“Fine, you can see him in a moment.” Kirk turned to McCoy and hissed. “Get the boy’s hood on. If his old man finds out that we’ve seen his face, we’ve had it.”
The boy suddenly stiffened as he realized that, for the first time in his life, strangers had seen his uncovered face. His fingers touched his cheeks and then, in sudden panic, he grabbed the blood-soaked hood from McCoy’s hand and jerked it down over his head. The slit that Kirk had made to get it off gaped open, exposing his features.
“My father will have you killed,” he said. “You have seen my face. You hold my soul.”
“Our only power is to heal,” McCoy said. “Why do you think Beshwa go unhooded? Your magic is not ours.”
“My father won’t believe that. As soon as he sees me, he’ll know you’ve seen my face.”
There was a roar from outside and a banging on the door.
“When can I see my son?”
“Soon,” McCoy answered, “very soon.”
“I know a way,” the boy said suddenly. “Who is the head of this family?”
“I guess I am,” Kirk said.
“Then give me your hand. Don’t question.”
Kirk hesitated for a moment and then extended his right hand. Alt grabbed the broken spear which had almost ended his own life, gashed his own palm with the sharp point, and then did the same to Kirk. He took the captain’s bleeding hand in his and gripped it tightly.
“Thy blood is my blood,” he chanted, “Thy breath is my breath.”
The door of the van jerked open and an impatient Tram Bir lumbered in. His cry of joy at seeing his son alive, sitting up, changed to a snarl of rage when he saw the split hood gaping open to reveal the boy’s features. His hand dropped to his sword hilt.
The boy somehow pulled himself to his feet and staggered toward his father, holding his bleeding hand before him.
“We are of one blood, the Beshwa and I. We share one tent.” Strength exhausted by the ordeal he had been through, his knees buckled and he sagged at his father’s feet. McCoy grabbed him before he fell, and laid him gently on the bunk.
“He’ll be all right,” he said, “but he needs rest and care.” He beckoned to Tram Bir. “Look at our work and rejoice in your warrior son,” he said, pointing to the scar. Tram bent over.
His hand left his sword hilt and he ran his fingers over the snaking ridge of flesh. He straightened, took Kirk’s hand, and looked at the bleeding palm.
“The blood mingled,” he muttered, “but Beshwa…? This will need long thought. Care for the boy. I will decide what is to be done with you when we reach the place of our clan.”
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.”
