Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [91]
There was no cry, no bellow of pain. Just a gurgle, and the man collapsed on him. Pressing his back against the wall, the outlaw allowed the corpse to fall past him, end over end. Farther below, Morath did the same.
It was not the last obstacle Kahless would face on his way up the steps. He had to dispatch two more warriors, each more fierce than the one before, in order to reach his destination. But reach it he did.
And all the while, Morath pursued him, ready to take his place if he was cut down. Fortunately for both of them, it was not necessary.
Reaching the top of the stair, Kahless emerged onto a dark, windowless landing. At the opposite end, he saw a door.
If he was right, Molor would be behind it. And some guards as well? he wondered. Or had he dispatched them all already?
Morath came up beside him. For a moment, both of them listened-and heard nothing. Shrugging, the younger man pointed to the door. Kahless nodded and took its handle in his hand. And pushed.
It wouldn’t move. It had been bolted from the inside.
Clenching his teeth, the outlaw slashed the door with his battelh-once, twice, three times, until it was a splintered ruin. Then, with a single kick, he caved in the remains.
As Kahless had suspected, Molor was inside.
The tyrant was plotting his next move at his mressawood table. His large and imposing frame was hunkered over a map of his citadel, casting a mon strous shadow in the light of a single brazier.
The outlaw had looked forward to the expression on the tyrant’s face when he saw his warchief coming back to haunt him-to exact revenge for Kellein, and for Rannuf, and for all the other innocents Molor had trampled in his hunger for power.
But what Kahless saw was not what he had expected.
Halfway into the room, the outlaw stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as badly as if someone had bludgeoned him in the head.
“Blood of my ancestors,” he breathed.
Molor looked up at him, his eyes sunken into his round, bony head like tiny, black dung beetles. The tyrant’s skin was intricately webbed as if with extreme old age and riddled with an army of open purple sores. His oncepowerful body was hollowed out and emaciated, his limbs little more than long, brittle twigs.
“Greetings,” he rattled, his voice like a serpent slithering through coarse sand. “I see you’ve found me, Kahless.”
Molor said the outlaw’s name as if it fascinated him, as if it were the very first time he’d had occasion to say it out loud. His mouth quirked in a grotesque grandfatherly smile, revealing a mottled tongue and rounded, wormeaten teeth.
A moment later, Morath came into the room behind his friend. Glancing at him, Kahless saw the horror on the younger man’s face-the loathing that mirrored Kahless’s own.
“As I expected,” the tyrant hissed gleefully, “your shadow is right behind you.”
Molor wheezed as he spoke, the tendons in his neck standing out with the effort it cost him. Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth.
“What happened to him?” asked Morath, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the tyrant.
“What happened?” echoed Molor, his voice cracking.
“I’ll tell you. I fell victim to the plague that’s been killing all the minnhormey-his
He tossed his head back and made a shrill, harsh sound that Kahless barely recognized as laughter. Threads of saliva stretched across the tyrant’s maw. Then, with a palsied, carbuncle-infested hand, he closed his mouth and wiped the drool from his shriveled chin.
“Funny,” he said, “isn’t it? My physicians tell me the disease afflicts one Klingon in a thousand. And of all the wretched specimens on this wretched continent, whom should it bring down but the most powerful man on Qo’noSo?”
Molor started to laugh again, but went into a coughing fit instead. He had to prop himself up on the table for support. When he was done, he looked up at his enemy again.
“I hope you are not disappointed,” he rasped. “I would give you a fight even now, Kahless, but it would