Spock Messiah

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Look on the bright side, Bones,” Kirk said. “We’re alive, we aren’t tied up any longer, and we—at least I—have acquired a new family.” He surveyed the thin pink line on his right palm and flapped the reins to get the neelots into motion. Slowly the caravan moved forward and took its place at the rear of the column. At the head rode Tram Bir and his warriors. After them came the carts of looted iron ingots. Following the carts came a morbid procession of neelots bearing the dead clansmen. Behind the caravan trotted a small rear guard. Ensign George rode in the van with Alt; Scott and Chekov were riding in the wagon.

After a short journey along the main trail, the column swung right and started up a narrow canyon that angled back into the hills. The land began to rise more and more steeply and the trail became rougher, twisting and turning back on itself as they rose higher into the hills. At last, as the caravan topped a small rise, Kirk saw their destination, a small valley surrounded by unscalable escarpments. The near end was protected by a high wall and a precipitous gorge with a strange-looking span over it.

A support structure of tall beams and bracing cross-pieces rose at the bridge’s far end. From it, cables slanted down and attached to the other side. An advance rider had evidently brought news of the war party’s approach, because the defensive wall which ran along the far end of the gorge was lined with women, children, and old men.

As the riders at the head of the column reached the bridge, they urged their neelots into a loose-jointed gallop and raced across, whooping as they went. The heavy, ingot-laden wagons were more cautious; they crossed one at a time, the flimsy span shivering and swaying under their weight as the cables stretched and twanged.

Scott, who had replaced McCoy at the brake an hour ago, shook his head in disbelief as the last of the carts made it across.

“That bridge couldna support sic a weight,” he muttered. “Its design violates basic engineering principles. Why the load factor alone…” He lapsed into silence, making mental calculations to verify his conclusion that the structure had to collapse under the weight of the first iron-laden cart.

“As you so often point out, Scotty, theory’s one thing and practice quite another,” Kirk said. “Here we go.” He eased the heavy caravan onto the bridge and started slowly across, the span creaking under their mass. Scott heaved a deep sigh of relief as they rolled off onto solid rock on the far side and drove through the narrow gate in the wall. Once inside, and driving among the randomly scattered, dome-like tents of the clan, the rear guard cantered past them.

A squealing groan arose from the other side of the gate, and Kirk rose and turned to see what was happening.

Two teams of neelots were harnessed to cables that rose over the wall to the high bridge support structure and then down to the far side. As their drovers urged them forward, the bridge slowly lifted until, now vertical, its far end towered above the wall.

“A perfect defense,” Kirk said.

Sara, sitting on a bundle of trade goods directly behind Kirk, said, “But how could a nomadic people come up with such an elaborate structure?”

“Semi-nomadic,” Kirk corrected. “They spend half of each year here. From the appearance of this place, they’ve evidently been doing it for hundreds of years. They’ve had time to work out the details. And they need something like that. When grazing is bad, the tribes start to raid each other.”

As the body-laden neelots ahead came to a halt,

Kirk stopped the caravan. He sat watching as men and women went from animal to animal, pulling off hoods to identify the dead. There was no outcry, no demonstration. Mothers looked at faces of dead sons for a moment, turned, and walked silently away.

“Demonstrative bunch,” McCoy said.

“At least they have a chance to see them one last time,” Kirk replied. “Before, they were left to rot I wonder what Tram Bir has in mind for us?”

As he spoke, the chief appeared from behind the van with two men bearing a litter. After his son was borne away to a nearby tent, he came up to Kirk, who had climbed down from the driver’s seat.

“I’ve thought much about Alt’s bonding,” the chief said. “It is unthinkable that clan brotherhood should be extended to Beshwa, who bear no arms. On the other hand, it can’t be denied that our blood has been mingled. If you are strangers, you must be killed; but if you are my kin, I can’t order your death. The question has never arisen before. I shall present it to the Messiah when we reach him tomorrow, while you remain here.”

Tram Bir’s casual statement struck home like a dagger. Kirk kept his face impassive as he glanced at the sun. It was already getting toward late afternoon and there were less than two days left in which to reach Spock, get close enough with the nullifier to break the connection between him and Gara, and return him to sanity. The place where the Messiah was assembling the clans was a good day’s journey away. Unless Tram Bir could be persuaded to take them with him, the Enterprise was doomed.

“In the meantime,” the chief continued, “you can make yourself useful. The Messiah wants every clansman who can handle a spear and sword—even the elders.”

As he spoke, a group of bandaged hillmen began to cluster around the caravan; some, who had been brought back on the captured carts, being borne on crude stretchers. Tram Bir gestured toward them.

“These are needed for the attack on Andres. With your powers, you must see that they are healed and ready to ride at first light.”

McCoy surveyed the group dubiously. There were ten on stretchers and at least forty walking wounded.

“We are a small clan,” Tram Bir added. “Without these, I will be forced to sit far in the rear during the gathering of the chiefs.”

Of course, thought Kirk, sensing an opening; in a society like this, a leader’s importance among his fellows is determined by the number of swords he can muster.

“Chief Tram Bir, come to the van,” Kirk said suddenly. “There are weighty matters we must discuss… alone.”

“Great as our skill is,” Kirk said, “it may be that some of the more seriously wounded will need a few days’ rest before they can join you. The others, however, can be ready to ride with you by dawn. But give thought to the future. When Andros is stormed, many of your men will fall. It is true that the Messiah’s strength will grow when he converts those who survive in the city and they take arms in his cause, but your numbers will shrink. What about your place among the chiefs?”

He poured Tram Bir another cup of wine.

“The others will have their losses, too,” the chief said. “Our ranking will remain the same.”

“True,” Kirk said, “but if your numbers shrank less than theirs, before too long you would be sitting in the front as a principal chief.” Kirk paused to let his words sink in and then added, “Of course, if you send your wounded all the way back here to be healed, many will die on the way.”

Tram Bir took another sip of wine and looked at Kirk thoughtfully for a moment. “So you wish to come with us. What’s in it for you? If the Messiah decides you are strangers, you will only hasten your death.”

“He won’t,” Kirk said. “From what you’ve told me about what happened in Andros, it’s obvious that he had spies from the city in mind when he gave that order about strangers. As for us, we are now of your blood; we wish to serve you as best we can.”

“Neelot dung!” Tram Bir snapped. “We of the clans take such things seriously, but Beshwa are only interested in trade. You claim kinship to save your throats.”

Kirk pursed his lips. “I know there would be good trading where the clans gather—excellent, in fact. There’s no reason why in helping others one can’t help oneself. How about a deal, Tram Bir? We’ll come along to care for your wounded if you let us do a little business on the side.”

Tram Bir pondered Kirk’s proposal for a long, silent moment then nodded slowly. “So be it. There will be a feast tonight when Afterbliss has set. We will talk more of this then.”

“Afterbliss?” Kirk asked. “The word is new to me. I have learned today that the clans have a new leader who converts all who hear his voice and that he gathers the clans for a holy war, but I have not been told what this thing is you speak of.”

“You must have seen it,” Tram Bir said, “a new star that moves swiftly through the heavens before dawn and after dusk. It is for this that we who have not heard the Messiah’s voice obey his orders and march to join him with our dead.”

“I know nothing of this,” Kirk said. “We saw a strange new light in the sky two nights ago and again last night, but we didn’t know what it was.”

“We had word of its first coming,” the chieftain replied. “Two days ago, a rider came from a western clan with word that the gods had sent a leader who was to remake Kyros into a holy place. As a sign of his greatness, they would place a shining city in the sky, a place where those who died for them would live forever. That night showed the truth of his words. We saw Afterbliss with our own eyes. No longer will the spirits of our dead sink into the ground and their bodies be left to rot! Tomorrow the bodies of those who died today will rise to be reunited with the souls that wait above.

“Yesterday another rider came with orders for us to raid the mining camp and destroy the bridge, so no more spearstone could be taken to Andros for weapons. After what we had seen, we obeyed without question. Tomorrow we hear the Messiah’s words with our own ears!”

He rose. “Heal as many as you can. We ride as soon as there is light enough to see the trail tomorrow. Your woman will remain behind with my wives. I will give orders that she be treated well.”

Before Kirk could respond, there was an angry bellowing from outside the van, followed by a Russian oath and a thudding sound. Kirk and Tram Bir dashed out and discovered the chiefs oldest son, Greth, sprawled on his back clutching a dagger—and an angry Chekov standing over bun.

Greth shook his head as if to clear it and got groggily to his feet, raising the dagger as he did so. He went into a half crouch and advanced slowly toward the Russian, whose fist was cocked, ready to deliver another blow.

“Greth! What’s going on here?” Tram Bir barked.

“This zreel struck me!” Blood began to drip from under his hood.

“I had to,” Chekov said. “This cossack pulled a knife on me.”

“All right, Hikif,” Kirk said, using the Russian’s Beshwa name. “Why?”

“It’s my fault,” said Sara, who had been standing to one side. “Greth ordered me into his tent. When I refused, he grabbed me by the hair and tried to drag me with him. Hikif tried to stop him, and Greth started after him with a dagger.”

“That was very wrong,” Tram Bir said, his voice solemn.

Chekov nodded his head in indignant agreement. “I’ll say it was. He could have killed me with that thing.”

“You misunderstand, Beshwa,” the chief said coldly. “You heard me give him Sahgor; you had no right to interfere. Greth may kill you if he wishes.”

Greth snarled and jumped at Chekov, throwing him to the ground. His right arm rose to drive the knife into the young Russian, when Kirk sprang forward. He grabbed the hillman’s wrist, and with a quick twist sent the weapon flying through the air. Greth scrabbled after it, but Kirk got there first and put a foot on the blade.

“Hold it!” he shouted. “You can’t kill Hikif. He’s your brother.”

“That’s absurd,” Tram Bir said. “I have no Beshwa get.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Kirk replied, still keeping his foot on the dagger, “but when your son Alt bound me to him with his blood, he bound himself through me to Hikif, who is my brother. So,” he continued, “since Greth is Alt’s brother and Hikif is mine, Hikif is Greth’s brother’s brother’s brother.”

Tram Bir stood for a moment, obviously bemused at his sudden accumulation of sons. “It sounds logical the way you put it, but I’m going to have to think about it for a while. Until I get it figured out, Greth, leave Hikif alone.”

“But I want to kill nun now,” Greth said petulantly. He thought for a moment, and a foxy light appeared in his red eyes. “If one of my kin does me harm, clan law allows me the right to challenge. Isn’t that so, father?”

‘True,” Tram Bir said, “but you cannot harm him if he doesn’t accept.” He turned to Kirk. “Your brother does well with his fists, but swords are another matter. He should know that my son has collected two-score heads in battle.”

“I’m sure he has,” Kirk said, looking apprehensively at the barrel-chested hillman. Dismayed at the sudden twisting of his inspired genealogy, he went to Chekov and whispered, “Easy does it. We can’t afford a row.”

Chekov nodded his understanding and made no response when Greth planted himself in front of him and said contemptuously, “Only Beshwa and women are too cowardly to bear arms.”

“Good bairn,” Scott whispered to McCoy, when Chekov accepted the insult impassively.

“But even a woman would respond to this!” Greth leaned forward and spat in the Russian’s face. A second later he went flying backward, as Chekov’s fist lashed up and slammed into his jaw.

Tram Bir gazed impassively at his prone son. “Your brother’s brother’s brother seems to have accepted your challenge,” he said. He turned to Kirk. “My condolences on what is to happen after the ceremony. Greth is a fierce swordsman.”

“Well, Mr. Chekov?” Kirk demanded coldly when the hillmen had left.

“He was going to rape her,” Chekov replied defensively.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Kirk snapped. “You’re Beshwa, you idiot! You’re never supposed to have handled a sword in your entire life. If you don’t act as if you don’t know one end of a sword from the other when you get out there, you’re going to blow our cover. On the other hand, if you kill Greth, we won’t be in any better shape. Either way, we’ll be dead by morning. Well, we’ve got a couple of hours yet. Maybe we can think of something. Bones, you’d better get to work on the wounded.”

It was almost dark when the clansmen came from their multicolored, dome-like tents and began to gather in a circle at the far end of the valley. Minutes passed as the sky blackened, and then a jubilant cry rang out when the shining drop of light rose above the jagged peaks of the mountains to the east

“Afterbliss!”

As the new star mounted higher in the sky, moving toward its zenith, a struggling, squealing neelot was dragged forward.

Tram Bir, sacrificial dagger in hand, waited, his lips moving in silent prayer. Then, as the tiny new moon reached a point directly overhead, his knife flashed up, glittering redly in the dancing light of the torches held by the encircling throng. The neelot let out one sharp, high squeal as the blade slashed across its throat. It reared, spouting blood, and then fell twitching to the ground.

Tram Sir held a bowl under the scarlet gush until it was full and then raised it to the heavens.

“To Afterbliss!” he shouted, and brought it to his mouth. “Thus shall we drink the blood of the Messiah’s enemies!” He sipped the steaming blood and passed the bowl to an elder who stood next to him. The old man took it, repeated the cry, and touched it to his lips in turn. Then he carried the vessel to the waiting circle of warriors who passed it from mouth to mouth.

There was a reverent hush as the shining pearl dropped out of sight behind the western hills, and then Tram Bir signaled for attention.

“Before the feasting there will be a test of swords. My son Greth and the Beshwa Hikif will fight until the gods decide on whose side honor lies.”

An incredulous buzz rose from the crowd. A Beshwa?

As his father retired to the sidelines, Greth pushed his way into the ring. “Where is that cowardly zreel?” he roared.

There was no answer for a moment, then Chekov sidled timidly into the arena, awkwardly holding a meter-long, broad-bladed sword straight out in front of him. Greth, holding a similar weapon, advanced slowly, hunching slightly forward. A titter of laughter began among some of the young girls as Chekov just stood there, staring at his sword as if he’d never seen one before. Then, as his opponent came within striking distance, he raised it, holding onto the hilt with a clumsy-looking over-and-under grip.

Greth gave a nasty laugh as Chekov backed fearfully away, his sword wobbling as if he couldn’t control the shaking of his hands. The hillman made a sudden lunge, bringing his sword down in a whistling slash intended to split Chekov from crown to crotch. The young Russian seemed doomed, but he twisted awkwardly away so the blow missed him completely. Cursing, Greth whipped his sword up again, hungry for the kill. Chekov stumbled backward and sideways, his clumsy, foolish-looking attempts at defense somehow deflecting every blow Greth tried to land.

Catcalls and jeers rose from the crowd.

“What are you waiting for, Greth?”

“Too old too soon?”

“Hey, Greth, having trouble getting it up these days?”

Stung by the taunts, the hillman rushed forward and unleashed a hammering attack that drove Chekov almost to the other side of the circle of spectators. Again, none of his blows landed; each time it seemed a thrust was sure to bite home, a clumsy, amateurish parry miraculously turned it aside.

Suddenly, his sandal heel caught on a protruding rock thrusting from the soil hard-packed by generations of clan feet, Chekov toppled backward.

Greth snarled and lunged in for the kill.

As Chekov’s shoulders hit the ground, he threw up his blade in a desperate parry.

The down-coming stroke was deflected, but not enough.

Chekov screamed as blood gushed from a gaping wound in his stomach, jerked spasmodically, then lay still.