Chapter 18
- Nator’ax -
I pull the fur closer around me, though it still flaps around my ankles. “You really expect this storm to be bad.”
“Can’t you smell the blood?” Chief Hoker’iz asks.
He grips his hunting spear tightly as he peers up at the totem pole.
“There are things in that storm, jungle man. Things that kill. And the storm itself can kill, too. We always lose someone to the storm. Every time. And this one… the smell is strong.”
It really is. The gusts smell like two rekh having fought and killed each other.
I nod slowly. “Then it is best to stay inside.”
The chief glances at me, as if weighing the lack of argument. “We don’t know what lives in it. We hear them, but no one has seen one and lived.”
I lower my gaze briefly, then look back at the caves. “Then I would not wish to meet them.”
Silence stretches for a moment, filled with the rising howl of the wind.
“The shaman wanted your sword taken from you from the start,” Hoker’iz says as he turns toward the caves. “I saw no reason for that. You seemed an honorable man. But the fifth day is soon here, and a desperate man may do desperate things. The sword is important to you. We shall bury it with you.”
I incline my head a fraction. “As you think best, Chief.”
His shoulders sink a fraction, as if he’s been worried about how I would handle it. “Get inside your cave, warrior. Make the fur shield tight. Any opening will let the storm in. That’s how we lose men. And dying in a Blood Storm is worse than what awaits you from us.”
“I understand.” I don’t move at once. He watches me for a heartbeat longer, then turns and walks away toward the others.
Only then do I move, drawing the fur closer around me. I turn my back and walk over to the stones that mark the edge of the village. All the tents have been taken down. The only things that are left up are the totem pole, the iron forge, and the kilns, which can’t be taken apart.
My sword is in the chief’s hut, guarded by one man. If I were alone here, I’d yank the spear out of his hand, run him through with it, and get my sword. I could attack the others, at least until they killed me, which might not be a long time. Their spears are good, and they know how to use them.
That would be an end appropriate for a warrior. But it would not be a way to keep Riley safe, the way I’ve sworn.
No, I must find another way. A better way. The storm may be just what I need. A Blood Storm, the tribe calls it. And I have heard of those, once, when I was a boy and a traveler spent the night in the village. If his tales were true, then this could work.
The tribesmen are done with their preparations. Everything is dark, and the wind grows steadily, howling through the horns on the totem pole. Layers of heavy skins and furs close the openings to the caves, and not a single crack reveals the fire-lit insides of the caves.
I’ve noticed that the boys of the tribe haven’t assembled in one cave, but are spread through a dozen of them. That’s a real problem for my plan. But we shall see—perhaps they can be spared.
I go to Riley’s cave and quietly place heavy stones on the lower flap, so that it can’t move. The fur is thick and will protect her well.
I place my palm on the soft fur hanging, fighting the urge to go inside, to the warmth, and the wonderful smell of her.
But if I go in, she will ask what I’m going to do.
Then I either have to admit that I don’t know, or tell her about that terrible thing I will try. Right now, I’d prefer to do neither.
She’s so pure, so innocent in her own way. If I tell her, I know what she would say.
“Goodbye, my love,” I mumble as I stroke one finger along the fur, as if it were her cheek. “Don’t hate me for it.”
I tear myself away and go to the last cave, cold and unused. There’s no hanging closing it off, and the wind blows hard past the opening, making a strong, sucking draft in the air inside.
Again, I pull the fur around me. If it’s my last night, I will go out knowing I kept my word.