Slipping his dk tahg free of the sheath on his thigh, the captain braced himself. Before he knew it, one of their a.s.sailants was on top of him. Twisting quickly to one side, Picard narrowly avoided disembowelment. And as the Klingon's momentum carried him past, the human slammed his hilt into the back of the warrior's head.

The masked one hit the ground and lay still. Picard barely had time to kneel and pick up a fallen dk tahg before the next a.s.sault came. This time, perhaps seeing what the captain had done already, his adversary approached more slowly and deliberately.

Then, with a viciously quick and accurate lunge, he stabbed at Picard's throat. The human fended off the attack with one of his own blades and countered with a backhand slash of his own. The Klingon leaped back, and the slash fell short.

Almost too late, Picard turned and realized what was really happening. The frontal a.s.sault was only a decoy, so a second Klingon could stab him from behind. Reacting instantly, he ducked-and the second a.s.sailant sailed over his head, confounding the first.

That gave the captain a chance to see how his companions were doing. He noted with relief that they were both still alive. There was blood running down the side of Worf's face and Kahless had a wet, dark rent in the shoulder of his tunic, but their wounds weren't slowing them down.

Picard watched as Worf lashed out with his foot, cracking an opponent's rib, then faced off with another.

And Kahless wove a web of steel with his dagger, keeping two more at bay.

As the captain turned back to his own a.s.sailants, he found them separating in an attempt to flank him. A sound strategy, he thought. Cautiously, he backed off, hoping to buy some time.

It would have been the right move, if not for the recovery of the Klingon he thought he'd knocked unconscious. Hearing the sc.r.a.pe of the warrior's boots, Picard whirled in time to catch a downstroke with crossed blades-but the maneuver left him open to the other two.

The captain could almost feel the shock of cold steel sinking into his back. But it never came. Instead, he saw his adversary withdraw into the alley that had sp.a.w.ned him. Turning, Picard saw the other masked ones retreating as well.

Then he saw why. A group of warriors were approaching from the direction of the dining hall, eager to even the odds. Fortunately, there was nothing a Klingon disliked more than an unfair fight.

Kahless started after the masked ones, caught up in a bloodl.u.s.t, but Worf planted himself in the clone's way and restrained him. Seeing that his officer would need some help, Picard added his own strength to the effort.

"Let me go!" bellowed Kahless, his eyes filled with a berserker rage.

"No!" cried Worf. "We have got to get out of here, before people start asking questions!" Then he caught sight of the captain and his lips pulled back from his teeth. "Sir!" he hissed. "Your hood!"

Picard groped for it-and realized it had fallen back, exposing his all-too-human face to those around him. He pulled it up again as quickly as he could and looked around.

As far as he could tell, no one had seen him. The newcomers were far too eager to plunge after the attackers to notice much else.

Worf turned back to the clone. "Now we have even more reason to leave," he rasped.

Kahless scowled and made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. Thrusting Worf away from him, he probed the wetness around his shoulder with his fingers. They came away b.l.o.o.d.y.

"The Ptahkmey, was he spat. "This was a perfectly good tunic. Mark my words, they'll pay for ruining it."

"You'll need medical attention," remarked Picard.

The Klingon looked at him and laughed. "For what?"

he asked. "A flesh wound? I've done worse to myself at the dinner table."

Then he gestured for Picard and Worf to follow, and started for the square again. Behind them, their rescuers were still hooting and shouting, but there was no din of metal on metal. Apparently, the attackers had gotten away.

The captain saw Worf turn to him, his brow creased with concern.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Picard nodded. "Better than I have a right to be. And you?"

The Klingon shrugged. "Well enough."

The captain cast a wary glance down an alley as they pa.s.sed it. "It seems we were not as circ.u.mspect as we believed. Someone realized we were on Lomakh's trail and sent us a message."

Worf grunted in agreement. "Stay clear of the conspiracy or die."

Kahless looked back at them. "Is that what you'll do, Picard? Stay away, now that I've shown you the truth of what I said?" His eyes were like daggers.

The captain shook his head. "No. Staying away is no longer an option. Like it or not, we're in the thick of it."

The clone smiled, obviously delighted by the prospect.

"You know," he told Picard, "we'll make a Klingon of you yet."

Then he turned his ma.s.sive back on them and walked on with renewed purpose. After all, his point had been made, albeit at the risk of their lives.

The Heroic Age lchless cursed deep in his throat. His breath froze on the air, misting his eyes, though it couldn't conceal the urgency of his plight.

Up ahead of him, there were nothing but mountains, their snow-streaked flanks soaring high into wreaths of monstrous, gray cloud. As his starahk reared, flinging lather from its flanks, the outlaw chief turned and saw the army less than a mile behind them.

Molor's men. With Molor himself leading the hunt.

Again, Kahless cursed. The tyrant had come out of nowhere, surprising them, rousting them from their early Cold camp. He had forced them to fly before his vastly more numerous forces, and the only direction open to them had been this one.

So they'd run, and run, and run some more, until their mounts were slick with sweat and grunting with exhaustion. And all the while, Kahless had had the feeling they were being herded somewhere.

His feeling had been right. Now they were pinned against a barrier of steep, rocky slopes, which their s'tarahkmey had no hope of climbing. They had no choice but to turn and fight, and acquit themselves as well as possible before Molor's warriors overran them.

Nor would their deaths be quick-Kahless's, least of all. Molor had to be half-insane with his thirst for vengeance. Starad had been the most promising of his children, after all. The tyrant would make his son's killer pay with every exquisite torture known to him.

As Molor's forces grew larger on the horizon, the outlaw glanced at his men. They were watching their pursuers as well, wondering how they could possibly escape. Kahless wondered too.

No doubt, the tyrant had been tracking them for some time, feeding on rumors and starahk prints, edging ever closer. That was the way he stalked those who defied him-with infinite patience, infinite care. And then he struck with the swiftness of heat lightning.

And this trap-this too was in keeping with Molor's method. Many was the time Kahless had engineered just such a snare, in his days as the tyrant's warchief. And to his knowledge, no one had ever escaped.

"Tell everyone to be ready," he barked, eyeing Morath and Porus and Shurin in one sweeping glance. "Molor won't hold any councils when he arrives. He'll pounce, without warning or hesitation."

For emphasis, Kahless drew his sword, which had become nicked from hewing tough, gnarled mressa branches. But he had had little choice. It was either that or go without cover from the snow and rain.

"Kahless!" called a voice.

He turned and saw Morath sidling toward him on his s'tarahk. His deepset eyes were darker than ever-but not with hopelessness, the outlaw thought. It seemed to him the younger man had an idea.

Kahless couldn't imagine what it might be, or how it could possibly help. But he wasn't about to reject it out of hand.

"What is it?" he snapped, never quite taking his eyes off the approaching line of Molor's men.

Morath came so close their mounts were nearly touching. "I've been in these hills before," he said. "At least, I think I have. It was a long time ago."

Kahless had no time for fond reminiscence. "And?"

"And I think there's a way out," Morath declared.

The outlaw looked at him. "What way?" he asked. "Are you going to sunder the mountains and let us through?

Because there's no way I can see to get over them."

Morath ignored the derision in the older man's voice and pointed to the gray slopes towering behind them.

"We don't have to make it over them," he insisted. "We only have to make it into them."

Kahless was sure Morath had gone insane, but there was no time to argue with him. Scowling, the outlaw signaled to the others to follow. Then Morath took off, with Kahless right behind him.

Despite his leader's skepticism, the younger man seemed to know exactly where he was going. Turning first this way and that, as if negotiating an invisible trail, he urged his starahk ever upward. And if the slopes grew steeper as he went, that didn't seem to faze him in the least.

From behind, Kahless could hear the cries of Molor's men. They were gaining on them now, perhaps half a mile away at most. If Morath was going to work some magic, it would have to come soon.

Suddenly, though the outlaw chief had had his eye on Morath from the beginning of their ascent, the younger man seemed to drop out of sight. Thinking Morath might have fallen into an unseen crevice, Kahless dug his heels into his starahk's flanks and urged the beast forward.

But it wasn't a crevice that had devoured Morath. It was a narrow slot in the Mountainside, just big enough for a warrior and his mount to fit through. Morath stopped long enough to beckon his comrades-to a.s.sure them with a gesture that he knew what he was doing.

Then he vanished into the slot.

Still wondering where Morath was leading them, Kahless guided his s'tarahk into darkness. The walls of the slot sc.r.a.ped his legs where they straddled his beast, but he got through.

Further in, there was a strange sound, almost like the sighing of the north-country wind. It took the outlaw a few seconds to realize it was the murmur of gently running water.

It was shattered by a splash. As Kahless's eyes adjusted to the scarcity of light, he saw Morath moving forward like a shadow, a web of perfect ripples spreading out around him. Gritting his teeth, Kahless followed him into the icy water. Behind him, others were doing the same.

It was some kind of underground stream, flowing from a high point in the mountains. A mysterious black river which had carved a path for itself over the centuries, known only to the tiny creatures who must have inhabited it. And, of course, to Morath.

After a while, there wasn't any light to see by, no matter how well Kahless's eyes had adjusted. He was forced to travel blind, listening for the snuffling of Morath's mount up ahead and heeding the man's occasional word of guidance.

Fortunately, they didn't have to remain in the river for long. When several minutes had gone by, it seemed to Kahless that the level of the water was dropping. A couple of minutes more and they were on solid rock again.

"Morath," the outlaw rasped, careful to keep his voice low.

Molor couldn't have reached the opening in the mountainside yet, but even so, he didn't want to take a chance on making any noise. Why give the tyrant any help in discovering their exit?

"What is it?" asked the younger man.

"Where does this lead?"

"To another stream," Morath told him, "more treacherous than the first. And from there, to a beach by the sea."

Kahless could scarcely believe what he'd heard. "But the sea . .

"Is ten miles distant," the younger man finished. "I know."

The outlaw would normally have been annoyed by the prospect. However, the trek might well prove to be their salvation.

Molor would have a hard time finding the slot. And when he finally discovered it and realized what had happened to them, it was unlikely he'd follow them into what could easily turn out to be an ambush.

Despite himself, the outlaw laughed softly. "That's twice you've saved my hide now," he whispered to Morath.

There was silence for a while. Then Morath spoke again.

"I would have preferred to stay and fight," he said, "if our forces had been more equal."

The chief shook his head. Morath was still young. With him, it was easy to forget that.

"As far as I'm concerned," Kahless replied, "each morning I wake to is a victory. There's no shame in running if it allows you to survive."

Morath didn't speak again as he led them through the darkness. But Kahless could tell that his friend disagreed.

The Modern Age Despite his acquisition of a seat on the High Council, which had brought with it the governorship of the colony world Ogat, Kurn didn't seem to have changed much since Picard saw him last. The Klingon was still lankier than his at older brother, favoring what the captain understood to be their mother's side of the family.

As they entered the garden of standing rocks, Kurn was conversing in bright sunlight with a shorter, stockier Klingon, whose jutting brow was easily his most distinguishing characteristic. Both men wore stately robes, which gave them an air of haughty authority.

At least in Kurn's case, that illusion was quickly dispelled. When Worf and his companions caught his eye with their approach, Kurn grinned like a youth reveling over his first hunting trophy.

"WorPeople Brother!" he bellowed, so that the greeting echoed throughout the garden. "Let me look at you!"

Picard's security chief was just as glad to see Kurn.

However, as always, he was somewhat less demonstrative in his enthusiasm.

Growing up in an alien culture-that of Earth, for the most part-Worf had learned all too well to hide his innermost feelings. His stint on the Enterprise had encouraged him to open up somewhat, but old habits were hard to break.

Kurn pounded Worf on the back and laughed: "It is good to see you, brother. I miss your companionship."

"And I, yours," the lieutenant responded. "Though I see you have managed to keep busy, with or without me."

Kurn grunted and made a gesture of dismissal. "Serving on the Council is more drudgery than I had expected.

It leaves little time for my more pleasant duties-like the inspection I've agreed to carry out today."

Picard saw Kurn's companion approach them then, as if that had been his cue. He inclined his head respectfully-though his dark, deepset eyes were clearly drawn to Kahless more than to Worf or the captain.

"This," said Kurn, "is Rajuc, son of Inagh, esteemed headmaster of this academy. You will find him to be a gracious host."

Rajuc smiled, showing his short, sharp teeth. "My lord governor is too generous with his praise. Still, I will do what I can to make you comfortable here." He turned to Kahless. "I have long been an admirer of your exploits, Emperor. This inst.i.tution is honored beyond measure by your presence."

Kahless shrugged. "Tell me that after I've bloodied your furnishings and ravaged your women," he instructed.

For a moment, the headmaster seemed to take him seriously. Then his smile returned. "You may do your worst, great one-and I will be honored to be the first to match blades with you."