Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [90]
Let Unarrh fend for himself, he thought. I will be elsewhere, making new allies, before he can point a finger at me.
With a hiss of metal on molded leather, he drew his dagger and made a break for it. Nor were his fellow officers far behind.
The Heroic Age In Molor’s anteroom, Kahless swung his battelh and struck down one of Molor’s guards. Beside him, Morath disemboweled another.
For a time, the tyrant’s retainers had held their own, even against greater odds. Perhaps twenty of the rebels lay stacked about them, blood running from twice as many wounds.
But now there were only a dozen defenders left, and none of them were grinning as eagerly as before. A couple barely had the strength to stay on their feet. Slowly but surely, the tide was turning against them.
“They’re faltering!” Kahless cried. “It won’t be much longer now!”
Still, every second they delayed him was like the sting of a pherza wasp. He wanted desperately to reach their master and see an end to this.
Blinking sweat from his eyes, Kahless hacked at another of Molor’s warriors. The man stumbled backward, barely managing to deflect the blow in time. In another moment, he would come back with one of his own.
But in the meantime, the outlaw had a clear path to his goal-a long, straight hallway that led deeper into the bowels of the citadel. With a burst of speed, he seized the opportunity.
And Morath was right behind him. As always.
“Kahless!” he cried.
The outlaw turned, barely breaking stride. “What is it?”
“We should go back and finish them,” Morath protested.
“No,” said Kahless, firm in his resolve. “If you want to end this, I’ll show you a quicker way.”
Morath hesitated. But in the end, he came running after his friend. “All right,” he said for emphasis. “Show me.”
The outlaw pledged inwardly to do his best. Pelting down the long, echoing hallway, he tried to remember the layout of the place. After all, he had only been here a couple of times, and both seemed impossibly long ago.
At the end of the hallway, there was a choice of turnings. The corridor to Kahless’s left was decorated with heroic tapestries and ancient weapons. The one to his right held a series of black-iron pedestrals, each one host to something dark and hairy.
A head, the outlaw recalled. A stuffed head.
Turning to the right, he broke into a run again. As before, Morath followed on his heels.
“What are these?” his friend asked, referring to the heads.
“The tyrant’s enemies,” Kahless told him. “Though from what I’ve heard, they plague him no longer.”
Unexpectedly, he drew courage from the sight. It was as if every shriveled, staring face was shouting encouragement to him, every hollow mouth crying out silently for vengeance.
These were his brothers, the outlaw told himself, his kinsmen in spirit. He would do what he could to see all their demands fulfilled-for if he did not, he would almost certainly join them.
The corridor ended in the beginnings of a circular stairwell, one narrow and smoothed by age. Hunching over, Kahless took the steep, uneven steps as quickly as he could.
“Where are you going?” asked Morath.
The outlaw stopped long enough to look at him. “You want Molor, don’t you?”
The warrior’s brow knotted. “How do you know he’s up there?”
Kahless grunted. “I was one of his warchiefs, remember?”
“But you’ve never seen him defend against a siege,” Morath protested. “He could be anywhere.”
Kahless didn’t answer. He just started up the stairs again. After all, he knew the tyrant as well as any man.
Besides, he had been gambling and winning battle after battle for months now. Why stop?
Halfway up the steps, he heard something. Barely a sound-more like the absence of one. Slowing down ever so slightly, he braced himself.
Suddenly, a spear came thrusting down at him. Though he was prepared, it was no easy task to batter it aside with his bat’telh-or to keep from staggering under the weight of the warrior who came after it.
Still, the outlaw managed to keep his footing, and to grab his adversary’s wrist before