“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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“How did I do?” Chekov asked, after he was carried into the van.
“Beautifully,” McCoy said. “But you had me worried. You made it too realistic. Why did you stretch it out so long? You were supposed to go in there, let him get in a stomach cut, and take a dive.”