Chapter 15 #2
The tribe watches him the way they watch a hunt, or a fight, with focus and hunger.
Prak’ox is there, smiling openly, clearly impressed.
Others aren’t so easy to read. There’s curiosity, of course, but I think I also sense some resentment, or possibly envy.
This is not their way, I think. This is the way of the jungle, not of the ice. It could backfire.
I stay until the rhythm becomes almost hypnotic, the ringing of iron against iron sinking into me. Nator’ax gives me the occasional glance, but he’s mostly focused on his task, which is probably smart.
I drift away, toward the edge of the village, where the noise dulls and the air feels a little less crowded. I’m still watching him when I hear the voice behind me.
“Do you think he enjoys the attention?”
I turn. Shaman Crelt’ax stands a few paces away, his one hand at the belt outside his gray fur.
“I think he enjoys doing something useful for your tribe,” I reply.
“For us,” he agrees, his gaze flicking toward the forge, then back to me. “For the tribe he says will be destroyed by a dragon.” There’s no accusation in his tone, but that probably makes it more dangerous.
“He’s a kind man,” I state, needing to keep the bluff going. “Even now, even when the tribe is going to die. Perhaps he doesn’t want the youngest members to be scared before it happens.” My eyes flick toward the boys.
The shaman’s eyes follow my gaze. “Why not tell the boys about the dragon? Why not scare them? It would put pressure on the chief to let them leave the village.”
I pull the fur tighter around me. “That’s for the Gar tribe to decide, not a man of the Borok tribe. If the Gar tribe really wants everyone to die, the boys too, then who are we to defy them?”
“How does the dragon live? In your tribe?” The shaman’s eyes are small and intense.
“He lives away from the tribe,” I state, truthfully enough. “Even the Borok tribe fears him greatly and doesn’t want him close. Only Chief Korr’ax isn’t afraid.”
“How does he command the dragon?”
“He uses words.”
“How does he call it to him?”
“I don’t know. I try to stay away from the dragon as much as I can. Stop talking about him. I’m afraid.” I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, scanning the sky.
“Are you?” the shaman asks. “Will he kill you too, if he comes?”
“He will kill the Gar tribe only. But he is terrible. I don’t want to see him.”
The ringing of the hammer stops. The sudden silence is almost louder than the noise had been.
The shaman’s gaze flicks behind him, and I don’t have to look around him to know why. Nator’ax is coming.
I feel it before I see it. The change in the air, the way the tribesmen follow him with their eyes.
Then he’s there, one hand on his sword. His expression is neutral.
He stops beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat still radiating off his skin. “Is there a problem?” he asks, his voice just as neutral as his face.
The shaman answers before I can. “There’s no problem, jungle man. We were speaking.”
“When a shaman speaks, it is often good to listen. Was it the dragon, perhaps?”
Their eyes meet, and something passes between them, something tight and sharp and unmistakable.
The shaman’s smile doesn’t fade. “You work with iron, using our forge. You bring noise and change to our village.”
Nator’ax doesn’t look away from him. “I bring what’s useful. While it lasts.”
“You don’t expect the iron you forge to last, then? Or do you mean something else?” The shaman’s eyes narrow, as if he finds it funny.
“The tribe won’t last much longer.” Nator’ax lowers his voice, so that only we can hear. “Days only, if you’re lucky.”
“Some of us have only days left,” the shaman says. “We shall see who it is.”
“The Gar tribe will see nothing more,” Nator’ax says. “I’ve never seen men go so willingly to their deaths. Is it the cold that makes you so passive and pitiful?”
Silence stretches between them, thin as wire. For a moment, I think the shaman will bite and snap something angry. Then he inclines his head again, as if satisfied. “We shall see who has only days left,” he repeats, before he turns and walks away without another word.
I let out a breath. Nator’ax looks down at me. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to know about the dragon. How it works. How to control it.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “And what did you tell him?”
“That only Korr’ax can. I said nothing more.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods once. “It’s better if you keep some distance from him. He is not our friend.”
“I didn’t exactly invite him over,” I mutter.
“Of course.” His gaze shifts to the direction the shaman went, then back to me. “But he will come again. Those are strange questions to ask.”
“If he can,” I say. “But that may be a good sign. He may still believe that the dragon is coming.”
“He may want it to come, so that he can try to conquer it. The death of his tribe may mean nothing to him. He’s willing to risk it.”
“If so,” I think aloud, “it doesn’t matter if the shaman believes in the dragon or not. If the dragon comes, he’ll try to control it. When it doesn’t, he’ll look smart, because everyone will think he knew it. His only way to lose is if Praxigor comes and kills them all. Which we know he won’t.”
Nator’ax nods, his jaw tight. “This is an unusual shaman. He must know that he’s taking a bad risk. It’s the chief we must look to, I think. I know I scared him in the beginning.”
“I think most of them don’t agree with the shaman,” I tell him. “They all looked at you when you used that forge. Are you finished with that?”
He smiles tightly. “Not yet. I just had to check on you. Come along and watch me. Put some fur in your ears. It gets loud.”
We go over to the forge, and the boys look at us with expectation. “Only Viser’ax knows how to make spearheads,” one says. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“Wait and see,” Nator’ax says good-naturedly as he grabs the hammer, and I hurry to fold up some pieces of leather and put them in my ears.
“It’s for your chief. And maybe something for you boys, if you help me, that is.
” He instructs them in how to make two wooden things that he needs, one long shaft and a smaller item that I can’t quite picture.
The boys eagerly run off, so excited that they start to completely ignore me, which suits me fine.
I enjoy watching Nator’ax hammer the iron.
He heats the item he’s making in the fire until it’s red-hot, then hammers it so sparks fly with each stroke.
His muscles flex with each movement, and the contrast between him in the heat and smoke of the forge and the white snow beyond has something primal about it that I feel deep down in my center.
He keeps going for another couple of hours, and I supply a steady stream of water and juice, ignoring the tribe except for the boys.
We may have to get tougher with the men, letting them know and feel that we don’t expect them to survive another week.
Maybe then they’ll get so worried that they let us go.
Nator’ax finally douses the last item he’s made.
It’s one of five small knife blades, while the main product is a fine head of an axe.
He fastens the axe head to the shaft the boys have made, turning it into an axe small enough to be a hatchet for a caveman.
He distributes four of the small blades to the boys, telling them to make knives, and that they have to be rotated among them on a daily basis.
The fifth he takes himself, along with the mysterious stick he had the boys make.
The tribesmen have made some effort trying not to look like they’re curious, but they follow us with their eyes when we walk to the totem pole, where the chief is sitting.
“Chief Hoker’iz of the Gar tribe,” Nator’ax begins, his voice carrying effortlessly across the village.
“I have made this from the iron of the hot springs. It is but a poor example of ironwork, for I have neither the good iron nor the tools to make a tool worthy of even the lowliest of my tribesmen. And yet it will be good enough for you, for no man here has ever seen better.”
I hide a smile behind my hand. He’s insulting them in a way they can’t quite take offense to, because he’s clearly giving them something valuable.
“It is the custom in the jungle,” he continues, turning the hatchet so the afternoon sun catches along its edge, “that a man who visits a friendly tribe brings a gift for the chief. I brought none when I arrived, which may have confused you and made you think that Riley and I are your enemies.” His gaze sweeps the gathered men.
“Now you know we are not, despite your tribe’s shameful treatment of us.
Great Chief, accept this gift from the Borok tribe. ”
He holds out the hatchet with both hands.
Chief Hoker’iz has no choice but to take it. He turns it slowly, testing the weight, running a thumb along the back. “It was made from the iron of the hot springs, you say? Our own iron?”
“No,” Nator’ax says sharply. Then louder: “No! It is not your iron. It is the iron of the Borok tribe.” He steps forward a fraction, his voice rising.
“You are all doomed, even if you had used the iron well and made a hundred swords or spearheads. Your final day approaches! And when it comes, all that remains of your turf will become Borok turf. My tribesmen will take your iron and leave.” He gestures toward the hatchet in the chief’s hands.
“This is a gift from the Borok tribe, made by a Borok man with Borok iron.”
A murmur ripples through the village. There’s no anger in it, only wonder.
His words are precise, a veiled provocation that speaks of great confidence. He doesn’t sound like a captive, but like someone come to save and help. Of course, he’s had all day to shape them, just as he shaped the iron.
Shaman Crelt’ax hurries forward. “It is your final day that approaches,” he snaps. “Only a few days do you have left, outtriber. Trespasser! So the council has said!”
“Your final day,” Nator’ax thunders, cutting across him as if he isn’t there. “All goes under in dragonfire. Everything! Except your spearheads and that hatchet.”
The shaman tries to interrupt again, but Nator’ax’s voice rolls over him, deeper, heavier, impossible to ignore.
“When all else burns,” he continues, each word deliberate, “when wood, leather, furs, tents, and men turn to ash, all that remains will be the iron. It will be forged in dragonfire, turned to the hardest steel in the world.” His gaze locks on the chief.
“Chief Korr’ax will arrive. His men will walk into the ashes.
They will take up that axe head and every spearhead that endures, and they will carry them to the mighty Chief Korr’ax. ”
The village is dead quiet.
“He will see that the axe was made by me, his tribesman, wickedly murdered by the Gar. Perhaps he will let Riley keep the hatchet,” he ponders, looking at me. “For his own sword is already dragon steel.”
The men are exchanging glances. They’ve heard this once before. Now it’s settling in.
The shaman laughs, but it’s thin and strained. “Is this how the jungle men speak? Of dragons that burn whole tribes to ash, and yet obey the commands of men?”
“Your shaman knows,” Nator’ax says. “Only today he asked how the dragon may be controlled.” His gaze shifts to Crelt’ax, sharp as a blade. “Oh, cunning Crelt’ax. The dragon will never let you control him. Forget this folly!”
Another murmur moves through the village, louder this time.
Chief Hoker’iz raises his hand and stands up.
“It’s the second time the outtriber Nator’ax talks about a dragon coming to burn our tribe.
And it is true that he and Riley came to us by strange means.
This makes it more likely that he’s speaking the truth about the dragon.
For where there is one strange thing, there can be more.
And we know that the Plood are the servants of the Darkness, the dragons.
We must know more about this. The Plood ship must be examined.
Tomorrow, I will send men to see what may be found out. ”
Nator’ax bows his head a tiny fraction. “The Gar tribe is blessed with a wise chief. And of course, such a mission would be useless without Riley and me taking part. We shall both prepare.” He sends me a tight smile.
A spark of excitement shoots through me, sudden and bright.
This could actually be our way out. If the Gar men help us push the saucer upright, we can get inside.
I can still picture the controls, the sequence of buttons we pressed before.
I’ve gone over it again and again in my head. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it fly.
“You may prepare for the long walk, warrior,” the chief says firmly. “But Dame Riley stays in the village.”