Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [19]
Kahless grunted. There was silence all around him, the kind of silence that one might fall into and never be heard from again. Withdrawing his blade from Starad’s body, Kahless wiped it clean on the tattered sleeve of his wounded arm. He could feel the scrutiny of his warriors, but he took his time.
Finally, he looked up and commanded their attention.
“Molor ordered me to burn this place if its taxes were not paid. I will not do that, nor will I allow anyone else to do it. If there is a man among you who would dispute that with me, as Starad has, let him step forward now. I do not, after all, have all day for this foolishness.”
The bravado of his words far exceeded his ability to back them up. He was already beginning to feel lightheaded, and he doubted he would survive another encounter. However, he knew better than to say so.
“Well?” he prodded. “Is there not one of you who thinks ill of me for breaking my promise to Molor?”
No one stepped forward. But one of them, the one who had thrown the dagger at Molor’s son, drew his sword from his belt and held it high, so it caught the sun’s fiery light.
A moment later, another of Kahless’s charges did the same. Then another, and another, until every warrior in the circle was pledging his allegiance to the wounded man. Even those who’d ridden with Starad, and laughed at his jokes, and drawn their torches when he did. Their swords were raised as well.
Kahless nodded. It was good to know they were behind him.
But at the same time, he recognized their foolishness.
He had made a pariah of himself. He had begun a blood feud with the tyrant Molor, the most powerful man in the world.
Kahless had nowhere to go, no place he could call his home. And no idea what he would do-in the next few minutes, or hours, or days.
No-that wasn’t quite true. There was one thing he knew he would do. Eyeing the warrior who had taken the dagger in his throat, he walked over to him, ignoring the mounting pain in his shoulder.
Bending, Kahless withdrew the blade from below the man’s chin. Then he walked over to the warrior who had thrown it in the first place.
“Here,” he told the man. “I believe this is yours.”
“So it is,” the warrior replied. He accepted the dagger and replaced it in its sheath, which was strapped to his thigh.
“What’s your name?” asked Kahless.
The warrior looked at him unflinchingly, with dark, deepset eyes. “Morath,” he answered. “Son of Ondagh.”
Kahless shook his head. “To follow me is to invite Molor’s vengeance. You must be a cretin, Morath, son of Ondagh.”
Morath’s dark eyes narrowed, but there was no spite in them. “No more than you, Kahless, son of Kanjis.”
The warchief couldn’t help smiling at that. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approaching. He turned.
It was the village headman. Behind him, a couple of women had come out with wood for the cooking pot.
Another man was setting it up again in the center of the square.
“Your wound,” said the old man. “It must be cauterized and bathed, or it will become infected and you will lose the arm. :, Kahless couldn’t help but see the wisdom in that. Bad enough to be hunted by Molor, but to do so with only one hand …
“All right,” he said, loud enough for all his warriors to hear. “We’ll wait long enough to lay hot metal against my wound. Then we will ride.”
But he still had no idea where they would go or what they would do. Unfortunately, he had never been an outlaw before.
Kahless marched the length of the long corridor that led to the Klingon High Council Chamber, he could hear the resounding clack of each footfall. He had grown to like that sound, to look forward to it-just as he had grown to appreciate the venerating looks he got from the warriors standing guard along the way.
It was right that his footsteps should resound. It was right that warriors should look at him with respect and admiration in their eyes. After all, he was Kahless.
But even here, the emperor saw, the scroll had taken its toll on him. The guards didn’t look at him quite the