Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [31]
A dirt track began at his feet and twisted tortuously between a couple of dark, blockish storage buildings, then reached through the stronghold’s open gates to the river road beyond. Kahless caught a glimpse of the cultivated tran’nuc trees that grew between the road and the riverbank, and the sweet, purplish fruit that drooped heavily from their thorny black branches.
Vathraq hadn’t served the trannuc fruit because it wasn’t ripe yet, nor would it be for a couple of weeks.
Kahless knew that because his family had had a tree of their own when he was growing up.
Still, he hadn’t bitten into a trannuc fruit since he left the capital months earlier. And he might not have a chance to taste one again, the way Molor was hunting him.
He could feel the warm rush of his own saliva making his decision for him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his fat-smeared hand, he set out for the gate and the trees beyond. The sentries on the wall turned at his approach.
He called up to them, so there would be no surprises.
They swiveled their crossbows in his direction, just in case he was one of the tyrant’s tax collectors trying to deceive them. Then one of them recognized him, and they let their weapons fall to their sides. It was unlikely that they’d have shot at him anyway, considering he was leaving the compound, and doing it alone at that.
Once past the gates, he felt the wind pick up. It lifted his hair, which he’d left unbraided. The broad, dark sky was full of stars, points of light so bright they seemed to stab at him.
Kahless grunted. What wasn’t stabbing at him these days?
Leaving Vathraq’s walls well behind him, Kahless crossed the road and approached the nearest trannuc tree. As he moved, the river unfolded like a serpent beyond its overhanging banks, all silver and glistening in the starlight. It seemed to hiss at him, though without malice, as if it too had had its fill this night.
Arriving at the foot of the tree, he reached up and tore a fruit from the lowest branch. In the process, he scratched himself on one of the long, jagged thorns. A rivulet of blood formed on the back of his hand, then another.
Ignoring them, he bit into the fruit. It was riper than he’d imagined, sweet and sour at the same time. But as he’d already gorged himself on Vathraq’s food, he had no room for the whole thing.
Tossing the sweet, dark remainder on the ground, he waited for the yolok worms to realize it was there. In a matter of seconds, they rose up beneath it, their slender, sinuous bodies white as moonlight. The fruit began to writhe under their ministrations, and then to disappear in chunks as they consumed it with their pincerlike jaws.
Before long, there was only a dark spot on the ground to show that the tran’nuc fruit had ever existed. Kahless snorted; it was good to know there were still some certainties in life.
He turned to the river again, observing the ripple of the winds on its back. He had forgotten how good it could feel to have a full belly and the prospect of a warm place to sleep. He had forced himself to forget.
Of course, he could have had this every night, if only he’d gone along with Molor’s orders back at M’riiah. If he had returned from his mission, the blood on his sword testament to his hard work, and remained the tyrant’s most loyal and steadfast servant.
Molor treated his servants well. He would have given Kahless all the females he wanted, and all the bloodwine he could drink. And in time, no doubt, a hall of his own, with a wall for his trophies and a view of his vassals working in the fields.
But if he had torched the village as he was supposed to, all the bloodwine in the world wouldn’t have soothed him at night. And the stoutest walls couldn’t have kept out the ghosts of M’riiah’s innocents.
The outlaw snorted. Why had the tyrant set such a task before him anyway? Why couldn’t he have sent one of his other warchiefs-one with a quicker torch and a less tender conscience?
Kahless shook his head angrily. I’ve got