Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [92]
The outlaw shook his head. He had come here thirsting for vengeance with all his heart. But he knew now he couldn’t slake that thirst. As long as he lived, he could never slake it.
He would get no satisfaction from killing a plague victim, no matter what Molor had done. But he couldn’t let the ptahk live, either. The tyrant had to pay for his crimes somehow.
With that in mind, Kahless used his left hand to remove his dagger from the sheath on his leg. With a toss, he placed it on the table in front of his enemy. It clattered for a moment, then lay still.
“What are you doing?” asked Morath.
“I am giving him a chance to take his own life,” the outlaw answered, “before my warriors tear him limb from limb. It was more than he did for Kellein and her people. And it is certainly more than he deserves. But nonetheless, there it is.”
Molor picked up the dk tagh with a trembling hand.
And with difficulty, he opened it, so that all three blades clicked into place.
“You’re right,” he told Kahless, as he inspected the weapon “This is considerably more than I deserve.
However-was
Suddenly, the tyrant’s eyes came alive. He drew back the dagger with an ease that belied his appearance and balanced it gracefully in his hand.
“comx is precisely what you deserve, son of Kanjis!”
In that moment, the outlaw realized how badly he’d been duped. He saw all he had worked for-all his friends had given their lives for-about to vanish in a blaze of stupidity.
Before he could move, Molor brought the knife forward and released it. But something flashed in front of Kahless-andwitha dull thud, took the blade meant for him.
Openmouthed, the outlaw stared at his friend Morath.
The dk tahg was protruding from the center of the warrior’s chest. Clutching at it, Morath tried to pull it out, to no avail. Then, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, he sank to his knees.
Kahless was swept up in a maelstrom of blind, choking fury. He turned to Molor, the object of his hatred now more than ever.
The tyrant was drawing a sword from a scabbard hidden underneath his mressawood table. With spindly wrists and skeletal fingers, Molor raised the weapon. And brought it back. Andwitha cry like an angry bird, braced himself for his enemy’s attack.
But it did the tyrant no good. For the outlaw was already moving forward. Tossing the heavy table aside with his left hand, he brought his battelh into play with his right.
First, Kahless smashed the sword out of Molor’s hand.
Then, putting all his strength behind the blow, he swung his blade at the other man’s neck. With a bellow-not of triumph, but of pain and rage-he watched the tyrant’s head topple from his shoulders.
As Molor’s skull clattered to the floor, followed by a splash of blood, the outlaw turned to Morath. His friend was sitting on his haunches, still trying to draw the dk tahg from his chest. With Kahless watching, Morath toppled to one side and lay gasping on the floor.
Tossing his battelh aside, the outlaw fell to his knees and lifted his friend up in his arms. Kahless wanted to tell him there was hope he might outlive his wound, but he knew better. And so did Morath.
“This is wrong,” the outlaw railed. “You cannot die now, damn you. Not when we have won.
“Your promise to me,” Morath began, his voice already fading. “It is not yet … not yet done…
Kahless shook his head, his sweat-soaked hair whipping at his face. “No,” he snarled, like a starahk struggling against its reins. “I told you I would tear the tyrant down. And I have done that.”
“A life,” Morath reminded him, his mouth bubbling with blood. “You said you would pay with your life. The people … they still need you… .”
The outlaw’s teeth ground in anger. But his friend was dying, having taken the dagger meant for Kahless.
How could he deny Morath this last request? How could he think of himself after all the