The doors to the keep here were made made of heavy wood, and bound between sheets of tough, black iron. As Kahless watched, they opened for him. A din of music and laughter poured out, making the courtyard ring.

Curious, he ventured inside.

There was no one in the anteroom to ask him his name or his business there, no one to stop him. Glad of it, he hurried on into the feast hall.

It was huge and imposing, with beams and poles and rafters made of rich, red teqal'ya wood and a flock of exotic birds roosting in the recesses of its high vaulted ceiling. The place was ringed with benches, on which sat a veritable host of armed men. And in the center of the hall, two warriors in leather armor clashed and clattered and raised a terrible commotion with their swords, though neither seemed to sustain any wounds.

Kahless shook his head in wonder. Whose hall was this? How had he gotten here? And who were these warriors?

Suddenly, he noticed that someone was standing next to him. Expecting a threat, he whirled.

But it wasn't a threat. A cry stifled in Kahless's throat.

Reaching out, he touched the side of Kellein's face with infinite gentleness.

"How ... ?" he stumbled, drinking in the sight of her.

Kellein grasped his hand and placed it against her breast. He could feel herjinaq amulet.

"Do not ask how," she told him. "Nor when, nor where, nor why. Only trust that I am who I seem I am, and that we have a pitifully short time to be together."

He drew her closer. "Kellein ... I wish I ... if only ..."

She shook her head. "You did not fail me, Kahless, son of Kanjis. I was meant to perish along with the rest of Vathraq's people. There is nothing you could have done about it."

He couldn't accept that. "But if I had turned down your father's invitation, if I had kept riding-was "The same thing would have happened," Kellein insisted, "albeit it in a different way. We were meant to find this place."

Kahless looked around and realized where he was. He swallowed hard. Until now, it had only been a legend to him, a tale told to children around the fire. Now it was wonderfully, painfully real.

"Enough of me," his betrothed said. "I need to speak of you, Kahless. Soon, you will leave this place, because you do not belong here. And when you return to the world, there is something you must do."

He looked around at the warriors seated on the benches, and he began to see among them faces that he recognized-faces of men who fought beside him on the frontier. And also, the faces of those who had fought against him.

Finally, he turned to Kellein again. Her hair was black I I as a kraw za s wing and her eyes were green as the sea. She looked every bit as strong and defiant as the day he saw her in the river.

Idon't want to go anywhere," he told her. "I want to stay."

Her eyes flashed. "No, Kahless. You must go back. You have come a long way toward tearing down the tyrant Molor, but there is yet much to do."

"Molor means nothing to me," he declared. "The rebellion means nothing, except for my promise to Morath. I would give it all up in a moment to have you with me again."

Even before Kellein spoke, he knew the truth of the matter. "That is not possible," she said. "At least, not now.

You have a destiny to take hold of-and in their hearts, all who follow you know that. But to succeed in your quest, you will need a sword."

Kahless shrugged. "There are plenty of swords in the world."

She grasped his arm. "No. This one is different. It will be a friend to you in battle. It will make you unbeatable."

Kahless wanted to laugh, to tell her that a sword was no better than the warrior who wielded it. But he could see his Kellein was not in a joking mood.

"Listen carefully," she told him.

Kellein gave him directions on how to make the sword.

First, he had to take a lock of his hair and dip it in the hot blood of the Kri'stak Volcano. Then he had to cool the thing in the waters of Lake Lusor. Finally, he had to twist it just so.

"Only then," she said, "will you have the kind of weapon you need to overthrow the tyrant." She squeezed his hand harder than ever. "Only then will you achieve a victory unequaled in the history of the world."

Kahless moved his fingers into the softness of her hair.

He didn't want to be talking with her about swords and tyrants. He wanted to tell her how much he ached for her still, how he would never forget what she meant to him.

But before he could utter a word, Kellein faded like smoke on the wind. And before he knew it, he held nothing in his hands but empty air.

He would have bellowed then like a wounded minnhor, making the rafters ring with his agony, except someone had leaped off one of the benches and was approaching him. Someone he knew all too well.

It was Starad, Molor's son. And he was whole again, unscathed.

The warrior had a sword in his hand, and it seemed he was looking for trouble. But something told Kahless that he could not be harmed here. After all, Kellein had said he had a destiny to seize elsewhere.

"Kahless?" Starad laughed, brash as ever. "Is it really you?"

The rebel held his ground. "You can see it is."

Molor's son stopped in front of him and sneered. "I know what you're up to, Kahless. But you're just a yolok worm beneath Molor's boot. Oh, maybe you'll win a battle or two, but in the long run you can't hope to accomplish anything." He leaned closer to the rebel, grinning with his long, sharp teeth. "Why not give yourself up and save everyone some trouble?"

Kahless could feel his own lips pulling back. "You were a fool when you were alive, Starad. I never thought to seek your counsel then, so why would I heed it now?"

Molor's son raised his sword before his face. Catching the light, the blade glinted murderously.

"Ignore me if you want," he rasped, "but you will not be able to ignore my father's power. When the deathblow falls and your wretched rebellion falls along with it, you will remember me." His eyes slitted with barely contained fury. "You will remember Starad."

Kahless cursed him. "You think I wanted this?" he hissed. "You think I wanted to be hunted like an animal?

To see my mate lying dead on her father's ground? To be deprived of comfort everywhere I turn?"

Starad opened his mouth to reply-but nothing came out. And a moment later, he had faded to smoke, just like Kellein before him.

Kahless felt a hand on his arm. He turned and found himself face to face with Rannuf, Edronh's son. The boy was just as he had been in the forest that snowy day, ruddy-cheeked and full of life.

"Rannuf," he said, his anger abating. In its place, he felt only heavy-hearted remorse. "I am sorry you had to die. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise."

Rannuf shook his head. "You misunderstand, Lord Kahless. I have not come to exact an apology from you, or to blame you for my death. I have come to warn you about impending treachery."

"What treachery?" the rebel asked.

"It is my father," Rannuf explained. "Edronh plans to sell you out to Molor's forces. He grows weary of losing his family and his possessions-weary of the bloodshed.

The only way it will end, he believes, is when the tyrant has your head."

"No," said Kahless. He shook his head. "That is not possible. Edronh has never shown me anything but loyalty."

The youth smiled grimly. "Molor might have said that about you once, my lord. Men change."

Kahless frowned. He couldn't ignore Rannuf's advice-not under the circ.u.mstances. It was said the dead had knowledge that was denied the living.

"All right," he replied. "What does your father intend to-?"

He never finished his question. Like the others, Rannuf wavered and blew away on a puff of air.

Kahless turned to the center of the hall, where the two warriors were still raising a terrible noise. The mult.i.tude of spectators egged them on from their seats. Up above, strange birds flew from one rafter to the next.

Kellein had said he didn't belong here. It seemed to him that she was right-that he wasn't meant to leave the world of the living quite yet. But how was he supposed to get back?

What offering did he have to make, an d to whom?

There was no sign of the serpent said to guard this place and keep it inviolate, or of the ancient ones who had challenged it....

Just as he thought that, the hall itself began to quake and come apart, as if under the influence of a powerful wind. Oblivious to it, the warriors on the benches continued to cheer for one fighter or the other, and the birds continued to fly. But Kahless could see the hall shiver and dissipate, and its occupants along with it.

Finally, he himself began to lose his shape, to twist in the wind and drift away. He cried out ...

... and found himself sitting upright in a tent, the air cold on his skin. His heart was pumping like a bellows and his eyes stung with sweat that had pooled in the hollows of their sockets.

Kahless wasn't alone, either. Morath was sitting in a corner, alongside Porus and Shurin, and a heavyset man he didn't recognize at first. Then he remembered. The man's name was Badich. He had professed to be a healer when he joined them.

"Kahless is awake!" snapped Shurin.

Morath got to his feet and came closer. "He looks better, too. I think the fever has broken."

"What did I tell you?" asked Badich, getting to his feet as well, albeit with a good deal more difficulty. "It was the poultice I made him. There's nothing it can't cure.

"How long have I been here?" asked Kahless.

"Two days," said Porus. "Your wounds became infected. You were so feverish, we thought we had lost you.

How do you feel?"

Kahless didn't answer him. He just grabbed his tunic and slipped it on. It wasn't easy, considering he hurt in a dozen places, all of which were dressed and bandaged.

"What are you doing?" asked Morath.

Kahless found his belt and cinched it around his waist.

Then, with an effort, he pulled his boots on.

"Where's Edronh?" he wanted to know.

The others looked at one another. Judging by their expressions, his question was a surprise to them.

"Edronh?" echoed Shurin. "What difference does it make?"

"It makes a difference," Kahless insisted. "Where is he?"

Porus shrugged. "With his men, I suppose."

Kahless grunted. "Let us see if that is so."

Doing his best to forget how much he still ached, he emerged from the tent. It was dusk. The fires of his followers stretched for a distance all around him.

"Edronh and his men are that way," said Morath. He pointed in the direction where the sky was lightest and the stars already dwindling. "They're guarding our front against the enemy."

"Show me," Kahless ordered.

Morath led him and the others to the place where Edronh was supposed to be encamped. Neither the northlander nor his warriors were anywhere to be seen, nor had their fires been tended lately.

"Maybe we were wrong," said Porus. "Maybe they bedded down somewhere else."

Kahless sniffed the wind. Nothing yet. But soon, there would be plenty.

"You were not wrong," he told Porus. "They were supposed to be here and they are not. They are off betraying us instead."

Morath looked at him, his brow wrinkled with concern.

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"I heard it in a dream," Kahless replied. "Now listen closely. We have to move before Molor takes Edronh's treachery and skewers us on it." He turned to Porus.

"Stay here with a hundred warriors. Pretend to sleep, but keep your blades at hand."

"An d what of the rest of us?" asked Shurin.

Kahless clapped him on the shoulder. "The rest of us will slip away quietly and take up positions along the enemy's flank."

"But the enemy is not in the field," Badich protested.

"He has no flank."

"Not yet," Kahless agreed. "But he will soon enough."

The Modern Age AA'S Picard and his comrades materialized on the perimeter of Muuda's estate, the first thing that struck the captain was the heavy-handed showiness of the place. it was not a tribute to elegance by any standard, Klingon or otherwise.

All around the lowlying mressawood structure, there were ornate fountains of polished marble and overgrown tran'nuc trees and elaborate stone paths leading through seas of ruby-red fireblossoms.

And statues. Lots of statues.

Ironically, the largest of them depicted Kahless's epic struggle with the tyrant Molor. In this particular piece, they were locked in hand-to-hand combat, their battelhs broken and lying in pieces at their feet. Both were bleeding from a dozen wounds, eyes locked, muscles straining in a life-or-death battle that would decide the fate of a civilization.