Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [7]
The outlaws milled about in the foothills of the towering Uhq’ra Mountains, wary as a cornered targ and twice as restless. Sitting at the head of the emperor’s forces, Kahless listened to his mount gnashing its short yellow tusks while he considered the enemy. As they were upwind, he sampled their scent. His nostrils flared with surprise.
There was not the least sign of fear in the brigands. In fact, when Kahless tried to make out their faces, he thought he could see their teeth glinting in the sun.
They were not to be taken lightly, he told himself. But then, cornered beasts were always the most dangerous kind.
“Kahless!”
Turning, he saw Molor riding toward him on his proud, black s’tarahk. Out of heartfelt deference to his master, Kahless pulled hard on the reins of his own beast. It barked loudly as it reared and clawed at the air, red eyes blazing, muscles rippling beneath its thick, hairless hide.
After all, Molor was no petty land baron. He was a monarch among monarchs, who in the course of his lifetime had seized half the world’s greatest continent.
And before long, if all went well, he would no doubt lay claim to the rest of it.
“My liege lord,” said Kahless.
He had served Molor for seven years, almost to the day.
And in that time, he had gradually won himself a post as one of the ruler’s most trusted warchiefs. So when Molor rode up to him, his pale green eyes slitted beneath his long, gray brows, it was with a measure of respect.
“What are they doing?” asked Molor, lifting his chinbeard in the direction of the outlaws.
“Waiting,” Kahless grunted.
“For us to make the first move,” his lord suggested.
The warchief nodded his shaggy head. “It looks that way, yes.”
Molor’s starahk pawed the ground and rumbled deep in its throat. “Because our numbers are about even,” the ruler observed. “And because, with their backs guarded by the hills, they have the strategic advantage. Or to be more accurate, they think they do.”
Kahless eyed him. “You believe otherwise?”
As Molor’s steed rose up on its hind legs, the monarch’s lip curled back. “What I believe,” he said, “is that strategies only go so far. More important is what is in here. was He pounded his black leather breastplate, for emphasis. “Our hearts. And their hearts. That is what a battle is about.” I The warchief couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth of that. He said as much.
Gazing at the outlaws, Molor laughed. “I will confide something to you, Kahless, son of Kanjis-for you have earned it.”
The warchief made a sound of gratitude. “And what is that, my lord?”
“Battles are won and lost,” said Molor, “before they ever begin. It is not the strength of one’s sword arm that carries the day, but the manner and the timing of one’s attack. And the look in one’s eyes that says he will suffer nothing less than victory.”
Kahless had never looked at it that way. But if it came from his lord, could it be anything but wisdom?
“The enemy may seem fearless now,” Molor observed.
“Eager, even. But then, they expect us to spend the afternoon talking, planning what we will do next. If we were to strike swiftly and unexpectedly, like a bird of prey, and show not an ounce of mercy …”
Molor grunted. “It would be a different story entirely, I assure you of that. Before they recovered from our first charge, you would see it in their faces-the knowledge that they will not live to see another dawn.” He chuckled in his beard. “Fear. There is no more powerful emotion,” he grated. “And to us, no more powerful friend.”
As if they had heard and understood, the first line of s’tarahkmey rumbled and poked at the ground with their forelegs. A smile on his face, Molor nodded approvingly.
“Prepare yourself,” he told Kahless, “and see if I am not right.”
Suddenly, he raised his right hand. All eyes were drawn to it, instantly, as lightning is drawn to an iron rod in the midst of a thunderstorm. Then, with an ululating cry to