Chapter 17
- Riley -
When I get up the next day, the air has changed. The cold has a new sharpness to it, and the air smells more metallic, so much so I imagine I feel it on my tongue. The stillness of the wintry surroundings seems deeper than before, but I can’t place it.
Men are already moving with purpose. Everything is happening faster than it should.
Bundles get carried from one cave to another.
Spears are checked, and then checked again.
The drying racks are taken down, the various dinosaur skulls too.
A pair of hunters who were laughing last night now work in silence, heads tilted as if they’re listening for something far away.
I wrap my arms around myself and watch. “What’s happening?” I ask the nearest man. He’s younger than most, broad-shouldered, with a scar that pulls at one corner of his mouth.
He glances at me, then past me, as if looking for someone else to answer for him. “The air has changed. A storm is coming. From behind the mountains.”
“A storm? More snow?”
He nods once. “Much more snow, but mostly wind. And sometimes more.” He hurries on.
I frown. Sometimes more than wind and snow? Did he mean rain, hail, sleet, frogs?
I turn slowly, taking it all in. The tribe is preparing for something unusual, that’s obvious. It’s efficient and practiced, like they’ve done this many times before and know exactly what to do.
Near the center, a cluster of men gathers around the chief.
He’s giving instructions in a low, steady voice.
People move as soon as he speaks, with no hesitation.
A few paces away, Crelt’ax stands with his followers, his posture loose, almost relaxed.
He says something, and a couple of men laugh under their breath.
I think I heard the word “dragon” in what he said.
When he spots me, the whole group turns and stares.
It’s interesting. There are two groups in the tribe now, and I don’t remember having seen that before.
It’s encouraging, in a way—I think the chief’s group are the level-headed ones, the ones that would prefer to get rid of Nator’ax and me before the dragon comes.
I see Prak’ox among them, and he sends me a little smile when he sees me.
I walk over to him. “What’s going on? Everyone’s looking worried.”
“We think a storm is coming. The signs are all there. See the sky, with a thin layer of mist high up? And Mount Belek has a hood on.” He points.
Indeed, there is a white cloud obscuring the tallest peak that can be seen from the village, while the other mountains look much the same as always. “Is that all?” I ask.
“The air tastes of blood,” Prak’ox says. “I’ve never felt it as strongly as this morning.”
I spot Nator’ax across the open space. He’s moving with the others, carrying a bundle of something wrapped in hide. His steps are measured and unhurried. He looks like he belongs here. That still surprises me, even now. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have his sword anymore.
He doesn’t look at me. Well, he’s busy. Everyone is. But he usually checks, just once, just enough to make sure I’m still there. Now his attention stays fixed on what he’s doing and on where he’s going next.
I take a few steps toward him anyway. “Nator’ax.”
He turns when I’m close enough, his expression settling into something calm and neutral. “You should stay inside,” he says. “The wind will rise soon, they say.”
“That’s it? The wind will rise?”
He shrugs. “I suppose we’ll see what they mean. But they wouldn’t do all this unless there was a good reason.”
I look casually around to check if there’s anyone within earshot. “Have you thought about what that means? A storm?”
His gaze flicks past me, already measuring something else. “If they fear this storm as much as this, then it would likely be deadly to be caught outside the village when it hits.”
So he sees it, too—a storm means chaos, bad visibility, probably a lot of noise, maybe a chance to get away. But it doesn’t fire him up, the way it does me.
“Do you think it would be just as deadly to stay with this tribe, which has already decided to kill you tomorrow?” I ask coldly.
He looks back at me then, properly this time, but whatever I’m searching for isn’t there. “We shall stay with the tribe.”
Something tightens in my chest. “You’re part of the tribe now?”
He looks away. “No. But we are in their hands.”
“Do you remember what you promised?” I ask, uneasy at how flat his voice sounds. “If this all goes badly? Your oath?”
“I don’t have my sword,” he points out.
I draw breath to answer that with something sharp, when a shout cuts across the village.
Nator’ax turns at once. “Go inside the cave. I will bring you food and drink.” He doesn’t wait for my answer, and he doesn’t even check if I move.
I frown as I watch him go. Something’s off. He moves like he’s already decided something, like the rest of this doesn’t matter in the same way anymore. He looks hunched over, and it looks like he’s taking orders from a regular hunter of the tribe.
I look up. The sky has gone a dull, empty gray.
The wind rises slowly at first, as if it’s testing the edges of the village.
It moves through the structures with a low, uneven sound, tugging at hides and loose bindings, slipping through every gap it can find.
The men respond without being told. Entrances are tightened, coverings pulled lower, fires adjusted so the smoke doesn’t choke them once everything is sealed.
I move along the edge of the open space, keeping out of the way, watching how they handle it. There is a rhythm to it, a pattern I’m only just starting to understand. The same men check the same things. The same paths are used to carry supplies. No one gets in anyone else’s way.
A group passes me carrying thick bundles of fur. One of them slows when he sees me. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he says. “When the wind comes stronger, it’ll be difficult to move.”
“I’ll go in soon,” I say. “I want to see how you prepare.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods as if that makes sense. “Stay near the caves. Don’t go beyond the boundary stones.”
I look toward the half-buried boulders that mark the edge of the village and the beginning of the wilderness. “I understand.”
“Beyond them, there’s only death. Nobody will come for you.” He moves on.
M-hm, I think to myself. Sure they won’t.
There may be only death outside the village. But perhaps that’s not the worst way to go. The storm will pass, and after that is the day when they kill Nator’ax. Freezing to death is apparently not that bad—you just fall asleep and never wake up.
A gust of wind sweeps across the village, stronger this time, carrying a fine spray of snow that stings my face.
I turn my back to it and pull my fur tighter.
The sky has lowered, the gray thickening until it presses down on everything.
The mountains in the distance are already fading as their outlines soften.
And yeah, the air does actually carry the metallic taste of blood.
Near the center, the chief is still directing people. His voice is steady and his movements precise. Crelt’ax hasn’t moved far from his place, either. A few men remain with him, watching the sky with an odd kind of anticipation.
“The storm comes,” I hear him say as I pass close enough. “It’ll pass us by, as always. At least we know the dragon won’t come at the same time.”
One of the men nods eagerly. Another glances toward the chief and hesitates.
“How do we know?” the chief says from across the space, without raising his voice. “Something in the secret knowledge, Shaman? The storm always takes someone with it.”
Crelt’ax smiles at that, a thin, knowing expression. “Any shaman knows much that’s hidden from others. It is known that a dragon can fly. But if it were to fly in a Blood Storm, it would perish.”
They both sound pretty sure of themselves. I move on before either of them notices me listening. A Blood Storm? That sounds worse than a regular blizzard.
The wind picks up again, harder now, pushing at my back as I head toward the caves.
It would be easy to disappear into mine, to the warmth, the furs, and the fire, to do exactly what Nator’ax told me to do and wait.
The thought of sitting in the dim warmth while the storm closes in does have its appeal.
But this could be my chance. If this is the moment when things loosen, when attention slips and routines strain, then hiding from it would be a mistake.
I slow near the entrance to the cave we’ve been using and step aside instead of going in. From here, I can see the open space, the boundary stones, and the movement of the tribe as they finish their preparations.
The wind howls louder, and this time it doesn’t fade.
Snow lifts from the ground in twisting sheets, blurring the edges of everything and whipping at my face.
Shapes become uncertain at a distance. Sound carries strangely, stretched thin or swallowed entirely.
The mountains can’t be seen anymore, and the clouds have a blackness in their centers.
I press my hand against the cold stone beside me and watch. If there’s a way out of this place, it won’t come when everything is calm and controlled. It’ll come when something forces these men to choose between holding on and letting go. And we don’t have time to wait for another chance.
The first real blast of wind hits hard enough to make me brace against the stone.
Snow drives sideways, stinging any skin it finds, and the open space of the village starts to shrink as the air fills with white.
Men move faster, finishing what they can, hauling the last bundles inside, checking the bindings on the cave coverings again.
Several of them gather by the totem pole, with the shaman in the middle.
I can’t hear what they say, but it looks like some kind of prayer.