Kahless whirled on his s’tarahk and cut at his adversary with his sword. With a speed born of self-preservation, the soldier parried the blow with a resounding clang, then launched an attack of his own.
But Kahless’s first cut had only laid the groundwork for his second. Ducking to avoid his enemy’s response, he struck hard at the man’s flank.
The soldier couldn’t react in time. Kahless’s sword bit deep between two ribs, eliciting a scream. Then, while the man was at a disadvantage, the rebel sat up again and delivered the deathstroke.
As the soldier fell from his mount, his throat laid open, Kahless turned and surveyed the barren hillside he had chosen. No one else was coming for him. Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he surveyed the changing terrain of the battle.
It was his first full-scale clash with Molor’s forces—a clash designed to test the mettle and dedication of his ragtag army. So far, it seemed to him, the battle was more or less even. To their credit, the rebels were holding their own.
Still, they could be overrun if some pivotal event went against them. The same with the tyrant’s army. That was the way of such conflicts—Kahless knew that from his service to Molor during the border wars.
He was determined that if the battle turned, it would do so in the rebels’ favor. That meant he could not simply wait and hope—he had to make something happen on his own. And he knew just what that something might be.
Cut off a serpent’s head. Had that not been the tyrant’s own advice to him in the border wars?
Seeking out the warlord in charge of Molor’s forces, he found the man directing a charge against the rebels’ flank. Kahless smiled to himself. He couldn’t see who the warlord was for the hair that obscured his face, but it didn’t matter. He would bring the man down or die in the attempt.
Spurring his s’tarahk with his heels, he sliced his way through the ranks of the enemy. When he was close enough, he bellowed a challenge—one that could be heard even over the din of battle. As he’d hoped, the warlord turned to him.
And Kahless realized then whom he’d challenged. The man’s name was Yatron. And like Starad, he was Molor’s son.
The rebel clenched his teeth. He had already earned the tyrant’s hatred many times over, hadn’t he? What difference did it make if he gave Molor one more reason to despise him?
“Kahless!” bellowed Yatron, consumed with rage.
He seemed to recognize his brother’s killer. And judging by the expression on his face, Yatron had no intention of adding to his father’s miseries. Digging his heels into the flanks of his s’tarahk, he charged at Kahless, his sword whirling dangerously above his head.
Raising his own blade, Kahless charged too. They met in an empty space, each trying to skewer the other with the force of his attack. But somehow both of them escaped untouched, their only injuries the numbness in their sword arms.
Yatron whirled and hacked at the rebel’s head, but Kahless was ready for him. Turning the weapon away, he stabbed at the warlord’s chest. Fortunately for Yatron, he was quick enough to catch the stroke and deflect it.
For a long time, they exchanged brutal blows, neither of them giving an inch. Kahless was gouged and cut and battered, but none of his wounds were enough to slow him down.
It was the same for Molor’s son. As many times as the rebel tried to slice him or run him through, Yatron always eluded the worst of it—and came back for more.
Kahless’s sword became too heavy to swing. His throat grew raw with the dust he raised. And still he fought on.
Finally, he saw an opening—a hole in the web of steel Yatron wove about himself—and took advantage of it. Reaching back for whatever strength he had left, the rebel brought his blade around in a great and terrible arc.
When he was done, Yatron lay in the dirt, clutching at his entrails. Exhausted as he was, Kahless didn’t let him lie there that way for long. As he’d shown mercy to one of Molor’s sons, he now showed mercy to the other.
Done, he thought. The serpent’s head is off.
The rebel paused for a moment, chest pounding, sweat streaming down both sides of his neck. It was a moment too long.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something bearing down on him. Too late, he turned and brought his sword up. He had time to glimpse a flash of teeth and a pair of murderous eyes before he felt a sword bury itself in his side.
With a sucking sound, it came out again. Kahless bit back a cry of agony and clutched at the neck of his s’tarahk, trying desperately to steady himself. He could feel his strength ebbing, feel his side growing cold and wet with blood.
His attacker spun about and came back at him to finish the job. Somehow, despite his agony, Kahless found the strength to lash out backhanded.
He was lucky. The edge of his blade caught his enemy in the forehead, sending him twisting down to the ground.
The outlaw had no time to congratulate himself. He was losing his grip—not only on the reins, but on his senses. The battle churned and tossed about him like an angry sea, disorienting him until he didn’t know up from down.
Kahless was weak from loss of blood, and it was getting worse. If he was to achieve victory today, he would have to hurry. Hanging on as best he could, he raised his sword with a trembling arm.
“Their warlord is dead!” he thundered, though the ground seemed to reach up at him. “Without him, they are no better than we are!”
His words seemed to have the desired effect. With cry upon cry, his warriors surged against Molor’s forces like a ponderous surf, a force that would not be denied.
The outlaws shoved the tyrant’s men back. And again, and further still. And moments later, Molor’s army broke like a dam trying to hold back a flood.
Kahless yelled at his men, urging them on. But he himself didn’t have the strength to dig his heels in and follow. His hands and feet had become cold as ice, his vision had grown black around the edges.
Finally, mercifully, the ground rushed up at him. He had no choice but to give in to the darkness.