The Chancellor's Due, Part I
Posted on Sat Jul 25th, 2026 @ 7:41pm by Worf, son of Mogh
3,048 words; about a 15 minute read
Mission:
Lanterns in the Dark
Location: Great Hall, Blades of Martok Stronghold
Timeline: 2398, shortly after Damar’s death
The Great Hall had been carved from the bones of an old mining complex, though little remained of the place the Gorn had built there.
Klingon hands had widened the chamber, reinforced the walls and driven heavy iron columns into the rock. Banners hung between them, some bearing the marks of Houses old enough to have fought before the first Human walked beneath an alien sun. Others had been sewn hurriedly from torn uniforms, scorched hull fabric or the skins of beasts hunted on worlds where their owners had been forced to hide.
The largest banner hung behind the stone chair at the head of the chamber.
Martok’s crest.
No one sat beneath it.
Worf stood before the long war table instead, both hands resting against its scarred edge. A tactical display burned above the stone, throwing red and amber light across the faces gathered around him. Twelve captains. Twelve Houses, though several possessed little more than a surviving ship, a handful of warriors and a name they refused to let Torel erase.
A cup of bloodwine stood near Worf’s hand. It had not been touched.
Neither had most of the others.
The message from Qo’noS had reached them less than an hour before. Torel Duras had called it a declaration of unity. The Vorta who appeared beside him had called it proof that the Klingon Empire remained strong, sovereign and committed to peace throughout the quadrant.
Klingons had grown accustomed to being insulted with careful words.
The image of Torel remained suspended above the table, frozen at the end of his address. He wore the Chancellor’s robes well. Too well, perhaps. The chain of office sat heavily across his chest, every link polished, every emblem placed precisely where tradition demanded.
Behind him stood a Jem’Hadar soldier.
At Torel’s right hand stood a smiling Vorta.
Captain K’Rath spat onto the floor.
“You foul Martok’s hall by leaving his face there.”
“Torel’s face,” another captain corrected.
“They are the same face now. Duras in front. Dominion behind.”
A low rumble of agreement travelled around the table.
Worf reached forward and closed the recording. Torel vanished. The Vorta’s smile went with him.
In their place appeared a Klingon task group: three vessels moving in close formation along the border of former Federation space.
The lead vessel was an older Vor’cha-class attack cruiser, its hull patched with mismatched armour and repairs that had been made by engineers with more skill than resources. Two smaller birds-of-prey held position at either flank.
The crest of the House of Varkon marked all three.
“The Chancellor has called upon Varkon to fulfil its duty to the Empire,” Worf said.
Captain Sorrak gave a humourless laugh. “Duty.”
“They have been ordered to join a Dominion battle group forming near the Cardassian frontier,” Worf continued. “Their ships will be used against the Rising.”
“Then they have chosen their side,” K’Rath said.
Worf looked at him.
K’Rath did not withdraw the remark. Klingon councils were not served by men who feared disagreement.
“The House of Varkon has answered Torel’s summons for twelve years,” Sorrak said. “Its warriors have escorted Dominion transports. Its shipyards have repaired loyalist vessels. At Ketrel, they fired upon our scouts.”
“They fired warning shots,” said Captain Lursaen, an older woman with half her scalp marked by disruptor burns. “Had they wished the scouts dead, they would be dead.”
“They still served Duras.”
“They survived Duras.”
K’Rath struck the table with the heel of his hand. “There is always an excuse for obedience.”
The chamber tightened.
Worf let the silence hold.
Martok would have answered the challenge with a roar, a blow to the table and perhaps an insult involving K’Rath’s mother. Gowron would have watched the room and calculated which captain’s anger might best serve him later.
Worf did neither.
He studied the three ships turning slowly above the table.
The House of Varkon had once held territory across four moons and maintained one of the finest armour foundries in the Empire. Its warriors had fought Cardassians, Romulans and Borg. Its current lord, General K’Vek, had served under Martok before the Federation fell.
Then Gowron had died.
Torel had taken the Chancellor’s chair.
The Dominion had discovered that Klingons were easier to command when their children remained within reach.
“General K’Vek’s eldest daughter commands the second vessel,” Worf said. “His brother commands the third. His grandchildren live upon Varkon’s primary holding. Six thousand retainers, labourers and family members remain beneath Torel’s authority.”
K’Rath’s eyes hardened. “Then K’Vek should have moved them years ago.”
“To where?”
The question came quietly.
K’Rath opened his mouth, but Worf continued before he could answer.
“When the Empire fractured, Martok’s forces possessed no secure territory. We had ships without fuel, warriors without food and Houses scattered across systems watched by Dominion sensors. K’Vek could have raised his banner then.”
Worf looked around the table.
“He would have raised it over the graves of his House.”
No one answered that.
The Blades had grown stronger since Mo’Rat, but every Klingon in the chamber remembered what had come before it. Hidden encampments. Hollow victories. Warriors dying not in glorious battle, but because coolant systems failed and there were no replacement parts. Children moved aboard cargo ships. The elderly abandoned during retreats because Dominion patrols were too close and transporters too few.
Honour did not make a ship fly without antimatter.
Martok had understood that eventually.
Worf had learned it long before.
K’Rath folded his arms. “And now?”
“Now Torel has ordered Varkon to Cardassia,” Worf said. “A Vorta overseer has been placed aboard K’Vek’s flagship. Two Jem’Hadar guard him.”
A growl rolled through the chamber.
Sorrak stared at the display. “A Vorta upon a Klingon bridge.”
“By agreement of the Chancellor,” Lursaen said bitterly.
“No Chancellor has the authority to place an alien master over a Klingon commander.”
“Torel claims he is an adviser.”
This time the laughter was louder.
It held no humour.
Worf changed the display. The route of the three Varkon vessels extended towards the Cardassian border, where Dominion forces were gathering to answer Damar’s death and crush the uprising before it spread further.
“The Varkon ships will depart Torel-controlled space within eighteen hours,” he said. “They will pass through the Kethar mining system before joining the Dominion formation.”
Several captains looked towards him now.
They knew the system.
Old mining lanes. Dense debris. Distorted sensors. Few safe approaches and fewer clean routes out.
K’Rath’s expression shifted first.
“You intend to attack them.”
“No.”
The answer struck harder than agreement would have.
Sorrak leaned forward. “Then why are we here?”
Worf closed his hand around the edge of the table.
“Because the House of Varkon is worth saving.”
K’Rath stared at him for a long moment, then barked out a short laugh.
Around the table, other captains began speaking at once.
Some in anger.
Some in disbelief.
One demanded to know how many Blades Worf intended to sacrifice for warriors who had spent twelve years beneath Torel’s banner.
Worf listened.
The Great Hall had been built for voices such as these. For challenge. For anger spoken openly rather than allowed to rot behind courteous smiles.
Above them, the three ships of the House of Varkon continued towards Cardassia.
For the moment.
K’Rath was the loudest.
“Worth saving?” he repeated. “They repaired the ships that hunted us from Brelka. Their warriors escorted Dominion cargo through the Korath Pass. How many Klingons died beneath weapons Varkon kept supplied?”
“Twenty-three,” Lursaen said.
K’Rath turned on her. “You count them?”
“I count my dead.”
“Then you should be the first to demand blood.”
Her ruined scalp pulled tight as her mouth hardened. “I demand it from those who killed them.”
“They wore Varkon armour.”
“They also allowed my surviving scouts to withdraw.”
“And this cleans their hands?”
“No.” Lursaen leaned forward across the table. “But neither does your anger.”
The captains began again, their voices striking against one another until individual words disappeared into the noise. Varkon had waited too long. Varkon had profited from Torel. Varkon had bent the knee and discovered too late that kneeling was uncomfortable.
Worf let them spend it.
He had sat through Federation councils where disagreement came wrapped in courtesy, each objection softened until no one could remember who had opposed what. Klingons had no such weakness. They put the blade on the table and expected everyone else to recognise it.
Eventually, he struck the stone once with the base of his fist.
The sound carried.
The hall fell silent.
“Varkon has served Torel,” Worf said. “That is not disputed.”
K’Rath gave a sharp nod, as though a verdict had already been reached.
“They have also refused three orders to pursue Blades vessels beyond their own territory. Their shipyards report twice the repair time of any other House under Torel’s command. Weapons intended for Dominion vessels have failed inspection after leaving their foundries. Food shipments assigned to loyalist garrisons have repeatedly been lost to raiders.”
Sorrak’s eyes narrowed. “You believe they arranged this?”
“I believe General K’Vek has become skilled at failing without appearing disobedient.”
A few of the captains exchanged looks.
It was a dangerous skill. One the Empire had rarely honoured, because Klingon songs preferred the clean moment when a warrior drew steel and declared himself. They said less about the years before it, when families had to be fed, children hidden and enemies convinced that obedience still held.
K’Rath remained unmoved.
“Then let him fail Torel openly.”
“That is why we are here.”
The tactical display changed again.
The three warships diminished, shifting to one side of the projection. In their place appeared the Varkon holdings: the primary estate, two industrial settlements, the foundry complex and the smaller communities spread across the surrounding valleys. Points of light marked population centres. Roads and transporter relays branched between them.
Six thousand people represented by amber dots.
Sorrak stared at the map. “You said we would save the House.”
“Yes.”
“Those ships are the House.”
“No,” Worf said. “They are its weapons.”
He enlarged the primary settlement. Long halls cut into the mountainside. Foundries sunk deep beneath the rock. A fortress that had stood for generations, its outer walls rebuilt after wars most of the captains knew only from songs.
“The House is there.”
K’Rath looked from the display to Worf.
“You intend to take Torel’s territory?”
“No.”
“Then you intend to evacuate it.”
Worf said nothing.
That was answer enough.
A fresh argument broke across the table.
This one carried less anger than disbelief.
Six thousand Klingons could not simply disappear. Torel’s patrols watched the border routes. Dominion sensors tracked mass transport signatures. Varkon’s foundries produced armour components vital to the Chancellor’s fleet. The moment the first settlement went dark, every loyalist ship within three sectors would turn towards it.
Captain Morka, whose House had survived its own flight from Qo’noS with fewer than two hundred people, bared his teeth.
“You speak as if moving a House is the same as moving warriors from one ship to another.”
“I do not.”
“Then you know most will not leave. Their ancestors are buried there.”
“I know.”
“The old will refuse.”
“Some will.”
“The foundry crews will not abandon their furnaces.”
“Then they will be given time to decide.”
Morka struck the table. “Time is the one thing they will not have.”
Worf touched a control.
Six Klingon transport signatures appeared beyond the edge of Torel-controlled space.
The room quietened by degrees.
The vessels were old, broad-hulled and built to carry troops or freight rather than families. Their transponders identified them as independent ore haulers operating under falsified commercial registrations.
“Six transports,” Worf said. “Each fitted with additional life-support systems and emergency quarters.”
Three more signatures appeared.
“Cargo vessels carrying prefabricated shelters, power generators, industrial replicators, medical supplies, farming equipment and two modular fusion plants.”
Another two symbols joined them, these marked in the deep red of the Blades.
“Cloaked escorts.”
K’Rath stepped closer to the display.
“You have already assembled them.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Seven weeks.”
That drew silence.
Not because seven weeks was an impressive length of time. Because it meant Worf had begun preparing before Torel issued the order sending Varkon to Cardassia.
Sorrak understood first.
“You expected this.”
“I expected Torel to demand more from the Houses still beneath him. Damar’s death gave him the excuse.”
The House captains looked again at the waiting ships.
This was no sudden gesture made in response to outrage. Worf had watched Torel tightening his grip and prepared for the moment a House would be forced either to serve openly or break.
K’Rath’s voice lost some of its edge.
“Where would you take them?”
Worf shifted the display.
The Varkon holdings vanished, replaced by a moon turning slowly beneath a pale star. Mountain chains crossed its northern continent. Wide valleys lay beneath them, fed by two rivers and a freshwater sea. Old scans marked dilithium seams, iron deposits and geothermal vents. A cluster of temporary structures had already been raised near the mouth of the largest valley.
“A moon within the Mo’Rat system,” Worf said. “Outside the main dilithium fields and protected by the Blades’ defence network.”
Morka studied the terrain.
“There is nothing there.”
“There is land.”
“There are twelve shelters.”
“There will be more.”
“No halls. No foundries. No shipyard.”
“No Vorta.”
The answer landed quietly.
Worf expanded the northern valley. Survey lines appeared across the ground, marking planned agricultural zones, industrial sites and defensive emplacements. Nothing grand. Nothing complete. The first scratches of a future against bare stone.
“The soil can be cultivated,” Worf continued. “The mountains contain enough ore to support construction. Geothermal power will reduce their dependence upon imported fuel. The valley can be defended from orbit and from the surface.”
Lursaen watched the little cluster of shelters.
“You offer them mud and unfinished walls.”
“I offer them ground upon which no Vorta will command them.”
No one laughed.
Worf turned towards the captains.
“The House of Varkon will keep its banner, its commanders and its ships. Its warriors will not swear themselves to the House of Mogh.”
K’Rath’s brow rose slightly.
“They will not kneel to me,” Worf said. “They will swear to the Blades and to the liberation of the Empire.”
“And in return?” Sorrak asked.
“Their ships fight beside ours. Their engineers build beside ours. Their warriors defend the territory that protects their families.”
Worf looked back to the half-built settlement.
“When another House is ready to leave Torel, Varkon will help carry its people out.”
Morka gave a low grunt. “You would make them responsible for the next rescue.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they will not be refugees.”
The word was not spoken with contempt. That made it carry further.
“They will arrive with three warships, foundry engineers, armourers, farmers and warriors. They will have lost territory, not strength. They will build again.”
“And if they refuse?” K’Rath asked.
“Then the transports remain hidden. The teams withdraw. We allow the three ships to continue to Cardassia.”
Several captains reacted to that.
“You would let them join the Dominion?” Lursaen asked.
“If K’Vek chooses Torel after hearing what we offer, then the choice is his.”
“And then?”
“Then they are our enemies.”
There was no hesitation in it.
Worf had not spent seven weeks building a trap that required mercy. He had built a door. K’Vek would decide which side of it his House stood upon.
Sorrak leaned over the table, studying the Varkon holdings once more.
“You said teams.”
Worf brought up a second layer of the plan.
Small markers appeared near the primary estate, the foundry settlement and the outlying communities. Each was positioned beyond local sensor grids, close to old service tunnels, freight depots or transporter relay stations.
“Blades warriors and engineers are already in place.”
K’Rath’s hand dropped towards the knife at his belt.
“You placed warriors upon another House’s land without its lord’s knowledge?”
“They have entered no hall. They have approached no family. They will act only if K’Vek gives the order.”
“You presume much.”
“I prepare much.”
For a moment, K’Rath looked ready to answer with steel.
Then he glanced at the six thousand lights on the display and kept his blade sheathed.
Worf continued.
“The extraction teams will secure transporter sites and evacuation routes. The first transports can reach the outer settlements within one hour of K’Vek’s authorisation. His family and the children of his senior officers will be moved in the first wave.”
“And the foundries?” Morka asked.
“Equipment that can be removed quickly will be taken. The rest will be destroyed.”
A pained sound moved through the room.
Klingons could speak easily of burning worlds. Foundries were different.
Those were built by fathers, inherited by daughters, repaired by generations whose names survived in the imperfections of the metal. Destroying one’s own foundry was not merely sabotage. It was cutting away part of a House’s memory before an enemy could claim it.
Worf understood.
He offered no comfort.
“Torel will take their halls,” he said. “He will seize their land. He may give both to a House loyal to Duras. I cannot prevent this.”
He reached forward and reduced the display until the entire Varkon territory appeared again.
“I cannot preserve their walls.”
His hand closed, and the territory disappeared.
Only the population remained.
Six thousand points of light suspended above the scarred table.
“I can preserve their House.”
No one spoke for several breaths.
Then K’Rath reached for his bloodwine.
He lifted the cup, but did not drink.
“What do you require from us?”
Worf brought the Kethar system back onto the display.
“Containment,” he said. “Not battle.”
The captains moved closer.
To Be Continued...
Worf, son of Mogh
Leader, Blades of Martok
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