Chapter 23 #2
“Sorry I didn’t tell you, my love. But I worried that you might throw him out or do something else to him. I know how tribesmen feel about the Plood.”
The saucer steadies in the air. Below us, the Gar men don’t scatter right away. They hesitate, shifting, gripping their spears, as if trying to decide whether this is a spirit to worship or a weapon about to strike them down.
Nator’ax hasn’t moved closer. His body is rigid behind me, his attention locked on the Plood with a predator’s focus.
I can feel the calculation in him, the instinct to act, to eliminate what he doesn’t trust. But he doesn’t move.
He knows, as well as I do, that the thing he distrusts is the only reason we’re still breathing.
“It’s all right,” I say as soothingly as I can. “We can’t get home without him.”
Nator’ax finally tears his gaze from the Plood alien and looks at the screens. “Is that where we’re going now?”
“First you need your sword,” I tell him. “And I think the Gar tribe will give it back if you arrive like this.”
He touches his hip, where the sword should hang. “I have no weapon now. If they disagree, we may be in the same trouble as before.”
“We’ll try something before we land,” I promise. “And it looks like we’re getting close. Slow down!”
In the distance I spot the wide rock with the caves, nearing fast. The saucer does slow down, and I start looking for a place to land.
“Fly closer to that pole,” I instruct the Plood, idly wondering how it can understand what I’m saying. But I don’t really care that much - the saucer is a mystery and will likely always be one. But I know something it can do. “Now stop, Hover here.”
The saucer hovers a hundred feet above the village. Below us, the Gar men spill out of their caves, some half-dressed, some already armed, all of them staring upward. The common circle fills quickly. Spears are raised, but not thrown. No one quite knows what they are facing.
“Destroy that,” I command, pointing at the screen.
A heartbeat later, a flash answers me. The totem pole explodes into splinters and fire. The crack echoes across the rock as burning fragments rain down into the circle.
For a moment, no one moves. Then the shouting starts. Men scramble back, some dropping to their knees, others dragging each other away from the flames. A few stand frozen, staring at the fire and the saucer as if it might speak.
“Land there,” I say, pointing to the center of the circle. “Turn so the hatch faces the rock.”
The saucer descends slowly and deliberately, a controlled lowering, like a predator choosing where to place its weight. The Gar men retreat step by step, opening a space for it. Their formation breaks without a word.
When the hull settles a few feet above the ground, the hum deepens, filling the air. Smoke from the burning totem drifts past the screens.
I glance at Nator’ax. “Shall we try?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze sweeps the circle, measuring distance, counting men, reading posture. When he speaks, his voice is low. “You stay inside. If they rush, you burn them.”
Then he turns and moves to the hatch. It opens with a hiss that cuts through the noise below.
Nator’ax steps out.
The reaction is immediate. Several men flinch back. One raises his spear, then lowers it again when nothing strikes him down.
“Chief of the Gar tribe!” Nator’ax calls, his voice carrying easily across the circle. “Come forward.”
There is a pause before Chief Hoker’iz steps in from the edge of the gathering. He moves slowly, deliberately, stopping well outside striking distance. His eyes flick from Nator’ax to the hovering saucer and back again.
“Warrior Nator’ax,” he says. “You return.”
Nator’ax stands with his hands empty, his posture relaxed in a way that somehow makes him look more dangerous. “I don’t return. I have come to claim what is mine.”
The chief’s gaze hardens. “You fled our judgment.”
“I rejected your false justice,” Nator’ax replies. “And now I stand above you with power you don’t understand. Hand me my sword.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered men.
The chief glances at the burning remains of the totem pole. “That was the center of our tribe. Carved by our Ancestors. You destroy it and expect-”
“I know what a totem pole is,” Nator’ax cuts him off. “And only a tribe with honor deserves one. It is my judgment that this tribe has none.”
The chief holds his gaze. Around him, the men shift, uncertain, glancing between the saucer and Nator’ax.
Nator’ax takes a single step forward. “If you refuse, I will do more than burn wood. I will break your caves, scatter your people, and leave this place empty. You have seen a fraction of what I can command. You will have no tribe.”
The threat hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable.
The chief exhales slowly, then turns his head.
He barks a command. One of the men runs to a nearby cave, disappearing inside.
The rest hold their ground, but none step forward.
When the man returns, he carries the sword belt with both hands, as if it weighs more than it should. He hesitates at the edge of the circle.
“Bring it,” Nator’ax says.
The man approaches, each step careful, then stops several feet away.
“Closer.”
The man swallows and obeys, lowering the belt to the ground.
“Place it at my feet.”
He does, then backs away quickly.
Nator’ax waits until he has retreated before bending to pick it up. He fastens the belt around his waist with practiced ease, then draws the sword halfway, inspecting the edge. The blade catches the light of the burning totem.
Satisfied, he slides it back into place.
“I will inform my chief,” he says as he lifts his gaze to the Gar leader again, “the renowned warrior Korr’ax, master of the jungle, commander of the dragon Praxigor and owner of many flying saucers, that the Gar tribe has chosen its path.”
A ripple of unease passes through the gathered men.
“What happens next,” Nator’ax continues, “will depend on whether he believes you worthy of mercy. Perhaps you can imagine what my advice to him shall be.”
The chief says nothing this time, but even on the saucer’s screen, he looks paler than before.
Nator’ax holds his gaze a moment longer, then turns his back on him without another word and walks toward the open hatch. No one moves to stop him.
He steps inside. The hatch closes with a sharp hiss, sealing us away from the noise, the smoke, and the eyes below.
“Go up,” I command the Plood. “High up. Then back to the Borok village.”
The saucer lifts, smooth and effortless, and the village falls away beneath us. The fire dwindles to a smear of orange against the snow, then to nothing at all. Only the white wastes remain, endless and clean, as if none of it ever happened.
I let out a breath. I’m light as a feather from relief as I lean back into Nator’ax.
He’s right there, solid and warm, his arm coming around me without hesitation this time.
The tension in him is still there, coiled and watchful, but it’s no longer aimed at me.
I feel his hand settle at my side, firm, certain, as if he needs to remind himself that I’m still here.
“We made it,” I murmur.
“Barely,” he rumbles. “But it was good enough.” His voice has lost its edge, softened into something I’ve only heard in the rare moments when he lets his guard down. “And we will not be separated again.”
I turn in his arms, pressing closer, needing the contact.
The cold, the fear, the storm, the threat of death…
it all falls away in the steady hum of the saucer and the heat between us.
For the first time since this began, there is nothing pressing in on us.
No tribe. No storm. No immediate threat to our lives.
Just us.
I rest my forehead against his, closing my eyes for a moment. “Next time,” I say softly, “we do things the easy way.”
A faint breath of amusement escapes him. “Next time? What are you planning, my love?”
I frown up at him. “Oh, you think I planned this? With the ice and the snow and the Blood Storm? And the saucer landing exactly on its side in a crack? Freezing to death in the cold?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Did you?”
I slap his massive chest. “Obviously not! But I’m sure we’ll find something crazy to do. We don’t need a plan for that.”
He studies me for a moment. “We have faced death together. More than once. Each time, I chose you. And each time, you chose me.” His hand comes up, rough and warm against my cheek. “I will keep choosing you. As long as I live.”
My breath catches. For a second I can’t think, can’t move. The world outside the saucer might as well not exist.
He searches my face, as if the answer already matters more than anything else. “Riley. I want you to be my wife.”
For a second, everything inside me goes completely still.
“Will you marry me?”