Chapter 12 #2
I’m happy with the stories I’m making up, although no man should enjoy lying. But my purpose isn’t just to deceive, but to get Riley to safety. The Ancestors will forgive my dishonor in telling lies.
The younger man shifts his weight, uneasy now. He swallows visibly. “You are trying to scare us.”
“I am telling you the truth,” I reply. “You have never seen a woman. You don’t know how they think. Nor do you know dragons. I do. Hunters, I am only trying to help you!”
The scarred man studies me, searching for weakness in what I am saying. “And if you are lying?” he asks.
“The Gar tribe must be the least honorable tribe on Xren,” I marvel.
“Twice now I’ve been accused of lying, while that has never happened in my own tribe even once.
Do Gar men really lie so much that whenever a man tells you something new, you think he must be lying?
Perhaps dying in the dragon’s fire is exactly what you deserve. ”
They go quiet. I let the silence stretch just long enough to settle into them before I continue walking. After a moment, they follow.
The conversation doesn’t end, but it changes. There is less certainty in it now, less casual assumption. They still look at me, but now they think more than they talk. The silence should mean that their minds are working for me. And for Riley.
We move into broken terrain, where the ice rises into ridges and dips into shallow troughs. The wind has carved patterns into the surface, hardening some areas and softening others. This is where the land becomes useful.
I note the narrow passes between ridges, the places where a large body would be forced to slow or turn. I note the slopes, the angles, the way the ice has compacted under repeated wind. I note where a man could hide something small and find it again later.
At one point, I adjust the strap of my pack and let myself fall a few steps behind.
My hand moves quickly, efficiently, pressing a small, wrapped bundle into a shallow depression beneath a lip of ice.
I cover it with loose snow, smoothing the surface with the side of my hand as I take note of the place.
When I straighten, no one is watching me closely enough to question it. I move forward again, rejoining the group as if nothing has happened.
The tracks ahead deepen. The dondar is close. We slow as a group now, the shift unspoken but immediate. Voices drop, and movements become more deliberate. Each man knows what comes next.
I see it before they do. The bulk of the dondar moves between two low ridges ahead of us, its massive body outlined against the pale horizon.
Its hide is thick and ridged, its head low, its tail dragging a shallow line through the snow.
One of its rear legs favors the ground less than the others.
That makes things easier, but also more dangerous.
“It’s injured,” I observe.
The scarred man nods. “We see it.”
“Then you know it will fight harder. It will be wilder.”
I study the terrain around us, the shape of the ridges, and the angle of the slope beyond them. There is a narrow path ahead, where the ice dips and then rises again. The surface there is hard, polished by wind and time.
“Don’t approach it here,” I say, kneeling and examining the snow.
The younger man glances at me. “We have hunted these before.”
“And you have lost men doing it.”
He bristles at that, but the scarred man raises a hand slightly, silencing him. “What do you suggest?” he asks.
I point toward the narrow path. “We drive it there,” I say. “Into the dip. It will charge. It won’t be able to turn on the hard surface. It may even fall over.”
The bearded hunter frowns. “It will crush anything in front of it.”
“Then we won’t stand in front of it,” I say. “Position yourselves along the sides. Stay out of its path. Let it commit to the charge, and then let the ground take its balance.”
They consider that. “It could work,” the scarred man says slowly. “A hunt can always be improved.”
“That is the wisdom of an experienced man,” I reply. “And unless we try, we’ll never know.”
There’s a moment of silence while they realize that I said something nice, for a change.
Then the scarred man nods. “We try it your way.”
We move quickly, circling wide, using the ridges to hide our approach. Each man takes a position along the sides of the narrow path, just far enough back to avoid the initial charge.
I take the position that will draw its attention. When the dondar sees me, it reacts exactly as I expect. Its head lifts, and its body shifts. Then it charges.
The ground trembles under its weight as it comes at me, faster than something that size should be able to move. I wait until the last moment, until its focus is absolute, and then I move, stepping aside and back, out of its direct path.
The moment its weight carries it onto the hard-packed surface of the dip, its footing changes. Its massive legs struggle for purchase on the slick ice. It can’t stop, but it also can’t turn.
It slips. The fall lacks all grace. It crashes forward, its momentum carrying it down and onto its side. The impact shakes the ground so hard a hunter falls over.
“Now!” the scarred man shouts. The hunters move in from the sides, spears driving down toward the exposed underside, toward the softer flesh beneath the heavy plating of its hide. I move with them, striking my sword where it matters, where the hide thins near the neck.
The dondar thrashes, but its position works against it. It can’t rise quickly enough. It can’t bring its full strength to bear. Within moments, it is over.
The great body stills, its breath leaving it in a long, shuddering exhale that fades into silence.
For a few seconds, no one speaks.
Then the younger man lets out a sharp laugh, half disbelief, half exhilaration. “That was almost too easy!”
I grin. “Well done! And no injuries!”
The scarred man looks at me, something new in his expression. “You have done this before.”
I replace my sword. “Similar things. In the jungle, hunts are deadly. If we can make them less so, that’s the way we choose.”
“Prak’ox says that it would be folly to kill a good hunter,” a young man says.
“Perhaps Prak’ox should lead the tribe,” I suggest, “and not the shaman.”
The men look at me and nod. Respect is a dangerous thing. It changes how they see me. It makes me more than a stranger. It makes me something they can use, something they can value, something they may not want to lose.
That could buy time for Riley and me. It could also change the outcome, although I doubt it.
We begin the work of cutting the carcass into pieces, preparing it to be carried home. The long spears are used to make a crude sled that can be dragged with the meat on it.
The mood is different now. Lighter, but also more focused. They speak to me more directly, more openly.
“If you stayed,” the younger man says, “you would lead hunts like this.”
“I will not stay,” I reply. “Banish that from your mind, hunter. The dragon will burn you all. I regret that now, for the Gar men are clearly skilled hunters.”
“If we’ll be dead soon, why are you helping us?”
I place my hand on his shoulder. “While we’re alive, we may hope. Perhaps your council will let Riley and me go after all. Then I want the Gar tribe to think, ‘Nator’ax is an honorable man. We have hunted with him. Perhaps we should be friends with his whole tribe.’”
“Are there more women in your tribe?” a man asks.
“There are,” I tell them. “For you see, one woman isn’t enough for a tribe of more than one man. And even then, only if she chooses that man.”
They exchange glances.
We begin the journey back. The sun has shifted, casting longer shadows across the ice. The wind has picked up again, carrying the scent of blood and cold.
As the village comes into view in the distance, my focus narrows. Riley is there. I will see her again. I will make sure she is still mine to protect.
And tonight, while I still can, I will remind her that we are not yet beaten.
My manhood responds under the fur. We may have only four days to live, but those days may be pleasant for both of us.