Night of the Eagle.
Chapter Seven
"Put that down!"
He whirled to find Keetah on her feet, knife in hand, an expression of hatred on her face. For a moment, they confronted each other, Spock trying to conceal, control the pain, Keetah gliding catlike toward him. A look of dismay crossed her face and she clapped a hand to her mouth in open consternation.
"You… I… I…beg forgiveness. I spoke hastily, without thought." Drawing a deep breath, Keetah sheathed her knife. "Those are a warrior's weapons bloodied in honorable combat, and may not be touched by one who…"
Just in time she stopped herself from saying 'one who has not yet proved himself in battle.' That she must not say to a Vulcan. "…by one not of the Eagle People," she compromised.
"It is Apache belief that the spirits of the slain respect their slayer and will not come to trouble dreams with their wailings. Doxa-da … this is not so … for one who takes unearned the weapons of another. To each people our own beliefs, Spock of Vulcan, and the wisdom not to mock. This I ask you, in all respect: never touch them again."
"Does this seem foolish to you, Mr. Spock?" She might almost have been reading his mind. "It is not. There are things of the mind, of the heart and spirit which cannot be explained either rationally or logically. We are an ancient people and we have always lived with the war-lance to hand. The Apache know – we have seen; ill fortune dogs the heels of one who has taken unearned the weapons of another. I have heard the longbow is foreign to your world, your people. Is this not truth?"
Replacing the bow as he had found it, Spock nodded guardedly. It was not in his nature to disparage the beliefs of others, even when they appeared no more than primitive superstitions, and he would not begin with Keetah. "The longbow, yes."
Spock had also seen things for which there was no rational or logical explanation. "However, many of my ancestors were rather fond of a primitive form of crossbow. It was – most efficacious – or so I am reliably informed."
He flexed his fingers cautiously, testing the muscles in chest and shoulder, knowing it was useless. The arm was stiff, unreliable; he could not use a bow with any degree of accuracy.
Keetah nodded politely, her expression remote. "I have seen holograms, museum exhibits. You lack the strength to use it or anything of a similar nature, but there is also another weapon popular with your people – one that has many functions. I have forgotten the name; was it the ahna…something?"
"The ahn-woon?" Spock's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He turned the suggestion over in his mind. It was a good one, surprising though, coming form a human, and he briefly wondered how she knew of it. The ahn-woon was used chiefly as a training device, or for a few very special occasions never discussed with non-Vulcans.
"It should not prove too difficult," he mused, studying the hides she had scraped and tanned. "Although I have not made one since early childhood."
While Keetah watched, Spock selected two of the best hides and laid them flat. They were not as durable as the material used on Vulcan, but by using a double thickness, he hoped at least to produce a serviceable weapon. And if nothing else, his mind and hands would be gainfully employed.
The cutting-out, though unwieldy with only a knife to use, was simple enough. It was when he came to stitching the edges together that Spock's troubles began. The bone needles were necessarily thick and clumsy but also had an irritating tendency to bend whenever he exerted any great pressure. It took many frustrating hours of dogged work before he was done. At length, all that remained eas the fitting of bone handles to either end of the wide leather strip.
When he was finished, Keetah took up the simple weapon, inspecting it with a trained eye. She twirled it experimentally. Oldest and deadliest of Vulcan weapons, the ahn-woon could be uses as a sling, a bola, or a garrote. Her eyes shone as she cracked it like a whip, then gave it back. "Yat-ta-hay…very, very good, Spock of Vulcan. Now in all truth will the ndendai – enemy –regret stepping into the shadow of the Eagle and the Hawk.
O0o
They moved out after Keetah had, with infitite labor, cleared a narrow tunnel through the snow-packed gorge. It had taken all the remaining charges; the phaser was now useless. Negotiating the slit was awkward, burdened as they were by thick furs, snowshoes, and the weapons, Keetah insisted they carry. A needle-fingered cold driven before the wind sucked heat from them; a wolf-wind that howled and whined, probing for weaknesses.
It was much worse when they emerged finally into the open. Spock knew he had not regained his strength fafter the mauling by the Lur, but to have held off any longer might well give the Klingons the opportunity they needed to finish harvesting their fungal crop. And in the back of his mind was the ever present fear that the Enterprise might arrive earlier than expected.
This was his first time on snowshoes, and the heavy circular shapes were an added difficulty.
"Watch how I do it," Keetah said at last, seeing the pain and fatigue etched into the lines on his face. "Think of the sands of Sas-a-Shar as you walk them – use the same uneven, gliding shuffle."
Spock watched her progress a short distance, then followed suit, imitating her, and it wasn't long before he found himself almost unconsciously slipping into a rhythm he had not used in years. The ache in abused thigh muscles gradually wore off and, though the going was hard, he felt quite capable of finishing the journey.
The route she chose led over and through hills, tumbles of rock draped in snowy mantles, knife-slash valleys, avoiding smooth areas, open spaces. Keetah pointed out dangerous places; ice bridges spanning crevices and ravines; a few safe, but most to be avoided. Once she three a heavy rock, which took all her strength to lift, out into a patch of snow, and it vanished without a trace. And always the drift-wind howled, whipping up snow to meet the soft flakes endlessly drifting downwards.
Hiemal was a perilous world, as inimical to them as to the Klingons and far more impersonal. It could kill in a hundred different ways – some quick, some slow – and the way of their passing would mean nothing to a planet that belonged solely to winter's cruel embrace. An aptly named wolf-world indeed.
Unlike him, Keetah moved with ease, glancing back at him as he struggled doggedly in her wake. When at last he came level with her, she pointed ahead to where slim buttes thrust into the sky, a narrow trail snaking between them. She loosened the thong holding the tomahawk at her wrist, eased her knife in and out of its sheath, rearranged the Lur claws dangling at her belt.
"That is the end of the M'aco sica, the badlands. Beyond lies the basin the Klingons have taken for their garrison. It will be easier from now on, but do not relax vigilance. There are still many dangers. Step only where I step and be prepared to take cover immediately at my signal."
Spock nodded, heart pounding as he drew icy, rarified air into his lungs. Keetah watch him, her own breath leaving a cloud of frozen vapor wreathing her head. "We cannot rest long. It is dangerous."
"The Klingons?" Spock questioned quickly, glancing about warily.
Keetah hunched a scornful shoulder. "They fear the open, preferring the safety of their garrison, their sleds, and interceptors. No, inhabited areas attract predators, many far worse than the Lur. There is one, the Omeenachee, which compensates for lack of bulk by hunting in packs. Once on a trail, they cannot be stopped or turned. Come, the garrison lies just over the ridge. Keep well down. It is heavily guarded and, with much to lose, the ndendai fear much. They shoot first and ask questions afterwards."
Cautiously they wormed forward until they could see through a screen of sharp-edged rocks, inspecting the place minutely for any weakness. The subsonic hum of a force screen roughened Spock's skin, irritating his sensitive hearing.
Keetah stiffened suddenly. "There, do you see, the interceptors?"
Two craft swept out of cloud-choked skies and came in to land. Spock watched intently as a lone sled suddenly appeared from some hidden exit and made for the ships. Klingons boiled out of nowhere. They were too far away to make out much of what was going on, but it looked as if Keetah was right. The place had the air of a busy port.
"You have seen enough?"
Spock inclined his head and they wriggled back out of sight. Once in the ravine again, they took cover behind a snowy bank, huddled together for warmth, the intense cold penetrating even their furs. At last, she said, "There is a chance for success?"
"Perhaps, but with so many soldiers about, a diversion will be necessary."
"That is easy enough to arrange," Keetah eyed him speculatively.
"I want confusion, not excessive loss of life," Spock retaliated shortly. "I am still concerned about our withdrawal after I have contacted the Enterprise."
Keetah's mouth stretched in a thin smile which in no way denoted warmth or homor as hse brushed snow from her mask and replaced it over her eyes. "There will be confusion. By the time they reorganize – what few of them are left –we will be long gone."
Disgusted by her attitude, Spock was quick to retort. "The decision to end a life is not something to undertake lightly. You take too much on yourself."
"As do you, Spock of Vulcan." Keetah flashed. "You are not Elder brother, to say this or that will be so and have it done. Only Tsoay, Cuchillo's son, has the right to ask obedience from me. This is Apache law. Only Tsoay, and he who is heart's desire. You say, think, 'human,' as if we are androids with identical programming. That is not the Vulcan way, Mr. Spock. Be not so hasty to judge where you do not understand."
She pushed herself abruptly to her feet. "It is time we left. Darkness will fall soon."
This time she did not hold back for Spock as she raced down the trail, rage spurring her on. Ashamed that her anger had betrayed her into an unjust and undeserved counterattack, Keetah ran from him, not wanting him to view the hurt she felt by his rebuke….
Straight into a returning patrol….
It was too late to turn aside, too late to hide as the four-man sled bore down on her. Keetah whipped back, diving sideways, reaching for the quiver of arrows over her shoulder. The shaft took the driver in the throat, and with a strangled scream, he toppled out into the snow. Completely out of control, the sled spun wildly, runners screeching as the Klingon in the passenger seat wrestled desperately with the controls.
Spock, winded by the sudden need for speed, grabbed for the ahn-woon as soon as he was in range. He snatched a fist-sized rock from the pouch at his waist, slipped it into the ahn-woon and let fly. Another Klingon tumbled backwards into the snow. Trembling on one runner, the sled turned over. Still yards away, Spock and Keetah saw the other two members of the Klingon patrol, obviously in shock, crawl weakly out of the wreckage. Uncaring that physically she was outmatched, Keetah drew her big hunting knife and began to circle lightly, eyes fixed on the smaller of the two remaining soldiers.
A few paces behind Keetah as she stalked her chosen prey, Spock found himself facing the other survivor, a great bear of a man muffled in thick furs. For perhaps a second or two they stared at each other… before the Klingon leapt forward, serrated teeth bared, a roar of rage on his lips. The Klingon landed in a combat crouch, hands reaching for the laser pistol at his belt.
There was little time to see how Keetah fared. Spock ducked, as the energy beam swept over his head. Fur sizzled on his hood in the sudden heat. He grabbed for another rock. Despite the Klingon's bulk, his speed was tremendous. Spock sidestepped the ahn-woon ready, but abruptly found his opponent missing. Seconds later, there came a sledgehammer blow in the small of his back. He went to his knees in the clinging snow, aware that his adversary was no raw recruit but a seasoned warrior as good as or even better than he was himself.
Doubled with pain, Spock rolled frantically. A swirl of burning vapor enveloped him as he lurched to his feet once more, darting for the hand that held the pistol. Startled, the Klingon fell back but not quite fast enough as Spock brought his right heel down hard on the other's instep, at the same time slamming the side of his hand across the big Klingon's wrist. Uttering a frightful oath as the pistol skittered across the snow; the warrior launched himself once again at Spock.
On the periphery of his mind, Spock vaguely became aware of a queer, mewling giggle of agony, a broken plea for help, and knew Keetah was not experiencing his difficulty. Spock feinted to the right, swung to grab one handed at he other's fur parka. Again, he found himself nailed to the ground, a beefy forearm jammed up against his chin, fetid breath in his face, his head painfully forced backwards. Agony lanced through Spock's injured shoulder. He fought to get air into his lungs, the blood pounding in his ears.
"All right," the gruff voice spoke Basic. "Now you will answer some questions. Who are you? What is your name?" The arm pressed harder against his windpipe as Spock jerked. A black and green mist formed before his eyes.
"Your name, Federation bastard, or I will crush your windpipe and let you choke in your own blood." The big warrior's eyes glittered behind his mask as Spock twitched feebly under him. "Your name…!"
Spock moaned, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.
"Let me … up," he gasped. "You…are…killing…me."
"And don't I know it, you filthy whoreson," rumbled the Klingon with suppressed humor. But the arm slackened beneath Spock's chin. It was all that he needed…
With a thrust of his abdomen, he arched his back, twisting one arm free of the stranglehold the Klingon had on him. His fingers probed expertly and found the right place without any trouble, digging into a point at the base of the thick bull neck. He squeezed gently, calmly taking the time he required…
His hand stopped its probing as he caught sight of Keetah. She came on slowly, the blade of the tomahawk flashing as she twirled it lightly.
"No, Keetah, no."
But it was already too late. His shout was cut short by a soft but quite audible thuuwup… and the tomahawk lay buried up to the shaft in the Klingon's back. The warrior's eyes widened in disbelief and he twisted in agony. Already glazing in death behind his mask, the dark eyes stared down at Spock, still lying beneath him.
"Dirty Federation bastard." The words slurred, harsh with impotent anger. "Should have crushed your windpipe when I could…"
A second later he slumped across Spock, head lolling, a red stain spreading slowly across his broad back.
Keetah bent to push at the dead weight, offering a hand to help Spock to his feet, only to find herself looking directly at condemnation. She withdrew abruptly, wanting to strike the censure from his face. Savagely she yanked the tomahawk free, japing it again and again into the snowdrift to clean it.
Spock brushed at the sweat on his forehead and forced himself erect, wincing as fresh pain surged through his shoulder. He stared down at the dead Klingon. "He could have been useful –given us much useful information."
"We make no alliance with the ndenai."
"We are not barbarians," Spock replied icily. "Your objective could have been achieved without killing."
Keetah thrust the tomahawk into her belt and ripped off her mask, exposing the black stripes on her cheek. "Search your memory, Mr. Spock: war paint. Few have ever questioned its meaning. Savages paint themselves before going into battle in the hopes of frightening their enemies. The Pinda-lick-o-yi have another name for it. The mark of Cain. Now this is truth. Were I to go to the Rancheria and say … my …team were foully murdered and I had done nothing, shame and dishonor would lie across the Nation. They would drive me forth as unclean, a renegade, less than these Klingons you would deal with; as natdahe – outlaw. I would be as one already dead."
"The past is done, "Spock retorted. "They would not have wanted this to happen. It will not bring them back…"
Wearily, Keetah replaced her mark. "That decision is not mine, or yours, to make. We walk a pattern laid out for us at our births. Honor decency, self-respect, loyalty, are the steps. The differences between us are far less than you wish to believe. Four years have I lived and worked amongst Vulcans; another year I have studied at the Science Academy. You are not like them. What are you, Mr. Spock?"
But she did not wait for an answer as she turned to regard the carnage spread across the snow. "The smell of fresh blood will draw the Omeenachee. It would be better if they did not find us waiting here."
Spock nodded, eyes averted from the claw marks gouged deeply in flesh and sled alike. He could understand the necessity of disguising their presence; he could not approve. While she checked her handiwork, he bent swiftly and, not without a measure of disgust, searched the dead Klingon. Quietly, he tucked away what he found as Keetah came back. Silence grew between them, strained and unhappy, as they slogged back to the cave.
It was bitterly cold, and Keetah set about building two small, hot fires, heating food and drink. They sat apart, enjoying the heat that slowly warmed their numbed bodies, still lost in the silence neither of them felt able to break.
Keetah stared blindly into the dancing flames. Spock's disapproval she accepted stoically. That he thought of her as a bloddthirsty savage was a pain so sharp that she had to bite her lip to hold back the cry of protest. She did not blame him, but with all her heart she wished that someday he might learn to look upon her with a little kindness. It was impossible to explain the promise she had made – as well ask him to explain Koon-ut-kal-if-fee. As Vulcan law was sacrosanct, so too was Apache. If only the loss of his good opinion did not hurt so much.
Remembering the articles he ahd taken from the dead Klingon, Spock pulled them from his shirt and began to examine them. Three small cylindrical objects, dull grey in color, shone faintly in the light of the fire, the crude oil lamps.
"What have you there?" Keetah glad to shake off her depression, the misery settling over her, glanced at the objects he held curiously. Spock passed her one, their eyes meeting. They stared at each other, knowing that, like it or not, they must work together, achieve some form of unity, or perish with their mission unfulfilled.
O0o