Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [22]
“I wonder how these people prepare rokeg blood pie, Porus sighed. “Baked in spices? Or in its own juices?”
“Spices,” decided Shurin. “Definitely.”
“How do you know?” asked Porus.
“Because that’s the way I like it,” returned Shurin. “If I can’t have it in any case, why not imagine I’m missing the best?”
Kahless cursed the circumstances that had put him and Molor at odds. After all, he’d been as loyal a soldier as anyone could ever want. He’d been brave and effective.
He deserved better.
Why couldn’t he have been sent to collect taxes from a village like this one, where they had enough to pay and be done with it? Then he might have been gnawing on bregit lung and heart of targ instead of dreaming about them.
But fate had given him no choice in the matter. How could he have burned M’riiah, with all the misfortunes it already had to endure? Molor might as well have asked him to flay the flesh from his shoulders.
Given a second chance, he knew, he would do the same thing all over again. He would like it no better than the first time, he would drag his feet-but he most certainly would do it. And if that was not some particularly virulent form of insanity, he didn’t know what was.
Kahless grunted pensively-then looked around at his companions. And yet, he thought, if I am insane, I am not the only one. If I am diseased, my men are doubly so. And Morath most of all.
The man had risked his life for a warchief he barely knew, just to ensure a fair fight. Given Starad’s size and prowess, Morath had to have believed he was wagering on a losing cause. But, fool that he was, he had wagered nonetheless.
And when the fight was over, and Morath had had every chance to fade into obscurity, he had chosen to raise his sword and lead the cheer for Kahless instead.
The warchief shook his head.
Unlike the others, Morath was closemouthed, his motivations difficult to plumb. He didn’t speak much of where he came from or how he had been raised, or how he had come to join Molor’s forces.
Nor would Kahless make an attempt to pry the story from him. If the younger man wished to keep his own counsel, he would have every opportunity to do so. The warchief owed him that, at least.
Up ahead, the gray and yellow micayah trees swayed in the wind, their slim, brittle leaves buzzing like strange insects. Kahless urged his mount toward an opening between two of the largest specimens, through which the glistening surface of the river was blindingly visible.
The animal trotted along cheerfully, for a change. The prospect of a good watering would do that to anyone, thought Kahless. Cool shadows caressed him as he ducked his head to avoid a low-slung branch.
He had almost reached the river bank when he heard a cry downstream, to his left. His first thought was that he’d led his men into an ambush. His second was that Molor would have fewer outlaws to worry about tonight when he took his evening bath.
However, as Kahless slipped his sword free, he saw it wasn’t an ambush at all. Not unless Molor’s warriors were all females these days, and naked ones at that.
What’s more, they hadn’t noticed his approach. They were too busy shrieking with glee, too busy pounding at the surface of the water in an effort to drench one another-though they were already as drenched as one could be. Clearly not the behavior of steely-eyed assassins.
Kahless couldn’t help smiling. The females were so lovely, so tempting as they raised rainbow-colored sprays with their splashing, their dark hair making slapping sounds as it whipped about their heads. He’d had precious little time for lovemaking these past few years, in Molor’s employ. Now he was forcibly reminded of what he’d missed.
“What have we here?” murmured Shurin, as he caught up with his chief.
Porus chuckled. “Something tastier than blood pie, my friend. Our reward, perhaps, for sparing M’riiah?”
“Not likely,” grunted Kahless, putting his cohorts on notice. He wasn’t about to let anyone take advantage of these females. They had enough enemies without