Chapter 11
– Riley –
The cold hits the moment we step out of the cave. Today it feels sharper, more deliberate, like the planet itself has opinions about us staying. Or maybe it’s because that cave really is very warm and cozy, with a big, caveman-shaped space heater right next to me.
The tribe has given us furs, thick, and warm, and stiff.
They smell vaguely of the dinosaur they must have come from, but I don’t mind that.
I have fur boots, too, made for a boy. And we each have a pair of mittens, mine thick fur and Nator’ax’s thick, smooth leather. Yes, this tribe knows how to keep warm.
The village spreads out around us in a shallow depression carved into the ice, sheltered on three sides by mountains and the jagged ridges of a glacier. Beyond that, the land opens into a vast white plain that stretches until it meets distant mountains, blue and hazy against the horizon.
I shield my eyes from the sun and stare, but I can’t spot the flying saucer. It must be beyond the farthest ridge.
The sky above is hard and clear, the kind of turquoise that looks beautiful right up until it kills you.
I stop for a second, taking it in. “Like the set of a very expensive survival movie,” I mutter in English. “And those have a lot of dying in them.”
Nator’ax glances at me. “What was that?”
I give him a little smile. “Never mind. It is a very beautiful day.”
“Is it? I see beauty somewhere else.” He looks me up and down.
“Much greater beauty, in fact.” While a compliment like that would be cheesy from basically anyone else, from him it just sounds sincere.
And I’m sure it is. There’s still a significant amount of soreness down below.
He’s as well endowed there as everywhere else.
And for some reason, it makes me want him more. Much more.
Around us, the tribe is already in motion.
Fires burn low in shallow pits. Men move between tents and storage racks, carrying tools, hauling something that looks like frozen meat, sharpening blades, and a myriad other tasks.
There’s no wasted movement, no idle chatter.
Everything has a purpose, and I’m starting to see what that purpose might be.
The hunter who came to fetch us doesn’t wait for us to admire the scenery. He starts down the slope without checking if we follow.
“Friendly,” I say under my breath.
“He is not here to be friendly,” Nator’ax replies. “He is here to see to it that we don’t run away.”
“Well, we’re not planning to.” I’m careful not to look at him when I say it. It’s not meant for him, anyway.
We follow the hunter into the thick of the village, and the attention hits immediately.
It’s not exactly subtle. Heads turn and conversations pause. A man stops scraping a gigantic hide and just stares openly at me, his expression unreadable. A group of men near one of the fires tracks us with their eyes.
I lean a little closer to Nator’ax. “We’re being sized up.”
“They just have to get used to us. Or rather, to you.”
“They really shouldn’t,” I snort. “I’m not staying.”
We’re led to a central area where a larger fire burns, surrounded by low stone seats and stacked supplies. Before we can say anything, Prak’ox steps forward, with an easy smile on his face.
“Dame Riley,” he says, pronouncing my name carefully. “Warrior Nator’ax. Good morning. I hope your cave is comfortable.”
“Prak’ox,” I reply, matching his tone. “It is as comfortable as a cage can be, thank you. I make sure that every tribe knows about the Gar hospitality.” I concentrate on speaking correctly. I never felt the necessity, but now I really do.
“It’s only temporary,” he says, though there’s a flicker of something that might be dry humor.
“So many things are temporary about this whole tribe,” I quip, not really sure what I mean.
Nator’ax nods seriously. “It’s only too true. Remember my advice, Prak’ox. Either run now or hope to be lucky when the dragon comes.”
Prak’ox frowns. “And if the dragon comes before— I mean, if he comes and finds the two of you perfectly well, enjoying both frit and roast?”
Nator’ax shrugs. “Our dragon does what he wants, as long as it is in line with Korr’ax’s orders.
Perhaps he will burn the village when he finds us here.
It’s more likely that he won’t. It depends on what we tell him, I suppose.
Seeing his tribesman under a death sentence may not make him charitable towards your tribe. ”
“I’m sure you know that not everyone wants you to be condemned,” Prak’ox says. “The council is too easily swayed by certain of its members. Chief Hoker’iz spoke for your complete acquittal, it is said.”
“It is a rare tribe that has its shaman run it,” Nator’ax says coldly. “Perhaps someone should do something about that. But who am I to talk? Is there any work that a condemned man may carry out in the village or outside it? For I’m not used to sitting still.”
Prak’ox lifts his eyebrows. “Nobody has said that you have to work, jungle warrior.”
“I’m saying it now,” Nator’ax rumbles. “No man can wait for orders before he does something useful. Or is that perhaps the way of the Gar?”
“Sometimes,” Prak’ox replies. “But we mostly do what we must.” He gestures toward the outer edge of the village. “Hunters leave soon. The herds have moved farther out onto the plain. Snow is deeper. Tracks are harder to read.”
Nator’ax nods once. “I will go with them. With the chief’s permission.”
A few of the nearby men react to that. Not loudly, but enough that I catch it. It could be interest, or even approval.
Nator’ax keeps surprising me with his initiative. Now he will try to become obviously too valuable to casually execute. I reach out and grab his hand in my own sign of approval.
The touch makes me confident. Actually, I should try the same thing. “And what about me?”
Prak’ox studies me again, longer this time. “What about you, Dame Riley? You are not a hunter.”
I frown. “Ice man, did you not see that stoka down in that crevasse? Did you not see my tracks? I lured that stoka and ran in front of it until it fell. Is that not hunting?”
That earns a few looks, one of the men huffing something that might be a laugh. “She has you there, Prak’ox.”
But I don’t want to talk myself into a dangerous and exhausting hunting trip. “Hunter or not, I can still help. Show me your village. All of it. Maybe I can help, if only by making torches.”
“Perhaps,” Prak’ox says slowly. “It would be interesting to see what a woman may do. A woman from the jungle, and from an alien planet before that.”
“Then we are agreed,” I state. “Give me a guide to the village. An old man, perhaps. A council member.”
He glances at one of the older men nearby, who has been listening while pretending not to. He snorts and says something sharp in their language. I don’t quite catch it.
Prak’ox’s mouth twitches. “He says if you can make meat dry faster without spoiling it, he will listen to you.”
I shrug. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“It does. Take it on if you want. Or do something else that’s useful. Or, better yet, don’t do anything except look for that dragon. If he comes, I want him to see you first.”
“He’ll see me if I’m still here. Then he’ll ask for Nator’ax. But that will be more of a challenge for you.”
Before he can respond, another voice cuts in. “Challenges are useful. They reveal truth.”
It’s shaman Crelt’ax.
He moves like he has all the time in the world, his one arm tucked into his heavy wrappings. His gaze lands on me first, then slides to Nator’ax, then back again.
“You speak of improving what is already known,” he says to me. “That suggests you believe your knowledge is greater.”
“I believe my knowledge is different,” I say. “Sometimes that’s enough.”
“And sometimes it is false.”
“Is it?” I ask. “How?”
His attention sharpens. I don’t think he likes to be questioned. Well, maybe it’s about time someone did. “What you described yesterday,” he continues, voice lowering just enough to draw people in, “the dragon, the power you claimed for your chief. Those are also different.”
Nator’ax steps forward half a pace, not blocking me, but making his presence very clear. “We did not claim power. We described a danger to your tribe.”
“A danger you know,” Crelt’ax says. “That makes you part of it.”
“Or it makes us lucky,” I cut in. “Lucky to have a chief like Korr’ax.”
His eyes flick back to me. “Luck is rarely so consistent.”
I force a casual shrug. “You would be amazed at how lucky the people on my planet can be.”
There’s a pause. He studies me like I’m a puzzle he intends to take apart piece by piece.
Prak’ox shifts, breaking the moment. “There will be time for questions later. Work comes first, while the sun is up.”
Crelt’ax inclines his head, conceding for now. “Of course. Survival before curiosity.”
As he steps back, I feel his gaze linger until Nator’ax steps between us, blocking his view. “Surely the tribe stands a better chance of survival if you spend your time praying, Shaman.”
Two figures dart closer once the tension breaks. They are boys, maybe ten or twelve by human standards, both staring at us with open fascination.
One of them points at Nator’ax. “Is it true you have fought in many wars with other tribes?”
The other looks at me. “Did you lure a stoka and kill it with your hands?”
I grin despite myself. “I lured the stoka, but I didn’t touch it. It fell into a crack. It was the hunting party from your tribe that killed it.”
“The stoka was even more curious about Riley than you are,” Nator’ax says dryly. “But it was stupid enough to chase her. Never chase a woman, boys. She will lead you into trouble. Why, just look at where I am now.”
The boys laugh, clearly delighted that we are not immediately terrifying.
“Are there many tribes in the jungle? Many wars? Do you fight with swords?”
“Sometimes there are wars,” Nator’ax says. “But the Borok tribe hasn’t been at war since Korr’ax became our chief. The other tribes know not to be our enemies.”