Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [15]
As Kahless stopped in front of the pot, he saw that the villagers had finally noticed him. They were starting to emerge from their huts, some with children in their arms.
A few looked almost as bony as the minnhor.
An old man in a narrow, rusted honor band came out of the biggest hut. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut leather, and his ribs stuck out so far Kahless could have counted them at a hundred paces.
This, apparently, was the headman of the village. its leader. It was to him Kahless would present his demands.
Nudging his starahk in the man’s direction, Kahless cast a shadow over him. “I’ve come on behalf of Molor,” he spat. “Molor, who claims everything from the mountains to the sea as his domain and demands tribute from all who live here.” He indicated the circle of huts with a tilt of his head. “You’ve neglected to pay Molor what’s due him, either the grain or the livestock. Where is it?”
The headman swallowed, visibly shaken. Even before he opened his mouth to speak, Kahless had a fair idea of what the old one would tell him-and he wasn’t looking forward to hearing it.
“We cannot give you the grain due our lord, the matchless Molor.” The headman’s voice quavered, despite his painfully obvious efforts to control it. “Nor,” he went on, just as painfully, “can we submit to you the livestock required of us.”
Kahless’s stomach tightened. Give me an enemy, he thought. No-give me ten enemies, all armed and lusting for my blood-and I will not complain. But this business of squeezing tribute from a scrawny scarecrow of a headman was not to his liking.
Off in the distance, the kraw’za birds picked at the minnhor’s corpse. Right now, Kahless felt he had a lot in common with those krawzamey.
He leaned forward in his saddle, glaring at the headman as if his eyes were sharpened bores. “And how is it that you cannot pay Molor his rightful tribute?” he asked, restraining his annoyance as best he could.
The man swallowed again, even harder than before.
“Because we do not have it.” He licked his dry, cracked lips. “You must know what it has been like here the past two years. First, the drought and the famine that followed it. Then the plague that ravaged our beasts.” He sighed.
“If there was nothing for us to eat, how could we put aside anything for tribute?”
Before Kahless knew it, Starad had urged his mount forward and turned its flank to the headman. Lashing out with his foot, Starad dealt the villager a solid blow to the head with the heel of his boot.
Unprepared for it, the headman fell like a sack of stones and slammed into the hard-packed ground of the square. A moan escaped him.
“You put aside your tribute before you eat,” Starad snarled, “out of respect for your lord Molor.”
Eyeing Starad carefully, a couple of the females moved to help the headman, who waved them back. Dusting himself off, he rose stiffly and faced Kahless once more.
“Starad,” said Kahless, though he still stared at the villager.
He could see out of the corner of his eye that Molor’s son was grinning at those he called his companions in the group. He had entertained them with his attack on the headman.
“Yes?” replied Starad, the grin still in place.
“Another stunt like that one,” Kahless said evenly, but loud enough for all to hear, “and I’ll put your damned head on a post-no matter who your father is.”
The wind blew ominously through the village, raising spiraling dust demons as it went. For several long moments, Starad’s eyes narrowed gradually to slits, and it looked as if he might carry the matter further. Then he whirled and maneuvered his s’tarahk back into the ranks.
A wise decision, thought Kahless. He’d had no choice but to reprimand the youth. Just as he’d have had no choice but to physically discipline Starad, even in front of these lowly tribute-dodgers, if Molor’s son had piled a second affront on top of the first one.
A leader had to lead, after all. And like it or not, Kahless was the leader of this less-than-inspiring expedition.
Turning back to the headman, he saw that there