Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [82]
Lowering Shurin’s corpse, he laid it on the ground.
Then he stood again and waited for just the right moment.
“Wait!” Kahless shouted suddenly, as the cheers began to die down. “Stop! What in the name of our ancestors are we doing?”
The throng grew quiet, peering at him through faces caked with dirt and blood. What sort of question is that?
they must have wondered.
“Are we insane?” the outlaw asked. “Just because we have triumphed in a few small skirmishes, does that make us think we can win a war? Molor is no petty despot, cowering in his keep. He is the master of all he sees, power incarnate, the hand that clutches the throat of the world entire!”
There were protests, some of them heartwarmingly savage. But Kahless had more to say. As it happened, a lot more.
“And who are we to dare this?” he bellowed. “Not soldiers, not warriors, only old men and children who have become skilled at pretending. We have learned to fool ourselves. We have learned to believe we can tear down the mightiest tree in the forest, when all we have in our hands are our fathers’ rusted dk tahgmey!”
“No!” cried a thousand voices.
“Lies!” thundered a thousand more.
“We are warriors!” they rumbled. “Warriors!”
“For that matter,” Kahless roared, “why should we fight at all? For honor? For dignity? We have none of these things-and we deserve none! We are outlaws and worse, less than the dirt beneath the tyrant’s feet!”
“More lies!” came the thundrous reply.
“We are Klingons!” they stormed.
“Molor will fall!”
“For honor!”
“For freedom!”
And on and on, one shout building on another, until they were all one cry of rage and purpose, one savage chorus with but a single idea burning in their minds-to tear down the one who had brought them so much misery. To pry Molor loose from his empire and grind his bones to dust.
And as if in support, the skies answered them, crashing and lightning and pelting them with rain. But the rebels didn’t budge. They stood there, their hearts raised as high as their voices, and let the water from the heavens run over them and cleanse them.
Kahless smiled, but only to himself. They had needed their spirits bolstered after such a hard fought and bloody battle. And with the power he had discovered in himself, he had done what was necessary.
Molor might beat them yet. He might show them the depth of their foolishness at Qa’yarin. But it would not happen because the rebels’ courage had not been fanned to a fever pitch. If they failed, it would not be because Kahless had not done his part.
And who knew? Perhaps in ages to come, warriors would sing of the battle at Tolar’tu, and the speech a rebel had made there. Not that it mattered to Kahless if he was remembered or not.
He glanced at Morath, who was in the first rank of onlookers. The younger man remained calm and inscrutable as ever, as the rain matted his hair and streamed down his face.
Morath was truly the backbone of this rebellion. Kahless might have been its voice, its heart, but it was his friend who made it stand straight and tall and proud.
Well done, Morath told him, if only with his eyes. You have put thefire in them. You have spurred them as no one else could.
Had he been aware of the way Kahless had ennobled Shurin’s clumsiness, he would not doubt have disapproved. But he did not know, and the outlaw had no intention of telling him.
In his own way, he had kept his vow, made in the depths of weariness and madness in the hills north of Vathraq’s village. And he would continue to abide by it a little longer, until either he died or Molor did.
Then, either way, his work would be done. If the outlaw succeeded, Morath could have Molor’s empire, to do with as he wished. And if Kahless fell short, Morath could make of that what he wanted as well.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned. It was Porus, who had suffered a cut to his brow during the battle. Rain was already dripping from his