Kahless looked at all those who had assembled in the village of T’chariv, along the edge of the northern forests. His own men were only a small part of the crowd that huddled under a gray sky, surrounded by low wooden houses and a flimsy-looking barricade.
Last of all, the outlaw glanced at Edronh, the man he had fought over the minn’hor herd nearly a year ago. Edronh nodded, and Kahless looked back at the funeral pyre that stood behind him.
Torch in hand, he approached the pyre, with its burden of half a dozen corpses. The wind whistled in his ears, whispering things he didn’t want to hear or know about.
Touching his torch to the kindling beneath the wooden platform, he waited until the fire caught. Then he watched as logs were placed on the burning branches, feeding the flames until they enveloped the bodies above. Finally, assured that all was as it should be, he withdrew to stand by Edronh.
As the fire danced around the pyre, Kahless looked deep into the outlaw’s eyes. He saw the sort of agony there that he himself had known. The kind of torment only the loss of a loved one may bring.
He wanted desperately to look away. But he couldn’t, not ever again. He could ignore the wind, but not what he saw in a man like Edronh.
If he was to lead a rebellion as so many wished him to, he would have to understand their pain. He would have to distill it, like bloodwine. And he would have to give all of Molor’s people a taste, so they would know what they were fighting for.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Morath staring at him, silently keeping him to his promise. But Kahless no longer fomented rebellion for Morath’s sake alone.
Now he did it for himself as well—and for Kellein. He had discovered it was the only thing that made his heart stop hurting for her, the only balm that worked for him.
Had he been the one to die instead of Kellein, she would have made the rest of her life a tribute to him. She would have turned her sorrow and her anger into something useful—and deadly.
Could he do any less?
“Rannuf,” Edronh whispered, the flames reflected in his eyes as they picked at his child’s bones. His wife moved closer to him, to give comfort and to take some. “My son,” he said, “my strong, brave son.”
Kahless nodded as a bone popped and sparks flew, rising like a swarm of fiery insects among the twists of smoke. “Rannuf,” he echoed.
Edronh turned to him. “You knew him, my friend. He laid his sword before you, that day in the woods. You saw his courage, his manliness.”
I saw how young he was, Kahless thought. How excessive in his eagerness. But he didn’t mention that.
“Rannuf was a warrior,” he said. “He died defending his people against the depravities of Molor.”
That much was true. The tyrant must have gotten wind of the things Edronh was saying about him. And though Edronh and his men were outlaws, every outlaw had kin somewhere. Once Molor had determined where that somewhere was, the rest was simple.
He had sent his soldiers to T’chariv with fire and sword, just as he had once sent Kahless himself. Unfortunately for Rannuf, he had been home at the time, visiting his mother and his younger brother. Seeing what the tyrant’s men intended, he had met them blow for blow.
But the soldiers were more numerous than the village’s defenders and had killed them to a man—then lopped off their heads for good measure. The only good fortune was that the soldiers had spared the village itself, their point having been made.
Do not think to defy your lord Molor, they had said—if not with their tongues, then with their sharp-edged swords. After all, no one can hope to stand against him.
In the last half-year, that message had been carved like a bloodeagle from one end of the tyrant’s domain to the other. Vathraq’s village had only been the beginning. Nor would T’chariv be the end.
Kahless looked at Edronh. “It would be a shame,” he said, “if Rannuf were to go unavenged.”
The other man bit his lip. Clearly, he wasn’t as enthusiastic about revolution as he had been.
Until now, Edronh had thought himself too far north to feel Molor’s sting. To his everlasting regret, he had learned that was not so. Having seen Rannuf’s mangled body, having lifted it in pieces onto the pyre, he had become wary.
But if he was to have a hope of toppling the tyrant, Kahless needed men like Edronh. Men who could not only fight, but spread word of their struggle to others.
“I had a lover,” he told Edronh, plumbing the depths of his own sorrow. “We were betrothed before you and I met. But before I could return to her, Molor crushed her village and everyone in it.”
The other man looked at him. “The tyrant is everywhere.”
Kahless grunted. “Because we allow him to be everywhere. Because we sit in our own separate hideaways and wait for him to bring us misery.”
Edronh’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“Only this,” said Kahless. “That it is not enough to speak of rebellion, as we have done in the past. It is time we let our swords do our speaking for us. Together, as one army, we can show Molor what misery truly is. And in time, we can destroy him as surely as he destroyed Rannuf.”
Edronh seemed to be mulling it over. After a while, he spoke in a voice thick with emotion.
“I have only one other son, my friend. I could not bear to lose him as I lost Rannuf.”
Kahless eyed him sternly. Perhaps it was not enough to distill the pain of Molor’s victims. Perhaps he needed something more.
And instinctively, he seemed to know what that something would be.
“Then you will lose more than your sons,” he told Edronh. “You will lose everything.”
Edronh shook his head. “Everything?” he echoed.
“Everything that matters,” the outlaw explained. “The day we met, Edronh—you remember it?”
The other man said he did. “As if it were yesterday.”
“You spoke to me of honor that day—the honor a warrior may accord another warrior, whom he has come to respect. But there is another kind of honor, my friend. It is the kind a man must seek in himself—a love of virtue he must not abandon, no matter the consequences—or else admit to the world he is less than a man.”
Edronh’s features hardened, as if he had been challenged. “I am a man, Kahless. I have never been anything less.”
“Then fight,” the outlaw spat. “Fight for your honor, your dignity. Fight to make this land free of Molor’s tyranny.”
Edronh grunted. “Brave words, Kahless. But I fear to take part in a halfhearted venture—one which would spur Molor to even greater atrocities.”
The outlaw nodded. “I understand. And I swear to you, we will finish what we start, or I am not the son of Kanjis. I will not lay down my sword until the tyrant is dead—or I am.”
Edronh measured the size of Kahless’s conviction—and found it sufficient. He clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“I will not lay down my sword either, then,” he promised. “From this day on, I fight at your side. And so do all those who ride with me.”
Kahless smiled. “I want more than that, Edronh. I want you and your men to go out as messengers—to speak with everyone you know, every hearth you can find. Tell them I am gathering an army to march against Molor in the tyrant’s own stronghold. Tell them I am doing this for the sake of their honor.” His smile widened. “And tell them they will never have a chance like this again.”
Edronh smiled too, though the flames of the funeral pyre turned his eyes to molten gold. “I will do it. You have my word.”
Kahless could almost hear the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer as he forged the first link in his chain of rebellion. But it was only one link, he had to remind himself. He would need an entire chain before he could challenge the likes of Molor.
Feeling someone’s stare on the back of his neck, he turned. Morath was looking at him. The younger man seemed pleased.
Kahless nodded at him. It had begun.