Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [76]
But haunt him they would, andwitha vengeance.
Picard and his allies would see to that.
Proceeding along one of the wildly meandering stone paths, the four of them made their way to a window in the back. Worf peered inside, then turned to face the others.
“There are warriors inside. Females as well,” he said, his mask muffling his voice. “But they all appear to be asleep, some with bottles of Warnog in their hands.”
Kurn grunted. “Drunk. Muuda must have thrown a party with his latest infusion of blood money.”
Kahless nodded “The same sort of blood money he used to buy this esta te and furnish it with heroic images. I say we burn it down and him with it-give him a taste of what he did to those children.”
“After we’ve dragged some information out of him,” Kurn noted.
“Yes,” said the clone. “Afterward, of course.”
The captain looked at them with some alarm. But Worf made a gesture of dismissal, indicating it was only talk.
The Klingons wouldn’t incinerate these people any sooner than Picard would.
It wouldn’t be honorable. And to some Klingons, honor was still an issue.
“Come on,” said the lieutenant.
He moved to the next window and looked through it.
This time, the captain saw Worf’s lip curl in disgust.
When he turned to them again, he didn’t report out loud as before. He just tilted his head to indicate Muuda was inside.
Kahless didn’t hesitate. Taking out his dk tahg, he turned it pommel-first and smashed the window glass.
Then he vaulted through the aperture, oblivious to the shards that still stuck to the frame.
in rapid-fire succession, the others followed. As Picard leaped through the ruined window, he saw a one-armed Klingon lying in a bath of faceted obsidian, surrounded by three levels of steps. Despite the noisiness of their entrance, Muuda was still unconscious.
But then, Warnog had that effect. Warriors had been known to sleep for days after a particularly generous dose of the beverage.
uuda’s bath.
Not so the two females who had shared M
ide, they slithered out of the water and ran for the Eyes w door, naked as the day they were born. But Kurn blocked their way, his drawn dagger enough of a threat to stop them in their tracks.
They hissed at him. “Let us go,” one of them insisted, showing her teeth. “We have done nothing wrong.”
“Get back,” the governor instructed, obviously not in a mood to argue the point.
Worf grabbed a couple of robes hanging on a wall rack and threw them at the females. “Clothe yourselves,” he told them. “Then find a corner and be still. Cooperate and we’ll leave you unharmed.”
Ultimately, the females had little choice. Catching the robes in midair, they put them on and relegated themselves to a corner of the room. But even then, they were far from docile-looking.
Having dealt with Lursa and B’Etor of the House of Duras, the captain knew how big a mistake it ould be to underestimate the “gentler” Klingon sex. He resolved to keep an eye on the females until they were done with their business here.
Advancing to the bath, Kahless walked up the steps and reached for Muuda’s hair, which lay spread about his shoulders. Grabbing a lock in his fist, the clone tugged without mercy.
Crying out, Muuda brought a bottle out of the water with his good hand. Out of instinct, he tried to strike Kahless with it. But the clone batted it away. A moment later, it shattered on the floor, leaving an amber-colored pool on the stone.
“Muuudaa,” growled Kahless, drawing the name out, making it plain it left a bad taste in his mouth.
The Klingon in the bath looked up at him through bloodshot eyes, still half in an alcoholic stupor. But he wasn’t so drunk he didn’t know what kind of danger he was in.
“Who … who are you?” he stammered.
The clone took out his dagger and laid its point against Muuda’s cheek. “I will ask the questions here,” he said.
Realizing this was no dream, the Klingon swallowed.