Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [14]
Then it came to him. The man was Lomakh, a highranking officer in the Klingon Defense Force. They’d met less than a year ago, at a ceremony honoring Gowron’s suppression of the Gon rai Rebellion.
At the time, Lomakh had been very much in favor held in high esteem by both the Council and the Defense Force hierarchy. So why was he skulking about now? And who was he skulking with?
Pretending not to be interested in the pair any longer, the clone looked away from them. But every few seconds, he darted a glance in their direction, hoping to catch a smattering of their conversation.
After all, he had been created by the clerics with a talent for reading lips-one of the skills of the original Kahless. As long as he could see the men’s mouths, he could make out some part of what they were saying.
Of course, in ancient times, a great many people could read lips, as it was essential to communication in battle and, thus, critical to their survival. It was only in modern times that the practice had fallen inffdisuse.
Fortunately, the two men were so intent on their own exchange, they didn’t seem to notice the clone’s scrutiny.
With increasing interest, Kahless watched their lips move, shaping an intrigue that caught him altogether off guard-an intrigue so huge and arrogant in its scope, he could scarcely believe it.
Yet there it was, no mistake. Sitting back in his chair, he took hold of his reeling senses. This was something he had to act to prevent-something he couldn’t allow at any cost.
Abruptly, he saw a plate thrust before him. Looking up, he saw the serving maid. She was smiling at him with those remarkable teeth of hers.
“I hope you like it,” she said, then turned and left.
Kahless glanced at the conspirators, whose heads were still inclined together. He shook his own from side to side. “No,” he breathed. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
The question was … what would he do about it?
The Heroic Age Aand Kahless entered the village of M’riiah at the head of his men, he saw a flock of krawzamey scuttling like big black insects over a mound of something he couldn’t identify. It was only when he came closer, and the krawzamey took wing to avoid him, that he realized the mound was a carcass.
The carcass of a minnhor, to be exact. A burden beast, prized in good times for its strength and its ability to plow a field. By its sunken sides and the way its flesh stretched over its bones, Kahless could tell that the beast had died of hunger. Recently, too.
It was not a good sign, he thought. Not a good sign at all. And yet, he had found it to be pitifully common.
With a flick of his wrist, Kahless tugged at his starahk’s head with his reins and urged it with his heels around the minnhor. Otherwise, the starahk might have been tempted to feed on the carcass, and there was still a possibility of contagion in these lands.
Riding between the huts that made up the village, he saw the central square up ahead. It was nothing more than an empty space with a ceremonial cooking pot set up in the center of it. At the moment, though it was nearing midday, there was nothing cooking. There wasn’t even a fire under the pot.
Again, he had seen this before, in other villages. But that didn’t make it any more pleasant.
Behind him, Kahless heard a ripple of haughty laughter. Turning, he saw that it had come from Starad. Truth to tell, he didn’t like Starad. The man was arrogant, cruel and selfish, and he used his raw-boned strength to push others around. But he was also Molor’s son, so Kahless put up with him.
Unfortunately, Starad wasn’t his only problem. Far from it. There were others who grumbled at every turn, or whispered amongst themselves like conspirators, or stared hard at one another as if they’d break out into a duel at any moment.
That was what happened when one’s warriors came from all parts of Molor’s empire, when they had never fought side by side. There was a lack of familiarity, of trust, of cameraderie. And the wretched tedium of their