Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [62]
“And I?” Morath grunted bitterly. “I ran away and hid in the woods, afraid to fight at my father’s sidecaught in the grip of wild, unreasoning terror. In the end, the reavers proved too much for Ondagh, son of Bogra. They killed him and took everything we had of value.
“Only when they were gone did I come out of hiding and see what they had done to my father. I knew that I should have fallen at his side, but I had not-and nothing could ever change that. Unable to bear my burden, I tried to run away again-this time, from my father’s ghost.
“For a long time, I wandered the wide world, looking for a way to rid myself of my guilt. One day, after many years had passed, I came upon a still, serene lake and bent to drink from it.
“Then I recoiled-for it was my father’s reflection I saw in the tranquil waters. And I realized I had been given a second chance. I would be Ondagh-not as he was, but as he could have been. I would brook no deceit, neither from man nor god. And I would never run away from anything again.”
Having said his piece, Morath unrolled his own mat and laid down on it. In a moment or two he was asleep.
Kahless looked at his friend for a long time, beginning to understand why Morath did the things he did. Then, at last, he too fell asleep.
Kahless and Morath came in sight of Vathraq’s keep twelve days after their departure. To the outlaw’s surprise, his men were still waiting for him, still eyeing the horizon.
By then, of course, they had burned all the corpses, as much to deny the krawzamey a meal as to discourage the spread of disease. Unfortunately, that made it worse for Kahless. The mangled shapes of death held less terror for him than their empty aftermath.
The outlaw himself said nothing about the time he was gone. Morath didn’t say much either. But he did mention how sore he was from wrestling with Kahless, and pretty soon the others picked up on it.
Before long, the story became amplified. The outlaw and his friend had wrestled in the hills for twelve days and twelve nights, it was said, through heat and storm and all manner of hardship. Of course, no one could figure out why they would want to do that.
Nor did Morath disabuse them of the notion. Even for him, apparently, it was close enough to the truth.
The Modern Age Picard breathed in the cold air and observed the contingent of Klingons on the next plateau, perhaps a hundred meters below him and his companions.
Their dark hair was drawn back and tied into ponytails, in the manner of Worf’s. In the flat, gray light of predawn, their white mokbara garb looked strangely serene against the coarse, black rock and the omnipresent tufts of hardy, red enchula grass.
Of course, the Klingons themselves were anything but serene. Focused, yes. Entranced, perhaps. But serene?
Even in the practice of so demanding a discipline, Klingon serenity was a contradiction in terms.
Anyone who doubted that had only to witness what the captain was witnessing-the ferocity with which these practitioners assailed one another, launching kick after deadly kick and blow after crushing blow, and following each with a guttural shout of exultation. Fortunately for them, none of these assaults found their targets-for as skilled as they were at attacks, they were just as skilled at avoiding them.
It was a mesmerizing spectacle, the captain mused.
Like a spider of many parts weaving a continuous, flashing web. Or a particularly vicious species of bird writhing in a torturous form of flight, the reasons for which were lost in its genetic past.
Picard had seen Worf teach the mokbara exercises to a dedicated few on the Enterprise, Beverly and Deanna among them. However, those maneuvers were to these as a jog in the woods was to the Academy marathon. Neither Beverly nor Deanna would have lasted more than a few brief seconds in so violent and rigorous a ritual.
“I am amused,” Kahless hissed.
He was careful