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.”
“I wanted to make that cossack look like a monkey,” Chekov replied and chortled. “Did you hear them hooting when I was being carried out?” He mimicked a mocking, feminine voice. ” ‘Hey, Greth, next time you take on a Beshwa, have your father hold him for you.’” The Russian looked down at the deep, bloody gash in his stomach and said soberly, “He almost had me at the end; I wasn’t figuring on that fall. I may have been first sword at the Academy for two years straight; but if you hadn’t thought of putting a duraplas body shield under all the rest, that cut would have sliced in fifteen centimeters and I’d be dead for real. Get that stuff off me, will you?”
McCoy nodded, and went to work.
“Where did all that come from?” Kirk asked.
“Mostly from the splint kit. The dermolastic on top looks like real skin,” McCoy said as he peeled it off to reveal a ten-centimeter layer of solidified, foam-like material underneath. “That’s used for making field casts. It’s sprayed on and the foam sets in seconds.” He pulled off the padding. Underneath that were the slashed remnants of two one-liter bags which still oozed a reasonable facsimile of Kyrosian blood.
“Our gore,” McCoy said. “And lastly, a final precautionary measure in case Chekov’s swordmanship wasn’t quite as good as he thought—which it wasn’t—” He snipped and lifted a thin sheet of dark material which was glued to Chekov’s stomach. “That was tough enough to turn Greth’s point. Instead of cutting in, it just skidded along the surface.”
“From the splint kit again, I suppose,” Kirk remarked.
“Right. It’s a plastic that’s sprayed over the foam to protect it. OK, Chekov, clean that red gunk off and then well call Tram Bir and show him another Beshwa miracle.”
“How aboot the scar?” Scott asked.
“Oops, almost forgot that detail. Sara, what do you have in the way of makeup?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I found a woman’s bag among the other stuff we inherited, but I haven’t had a chance to check through it yet.” She went to the front of the van and, after a minute’s searching, came back with a small bone box containing & thick red substance and a brush.
“That should do the trick,” McCoy said, and drew a fine pink line diagonally across Chekov’s stomach. He eyed it critically. “You know,” he said, “that’s one of the neatest jobs I’ve ever done.”
A rapping came from the rear of the van. Kirk opened the door and saw Tram Bir standing in the darkness.
“I’ve come to apologize for my son,” he said. “The killing was not done well. It was bad enough to challenge a Beshwa, but to bungle the job and make a fool of himself in front of the entire clan… gahl I’ve half a mind to leave him with the women tomorrow.”
“Don’t be too hard on him; as you may have heard, the Beshwa have strange powers,” Kirk said and turned. “Hikif, come here.”
As the young Russian bounced jauntily out of the caravan, Tram Bir let out an incredulous gasp.
“I… I don’t believe it!” he said. “Greth must have sliced you to the backbone.”
“He did,” Kirk said easily. “Without our sister we couldn’t have saved him. She called on Azrath and his power came down and filled her. When she touched Hikif, his gut closed before our eyes. Look!”
Chekov stepped into the light that came from the open door of the van and pulled up his vest. Tram’s eyes widened when he saw the thin pink line.
