Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [84]
The lieutenant thrust the amulet at the clone, who snatched it away from him. Then Worf released him and took a step back. But Kahless didn’t strike the lieutenant again nor did he t urn his back. He went on listening to what Worf had to say.
“What is important,” the lieutenant went on, in an even yet forceful tone, “is that we follow his teachings.
For, at least in this case, the words are more important than the man.”
The clone stood there for a moment, the jinaq amulet in his hand, the muscles in his jaws working furiously. It looked to Picard as if he were chewing something tough, something difficult to swallow-and perhaps he was.
Worf had thrown his own words back in his face-the same words Kahless had uttered on the Enterprise. Like it or not, the clone couldn’t dismiss them out of hand. He had to consider them.
“What about the people?” Kahless asked at last. “They will shun me. They will call me a fraud-and a liar.”
“Perhaps a few of them,” said Worf. “But not all. Not the headmaster of the academy we visited, or blind Majjas. They and all the other Klingons who want a Kahless-who need a Kahless-will make the leap of faith, just as they did when they found out you were a clone.”
“I wish I could believe you,” Kahless told him.
“You must,” Worf replied. “Our people care less about the scroll’s authenticity than they do about what Kahless taught them. Only give them time and you will see I am right.”
For what seemed like a long while, the clone was silent, the jinaq amulet resting in his large, open hand. Picard wondered if Worf’s little pep talk had worked … or if Kahless was as resigned to failure as before. A moment later, he received his answer.
Closing his fingers around the amulet, the emperor held it against his chest. The glint of purpose returned to his eyes. Raising his chin, he looked at his companions.
“Very well,” he agreed. “We started this together. We will see it through together. And in the end,” he went on, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “let our enemies beware.”
The Heroic Age Molor’s citadel bulked up huge, dark, and foreboding against the gray, brooding sky. Its battlements bristled with a thousand archers, and there were a thousand more within its gates.
Still, the road that led to this pass had been no less formidable and Kahless had traveled it without faltering.
With luck, he and his men would not falter now either.
“The tyrant is within our grasp,” said Morath. His starahk pawed and snuffled the ground.
The outlaw turned to him and snorted. “Or we are within his. It all depends on your perspective.”
Kahless was whole again, recovered from the wounds he had suffered at Tolar’tu. In fact, he had never felt stronger in his life. Constant strife had a wav of hardening a man.
Looking back over his shoulder, the outlaw surveyed the ranks of his followers, who were nearly as numerous as Molor’s soldiers and twice as eager. A mighty siege engine constructed of sturdy black skannu trees rose up in the midst of them-a fifty-foot tall monster with a battering ram slung from its crossbar and a platform big enough for a hundred archers.
Such devices had been used in the past, when a great many lords vied for supremacy on the continent. But never had one so large and sturdy been built. Then again, no one had ever tried to take a fortress like this one.
It had been difficult to haul the towering skannu trees out of the steep valleys south of here, but they had had no other option. If they were to break the tyrant’s power, they would need the proper tools.
At least, that had been Morath’s contention. And Kahless had come to see the wisdom in it-just as he now saw the wisdom in most everything his friend said or did.
The outlaw had accomplished everything Morath had required of him. He had forged a rebellion out of countless tiny uprisings and dissatisfactions, and with it had shaken the foundations of Molor’s supremacy. But with out the younger man’s part in