Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [8]
Like bristling, black death itself, the emperor’s first rank sprang forward as one. Molor himself served as its spearhead, with Kahless right beside him, their war-axes held high.
His heart beating like a drum, even harder and louder than the thunder of his starahk’s charge, the warchief tightened his grasp on the haft of his weapon. Up ahead, the outlaws loomed in the lap of the hills, scrambling about to brace themselves for the unexpected onslaught.
Then, almost before he knew it, Kahless was among them, slashing and cursing, whirling and rending. He could hear the bellows of warriors seeking their courage and the clangor of clashing weapons. He could smell the sweat of their beasts and the metallic scent of blood, feel the numbing impact of the enemy’s weapons on his own.
This was battle. This was what it felt like to be a warrior, to pit strength against strength and fury against fury.
And as Molor advised, the warchief s actions were swift and ruthless. The blade of his axe grew slick with the outlaws” gore-and still he smashed and cut and clawed, meeting savagery with even greater savagery. He refused to let up, refused to stop until the last of the brigands cried for mercy.
Nor was the enemy the only one who bled and fell, to be crushed under the hooves of the snarling starahkmey.
Many of Molor’s men perished that day as well. Kahless bore witness to it.
Then again, it was a good day to die. It was always a good day to die.
Only Molor had to live. It would be the greatest shame to Kahless and the rest of their army if their monarch fell in battle. It would be a failure that would haunt them the rest of their days.
So, even while he was trying to preserve his own life, the warchief was keeping an eye out for Molor. It was a good thing, too, or Kahless wouldn’t have seen the outlaw giant cutting and slicing his way in the master’s direction.
Of course, Kahless had noticed the giant before, catching sight of him as they pursued the brigands across the plains of Molor’s kingdom. It would have been difficult not to notice; the man stood a full head taller than most of the other outlaws and had shoulders like crags.
Warriors that tall were often clumsy and plodding, but this one was an exception. As immense as he was, as difficult to knock down, he was also as quick with a blade as anyone Kahless had ever seen.
No one could seem to slow the giant down, much less stop him. And before long, he had hacked away the last of Molor’s defenders, leaving the emperor alone to face his fury.
No-not quite alone. For as the giant’s sword whistled for Molor’s head, Kahless leaped from his starahk and dragged his lord to earth, saving his life in the process.
When they hit the ground, Molor was stunned. But Kahless was not. Rising in his emperor’s stead, he challenged the outlaw.
“My name is Kahless,” he roared, “son of Kanjis. If you wish to kill my lord, you must kill me first!”
The giant leered at him, revealing a mouthful of long, stakelike teeth. “It will be my pleasure!” he spat.
He had barely gotten the words out before he lifted his blade and brought it slicing down at Kahless. But the warchief was quick, too. Rolling to one side, he got to his feet again and launched an attack of his own.
The giant parried it in time, but had to take a step back.
It was then, in a moment of strange clarity, that Kahless remembered Molor’s words: “Strike swiftly and unexpectedly, like a bird of prey, and show not an ounce of mercy.”
Surely, the giant wouldn’t expect him to press his attack-not when they were so clearly mismatched. But, heeding his master’s advice, that is exactly what the warchief did.
He rushed forward and swung his axe with all his might. To his surprise as well as the giant’s, he buried it deep in the place where the outlaw’s neck met his shoulder.
The giant screamed, dropped his own weapon, and tried to pull the axe head free. But with his life’s blood soaking his leather armor, he no longer had the strength.
He sank to his knees, still striving with the axe.