“Are these to be killed?”
The clansman addressed said, “Tram Bir ordered that all who were not of the folk were to be slain. Behead them.”
Kirk stepped forward. “An act worthy of warriors,” he said scornfully. “We bear no arms. When you ride home with our heads, will you boast of the fierce battle you had taking them?”
“All strangers are to die. It has been ordered,” replied the first clansman.
“But we aren’t strangers. Every summer since the time before there was time, we have come trading in these hills. Did your chief list the Beshwa among those who were to taste your steel?”
“No,” said the rider slowly, “but—”
“Then take us to him,” Kirk interrupted. “If we are to die, we are to die; but let it be at his words, once he sees who we are.”
There was a silence that seemed to last an eternity. Finally, the rider shrugged. “I will ask his son. I would not have the blood of Beshwa or women on my hands, unless it was so ordered.”
The rider turned his neelot and galloped back along the trail to the main column, which was now only a few hundred meters away. Its leader was slumped forward in his saddle. A rough bandage was wrapped around his hooded head and the right side of his battle cloak was blood-soaked. Behind him stretched a long procession of wagons, piled high with rough-cast iron ingots. On each side rode warriors, some also bandaged, some of them leading neelots with dead warriors trussed to them.
There was a momentary conversation, and then the rider trotted back.
“Alt says to take you to Tram Bir.” He beckoned to two of the mounted tribesmen. They dismounted from their neelots and came over. “Bind them and put them in their wheeled house.”
Chekov was first. He started to struggle as his arms were trussed behind his back, but he subsided when Kirk gave him a warning hiss. Then his feet were tied and he was dragged to the back of the van. One of the clansmen pulled open the rear door and peered inside.
“Hey, Chief,” he yelled. “Come look what I found. There’s a woman in here.” He jumped inside the van and dragged Sara out into the light. “A pretty one, too,” he said, running his eyes over her curves. “How about putting the others up front in the wagon and letting me ride back here?”
The leader shook his head. “Alt’s orders were to take them to his father unharmed. Tie the girl and put her back with the rest.” Grumbling, the hillman complied.
Kirk was the last to be dumped through the door. It was then slammed shut.
McCoy let out his breath in a long whew. “That was a close one,” he said. “But at least Chekov kept his mouth shut for a change.”
“Where do we go from here?” Sara asked.
“Wherever they want to take us,” Kirk replied. “I don’t think we have much choice in the matter.” The caravan lurched and began to roll forward on the trail. “At least we’re going in style,” McCoy added. “We seem to have acquired a chauffeur.”
They jolted along for half an hour, and then the caravan came to a stop. Somebody barked a command from the outside, and the rear door was pulled open. Hillmen reached in, dragged them out, and tossed them roughly on the ground. Kirk struggled to a sitting position, blinking as his eyes accustomed themselves to the outside brightness, and looked around.
Off to one side, at least a hundred neelots were staked out, several with dead bodies tied to their backs. Groups of hillmen were squatting around small fires, roasting chunks of dried meat on green sticks. A short distance from the caravan, Kirk saw a squat, bandylegged figure whose hood and battle cloak bore the distinctive markings of a clan chief. He stood with his hands behind his back, staring off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the bustle around him. The leader of the party that brought the Beshwa caravan in went over to him, saluted, and said something. The chief glanced at the bound captives and then back along the trail at the approaching carts and their escorts.
“Good,” he grunted. “They bring more spearstone than I expected. The Messiah will be pleased. How many dead?”
“Six. Those plains sheep have sharp teeth.”
“My son, did he fight well?”
“Like a man of twice his years. He killed four before a spear thrust brought him down. We wanted to bring him back in a cart, but he insisted on riding with the rest.”
“And these?” The chief gestured toward Kirk and the rest.
“Beshwa. We found them on the trail.”
“I know they’re Beshwa, idiot. Why were they brought here?”
“Alt ordered it. He said that perhaps the Messiah’s order didn’t apply to them. Beshwa have always been allowed to move freely through the hills.”
“What has been, is past,” the chief said harshly. “They are not of our blood. Kill them.”
“The woman, too?”
Tram Bir nodded. As he turned to go, a stocky warrior beside him who wore the markings of a sub-chief held out a restraining hand and whispered something. The chief shrugged.
“Bring that one here,” he ordered, pointing at Sara. Two hillmen jerked her to her feet and dragged her forward. Tram Bir eyed her critically. “She has a pretty face, Greth, but there doesn’t seem to be much meat on her bones.”
The sub-chief gave a coarse laugh. “Well see,” he said, and drew a razor-edged dagger from a sheath.
Kirk fought to keep control, frantically searching the memory of his Beshwa dop for some scrap of information about clan ways that could be used to stay the hillman’s blade. Suddenly, he thought he had something. Superstition might work where argument wouldn’t
“Azrath!” he boomed in as deep a voice as he could manage, lifting his face to the sky. “Azrath, hear! They would harm your handmaiden!”
“What is this nonsense?” Tram Bir demanded in an irritated voice.
“She has been consecrated to Azrath. The power she draws from him will shield us all from harm. Why do you think the Beshwa bear no arms? Why do robber clans let the Beshwa pass in peace?” Kirk fixed his eyes directly on Tram Bir’s. “If you touch our sister, Azrath’s wrath will follow you and your children and your children’s children. Your seed will be cursed until the end of time.”
“That might have been true once,” Tram Bir said coldly. “But we no longer fear foreign gods. We are the chosen of the Messiah.”
“And your sister is to be chosen by the son of the chief—if he likes what he sees,” Greth added in a mocking voice. He lowered his knife into the vee neck of Sara’s short leather tunic, edge out, and slashed down suddenly. She struggled futilely against the hard grip of grinning guards on each side, as the chiefs son pulled her slit garment open and exposed her shapely body to his father’s eyes.
“See,” he said, “there’s lots of meat on those bones.”
“Not enough for my taste,” Tram Bir said, “but you can take her back with you if you want to. Just see that you dispose of her before we leave for the gathering in the morning. As for those—” he gestured toward the male captives—”cut their throats.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clansmen pounced on and rolled the defenseless captives onto their backs. Knives lifted and were about to slash down, when there was a sudden shout
“Chief, look! Your son Alt!”
A neelot was coming toward the group, a boyish figure slumped in the saddle, head hanging and eyes closed. The side of his mount glistened red where blood had run down it. The rider came to a stop a few meters from the chief and tried to straighten up.
“Father and chieftain, your orders have been carried out,” the boy said in an almost inaudible, faltering voice. “I tried to do you honor in the fight and… and…” His voice died away and he started to fall sideways. Hands caught him and lowered him gently to the ground. His father knelt beside him and opened the boy’s battle cloak. Extending from his side was a short length of broken spear shaft. The chief reached out his hand as if to grasp it, and then drew back.