Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [70]
Kahless’s sword became too heavy to swing. His throat grew raw with the dust he raised. And still he fought on.
Finally, he saw an opening-a hole in the web of steel Yatron wove about himself-and took advantage of it.
Reaching back for whatever strength he had left, the rebel brought his blade around in a great and terrible arc.
When he was done, Yatron lay in the dirt, clutching at his entrails. Exhausted as he was, Kahless didn’t let him lie there that way for long. As he’d shown mercy to one of Molor’s sons, he now showed mercy to the other.
Done, he thought. The serpent’s head is off.
The rebel paused for a moment, chest pounding, sweat streaming down both sides of his neck. It was a moment too long.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something bearing down on him. Too late, he turned and brought his sword up. He had time to glimpse a flash of teeth and a pair of murderous eyes before he felt a sword bury itself in his side.
With a sucking sound, it came out again. Kahless bit back a cry of agony and clutched at the neck of his so.”…tarahk, trying desperately to steady himself. He could feel his strength ebbing, feel his side growing cold and wet with blood, His attacker spun about and came back at him to finish the job. Somehow, despite his agony,. Kahless found the strength to lash out combackhanded.
He was lucky. The edge of his blade caught his enemy in the forehead, sending him twisting down to the ground.
The outlaw had no time to congratulate himself. He was losing his grip-not only on the reins, but on his senses. The battle churned and tossed about him like an angry sea, disorienting him until he didn’t know up from down.
. Kahless was weak from loss of blood, and it was getting worse. If he was to achieve victory today, he would have to hurry. Hanging on as best he could, he raised his sword with a trembling arm.
“Their warlord is dead!” he thundered, though the ground seemed to reach up at him. “Without him,, they are no better than we are!”
His words seemed to have the desired effect. With cry upon cry, his warriors surged against Molor’s forces like a ponderous surf, a force that would not be denied.
The outlaws shoved the tyrant’s men back. And again, and further still. And moments later, Molor’s army broke like a dam trying to hold back a flood.
Kahless yelled at his men, urging them on. But he himself didn’t have the strength to dig his heels in and follow. His hands and feet had become cold as ice, his vision had grown black around the edges.
Finally, mercifully, the ground rushed up at him. He had no choice but to give in to the darkness.
The Modern Age The installation that included Terjas Mor’s defense armory was so big and stark and gray, Picard had trouble believing even a Klingon would have found it esthetically pleasing. But then, it was built more for security than esthetics.
And certainly, under normal circumstances, the place’s state-of-the-art security systems would have kept intruders from getting in. But these were not normal circumstances-and Kurn, with his thorough knowledge of Defense Force design methods and codes, was hardly the average intruder.
Kahless grunted. “I never thought the day would come when Kahless the Unforgettable wore a mask like a lowly sneak thief.” Reaching underneath his hood, he scratched some part of his face to relieve an itch.
“I sympathize,” said the captain.
He, too, felt funny wearing a mask-and he doubted that Worf and Kurn liked it any better. Among Klingons, as in many other cultures, masks were badges of dishonorable intent.
However, it was important that they not reveal themselves here in the heart of a Defense Force installation.
Hence the additional precautions, which included concealing themselves in the shadows until their prey entered their trap.
Picard had barely completed his thought when he heard footfalls approaching from the far end of the alley.
Exchanging looks with Worf, he pressed his back that much harder against the wall that concealed them.
As their