The other man bit his lip. Clearly, he wasn't as enthusiastic about revolution as he had been.

Until now, Edronh had thought himself too far north to feel Molor's sting. To his everlasting regret, he had learned that was not so. Having seen Rannuf's mangled body, having lifted it in pieces onto the pyre, he had become wary.

But if he was to have a hope of toppling the tyrant, Kahless needed men like Edronh. Men who could not only fight, but spread word of their struggle to others.

"I had a lover," he told Edronh, plumbing the depths of his own sorrow. "We were betrothed before you and I met. But before I could return to her, Molor crushed her village and everyone in it."

The other man looked at him. "The tyrant is everywhere."

Kahless grunted. "Because we allow him to be everywhere. Because we sit in our own separate hideaways and wait for him to bring us misery."

Edronh's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

"Only this," said Kahless. "That it is not enough to speak of rebellion, as we have done in the past. It is time we let our swords do our speaking for us. Together, as one army, we can show Molor what misery truly is. And in time, we can destroy him as surely as he destroyed Rannuf."

Edronh seemed to be mulling it over. After a while, he spoke in a voice thick with emotion.

"I have only one other son, my friend. I could not bear to lose him as I lost Rannuf."

Kahless eyed him sternly. Perhaps it was not enough to distill the pain of Molor's victims. Perhaps he needed something more.

And instinctively, he seemed to know what that something would be.

"Then you will lose more than your sons," he told Edronh. "You will lose everything."

Edonh shook his head. "Everything?" he echoed.

"Everything that matters," the outlaw explained. "The day we met, Edronh-you remember it?"

The other man said he did. "As if it were yesterday."

"You spoke to me of honor that day-the honor a warrior may accord another warrior, whom he has come to respect. But there is another kind of honor, my friend.

It is the kind a man must seek in himself-a love of virtue he must not abandon, no matter the consequences-or else admit to the world he is less than a man."

Edronh's features hardened, as if he had been challenged. "I am a man, Kahless. I have never been anything less."

"Then fight," the outlaw spat. "Fight for your honor, your dignity. Fight to make this land free of Molor's tyranny."

Edronh grunted. "Brave words, Kahless. But I fear to take part in a halfhearted venture-one which would spur Molor to even greater atrocities."

The outlaw nodded. "I understand. And I swear to you, we will finish what we start, or I am not the son of Kanjis.

I will not lay down my sword until the tyrant is dead-or I am."

Edronh measured the size of Kahless's convictionand found it sufficient. He clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"I will not lay down my sword either, then," he promised. "From this day on, I fight at your side. And so do all those who ride with me."

Kahless smiled. "I want more than that, Edronh. I want you and your men to go out as messengers-to speak with everyone you know, every hearth you can find. Tell them I am gathering an army to march against Molor in the tyrant's own stronghold. Tell them I am doing this for the sake of their honor." His smile widened. "And tell them they will never have a chance like this again."

Edronh smiled too, though the flames of the funeral pyre turned his eyes to molten gold. "I will do it. You have my word."

Kahless could almost hear the pounding of the blacksmith's hammer as he forged the first link in his chain of rebellion. But it was only one link, he had to remind himself. He would need an entire chain before he could challenge the likes of Molor.

Feeling someone's stare on the back of his neck, he turned. Morath was looking at him. The younger man seemed pleased.

Kahless nodded at him. It had begun.

The Modern Age Unlike his captain, Riker had never been to the Klingon Homeworld. But he was familiar enough with Worfs holodeck programs to know which cavern he was standing in.

It was called DIS jajlo', literally "dawn cave." He didn't know how it had gotten that name, since the shaft of light that came from above was only visible in midday.

At least, that was true of the real DIS jajlo', back on Q'onoS. In this program, for all he knew, the shaft of light never moved.

Right now, nothing else was moving either. With a single command, he had frozen Alexander's Klingon adversary in place. And the boy himself was so focused on the first officer, he might as well have been frozen too.

Well, thought Riker, I seemed to have piqued his interest. Now it's time to follow through.

"Anbojytsu," he said, "is a martial art form back on Earth-a one-on-one confrontation, much like the one you're involved in now." He raised his chin to indicate the Klingon warrior. "Of course, there are some differences. In anbojytsu, you wear a padded suit and your weapon is a stick three meters long. On one end of the stick, there's a proximity detector. You need that because you're wearing a blindfold the whole time you're at it."

Alexander looked at him. "A blindfold?" he echoed.

"Right-you can't see. That makes it pretty important to have a good sense of balance. And to be able to antic.i.p.ate your enemy's moves. Here, let me show you what I mean."

Again, the first officer looked to the stalact.i.te-riddled ceiling of the cavern. "Computer, I need a blindfold."

A band of white cloth materialized in Riker's hand.

Grasping it, he approached the Klingon warrior. Then the first officer tied the blindfold around his head, covering his eyes, and raised his battelh in front of him.

"Computer," he called, "resume program."

Riker heard the rustling that meant the warrior had come back to life. Taking a step back, he felt for a stalagmite with his heel-and found one. That told him how far backward he could go.

A moment later, he heard the derisive grunt that signified the Klingon's recognition of what he was facing.

Clearly, he didn't expect a man who couldn't see to put up much of a fight. Under normal circ.u.mstances, he'd probably have been right.

But the first officer had been honing his skills at anbojytsu since he was eight years old. He no longer needed a proximity detector to sense an attack coming, or to know what to do about it. And even though he had a battelh instead of a three-meter-long staff in his hand, a twohanded weapon was pretty much a twohanded weapon.

Listening carefully, Riker heard a sharp intake of breath. Bracing himself, he allowed his instincts to take over. Without actually thinking about it, the first officer found himself moving to block a blow from the warrior's right hand.

Careful to remain balanced, attentive not only to what he heard but also to what he smelled and felt in the movements of the air, Riker parried a second attack from the same quarter. And a third.

Apparently, the Klingon was going to keep trying the same thing, over and over again. Either he had some idea that the human was more vulnerable there or the warrior was himself limited. Say, by a wound he'd sustained before Riker arrived.

There was only one way to find out. Before his opponent could strike again, the first officer shifted the battelh in his hands and swung hard at the Klingon's left side. He heard a cry of apprehension, then felt his blade connect with something solid. It made a chukt as it sliced through leather body armor and maybe flesh as well.

The warrior cried out, then made a shuffling sound. A moment later, Riker heard him grunt as he hit the ground. Then there was a clatter, as of something metal.

"Freeze program," he said.

Removing his blindfold, the human surveyed his handiwork. The Klingon was on his back, clutching his left arm. His face was a mask of pain, his battelh lying at the base of a stalagmite.

Riker turned to Alexander, who was looking at him with a new respect. The first officer smiled. "I guess you get the picture."

The boy nodded. "But how did you-?"

"Practice," Riker told him. "Want to give it a shot? I'll be your sparring partner."

"Okay," said Alexander.

Coming around behind him, the first officer placed the blindfold across the boy's eyes and tied it. Then he stepped in front of him with his battelh.

"Here we go. Keep your feet wide apart for balance.

With all these stalagmites around, it's easy to trip. Now, listen as hard as you can, and tell me what I'm doing."

Taking care not to make too much noise, Riker moved to his right. At first, the boy seemed confused. Then he turned in the right direction.

"That's good," said the first officer. "You've got sharp ears."

This time, he moved to the left. Again, Alexander hesitated for a second. Then he seemed to find Riker's position.

The first officer didn't say anything right away. He wanted to see if the boy wavered in his conviction. But Alexander continued to stare in the same direction.

"Excellent," the first officer noted. "Keep trusting your senses and you'll be fine. Now, the toughest test of all."

Moving to his right again, he shifted his battelh from one hand to the other, making enough noise to give the boy a fighting chance. Then he raised the weapon high and brought it down slowly toward Alexander's shoulder.

The boy reacted in plenty of time, but held his battelh n position to stop a thrust, not a downward stroke. Only at the last second did he realize his mistake and bring his blade up over his head-just in time to ward off the attack.

Riker was impressed. Alexander was doing things it took him years to learn. But then, the boy was part Klingon. He had a warrior's instincts imprinted in his genes.

Alexander grinned. "I did it!" he cried.

"You sure did," said the first officer. "You can take off your blindfold now."

Still grinning, the boy did as he was told. He got a kick out of seeing Riker just where he expected to see him.

But a moment later, his joy faded. Apparently, he had remembered whatever it was he had on his mind.

"Something wrong?" asked the first officer.

Alexander sighed. "You know there is. Otherwise, Counselor Troi wouldn't have sent you to talk to me."

Riker had to smile. "It was that obvious, was it?"

The boy nodded. Placing his back against a stalagmite, he slid down the side of it and came to a stop when he reached the ground.

The first officer sat, too. "So? Do you want to get it out in the open, or do I just mind my own business?"

Alexander pretended to inspect his battelh. "We can talk," he said.

"Is it about the scrolls?" Riker asked. "The ones that suggest Kahless isn't all he's cracked up to be?"

The boy looked up at him. "You know I was reading them?" Then he must have realized how easy it would have been for the first officer to determine that. "Of course you do. You're in charge of the ship. You've got access to everything."

"Well?" the first officer prodded. "Is that it? You're disillusioned by what you read?"

He fully expected Alexander to nod his head. Instead, the boy shook it slowly from side to side.

"Don't tell my father, but I don't care how many days Kahless wrestled his brother, or how hard it must have been to plow his father's fields with his battelh, or how terrible a tyrant Molor was." He shrugged. "They're terrific stories, sure, and I love to listen to them-but they're just stories."

Alexander went back to inspecting his weapon. There was a discomfort in his features that Riker hated to see there.

"To me," the boy went on, "being a Klingon isn't about being like Kahless. I hardly know Kahless. It's about being like my father."

The first officer smiled. Funny thing about sons, he thought. No matter how different they may be from their fathers, they always want to idolize them.

But he still didn't understand why Alexander was upset. "I don't get it," he said. "If what you read in the scrolls didn't bother you-was "It did." Alexander's brow creased. "But not because I was disappointed. It bothered me because I know how my father feels about those stories. I don't want him to be disappointed."

Riker grunted. Obviously, the boy had zeroed in on the truth.

First, he had seen Worf receive a subs.p.a.ce packet. Then his father had taken off on a secret mission in the Empire.

Coincidence, maybe. But coincidences were seldom what they seemed.

Alexander couldn't have discovered any of the details of the venture, of course-couldn't have guessed that the captain and Worf were investigating a conspiracy to overthrow Gowron and throw the quadrant inffdisarray.

But he seemed to understand the significance of the scroll. He had sensed that what was at stake was nothing less than the Klingon faith. And he knew how very much that faith meant to his father.

"You're a very clever young man," the first officer told his young companion.

The boy looked at him, his brow still heavy with concern. "Thanks." He got up. "I think I've had enough training for today."

Riker got up too. "Same here." He looked at the ceiling of the cavern. "Computer, end program."

A moment later, the cavern and everything in it-the wounded warrior, the blindfolds and the battelhmeygave way to the stark reality of the black-and-yellow hologrid. As they headed for the door, it opened for them.

The first officer wanted to tell Alexander that everything would be all right. He wanted to a.s.sure him that Worf would come back with his faith intact. But he couldn't.

This wasn't a folktale. This was the real world. Here, nothing was certain. One had to take one's chances and hope for the best.

As they exited from the holodeck into the corridor outside, Riker put his hand on the boy's shoulder. Alexander looked up and managed a smile, as if he shared the first officer's thoughts.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll be okay. Really."