  Martok reached out, though whether to take the cup or strike it from her hand, he could not say.

  And Kar-Tela smiled.

  19

  MARTOK AWOKE.

  He was in a sickbay, though on which ship he could not say. The biobed hummed and coughed, and Martok’s back and shoulders ached for want of padding. Perhaps he had spent too much time among humans on Deep Space 9, but there were times when he wondered about his people’s insistence that all forms of comfort were an admission of weakness. Squinting against the bright lights, Martok struggled to sit up and discovered that his arms were bound with restraints.

  Someone approached, and expecting either a doctor or a guard, Martok snapped, “Release me! Or am I prisoner?” The realization dawned that he must be much recovered, because he felt some of the old whip-crack in his voice again.

  Small hands loosened the restraints, and Martok was surprised to discover how happy he was to hear a familiar high-pitched voice again. “Of course not,” Pharh said. “But you were being a little violent when they were dressing your wounds.”