The journey from the farm is mostly quiet. The cart, drawn by the two vacant but no less insidious Borg drones, leads the makeshift convoy down the seemingly endless dirt roads. The away team and then the trio of Klingons follow behind; there is little conversation and even less joviality. Despite the insistence of the women at the farm, the convoy has been unfettered by any signs of beasts or bandits on the road until, as the twin suns begin to dip to the horizon, the group enters a small valley several metres deep. The path continues through the natural depression until it encounters a tall stone watchtower, now reduced to rubble through time and inattention. Its thin white stone form spans the shallow valley, and despite its rundown appearance, the stone work is mostly intact, creating a sturdy checkpoint in the road.

A large lattice hangs firmly shut at its centre, its sharp base driven hard into the soft ground. Around it, chunks of stone and rubble are piled up, wedging the robust portcullis shut. In the centre of the road ahead of it, a large bonfire burns, its orange flames highlighting the carved reliefs of the watchtower in a dancing orange glow.

“You there, woman, clear the road.” The Arbitor points lazily from Lee to the pile of rubble as he stifles a yawn.

“Please…” Lee chides.

“Please, what?”

The Jem’Hadar guard gives Lee a warning look and sharp shake of the head, causing his manacles to rattle lightly. Deciding the fight not to be worth it, she heads forward to examine the rubble.

As she approaches the bonfire, the scent of burning meat is heavy in the air. It’s thick miasma sticks in the back of her nostrils, and whilst she can’t see anything within the flames, the scent of charred meat is definitely stronger the closer she steps.

With a sharp whistle, an arrow flies into the ground at her feet, missing the tip of her boot by a hair’s breadth.

“You pay to pass.” A hissing sibilant voice announced loudly to the convoy.

“Pass through where?” Lee asks, lifting her hand to her brow in an attempt to shield her eyes from the falling sun over the towering valley edge. As she turns her face upward towards the top of the gatehouse, she can now see three slim figures silhouetted against the orange sunset sky. Lon bodies clad in rough cloaks that bat in the breeze, in each of their hands long, arcing wooden longbows, at their back a quiver full of ammunition.

“You pass through the Kindom of the Gorn, pay tribute in goods or your lives.” The centre of the reptilian trio hissed, and a rogue flame leapt higher from the bonfire as if on cue, illuminating his face beneath the dark hood. A slender snout, filled with rows of tiny serrated teeth, protruded from a bright, scaled face, and glassy, unblinking eyes narrowed in on Lee with laser focus.

As the sound of flexing bow strings cut across the crackle of the fire, Lee took several steps back and turned to the rest of the team with a confused shrug of her shoulders.

Daes notes quietly to the group that no one seems to recognise the Gorn, save for themselves. Connecting her earlier conversation with the trio of women at the farm, she wonders if there is some sort of perception-altering element at play.

Shaw, finally losing his patience with these strange surroundings, grabs a long branch and plunges it into the fire before levelling it at the Arbitor.

“What the hell do you know?” He asks, thrusting the flame close to the man’s cowering face.

“There are rumours of the Gorn, barbarians who trapse through the forest eating travellers. Lord Kal has been trying to get rid of them for months.” The weasley man replies, spilling forth explanations like they are some sort of court secret.

Shaw grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him down off the stout cart. The Jem’Hadar servant flexes as if to intercept him, but Shaw’s unexpected speed wins out and has already pulled the man away.

“Go, negotiate.” He instructs as the weak man stumbles onto the ground. “Now.”

“What am I even meant to say?”

Shaw offers the man a shrug and a threatening look towards the flaming stick he holds in his hands.

With tiny nervous steps, the Arbitor approaches the bonfire and the arrow lodged in the ground, its white feather tips an unofficial demarcation line.

“You are blocking the route of his lordship’s convoy to the shining city of Pio’Neer. I am the voice of his Lordship in these lands and demand you grant us passage, or I will set my guards on you.” He waves a shaking arm towards the away team, who turn to look at the Klingons behind them, only to find them retreating to the cover of a nearby tree.

“Or we can just give you him and you can let us go on our way.” Shaw gestures to the Arbitor, who turns pale at the offer.

The Gorn leader whips a long forked tongue into the air, small nostrils at the tip of his snout flaring to take in the scent of the nervous man.

“He smells stringy and distasteful.” The Gorn scrunches his face up at the thought of the officious man upon his dinner plate. “What else do you have to offer?”

“What’s on the cart?” Lee asks.

“The tithe? You can’t possibly be serious?” The Arbitor waves a finger impotently towards the Gorn who stand at the edges of the watchtower, their long forked tongues still cutting through the air. “I instructed you to engage them, and you should do so. I am the Arbitor of Lord Kal!”

The away team trades a quick glance.

“Does anyone actually know what’s in there?” Shaw asks.

Daes takes several steps over to the cart and pulls one of the smaller crates to its edge.

“If you open that, you’re a thief!” The arbiter cries with a sharp and unauthoritative gasp.

Daes shrugs and proceeds to pull open the crate.

The simple wooden lid falls away easily to reveal neat stacks of the pick, iridescent geode, that they had seen earlier in the field. Even in the shadow of the box, it glows with a strange energy, and Daes suddenly realises where she has seen the material before.

“It’s dilithium?” She whispers in confusion as Shaw and Lee come to examine the crate.

“Sort of, it doesn’t look quite right,” Lee confirms as she examines the crystals.

“Is this what you want?” Shaw calls over the cart towards the watching Gorn.

“Yes, yes, yes.” The Gorn’s tongue is slicking back and forth at almost supersonic speeds, cutting through the growing spittle gathering at the corner of its mouth.

“How much?”

“All of it.” The Gorn’s eyes dart across the cart. “All eight boxes.”

“We’ll offer you five,” Shaw says as he motions towards the Arbitor with the torch. “And him.”

The officious man squeals quietly.

“He is stringy and we have eaten already.” The Gorn’s nose crumples again as he stares at the pink crystals glowing lightly in the box.

After a few long seconds, the leader sighs and drops to the ground with an acrobat’s grace, swinging from the outcroppings of stone to land effortlessly on the dark mud.

“Fine, five boxes.”

“It’s a deal.”

The other two Gorn are lightning fast, leaping down from the tower and racing to the cart where they lift five boxes onto the ground and disappear into the dense treeline as quickly as they had appeared.

Shaw takes several steps forward as he throws the torch back into the fire.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat him?” He whispers as he leans into the gorn’s long face.

“We do not eat people, we are vegetarians.” The Gorn leans in even closer, the hot air from its flat nostrils brushing against Shaw’s face. “It is enough that people think we might eat them.”

Shaw stifles a small laugh before offering the tall Gorn an understanding wink. Inches away, a large orange reptilian eye attempts to wink back, before disappearing back towards the gatehouse with his kin.

As the group reforms, the Jem’Hadar servant steps forward and grabs Daes’s arm and pulling her to one side. She almost yelps but manages to hold the noise of surprise behind her lips.

“Your service is appreciated; we would likely not have won in a fight.” He speaks with a deep baritone that rumbles through his chest but carries no sharpened edge, that Daes had heard in their voices before. His voice is battered, defeated into submission.

“You’re welcome.”

“I am grateful you did not give to the Gorn either. I would not have lived if he had died.”

“What do you mean?”

“I serve him, I am his.” The shackles at the Jem’Hadar’s wrists and ankles jangled in the warm sunset air, sending an uncomfortable shiver up Dae’s spine. “It is a great honour.”

Unable to form a response, Daes simply nods and heads back to the away team.

With the convoy reassembled, the Gorn leader passes a hand over the rubble at the centre of the gate house, causing it to fade away. The away team notice a familiar shimmer of light between the rocks as they disappear into nothingness, a glimpse of orange latticework in the corner of their eyes.

As the twin suns finally set beyond the horizon, the convoy leaves the small valley and emerges back into open fields, long formal rows of crops stretching back down the road into the distance. The dirt track continues onwards towards a small cluster of buildings, comforting smoke plumes curling from their chimneys into the cool evening air.

Everyone breathes a slight sigh of relief, having safely passed through the Kingdom of the Gorn.