Pathways - Jeri Taylor [197]
“I don’t need a weapon, you Sara offal,” growled Jabin as the two men scuffled. “I’ll enjoy killing you with my bare hands.”
“You’ll need four or five others to do that, Ogla scum,” snarled the other man, who Kes decided was a Kazon, but of another sect. He looked not unlike Jabin, but his headdress was somewhat different, though equally outlandish. The two were crouching, circling, looking for an opening, and continuing to hurl epithets at each other.
“My sister could dispatch you, vermin.”
“Your sister is only good for one thing—every man in my squad can attest to that.”
“Your mother spreads her legs in hell.”
Kes found these interchanges extremely odd. What purpose could it serve to insult each other’s relatives? What did that have to do with anything? If these men had a dispute, why didn’t they resolve it by discussing it; or, if they felt combat was absolutely necessary, why not just get on with it? What sort of strange ritual was involved with these perverse denunciations?
But it seemed to whip both men into some greater lather, and suddenly they sprang toward each other, collided heavily, and then went sprawling onto the floor, grappling, fists pounding, boots digging into the floor for traction, grunting and swearing and clawing at each other.
It was quite remarkable, and had she not been so vulnerable she might have found it interesting to observe. But no matter what the outcome of this brutal duel, her situation was precarious. She half-hoped it would go on and on, because as soon as there was a winner, she would be in danger once more.
Then her eye fell on the weapon which Jabin had lost, and which lay within easy reach of her now. She snaked out a hand and grabbed it, feeling its cold metal in her hand like a balm. Suddenly her situation had reversed itself: not only was she not vulnerable, she held the upper hand. The realization was heady, intoxicating, until she realized she had uneasy choices. Should she wait until this primal struggle was over and there was a clear winner—and kill him? Kill both of them right now? Would that do any good when there were dozens of other combatants outside, still fighting, the outcome of the overall battle still in doubt?
Questions, questions. Why did her mind work like that? Why couldn’t things ever present themselves simply, with obvious answers?
Then she realized that Jabin was taking the worse of it; the other man was seated astride him, one hand around Jabin’s throat, the other holding one of Jabin’s arms away from him. Jabin was choking, clawing at the man’s hand, trying to pry it from his throat.
“You’re breathing your last, Ogla,” gasped the other man. “You’re heading for hell and it won’t be my mother that greets you there.”
Suddenly the choice was clear. Kes raised the weapon and, without hesitating, fired it at the back of the man who was choking Jabin. His body jerked spasmodically and he released his hold on his captive, sprawling sideways and onto the floor. Jabin stared at him for a moment, then climbed out from under the inert body and stood, looking in astonishment at Kes.
She kept the weapon trained on him. “Is he dead?” she asked unflinchingly.
“He’s just stunned. But you can be sure I’ll take care of that.” He took a step toward her but she raised the weapon slightly to affirm her intent.
“I didn’t hesitate to use this on him and I won’t spare you either, Jabin.”
Jabin stopped. “If the Kazon-Sara defeat us and you’ve injured one of them, it will go hard on you. And if my men are victorious and you’ve injured me, it will be worse. Give me the weapon.”
Kes pondered his words. They made a certain perverse sense, and suddenly she wasn’t so confident anymore. As she hesitated, he suddenly sprang at her and wrested the weapon from her grasp.
“That’s better. I must go help my men.” He turned to the door only to be greeted by one of his aides, out of breath and bleeding from a head wound.
“They’ve turned tail, Maje,” the man gasped. “We’ve routed them.”
Jabin clapped the man