Star Trek - Kahless. Part 4

Unprepared for it, the headman fell like a sack of stones and slammed into the hard-packed ground of the square. A moan escaped him.

"You put aside your tribute before you eat," Starad snarled, "out of respect for your lord Molor."

Eyeing Starad carefully, a couple of the females moved to help the headman, who waved them back. Dusting himself off, he rose stiffly and faced Kahless once more.

"Starad," said Kahless, though he still stared at the villager.

He could see out of the corner of his eye that Molor's son was grinning at those he called his companions in the group. He had entertained them with his attack on the headman.

"Yes?" replied Starad, the grin still in place.

"Another stunt like that one," Kahless said evenly, but loud enough for all to hear, "and I'll put your d.a.m.ned head on a post-no matter who your father is."

The wind blew ominously through the village, raising spiraling dust demons as it went. For several long moments, Starad's eyes narrowed gradually to slits, and it looked as if he might carry the matter further. Then he whirled and maneuvered his s'tarahk back into the ranks.

A wise decision, thought Kahless. He'd had no choice but to reprimand the youth. Just as he'd have had no choice but to physically discipline Starad, even in front of these lowly tribute-dodgers, if Molor's son had piled a second affront on top of the first one.

A leader had to lead, after all. And like it or not, Kahless was the leader of this less-than-inspiring expedition.

Turning back to the headman, he saw that there was a dark bruise already evident on the side of the man's face.

But it was not out of pity that Kahless p.r.o.nounced his udgment-just a simple acceptance of the facts.

"There is no excuse for failing to pay your taxes," Kahless rumbled. He could see the headman wince. "But I will exact no punishment," he said, glancing sideways at Starad, "that has not been exacted already."

The villagers looked at one another, incredulous, Kahless grunted. "Do not rely on the next collector's being so lenient," he added and brought his mount about in a tight, prancing circle.

With a gesture for the other warriors to follow, he started to put some distance between himself and the village square-until he heard someone call out his name. A moment later, Starad rode past him and planted himself in Kahless's path, giving the older man no other option but to pull up short.

"What are you doing?" Kahless grated.

His tone of voice alone should have been enough to make Starad back down. It was a tone that promised bloodshed.

But Molor's son gave no ground. "There's no room for mercy here," he bellowed, making fast his challenge in the sight of the other warriors. "Molor's instructions were specific-collect the full amount of the village's taxes or burn it to the ground."

spat, sidling "There's no glory in such work," Kahless his steed closer to Starad. "I didn't come here to terrorize women and striplings, or to drive them from their hovels.

If that is what Motor requires, let him find someone else to do it."

"What has glory got to do with it?" asked Starad.

homage to Motor, one demonstrates "When one pays obedience to him."

Kahless leaned toward the younger man, until their faces were but inches apart, and he could smell Starad's breakfast on his breath. "You're a fool," he told Molor's son, "if you think I'll take obedience lessons from the likes of you. Now get out of my way."

Kahless's father was long dead, the victim of a cornered targ. But while he lived, Kanjis had imparted to his only child one significant bit of wisdom.

In every life, his father had said, there were moments like a sword's edge. All subsequent events balanced on that edge, eventually falling on one side or the other. And it was folly, the old man had learned, to believe one could determine on which side they fell.

Kahless had no doubt that this was such a moment.

Molor's whelp might back down or he might not. And if he did not, Kahless knew with a certainty, his life would be changed forever.

As luck would have it, Starad's mouth twisted in an expression of defiance. "Very well," he rasped, his eyes as hard and cold as his father the tyrant's. "If you won't do your job, I'll see it done for you."

Spurring his mount, he headed back toward the center of the village. As he rode, he pulled a pitch-and-cloth swaddled torch out of his saddlebag. And he wasn't the only one. Several others rode after him, with the same d.a.m.ned thing in mind.

Kahless felt his anger rise until it threatened to choke him. He watched as Starad rode by one of the cooking fires, dipped low in the saddle to thrust his torch into the flames, and came up with a fiery brand.

"Burn this place!" he thundered, as his s'tarahk rose up on its hind legs and pawed the air. "Burn it to the I"

ground.

Before Starad's mount came down on its front paws, Kahless had spurred his own beast into action. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword and dragged it out of his belt.

Molor's son made for the nearest hut. Kahless measured the distance between himself and Starad's objective with his eye and feared that he wouldn't be in time.

Digging his heels into his animal's flanks, he leaned forward as far as he could....

And as Starad's torch reached for the hut, Kahless brought his blade down, cutting the torch's flaming head Off. Wrenching his steed about sharply, Kahless fixed Starad on his gaze.

"Stop," he hissed, "and live. Or continue this mutiny and die."

With a slithering of his blade from its sheath, Molor's son chose the latter. "If I'm to die," he said slowly and dangerously, "someone will have to kill me. And I don't believe you have the heart to do it."

In truth, Starad was immensely strong, and skilled in swordplay beyond his years. After all, he'd had nothing but the best instructors since he was old enough to stand.

But Kahless had had a crafty old trainer of his own: the long, drawn-out border wars, which taught him more than if he'd had a courtyard full of instructors. He was willing to pit that experience against any man's.

"Have it your way," he told Starad and swung down from his beast, sword in hand. On the other side of the square, Molor's son did the same. In the next few seconds, their riding companions dismounted as well, forming a circle around them-a circle from which the villagers backed away, one of them having already grabbed the cooking pot.

It was understood by every warrior present that only one combatant-either Kahless or Starad-would leave that battleground on his feet. This would clearly be a fight to the death.

There was no need for formal challenges or ceremonies-not out here, in the hinterlands. Without preamble, Starad uttered a guttural cry and came at Kahless with a stroke meant to shatter his collarbone.

The older warrior saw it coming, of course-but it was so quickly and powerfully delivered that he still had trouble turning it away. As it was, it missed his shoulder by a mere couple of inches.

Starad's momentum carried him past his adversary.

But before the echoes of their first clash had a chance to die down, Molor's son turned and launched a second attack.

This time, Kahless was better prepared for Starad's power. Bracing his feet wide apart, he flung his blade up as hard as he could. The younger man's blow struck sparks from the hard-cast metal, but could not pierce Kahless's defense. And before Starad could regain his balance, Kahless had sliced his tunic from his right shoulder to his hip.

so No, thought Kahless, with a measure of satisfaction.

More than just the tunic, for there was a hint of lavender along the edge of the ruined leather. He'd carved the upstart's flesh as well, though he didn't think the wound was very deep.

For his part, Starad didn't even seem to notice. He came at Kahless a third time, and a fourth, matching bone and muscle with his adversary, until the square rang with the meetings of their blades and dust rose around them like a dirty, brown cloud.

It was the fifth attack on which the battle turned. It started out like all the others, with Molor's son trying to turn his superior reach to his advantage. He began by aiming at his enemy's head-but when Kahless moved to block the stroke, Starad dropped his shoulder and tried instead to cut him at the ankles.

Kahless leaped to avoid the blow, which he hadn't expected in the least. Fortunately for him, it missed. But when he landed, he stumbled.

He was just starting to right himself when his heel caught on something and he sprawled backward. At the same time, Starad came forward like a charging beast, his sword lifted high for the killing downstroke.

Kahless knew that someone had taken advantage of his vulnerability to trip him. He even knew who it was, though the man might have concealed it from the others.

But there was no time for accusations-not with Starad's blade whistling down at him.

He rolled to one side-but not quickly enough. Before he could escape, the finely honed edge bit deep into his shoulder, sending shoot at of agony through his arm and leaving it senseless as a stone.

Striding forward, Starad brought his blade up again apparently his favorite line of attack. Kahless could see the purplish tinge of gore on it-the younger man's reward for his last gambit.

The sight of his own blood was maddening to Kahless.

It gave him the manic strength to get his legs underneath him, to try to lift his weapon against this new a.s.sault. But again, he saw, he wouldn't be fast enough. Starad would crush his other shoulder, leaving him completely and utterly defenseless.

He clenched his teeth against the expected impact, knowing it was treachery that had cost him this battle.

But treachery, he knew, was part of life.

Then something flashed between him and Starad something small and slender and bright. It caught the younger man in the side, forcing him to loosen his grip on his weapon and hit the ground instead of his target.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kahless saw a warrior step back into the crowd, lighter by the weight of a throwing dagger. He vowed to remember the man, just as he would remember who had caused him to lose his footing a moment earlier.

In the meantime, there was still a battle to be fought.

Kahless scrambled to his feet and raised his blade before him, albeit with one hand. By then, Starad had pulled Out the dagger in his side and balanced it in his left hand. It was clear what he intended to do with it.

Seeing that he had no time to lose, Kahless lunged as quickly and forcefully as he could-closing the distance between them so the dagger couldn't be thrown. With a scowl, Starad brought his blade across to intercept his enemy's.

But just this once, he was too slow. In one continuous motion, Kahless thrust his sword deep into the younger man's side and followed it with his shoulder, bringing Starad down like a tall tree at a land-clearing feast.

They landed together, Kahless on top of his enemyand his first thought was of the dagger. Taking a chance, he let go of his hilt and used his right hand to s.n.a.t.c.h at Starad's wrist.

There was still a lot of strength left in Molor's son-so much, in fact, that Kahless nearly lost the struggle for the dagger. But in the end, he forced Starad to plunge the thing into the ground.

Weaponless, hampered by the sword in his side, Starad clawed at Kahless's face, scoring it with his nails. But the older man managed to squirm free, to lurch to his feet, and to grab hold of the sword that still protruded from between Starad's ribs.

He pulled on it, eliciting a groan from Molor's son.

With a sucking sound, the blade came free.

Kahless felt the weight of the sun on his face. His wounded shoulder throbbed with pain that was only just awakening. Breathing hard, sweat running down the sides of his face into his beard, he bent to recover the dagger that had preserved his life and thrust it into his belt. Then he paused to survey his handiwork.

Starad was pus.h.i.+ng himself backward, inch by painful inch-trying to regain his sword, which had fallen from his hands at some point and still lay a meter or so beyond his grasp. There was gore running from his mouth and his nose, and his tunic was dark and sticky where Kahless had plunged his sword in.

Molor's son was no longer a threat. Left to his own devices, he would perish from loss of blood in a matter of minutes. But despite everything, Kahless was inclined to give him one last chance-for by doing so, he'd be giving himself a chance as well.

A chance that Molor would forgive him. A chance that he might still have a place in the world.

Approaching Starad, so that his shadow fell across the man, Kahless looked down at him. Molor's son looked up, and all the hatred in him was evident in his bulging, bloodshot eyes.

"Yield," Kahless barked, "and I'll spare your life."

Starad kept on pus.h.i.+ng himself along, though he never took his eyes off his enemy. Obviously, he had no intention of giving in.

Kahless tried again anyway. "Did you hear me, warrior? I'll let you live if you admit your mistake."

"I admit nothing," Starad croaked. "If I were you, Kahless, I would kill me-because otherwise, I swear I'll kill you."

The older man scowled. There was no point in dragging this on. He was weak with blood loss himself and needed st.i.tching. Raising his blade with his one good hand, he brought it down as hard as he could. Molor's son shuddered as the spirit pa.s.sed out of him.

But Kahless wasn't through yet. Removing the dagger from his belt, he turned and threw it. Nor did the warrior who'd tripped him realize what was happening in time to avoid it.

There was a gurgling sound as the man tried to pull it from the base of his throat. He'd only half-succeeded when his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, then pitched forward face-first on the ground.

Kahless grunted. There was silence all around him, the kind of silence that one might fall into and never be heard from again. Withdrawing his blade from Starad's body, Kahless wiped it clean on the tattered sleeve of his wounded arm. He could feel the scrutiny of his warriors, but he took his time.

Finally, he looked up and commanded their attention.

"Molor ordered me to burn this place if its taxes were not paid. I will not do that, nor will I allow anyone else to do it. If there is a man among you who would dispute that with me, as Starad has, let him step forward now. I do not, after all, have all day for this foolishness."

The bravado of his words far exceeded his ability to back them up. He was already beginning to feel lightheaded, and he doubted he would survive another encounter. However, he knew better than to say so.

"Well?" he prodded. "Is there not one of you who thinks ill of me for breaking my promise to Molor?"

No one stepped forward. But one of them, the one who had thrown the dagger at Molor's son, drew his sword from his belt and held it high, so it caught the sun's fiery light.

A moment later, another of Kahless's charges did the same. Then another, and another, until every warrior in the circle was pledging his allegiance to the wounded man. Even those who'd ridden with Starad, and laughed at his jokes, and drawn their torches when he did. Their swords were raised as well.

Kahless nodded. It was good to know they were behind him.

But at the same time, he recognized their foolishness.

He had made a pariah of himself. He had begun a blood feud with the tyrant Molor, the most powerful man in the world.

Kahless had nowhere to go, no place he could call his home. And no idea what he would do-in the next few minutes, or hours, or days.

No-that wasn't quite true. There was one thing he knew he would do. Eyeing the warrior who had taken the dagger in his throat, he walked over to him, ignoring the mounting pain in his shoulder.

Bending, Kahless withdrew the blade from below the man's chin. Then he walked over to the warrior who had thrown it in the first place.

"Here," he told the man. "I believe this is yours."

"So it is," the warrior replied. He accepted the dagger and replaced it in its sheath, which was strapped to his thigh.

"What's your name?" asked Kahless.