Night of the Eagle

Chapter Three:

Keetah froze, eyes searching the skies at the sound. It came again, a deep throb of straining engines. Heart tripping against her ribs, she scooped handfuls of snow, throwing them over the rough sled cobbled together from animal hides and the flexible lengths of tubing snatched up in her flight from the ruined dome – just enough to break the sled's outline – then a quick, practiced roll into the lee of a snowdrift for herself. Across the lowering sky flashed an unmistakable shape: a Federation shuttlecraft!

It yawed and dipped, fighting to stay aloft, a long plume of greasy black smoke whipping against the wind. Whoever was at the controls was a master pilot, she thought vaguely, watching the silent battle intently.

Another vessel flashed into view, and Keetah's lips thinned back against teeth gritted in an unconscious grimace of hatred. The Klingons were making sure of their latest victim. Silently she willed the unknown Federation pilot to lift his damaged craft into the foothills. There were treacherous currents and unpredictable updrafts in there, as the Klingons had discovered by the simple expedient of losing two vessels. The crews had not survived, thanks to her.

Almost as if the pilot had heard her plea, the shuttle turned with agonizing slowness, limping for the saw-tooth ranges. The Klingon ship veered off sharply, climbing for altitude. Twin pencils of incandescence shot from it and struck the fleeing ship, ripping away the entire stern section. It plummeted down.

Pursuer and pursued alike vanished, and an ear-torturing crash echoed throughout the M'aco sica – the badlands. With a final burst of spiteful fire, the Klingon interceptor screamed by overhead and Keetah threw herself down, digging frantically into the soft, yielding snow, flesh cringing away from the expected attack.

Nothing happened and she sat up cautiously, scraping snow away from mask and goggle. The nearest surface flat enough to risk a landing was several miles ot the west – and their powered sleds could cover that distance in a matter of minutes. For a moment she hesitated, the age-old instincts of her race strong in her. There was no tie of blood or kinship between her and that unknown in the wrecked craft. And perhaps the pilot was already dead … he along with the crew he perhaps carried. But… Senak had tasked her with the duty to warn the Federation of the Klingon threat; that duty weighed heavily on her now. That and the convention, which said you did not leave even your worst enemy to fall into Klingon hands.

She slipped, slid, and clawed her way down into a knife-sharp valley, up over another rise, the sled jumping and jouncing behind her, then paused a moment to don snowshoes; no sense being buried in a drift. Keetah was panting for breath, a tight ribbon of fire about her ribs, when she finally slid over the lip of a small depression to stare down into a slightly larger valley. The shuttle had not exploded, but that anyone could have survived a crash that had produced that tangle of wreckage…She shook her head and turned away, sick at heart. For one single moment, she had foolishly permitted herself to hope…

Her head snapped to the right. Below her, the coughing snarl came again: a Lur – and it was hunting a fresh trail. In one movement she whipped out the oiled gut and strung her bow, reaching over her shoulder and knocking an arrow – an arrow with a glittering, wickedly barbed head tipped with a smoky brown substance – and scrambled down from her perch.

You could kill a Lur with a phaser – if you had the nerve to stand your ground as four hundred and fifty pounds of clawed and fanged death hurtled at you. For Keetah it had proved far safer, and faster, to use the virulent poison of the indigo fungus that grew in widely isolated patches.

Eyes slitted against the snow that spattered her goggles, Keetah searched out the Hiemal predator. She found it, gigantic white bulk just a shadow against white snow, crouched and ready to spring. Even as she saw it, the animal charged its prey, snarl scaling up into a high, blood-chilling wail. She had a quick, confused glimpse of a stumbling figure, then nothing but a wild flurry of snow as the two protagonists rolled over and over in a struggle where the outcome was only too certain… unless…

"Ahhhhuuuuu!"

The ancient apache war cry that had once sounded across half a world to ice the blood ripped just as freezingly through the chill breath of Hiemal. A serpentine head rose, turning in her direction – and she had the target she sought. There was a shrill whistling and the Lur patted impotently at the slender shaft buried in its throat. The animal lurched unsteadily towards her, the narrow head weaving from side to side, then crashed into the snow. A great fountain of blood gushed from its mouth.

Keetah knocked another arrow, though she knew it was unnecessary, and slogged at the best pace she could manage across the packed snow to that ominously still man-shape.

A blast of wind shrieked by overhead and she glanced up hastily. Banks of grey-black clouds were rolling up the sky with frightening speed, leeching the already dim light from the sky. Blanket-storm, coming fast; Keetah chewed on fear. She peered at the stranger, barely able to see his outline in the worsening weather conditions. Swiftly she dragged the sled alongside, rolling him onto it with scant attention to his hurts. A low moan rewarded her hasty efforts, a reassuring sound. At least he was still alive, she thought, as she nimbly lashed rawhide thongs about him, tying him securely to the sled. Keetah had all the Apache's inborn aversion to touching the dead.

With growing unease, she glanced at the racing clouds. The wind was a howling torment, the storm not far behind. At least she need no longer fear the Klingons. The whipping snow would shortly bury them if they did not immediately seek the shelter of their base, and their powered sleds would be useless. Unstringing her bow, she tucked the cord back in her furs, slung it over her shoulder and leaned into the ropes.

Step by step she fought her way across the valley, into the part protection of the gorge that wound and twisted and looped back on itself. Without ceremony, she decanted her passenger before the boulder that hid the mouth of the cave she had found. She shucked the ropes, weaving on rubbery legs, each ragged breath burning like acid in her raw throat. With the last of her strength, she managed to claw aside the great boulder before heaving the unconscious man inside the pitch-black cave. Hastily, Keetah checked that he still breathed then bundled him in furs. The need to reclaim the dead Lur meant she had little time to be kind. The animal carcass would provide both fur and meat – and she must race a blanket-storm to retrieve it.

The stranger from the Federation shuttle had no warm clothing, no food or medical supplies, and the hunting had been poor lately. Only what she could backpack from the dome had she taken, and now that scanty hoard must serve for two. The Lur was a gift she dared not ignore – even to treat his wounds.

Single-mindedly, she set off for the wrecked shuttle, taking the trip as slowly as she dared, knowing the return journey would tax her strength to the utmost. The Lur lay where it had fallen, almost buried under the falling snow, and she blessed the storm that kept Hiemal's other predators safely denned.

Her big knife flashed as she skinned and gutted with the skill of necessity and experience. In short order, the jointed carcass was wrapped in bloody hide and securely lashed to the sled. It proved essential to stop often to brush the snow from her goggles as she retraced her path – and there came a moment of stark terror when she believed she had missed the entrance to the gorge. The snow built inch by inch. By the time the storm blew itself out, the gorge would be hidden behind ten meters of rock-hard ice and precipitation. If the Klingons did manage to trace the downed Federation vessel, they would never find this passage, would have to dig through endless drifts to the shuttle. Keetah did not believe they would try. Nothing could survive a blanket-storm on the wolf-world unprotected.

Again, she struggled with the boulder in front of the cave entrance, dragged the laden sled inside and rolled the stone back. Afterward, she fell rather than sank to her knees, head hanging, breath sobbing in her ears; but she must not rest now, lest she wake to find herself sharing this place with a corpse.

The thought brought Keetah to her feet, sent her weaving over to the peat moss already waiting. She pawed clumsily with mittened fingers for the phaser clipped to her belt. Orange flame sprang up with a greedy crackle and for a few moments she crouched over the blaze. Then she picked up a burning twig, touching it to twists of pulp from the oil weeds, embedded in melted fat saturated with herbs to lessen the stench. Once, twice, three times she touched the twig to her improvised lamps, then wearily peeled off her outer furs.

Dragging herself to her feet, she lit a final lamp, and holding it high above him, stooped for her first clear view of the man she had rescued.

The shock of that first glance had her reeling. Vulcan!

"Sirak?" Even as she whispered the name, Keetah knew this was not the absent leader of her murdered team. This man was young, years younger than Sirak, and of a slimmer build. There were beads of sweat on his face, though when she touched fingers to flesh it was ice-cold. Infection: the Lur were eater of carrion when nothing else was available. Swiftly she set a small pot of melted snow on the tripod over the fire, adding herbs and chopped leaves from the pouches rolled in a strip of hide.

Keetah drew back the furs, her touch much gentler this time, and caught her underlip between her teeth. A sweet, fresh aroma rose to battle the heavy stench of melted fat, snow-drenched furs, and burning peat. Repeatedly, she laved the terrible wounds she found on the Vulcan's chest and shoulders, using the point of a scalpel-thin blade to lift away pieces of embedded blue shirt. Most of it hung in tatters, but enough remained for her to puzzle out the insignia, and she sucked in a deep breath, eyes widening in astonished surmise.

What was a Federation starship office doing here? Where was his ship? What of the Vulcan supply ship: Sirak aboard, already on its way? Was his ship aware of the presence of Klingons on Hiemal?

Only this man knew the answers, but… the wounds he bore! Keetah swallowed knowing what she must do. Revulsion crawled along her nerves. But she was not a descendant of Magnus Colorado or Victorio for nothing. Raking through the fire, Keetah found what she sought, dipped clean cloths in the pan until they were thoroughly soaked in the herb mixture, then gingerly teased a red-hot scale of rock into the bundle. Holding it firmly by the corners, she drew one shaky, unsteady breath and pressed it down onto that gaping wound.

The long, slim body arched in a soundless spasm of agony and she fought with all her strength to hold him down without releasing her grip on the rock. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the cave and Keetah coked and coughed, tears streaming down her face. For endless seconds, the unconscious Vulcan convulsed, a thin ululation of pure agony hissing between his teeth. Then he slumped slightly, Keetah felt hurriedly for a pulse and sand back, trembling, when she found it.

To an inexperienced eye, the burned flesh with rills of green blood welling up looked worse than the original wounds, but Keetah was not inexpert. She had burned out the filth, whatever shreds of uniform and other uncleanness had been driven deep – and this man was strong, a Vulcan, able to withstand far more than a human.

Lastly, she spread a paste of herbs and other simples onto a clean cloth and skillfully wound bandages about his lean chest. That done, she wrapped him tightly in the furs once more, wiped sweat form his brow and buried soiled clothes and blood-stained water in the pocket of earth she had earlier discovered in the far corner of the cave.

Aching from weariness, she strung a fat haunch over the fire for smoking and carried the rest of the meat to the very back of the cave. With an injured man to be nursed and a blanket-storm raging without, there would be time to smoke it all. Cutting a fillet from the last piece and wrapping it in seaweed, she set it at the edge of the fire to cook gently through the night.

Notching holes in the edges of the Lur fur, she pinned it to a rawhide frame, fur side inwards, and doused the frame thoroughly. The rawhide would shrink, stretching the hide neatly and evenly. A shoulder blade from a grazer vaguely resembling a Terran yak made an adequate scraper; rock salt mixed with special herbs, a good tanner. And the scraping, at least, she must begin.

TBC