Page 24 of Caveman Alien's Heat
I think that she may be overdoing it. We do not want them to take my sword away and tie me properly. But she is right—it would be better for us if these men held me in some respect.
“I am not waging war on you, man of Gar,” I state. “But pray to your Ancestors that you do not cross the Borok tribe and our chief, the mighty Korr’ax. Or the Tretter tribe, of which he is also the chief.”
“Chief of two tribes?” Prak’ox asks. “Surely no man can be that capable. Unless both tribes are weak.”
“Our chief is strong and has strong men to do his orders,” Riley counters. “Strong men like Warrior Nator’ax.”
We walk in silence again after that. As my body settles into the rhythm of the march, my thoughts drift back to the night before.
The memory returns with uncomfortable clarity: the small interior of the saucer, the dim light reflecting from its smooth walls, the cold pressing in from every side, and Riley pressed against me.
Her body was warm despite the freezing air. Soft in ways that the bodies of warriors are not. When she curled against my chest, seeking warmth, every instinct in my body had sharpened. And my manhood went rock hard all by itself.
I told myself it was merely a practical arrangement. Two bodies share heat more efficiently than one. But that explanation became difficult to maintain when she lifted her face toward mine and pressed her lips briefly against my mouth.
The gesture was quick, almost playful. Yet the memory of it continues to burn in my thoughts. Oh, if I could only follow my wishes…
I shift my shoulders slightly as we walk, irritated with myself. My oath remains unchanged.
But the Gar tribe has never seen a woman. Very few tribes have. If they believe Riley is some kind of gift from the sky, and that she should belong to them…
My gaze moves across the hunters again. Fifteen warriors. An entire tribe waits beyond the next ridge. If the chief is not a reasonable man, this could turn ugly. And even if he has common sense, he may be bound by tribal law.
The land begins to rise beneath our feet. At first the change is gradual, and the landscape slopes upward toward a ridge of darkstone that cuts through the ice like the spine of some ancient creature. The Gar hunters adjust their path, guiding us toward a narrow pass where the wind has carved the snow down to hard blue ice.
I recognize the terrain immediately. It is an approach that can be easily defended. The ridge blocks the worst of the wind, and anyone traveling across the icy wastes would be forced to pass through this narrow opening. A small group of hunters could watch this route easily. The Gar have chosen their home well.
Riley breathes harder as we climb. Her steps grow slower, and several times the hunter beside her steadies her again when the ice shifts beneath her boots.
“This place very cold forever?” she asks after a while.
“I would assume so,” I reply. “Or perhaps they have a summer. I hope we shall never know.”
She glances around at the endless white landscape. “I miss trees.”
“I understand the feeling.”
The hunters ahead of us crest the ridge first. One of them raises a hand, signaling the others. Their formation tightens slightly as we approach the top. A moment later we reach the ridge.
The Gar village spreads out in front of us. And while I have seen maybe four different villages in my day, I pause for a moment to study this one. It is larger than I expected.
Where the glacier presses against the stone ridge, the Gar have carved deep shelters into the rock itself. Wide cave mouths open along the base of the cliff, their entrances reinforced with thick walls of stacked ice blocks. Smoke rises from several of theseopenings, drifting upward in thin gray columns before the wind carries it away.
Lower on the slope, circular pits have been dug into the ice and lined with stone. Fires burn within them, their flames protected from the wind by curved walls of packed snow. Racks of drying hides stand nearby, stretched tight between bone frames. Yes, wood is a rarity here and must mostly be used as fuel for fires.
Weapons are everywhere. Spears lean in bundles beside the cave entrances. Long throwing harpoons made from bone hang from wooden racks. Heavy axes with heads carved from dark stone rest near the fire pits, more tools than weapons.
The trophies catch my attention next. Massive horns curve upward from the edges of the village. The huge skulls of stoka have been mounted on poles driven deep into the ice, their enormous jaws frozen open as if they are still roaring.
This is a powerful tribe, in control of their cold surroundings.
The hunters begin ascending toward the settlement. As we move up the slope, figures emerge from the caves below. At first only a few warriors step outside, drawn by the return of the hunting party. Then more follow: elders with gray in their hair, younger hunters carrying tools, and several boys who have not yet reached full warrior height, nor been through the Stripening.
They are speaking casually at first. Then someone sees Riley, and the conversation stops.
One of the warriors near the nearest fire pit stares at her for several seconds, as if his mind refuses to understand what his eyes are showing him. He takes a slow step forward, mouth open in astonishment.
Others begin to notice. Heads turn, and voices fade. Within moments the entire lower half of the village is silent.
