Chapter 26 #2
"I hate this planet," Beth mutters.
"Get in line," I mutter.
The chiefs continue arguing. Every so often one of them points toward a particular girl. Each time it happens, the others object loudly. Whatever arrangement they're trying to reach, nobody seems willing to compromise. Even less so when two more chiefs arrive.
Yep, five chiefs and four girls. That doesn’t work.
For several minutes the dispute goes nowhere. Then one of the warriors near the front bends down and picks up a stone.
I notice the movement immediately.
The man weighs the stone in his hand and glances toward the nearest Plood. He doesn't look especially brave. He looks curious. Like a man testing a fence.
The rock flies through the air and strikes a Plood in the shoulder. The little creature stumbles a step sideways. Then it straightens and resumes staring at the crowd.
Nothing else happens.
The tribesmen murmur among themselves and the warrior looks pleased.
A second man picks up another stone. This one strikes a different Plood in the chest.
Again, nothing happens. The ring holds. The Plood neither retreat nor attack.
I don't like the expressions spreading through the crowd.
A few minutes ago the tribesmen were cautious. Now they're studying the Plood differently. Calculating and maybe reconsidering.
The chiefs notice it too. Their argument begins to fade. One by one they turn their attention toward the circle of small black creatures protecting us.
And suddenly I understand the danger. The uncertainty was keeping us alive. The tribes didn't know what the Plood would do. Now they're starting to think they know.
I stare at the tightening ring of tribesmen and force myself to think. Standing here and hoping for a miracle won't accomplish anything. The Plood have bought us a little time, but that's all they've done.
Beyond their circle, every chief is studying us with the same hungry calculation. They're arguing because they haven't yet agreed on how to divide the prize.
And the prize is us.
My heart is hammering hard enough to make my chest hurt, but I step forward anyway.
The movement immediately draws attention.
Several swords lift. A few warriors shift their footing.
The chiefs stop arguing long enough to look at me, and although the crowd doesn't become quiet, the noise settles into something more focused.
I raise both hands slowly. "Chiefs," I call out in the caveman tongue. "Listen to me."
A few exchange amused looks. One laughs outright. Another folds his arms and waits to hear what sort of foolishness a human female might say. None of them leave, and none of them attack, so I take that as encouragement and keep going.
"Morgan. Borok tribe."
I touch my chest, then gesture toward Beth, Quinn and Abigail. "Women from sky. Guests on Xren."
Finding the words takes effort. I speak the language well enough to survive, but this isn't the sort of conversation I've ever practiced. "You don't attack guests. Guests need protection."
The chiefs listen with varying degrees of patience. One scratches his beard. Another watches Beth so intently that I want to throw something at him. A third appears more interested in the Plood than in anything I have to say. Still, they're listening, and that's more than I expected.
"We come in peace," I continue. "We don't steal from tribes. We don't fight tribes."
For a moment I think I see uncertainty in a few faces. Then one of the chiefs says something that makes the warriors behind him grin. I only catch part of it, but I don't need the whole sentence to understand. Marriage. Children. Women. The usual things.
My stomach tightens. I point around the circle of warriors. "Five tribes." Then I point toward the four girls. "Four women."
Several men begin counting immediately. One chief follows my gesture and frowns. "Five tribes. Four women. Who gets none?"
That question succeeds better than anything else I've said.
The chiefs immediately begin arguing among themselves again.
One points at Abigail. Another jabs a finger toward Quinn.
A third starts shouting over both of them.
The discussion grows louder by the second, and for a brief moment I feel a flicker of hope.
They aren't looking at us anymore. They're looking at each other.
Then an older chief steps forward and silences the others with a sharp gesture. "We will decide." The certainty in his voice sends a chill through me. He isn't debating whether they'll take the women. He's debating how they'll divide them afterward.
I nod slowly and decide to play the strongest card I have. "Chief Korr'ax decides, too."
That gets a reaction. The name moves through the crowd like a ripple through water. Warriors glance at one another. Several chiefs exchange looks. One spits into the dirt and mutters something under his breath.
They know exactly who Chief Korr'ax is. The Borok are large, organized and powerful. Even tribes that hate them respect them.
I take a step forward before the moment can disappear. "Chief Korr'ax protects women. These women belong under Borok protection. If you attack them, Borok tribe comes."
For several seconds nobody speaks. The chiefs are measuring it against whatever they think they'll gain.
Then the oldest chief points toward the girls. "The women are here."
His spear shifts toward the distant horizon. "The Borok are there. On their own turf, where they belong."
A few warriors chuckle. The chief spreads his hands as though explaining something obvious to a child. "When the Borok comes, the women are already wives."
Laughter rolls through the crowd.
The knot in my stomach tightens again. The chiefs aren't denying Korr'ax's strength.
They've simply decided that he won't arrive in time to be a problem. Judging by the expressions around me, every tribe here has reached exactly the same conclusion. And the worst part is that they’re almost certainly right. There’s no sign that the Borok tribe will come for me. I told Praxigor I was fine.
The chiefs reach a decision.
I see it happen before anyone speaks. The arguments begin to die away, not all at once but in pieces.
Spears stop waving. Men who were shouting at each other a moment ago start looking in the same direction.
The older chief lifts his arm and points toward us, and the attention of hundreds of warriors settles on the four women standing behind a thin circle of Plood.
My mouth goes dry.
"Clyde," I whisper.
The misshapen Plood is already staring. Around us, the others have gone completely still. Every huge black eye fixes itself on a tribesman somewhere in the crowd, and for a few seconds nothing seems to happen. Then several warriors in the front rank simply stop moving.
One man remains frozen in mid-step. Another still has his sword raised. A third looks as though somebody carved him from wood and planted him on the hillside.
The effect spreads along the front of the crowd.
More warriors lock in place with every heartbeat until perhaps twenty men stand motionless among their companions.
For a moment confusion ripples through the gathered tribes.
Warriors glance at one another. Several chiefs begin shouting questions.
One man reaches out and shakes a frozen tribesman by the shoulder, but the victim doesn't react in any way.
His eyes remain open and alert while the rest of him stays perfectly still.
Beside me, Beth tightens her grip on my arm. "What did they do?"
"I don't know," I admit.
I've seen the Plood do strange things before. Clyde once shoved images directly into my mind, and they somehow carried messages across half the jungle. Even so, this feels different. The frozen men aren't unconscious. They're trapped inside their own bodies, fully aware and completely helpless.
I suddenly remember the river monster and how it would just watch instead of attack when Clyde stared at it. This could be the same thing.
For a few precious seconds the attack stalls.
Some of the warriors look genuinely frightened.
Others glance toward their chiefs as if waiting for instructions.
I catch myself hoping that the display might be enough.
Perhaps the tribes will decide we're too dangerous. Perhaps they'll back away and leave.
Then one of the chiefs bellows an order: “Get them!”
The hesitation breaks.
Warriors begin spreading out around the frozen men.
The front ranks no longer matter. There are too many attackers.
The Plood can stop twenty men, perhaps a few more if they keep shifting their attention, but there are hundreds gathered on this hillside.
The realization settles over me with awful certainty: They're simply going around them.
The first attackers rush forward from the flanks. Several Plood shift their gaze and more warriors freeze where they stand, but every new victim seems to release another. The strange power has limits, and the tribesmen discover them with terrifying speed.
A spear flashes through the air and punches into a Plood's chest. The creature examines the shaft protruding from its body for a brief moment, as if trying to understand what happened. Then it collapses into the grass.
Another tribesman charges with a sword. A second Plood falls. The rest don't run. They don't fight back. They simply keep staring at the attackers, freezing whoever they can while the surviving warriors close in from every direction.
The circle begins to shrink.
"Clyde, get back here." My voice sounds thin against the deafening noise of the crowd.
Whether he understands the words or merely the urgency behind them, I can't tell.
He remains where he is, staring at a charging warrior until the man freezes three strides away with his spear raised and his face twisted into an expression of rage.