Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [83]
“Enough,” he said. “The troops are gnashing their teeth in anticipation of Qa’yarin. Right now, we have to dispose of poor Shurin.”
Kahless nodded. “You’re right. I will see to it.”
Porus waved away the suggestion. “I can do it. You have done the work of a thousand men this evening.”
The outlaw shrugged. “If you say so.”
Still standing there in the center of the square, he watched as Porus began organizing the construction of a funeral pyre. Of course, they would need a great many of them. Tolar’tu had never seen so much blood.
Nor had An’quat before it. Or Serra’nob. Or any of the other places where they had clashed with Molor’s forces.
As Morath joined him, Kahless grunted. “Once the rain stops, there will be a fire that will be seen for a hundred miles around.”
“And bodies enough to keep it going for a day and a night,” Morath added. “But that is the price of victoryOf freedom. Of honor. Nor will it compare to the flames that will rage outside the tyrant’s citadel.”
The outlaw nodded. “One way or the other.”
The Modern Age On the bridge of Kurn’s vessel, Kahless found a seat and lowered himself into it. He looked drained. Lifeless. Crushed by the reality he had hoped so fervently to deny.
Picard sighed and went to the emperor’s side. What could he say? “Are you al I right?” he asked at last.
Kahless was on his feet suddenly, his anger twisting his features as he thrust them like a weapon into the captain’s face. “What do you think?” he roared.
Picard said nothing, but stood his ground. After a moment, the clone lumbered past him and stared out an observation port.
Am I all right?” Kahless repeated, every word as sharp as a dagger. He shook his head. “I am far from all right.
The conspirators were correct all along, Captain. Kahless was a fraud-and therefore, so am I.”
His fists clenched at his sides and trembled in white knuckled rage. Then the emperor’s right hand reached up, tore at something near his neck and cast it on the deck beside him.
It was the jinaq amulet-the one the historical Kahless had received from his lover as a sign of their betrothal.
Picard looked at Worf s brother and saw the expression of worry on his face.
If the clone was modeled after someone who never existed, Kurn seemed to say, what chance did they have?
Was Gowron’s reign not doomed, no matter what they did to preserve it?
And if all they had believed in until now was a fraud, a mockery, should they even try?
It was Worf who finally provided the answer. Getting up from his pilot’s seat, he approached Kahless. For a moment, he simply regarded the emperor, as if weighing what to do next. Then he knelt, retrieved the amulet, and stood up again.
“I believe this is yours,” he said, holding the thing out in the palm of his hand.
Kahless turned to him and growled: “Leave me be, Worf.”
“I will not leave you be,” the lieutenant told hi M, until you return this to the place of honor where it belongs.”
Apparently, that was not what the emperor wished to hear. With a bellow of rage and pain, Kahless lashed out and struck Worf across the face with the back of his hand.
As the cabin echoed with the sharp, explosive sound of the blow, Worf took a couple of steps back.
But he didn’t fall, as the clone might have expected.
Instead, he came forward like a wild targ, grabbed Kahless by the front of his robe, and pinned him against the nearest bulkhead.
“Are you out of your mind?” the emperor bellowed, his eyes bulging with outrage. “I have killed men for far less!”
“Then kill me,” Worf advised him, showing no fear.
“But not before I have had my say.”
Opening his hand, he showed Kahless the amulet. The emperor bared his teeth at the sight of it, then turned his face away.
“Get it away from me!” he cried.
He tried to wriggle free from Worf’s grasp. But the lieutenant, quite a powerful individual in his own right, would not let him go.
“Not so long ago Worf snarled, “you told me the original Kahless left us a powerful legacy. A way of thinking and acting that makes us all Klingon. If his words hold