Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [16]
But it was not out of pity that Kahless pronounced his udgment-just a simple acceptance of the facts.
“There is no excuse for failing to pay your taxes,” Kahless rumbled. He could see the headman wince. “But I will exact no punishment,” he said, glancing sideways at Starad, “that has not been exacted already.”
The villagers looked at one another, incredulous, Kahless grunted. “Do not rely on the next collector’s being so lenient,” he added and brought his mount about in a tight, prancing circle.
With a gesture for the other warriors to follow, he started to put some distance between himself and the village square-until he heard someone call out his name. A moment later, Starad rode past him and planted himself in Kahless’s path, giving the older man no other option but to pull up short.
“What are you doing?” Kahless grated.
His tone of voice alone should have been enough to make Starad back down. It was a tone that promised bloodshed.
But Molor’s son gave no ground. “There’s no room for mercy here,” he bellowed, making fast his challenge in the sight of the other warriors. “Molor’s instructions were specific-collect the full amount of the village’s taxes or burn it to the ground.”
spat, sidling
“There’s no glory in such work,” Kahless his steed closer to Starad. “I didn’t come here to terrorize women and striplings, or to drive them from their hovels.
If that is what Motor requires, let him find someone else to do it.”
“What has glory got to do with it?” asked Starad.
homage to Motor, one demonstrates “When one pays obedience to him.”
Kahless leaned toward the younger man, until their faces were but inches apart, and he could smell Starad’s breakfast on his breath. “You’re a fool,” he told Molor’s son, “if you think I’ll take obedience lessons from the likes of you. Now get out of my way.”
Kahless’s father was long dead, the victim of a cornered targ. But while he lived, Kanjis had imparted to his only child one significant bit of wisdom.
In every life, his father had said, there were moments like a sword’s edge. All subsequent events balanced on that edge, eventually falling on one side or the other. And it was folly, the old man had learned, to believe one could determine on which side they fell.
Kahless had no doubt that this was such a moment.
Molor’s whelp might back down or he might not. And if he did not, Kahless knew with a certainty, his life would be changed forever.
As luck would have it, Starad’s mouth twisted in an expression of defiance. “Very well,” he rasped, his eyes as hard and cold as his father the tyrant’s. “If you won’t do your job, I’ll see it done for you.”
Spurring his mount, he headed back toward the center of the village. As he rode, he pulled a pitch-and-cloth swaddled torch out of his saddlebag. And he wasn’t the only one. Several others rode after him, with the same damned thing in mind.
Kahless felt his anger rise until it threatened to choke him. He watched as Starad rode by one of the cooking fires, dipped low in the saddle to thrust his torch into the flames, and came up with a fiery brand.
“Burn this place!” he thundered, as his s’tarahk rose up on its hind legs and pawed the air. “Burn it to the I”
ground.
Before Starad’s mount came down on its front paws, Kahless had spurred his own beast into action. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword and dragged it out of his belt.
Molor’s son made for the nearest hut. Kahless measured the distance between himself and Starad’s objective with his eye and feared that he wouldn’t be in time.
Digging his heels into his animal’s flanks, he leaned forward as far as he could….
And as Starad’s torch reached for the hut, Kahless brought his blade down, cutting the torch’s flaming head Off. Wrenching his steed about sharply, Kahless fixed Starad on his gaze.
“Stop,” he hissed, “and live. Or continue this mutiny and die.”
With a slithering of his blade from its sheath, Molor’s son chose the latter. “If I’m to die,” he said slowly and dangerously, “someone