Chapter 7 #2
“Chief of two tribes?” Prak’ox asks. “Surely no man can be that capable. Unless both tribes are weak.”
“Our chief is strong and has strong men to do his orders,” Riley counters. “Strong men like Warrior Nator’ax.”
We walk in silence again after that. As my body settles into the rhythm of the march, my thoughts drift back to the night before.
The memory returns with uncomfortable clarity: the small interior of the saucer, the dim light reflecting from its smooth walls, the cold pressing in from every side, and Riley pressed against me.
Her body was warm despite the freezing air. Soft in ways that the bodies of warriors are not. When she curled against my chest, seeking warmth, every instinct in my body had sharpened. And my manhood went rock hard all by itself.
I told myself it was merely a practical arrangement. Two bodies share heat more efficiently than one. But that explanation became difficult to maintain when she lifted her face toward mine and pressed her lips briefly against my mouth.
The gesture was quick, almost playful. Yet the memory of it continues to burn in my thoughts. Oh, if I could only follow my wishes…
I shift my shoulders slightly as we walk, irritated with myself. My oath remains unchanged.
But the Gar tribe has never seen a woman. Very few tribes have. If they believe Riley is some kind of gift from the sky, and that she should belong to them…
My gaze moves across the hunters again. Fifteen warriors. An entire tribe waits beyond the next ridge. If the chief is not a reasonable man, this could turn ugly. And even if he has common sense, he may be bound by tribal law.
The land begins to rise beneath our feet.
At first the change is gradual, and the landscape slopes upward toward a ridge of dark stone that cuts through the ice like the spine of some ancient creature.
The Gar hunters adjust their path, guiding us toward a narrow pass where the wind has carved the snow down to hard blue ice.
I recognize the terrain immediately. It is an approach that can be easily defended.
The ridge blocks the worst of the wind, and anyone traveling across the icy wastes would be forced to pass through this narrow opening.
A small group of hunters could watch this route easily. The Gar have chosen their home well.
Riley breathes harder as we climb. Her steps grow slower, and several times the hunter beside her steadies her again when the ice shifts beneath her boots.
“This place very cold forever?” she asks after a while.
“I would assume so,” I reply. “Or perhaps they have a summer. I hope we shall never know.”
She glances around at the endless white landscape. “I miss trees.”
“I understand the feeling.”
The hunters ahead of us crest the ridge first. One of them raises a hand, signaling the others. Their formation tightens slightly as we approach the top. A moment later we reach the ridge.
The Gar village spreads out in front of us. And while I have seen maybe four different villages in my day, I pause for a moment to study this one. It is larger than I expected.
Where the glacier presses against the stone ridge, the Gar have carved deep shelters into the rock itself.
Wide cave mouths open along the base of the cliff, their entrances reinforced with thick walls of stacked ice blocks.
Smoke rises from several of these openings, drifting upward in thin gray columns before the wind carries it away.
Lower on the slope, circular pits have been dug into the ice and lined with stone.
Fires burn within them, their flames protected from the wind by curved walls of packed snow.
Racks of drying hides stand nearby, stretched tight between bone frames.
Yes, wood is a rarity here and must mostly be used as fuel for fires.
Weapons are everywhere. Spears lean in bundles beside the cave entrances. Long throwing harpoons made from bone hang from wooden racks. Heavy axes with heads carved from dark stone rest near the fire pits, more tools than weapons.
The trophies catch my attention next. Massive horns curve upward from the edges of the village. The huge skulls of stoka have been mounted on poles driven deep into the ice, their enormous jaws frozen open as if they are still roaring.
This is a powerful tribe, in control of their cold surroundings.
The hunters begin ascending toward the settlement.
As we move up the slope, figures emerge from the caves below.
At first only a few warriors step outside, drawn by the return of the hunting party.
Then more follow: elders with gray in their hair, younger hunters carrying tools, and several boys who have not yet reached full warrior height, nor been through the Stripening.
They are speaking casually at first. Then someone sees Riley, and the conversation stops.
One of the warriors near the nearest fire pit stares at her for several seconds, as if his mind refuses to understand what his eyes are showing him. He takes a slow step forward, mouth open in astonishment.
Others begin to notice. Heads turn, and voices fade. Within moments the entire lower half of the village is silent.
The hunters continue walking as if nothing unusual has happened, but the effect spreads through the tribe like ripples through still water.
A man near the cave entrances whispers something. Another warrior squints at Riley, studying her smaller frame, the shape of her face.
Someone breathes a single word. “A woman.” The whisper carries far. Several others repeat it quietly.
“A woman?”
“Impossible.”
“She is too small.”
“She looks very soft! See how she walks.”
Riley glances back at me, clearly aware that something unusual is happening even if she does not understand every word. “Everyone staring,” she mutters. “I have blood on face?”
“They have never seen a woman before,” I tell her tightly, because this tension will need an outlet somehow.
The hunters guide us deeper into the village.
More tribe members emerge from the caves, drawn by the silence and the growing cluster of warriors.
Some stand very still, watching Riley with open astonishment.
Others circle slowly as if afraid that the strange creature might vanish if they blink.
Curious boys draw close and stare with open-mouthed smiles.
One of the older warriors suddenly drops to one knee. “Holy Ancestors!” The movement is instinctive, almost unconscious.
A murmur passes through the watching crowd. Another elder quickly grips the kneeling man’s shoulder and pulls him back to his feet, whispering something sharply in his ear.
Riley notices the movement. “That man… praying?” she asks quietly.
“That is not how it is done,” I growl. “There is a time and a place. He should show more respect to his Ancestors.”
Without thinking about it, I shift my position as we walk, placing myself closer to Riley’s side. The movement is subtle, just enough that anyone watching will see that I stand near her. If they want her, they have to go through me. Despite the cords around my wrists.
The hunters lead us toward the center of the village. A wide fire pit burns there, surrounded by heavy stones darkened by years of smoke. The heat from the flames pushes back the cold air, creating a small island of warmth in the middle of the settlement.
A tall totem pole stands there, carved from a tree that must have been very tall, judging from the thickness. I wonder where they got that.
A large figure stands beside the fire. Even among warriors of our size, the Gar chief is impressive.
He is taller than most of the hunters who brought us here, his shoulders broad and heavy with muscle that age has not yet taken from him.
Thick scars cross his arms, pale lines against the darker tone of his skin and his even whiter stripes.
He wears a fine, thin fur that hangs down his back and leaves some of his chest bare.
Several massive fangs curve upward from the fine bone frame resting across his shoulders, their polished surfaces catching the light and looking deadly.
He watches our approach without speaking. The hunters stop several paces from him, and only Prak’ox steps forward. He plants the butt of his spear against the ice and bows his head slightly toward the chief.
“What have you brought to our village?” the chief asks, his voice deep and calm.
“We bring two strangers found upon Gar ice,” Prak’ox says. “They claim to have fallen from the sky.”
A ripple of wonder moves through the watching warriors at those words.
Prak’ox gestures toward the glacier behind us.
“A strange metal object lies not far from here, on the ice where the stoka pass in spring. This Borok warrior was inside as well when it fell, he claims. He gives the name of Nator’ax.
The woman was also inside. She comes from a planet called Earth and is named Riley.
She is a member of the Borok tribe also.
The metal object appears to be a Plood saucer. ”
The chief’s gaze shifts to me. The assessment between warriors lasts several seconds. His eyes move over my stance, my shoulders, and the relaxed way I hold my bound hands. He is weighing strength and experience, searching for weakness or deception. Finally he nods once.
“You are Borok,” he says.
“I am.”
“You are not dressed for the cold, Borok man.”
“The Borok tribe is a jungle tribe, Chief. And Riley and I had no intention of coming to your ice. The flying ship crashed here against our will.”
“Hmm.” His gaze slides past me, and for the first time he studies Riley directly. The entire village seems to lean forward.
Riley stands very still under the chief’s attention. Her shoulders are straight, though I can see the tension in her posture. The chief circles us slowly, his heavy footsteps crunching softly against the ice.
“She is smaller than the Prophecy says,” he murmurs.