There was a long silence during which Kirk thought of what lay ahead. Finally, he said somberly, “Every time I think of the odds we’re facing, I wonder if I shouldn’t have given Chekov’s suggestion more serious consideration.”
“You mean using a shuttlecraft and phasers?”
“Yes. My veto was based on the dynamics of Earth history. Maybe they don’t work the same way here.”
“Could be, Jim,” McCoy said, “but it’s too late to do anything about it now. You ordered Sulu to refrain from any direct action until he heard from you and,” he added wryly, “I don’t think even your voice is loud enough to carry a hundred and fifty kilometers.”
Kyr’s red bulk was dropping toward the horizon as the clan column emerged from the widening valley onto the northern limits of the great coastal plain, a gently rolling land covered with short, feathery fronds of reddish Kyrosian grass. The setting sun’s rays tinged them a deep maroon, making it look as if the land had been painted with blood.
Kirk gestured toward the south. “Andros is someplace down there.”
McCoy nodded and pointed off to the right as something caught his eye. “Look,” he said, “company…”
In the distance, another clan column was moving on a converging course. As minutes passed and the two groups came closer together, white-sheeted dead could be seen heaped on long, flat-bedded carts.
“Looks like they had a raiding assignment, too,” McCoy said.
As they rode on, more groups of riders came into view, most of them from a westerly direction. Then they topped a slight rise, and the great gathering came into view. Tent clusters, each marking the camping place of a clan, formed a rough horseshoe, the open end facing south. Each grouping was separated from the one on either side by an open space of at least a hundred meters distance. It looked as if, in spite of their new-found unity, a certain amount of hostility and mutual suspicion remained. Smoke began to rise into the still air as cooking fires were lighted. In front of each tent stood spears, one for each occupant, their burnished heads gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun like fire-dipped pinpoints, a flickering, changing scatter of earthbound stars.
Dominating the curved upper part of the horseshoe was a great black pavilion, a long, low rectangle that stood in marked contrast to the dome-shaped tents of the clan clusters. Directly in front of it, a tall pole had been erected and from it hung a black banner. Caught by a momentary gust of wind, it rippled out, displaying a large white circle in its center, the symbol of Afterbliss. Surrounding the pavilion, one every three meters or so, stood armed hillmen, weapons at the ready.
McCoy jerked his thumb at them. “It looks like visitors just don’t wander in unannounced.”
Kirk nodded in somber agreement. “Nobody ever said that getting to him was going to be easy. Spock may be crazy, but he’s shrewd.”
A hundred meters or so behind the pavilion, a black tent stood by itself. Behind it was a semicircle of domed shelters that were larger and more elaborately decorated than those in the clan area. An ornate banner flapped in front of each.
“Looks like he wants his chiefs close at hand,” Kirk said.
A speaker’s platform had been erected in front of the pavilion. Before it, at a distance of two hundred meters or so, white-wrapped bodies had been placed in concentric circles, heads facing inward. More were being placed in position as additional contingents of hillmen arrived with their dead.
“Looks like they’re going to cremate them,” McCoy said, as clansmen began to carry in armfuls of wood from a huge pile to one side. They continued to watch as they drove closer.
“Uh, uh,” Kirk said. “They’ve got something else in mind. Look where they’re putting it.” Four long arms of wood were growing from the circle of bodies to form a cross, each arm pointing to a different point of the compass. Hillmen scurried back and forth like ants, adding wood until each pile was at least fifty meters long and a meter and a half high.
As more bodies were carried in, Kirk made a mental calculation and then whistled. “Spock really bloodied his troops,” he said softly. “There must have been a clan raid on every settlement on the perimeter.” His brow furrowed. “Why would he waste men like that when he needs them for his attack on Andros? Once he has the capital, the outlying villages will stop resisting.”
McCoy shrugged. “The Messiah moves in mysterious ways.”
As the clan column neared the encampment, a rider trotted out and spoke briefly to Tram Bir, who was riding at the front. He nodded and sent Greth, who rode next to him, off with the message. Then he angled the column to the left, skirting the eastern edge of the horseshoe until they reached an open space at the end. Kirk pulled the caravan to a halt on the inner side of the assigned space. Around them, clansmen began unloading baggage carts with practiced haste, and umbrella-like tents were soon springing up. The carts bearing the clan dead were driven into the open center area, and stiff bodies, stinking after two days in the hot sun, were carried off and laid shoulder to shoulder with the rest.
Chekov and Scott, who had been riding in the van, got out and began to stroll among the clansmen. They hadn’t got more than twenty meters before Tram Bir, who was supervising the placement of the tents, stopped them and said something, jerking his thumb toward the caravan.
“What’s up, Scotty?” Kirk asked as the two came up.
“It looks like we’re under house arrest. The birkie says that i’ we go wanderin’ aboot barefaced, we might end up wi’ oot our heads.”
“So tell hun we’ll wear hoods.”
“I did. He says we canna. Relatives or nae, we’re still Beshwa.”
Clan pennants began to ripple as night breezes blew in from the sea. The sharp scent of burning wood filled the ah-, and Tram Bir’s men began preparing their evening meal. Then, as leather provision sacks were opened, the stench of vris wafted across the campsite.
McCoy sniffed. “You know, I think I’m finally getting used to that smell,” he remarked.
“No wonder,” Kirk said with a grin, “you ate enough of it at the feasting last night.”
“I… what?” McCoy exclaimed, his face incredulous.
“At least three helpings. Isn’t that right, Mr. Scott?”
“Och, aye, Captain,” Scotty said. “A’ the least. Wolfed it down like it was his last meal, he did. I remember thinking then that there was nae accounting for taste.”
“There certainly isn’t, haggis eater,” retorted McCoy, not knowing whether to believe what he’d been told or not. He sniffed again, gagged slightly, and disappeared behind the van.
As Kyr set, a mournful howl of clan horns began from the direction of the Messiah’s black pavilion. Hillmen began to move from clan tents out into the grassy area between the arms of the horseshoe-shaped encampment.
Kirk moved forward, too, forgetting Tram Sir’s admonition, but was turned back by a guard. He thought for a moment, and then clambered onto the van’s top for a better view. McCoy and the rest climbed up after him.
Hillmen bearing torches stationed themselves along each of the long arms of piled wood extending from the circle of corpses. They stood silently, waiting. There was another hooting of horns and the flaps covering the entrance to the Messiah’s tent were thrown back. Marching out of the pavilion came the clan chiefs in order of precedence, Tram Bir nearly last. Moving in single file, they circled around the platform that had been erected and formed a line in front of it, facing the dead.
There was silence until the Messiah appeared, then a great roar went up. He walked slowly forward to the platform and mounted its steps. He stood for a moment, head bowed. Clansmen, as if on cue, scurried out from the sidelines with large leather sacks. Liquid gushed as they drenched the kindling.