“What now?” Kirk asked.
“He says that he hopes they light your fires first so he has the pleasure of watching you burn.”
“You know, Jim,” McCoy said, “somehow I think we’ve lost a friend.”
The guards shivering in front of the black tent snapped to attention as they recognized the torch-bearing figure nearing them.
“It is as you ordered, Messiah.”
“Good. Go to your chief and tell him 1 said you are to have hot wine. I have no need for you; the gods guard me.”
The guards touched their hands to their hoods and hurried off into the chill darkness, cloaks flapping behind them in the gusting wind. The black-robed figure threw open the flap of the tent and stepped inside. A girl, trussed and nearly naked, lay on a raised pallet covered with soft furs. A tiny flame burned in a heavy stone lamp resting on a low table to one side. On a rug on the other side, barely discernable in the dim, flickering light, a blanket-draped figure lay, curled tightly in a fetal position, knees drawn against chest and forehead pressed against knees.
The girl looked up through sultry, half-closed eyes and smiled. A knife flashed and cut the cords that bound her feet and hands. A bending, a puff of breath, and the lamp flame died. There was a faint rustle in the darkness as a robe fell to the floor.
The rain had finally stopped, but the five tied to the stakes were so miserable and numb with cold that they hardly noticed the change. As the hours crawled by, the wind died and the sky began to clear. Stars appeared and then, as the tiny second moon rose, there was enough faint light for Kirk to make out the silhouettes of guards who stood like statues, leaning on their spears. There was a sound of something moving in the darkness, and then a barked challenge, as a long, dark shape appeared out of the night.
“You guard well,” said a familiar voice.
“Messiah!” Hands went to hoods in salute as a figure climbed down from the driver’s seat of the Beshwa caravan.
“Minds are being twisted,” he said in a strange, distant voice. “Sub-chiefs slip from tent to tent, whispering. These Beshwa demons send mind tendrils out to snare my clans, just as they did with this traitor here.”
A muffled appeal came from Tram Bir, but was roughly cut off as a guard clubbed him.
The figure motioned one of the guards to approach him, and there was a quiet exchange. Then the hillman led some of his fellows off into the darkness. Moments later they returned, some with arms full of wood, and others carrying oil sacks. The van door was opened and the burdens placed inside. More wood was brought and more oil, until the vehicle was full. Then the thick fabric cover of the cargo wagon that made up the front half of the caravan was thrown back part way, and the men were cut down, bound again, gagged, and dumped inside. When Tram Bir was dragged forward, his masked head hanging, the black-robed figure raised a hand.
“Not him. Take him to his tent. I have other plans.”
As Kirk and the rest lay helpless on the hard floor of the wagon, the cover was drawn forward and they were left in total darkness. The wagon rocked slightly as someone climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Wait, Messiah. We will get our neelots.”
“For what?”
“We’ll ride as guard.”
There was a contemptuous laugh. “Against what? Who would dare to harm the Messiah?”
“These did.”
“These tried, but demons in Beshwa bodies are not impervious to fire. They must burn now before they touch more minds. Thank you for your concern, but
I must be alone when I make an offering of their enemies to the gods.”
The caravan moved off. After a while it stopped. Somebody climbed up to join the driver, and there was a brief exchange of whispers. The caravan began to move again at a slow walk. Minutes passed.
Then suddenly, from behind, came the sound of shouts, first fault, and then louder as more and more voices seemed to join in. There was the cracking of a whip, and the wagon began to jounce violently as the neelots burst into a gallop.
There were grunts of pain as the bound men were slammed from side to side, unable to brace themselves as wagon wheels slammed into rocks and bounced high into the air. Suddenly, the caravan jolted to a stop.
“Slash the oil bags. Well do it now,” said an urgent voice.
From the back of the van came the sound of the doors being opened. At the same time, a sound of hammering and prying came from underneath the wagon at the point where it was joined to the van.
“Now!”
A moment later, there was an explosive whoosh and then the fierce crackle of burning wood.
“Beautiful!”
Kirk twisted, startled at the sound of Sara’s voice.
The crackling grew to a roar, and thick smoke began to seep under the canvas-like covering. A whip cracked again and the wagon moved forward. There was a sudden, slamming jolt, and then it picked up speed. Choking, Kirk squirmed into a sitting position and pushed up with his shoulders until he was able to force the heavy covering back and get his head over the wagon’s edge.
He blinked, eyes watering, momentarily blinded by the sudden glare. Jouncing along behind them at the end of a long wooden boom came the van, spouting flame high into the air like a blast furnace, and lighting up the plains like a giant searchlight
The shouting from behind grew louder, and then screaming clansmen came pounding out of the darkness, lashing their neelots to even greater efforts as they emerged into the fiery light.
A black-robed figure was out in front, spear couched low.
He shouted a command, waving first to the left, then to the right. The riders split, spreading out on either side in an encircling movement. The leader veered in as he passed the front of the wagon. His arm went back and his spear hurtled forward. The lead neelot screamed, reared, and crashed to the ground, dragging the others down with it. The wagon jackknifed and ponderously overturned.
The last thing Kirk saw was the van rushing toward him like a flaming juggernaut
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A faint touch of gray appeared in the eastern sky as the clans assembled before the torch-ringed platform in front of the black pavilion and waited silently for the command that would send them flooding down upon Andros. There was a snarl of hill horns.
A black-robed, black-and-red-hooded figure appeared, walked slowly to the platform, and climbed the stairs heavily.
A roar went up from the thousands assembled and they pounded their spear butts in unison on the hard- packed earth.
“Messiah! Messiah!”
He stood staring out into the pre-dawn darkness for a moment, as if oblivious to the frenzy of his followers, and then, with an obvious effort, raised one hand jerkily in a plea for silence. His voice was strained, and cracked as he spoke.
“With the rising of our heavenly home, we ride against the godless. The gods send Afterbliss at my command. Behold!”
The clans pivoted as one when he turned to the east and threw out his arms.
The magic moment came—and passed.
A growing uneasiness began to run through the crowd as no glowing sign rose above the distant mountaintops. Minutes dragged by, and the eastern sky grew lighter as high, floating clouds turned molten red in the first rays of the rising sun.
A querulous muttering began, first hushed and then louder and more demanding. The figure on the platform dropped his arms at last and tried to speak. His faltering words were drowned in shouted questions as warriors
