Chapter 7
- Nator’ax -
The wind moves slowly across the glacier, dragging long veils of powdered ice across the hard surface. The snow whispers against the ground like dry sand.
I walk among the Gar hunters with steady steps, the cord around my wrists loose enough that it barely presses against my skin.
They have bound me out of caution, not hostility.
Any warrior can recognize the difference.
Letting me keep the sword is also a clear sign: they assume I am a man of honor who will accept their authority on their turf.
Riley walks a short distance ahead of me. Her hands are tied as well, though the hunters have not been cruel about it. The cord allows her arms to move enough that she can keep her balance. Even so, the glacier is not kind to someone who did not grow up upon ice.
She slips. Her boot skids sideways, and she makes a small startled sound as her feet slide out from under her.
One of the Gar hunters immediately reaches out and catches her by the upper arm before she can fall. He steadies her with surprising gentleness for a warrior who carries a spear large enough to kill a stoka. And yet a sudden fire sparks in me, resenting his touch on her.
In two steps I am alongside, pushing the Gar man away with my bulk. “It’s your own fault, warrior. It’s hard to keep balance with her hands tied.”
Riley exhales sharply and laughs under her breath. “Ground is very slip,” she says, searching for the word. “Ice is tricky.”
“You must place your feet flatter,” the warrior says from the other side of me. “Ice rewards patience.”
Riley nods as if this is valuable wisdom. “I try not to die walking,” she replies.
The hunter frowns slightly, clearly uncertain whether she is joking, but he says nothing more.
I give her a little smile to show that I got the joke, and she rewards me with a conspiratorial grin and a roll of her eyes. That sends warmth through me and brightens my mind. I think we can deal with this tribe.
We continue walking, me right next to Riley.
As we move, I study the Gar hunters carefully.
They are disciplined men. That much becomes clear long before we have traveled far.
Their formation shifts constantly: two hunters moving ahead, others drifting along the flanks, the rest trailing behind us.
They adjust to the terrain, watching the ridges of ice and the shadowed cracks where crevasses might hide.
They are ice hunters, and so their movement is different from the warriors of jungle tribes.
In the jungle, a hunter moves lightly and quickly between the trees.
On the glacier, much of the danger lies beneath your feet.
A careless step can mean death. The Gar walk with shorter strides and lower balance.
Their knees remain slightly bent. Their weight shifts slowly from one foot to the next, ready to shift back if the ground were to suddenly give.
Their weapons interest me as well. Each man carries a long spear tipped with a narrow iron point reinforced with metal.
The design is meant for piercing thick hide rather than slicing.
But with their length, they are clearly used for hunting Bigs on open plains, not in a dense jungle.
A sword would be of limited use here, where they can comfortably stay at a distance.
But in a war against another tribe, they might struggle to win against swordsmen.
Perhaps there are no other tribes nearby.
White stripes stretch across their chests and shoulders in horizontal bands. They look remarkably well suited for this white landscape.
But I must think about the future. There is a chance we cannot get the saucer to work again. Tipping it over should be possible, but after that, it may not work. And even if it does, it might dump us somewhere worse than this. There are many things that are unknown.
I test the cord around my wrists again as we walk.
The knot is secure, but the hunter who tied it left enough space that I could easily slip my hands free if I wished.
The Gar understand that a warrior does not like to be bound tightly.
It is a small gesture of respect, I suppose, a sign that they are simply doing what their rules say they must, while at the same time showing me that they trust my word.
If I choose to escape, I could free myself within moments. My gaze moves across the hunters around us. Fifteen warriors. All of them experienced hunters. All of them accustomed to this terrain. But possibly not used to fighting a swordsman.
If I run alone, I could reach the ridge behind us before their formation closes. After that, the glacier becomes broken ground and snowy wastes with some chance of hiding.
A single warrior could disappear there, if his captors did not search too eagerly. But Riley clearly cannot. It is obvious that these men are taken with her, as any tribe would be. They will turn the whole world inside out to find her if she were to somehow escape.
She slips again a few steps later, catching herself before falling, and mutters something quietly in her own language.
“You all right?” I ask as I steady her with my shoulder, getting a whiff of her sweet scent.
“Is heavy,” she says, breathing harder than me. Her boots are designed for the soft ground of the jungle, not ice. Even with help, she struggles to keep her balance. If I attempt to escape with her, the hunters will surround us before we reach the first ridge.
“Warriors of Gar,” I call. “Let us slow down. Riley is half our size and cannot keep up for much longer.”
Prak’ox gives her a glance. “We have somewhere to be, jungle man. And we want to be there before dark.”
“Then let me carry her,” I suggest. “I can easily keep up, even with that small extra weight.”
“That would mean untying you,” Prak’ox says calmly. “And we cannot do that. We will slow down.”
I could fight them. Perhaps I could even defeat several before the rest overwhelm me. But Riley would be caught in the middle of that violence. A thrown spear meant for me might strike her instead. That is not a risk I will accept.
So I continue walking, and indeed the Gar men slow down.
It allows Riley to walk at a more natural gait, I notice.
For now, it seems we will get further by talking and hoping that these men are as honorable as I think.
Still, honorable tribes are often stiff and unyielding.
Despite the risk, I should at all times be ready to escape, with Riley.
The hunters glance at her often as we travel.
They are not studying her the way hunters study prey, which I take as a good sign.
Their eyes move over her face, her strange clothing, and the color of her hair.
A miracle, a wonder. Those are the only words that fit the way they look at her.
And it is not much different from how the men in my Borok tribe looked at Bryar in the beginning.
One of the younger hunters nearly walks into a ridge of ice while staring at her.
Another whispers something to the man beside him. I do not hear the words, but the tone carries disbelief.
None of them appear hostile, and that should comfort me. Instead it fills me with unease. Because I remember what happened with Bryar: she married Korr’ax, our chief, after he had taken her away from her friends. I cannot help thinking that the only man here who has sworn not to abduct her is me.
We continue across the glacier for a long time.
The wind grows stronger as the day moves forward, though the sky remains clear.
The sunlight reflects off the ice so brightly that Riley squints constantly.
She raises her bound hands several times to shade her eyes, forgetting the cord until it tugs against her wrists.
Eventually she glances up at me.
“You think more long walk?” she asks.
“Not much longer,” I tell her, taking a guess. “The Gar village cannot be far from here. We will be there before nightfall, probably.”
She nods slowly, though her expression remains uncertain. “Many men with spears,” she says quietly. “Village is probably big.”
“If they can send hunting parties fifteen strong, then that would seem possible.”
She walks in silence for a few more steps, carefully placing her feet. Then she says, “You thinking about fighting them? You defeated half the Rusha tribe alone.”
For a moment my mind goes blank. I have never heard of any tribe called Rusha. Then I realize that she is not speaking to me, but to the men around us, who are listening intently. And I better play along.
“They had swords,” I make up on the spot. “And there were only nine of them. Any Borok man is expected to handle that, especially when taking them by surprise. These men look tougher.”
Riley snorts. “Those spears meant for hunting slow stokas, not fierce tribesmen from the jungle, where the tribes are always at war and every boy must kill an enemy before he becomes full warrior.”
I raise my eyebrows. That does sound like a fierce tribe. “I am sure these men have enemies, too. There must be an enemy tribe. I see scars on some of these hunters. Surely they are not badly hurt by their prey, but by other tribes?”
Some of the men ahead turn their heads and glance at me.
“These men do not know what to do if fighting other man,” Riley says flatly. “See how they walk. Hunters only, not warriors.”
Prak’ox sends us a frowny glance. “We wage war when we must, woman. Do not worry about that.”
“I was talking to Warrior Nator’ax,” she says calmly. “Not to you, ice man.”
I think that she may be overdoing it. We do not want them to take my sword away and tie me properly. But she is right—it would be better for us if these men held me in some respect.
“I am not waging war on you, man of Gar,” I state. “But pray to your Ancestors that you do not cross the Borok tribe and our chief, the mighty Korr’ax. Or the Tretter tribe, of which he is also the chief.”