Page 60 of Caveman Alien's Heat
“I think most of them don’t agree with the shaman,” I tell him. “They all looked at you when you used that forge. Are you finished with that?”
He smiles tightly. “Not yet. I just had to check on you. Come along and watch me. Put some fur in your ears. It gets loud.”
We go over to the forge, and the boys look at us with expectation. “Only Viser’ax knows how to make spearheads,” one says. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“Wait and see,” Nator’ax says good-naturedly as he grabs the hammer, and I hurry to fold up some pieces of leather and put them in my ears. “It’s for your chief. And maybe something for you boys, if you help me, that is.” He instructs them in how tomake two wooden things that he needs, one long shaft and a smaller item that I can’t quite picture. The boys eagerly run off, so excited that they start to completely ignore me, which suits me fine.
I enjoy watching Nator’ax hammer the iron. He heats the item he’s making in the fire until it’s red-hot, then hammers it so sparks fly with each stroke. His muscles flex with each movement, and the contrast between him in the heat and smoke of the forge and the white snow beyond has something primal about it that I feel deep down in my center.
He keeps going for another couple of hours, and I supply a steady stream of water and juice, ignoring the tribe except for the boys. We may have to get tougher with the men, letting them know and feel that we don’t expect them to survive another week. Maybe then they’ll get so worried that they let us go.
Nator’ax finally douses the last item he’s made. It’s one of five small knife blades, while the main product is a fine head of an axe. He fastens the axe head to the shaft the boys have made, turning it into an axe small enough to be a hatchet for a caveman. He distributes four of the small blades to the boys, telling them to make knives, and that they have to be rotated among them on a daily basis. The fifth he takes himself, along with the mysterious stick he had the boys make.
The tribesmen have made some effort trying not to look like they’re curious, but they follow us with their eyes when we walk to the totem pole, where the chief is sitting.
“Chief Hoker’iz of the Gar tribe,” Nator’ax begins, his voice carrying effortlessly across the village. “I have made this from the iron of the hot springs. It is but a poor example of ironwork, for I have neither the good iron nor the tools to make a toolworthy of even the lowliest of my tribesmen. And yet it will be good enough for you, for no man here has ever seen better.”
I hide a smile behind my hand. He’s insulting them in a way they can’t quite take offense to, because he’s clearly giving them something valuable.
“It is the custom in the jungle,” he continues, turning the hatchet so the afternoon sun catches along its edge, “that a man who visits a friendly tribe brings a gift for the chief. I brought none when I arrived, which may have confused you and made you think that Riley and I are your enemies.” His gaze sweeps the gathered men. “Now you know we are not, despite your tribe’s shameful treatment of us. Great Chief, accept this gift from the Borok tribe.”
He holds out the hatchet with both hands.
Chief Hoker’iz has no choice but to take it. He turns it slowly, testing the weight, running a thumb along the back. “It was made from the iron of the hot springs, you say? Our own iron?”
“No,” Nator’ax says sharply. Then louder: “No! It is not your iron. It is the iron of the Borok tribe.” He steps forward a fraction, his voice rising. “You are all doomed, even if you had used the iron well and made a hundred swords or spearheads. Your final day approaches! And when it comes, all that remains of your turf will become Borok turf. My tribesmen will take your iron and leave.” He gestures toward the hatchet in the chief’s hands. “This is a gift from the Borok tribe, made by a Borok man with Borok iron.”
A murmur ripples through the village. There’s no anger in it, only wonder.
His words are precise, a veiled provocation that speaks of great confidence. He doesn’t sound like a captive, but like someone come to save and help. Of course, he’s had all day to shape them, just as he shaped the iron.
Shaman Crelt’ax hurries forward. “It isyourfinal day that approaches,” he snaps. “Only a few days do you have left, outtriber. Trespasser! So the council has said!”
“Your final day,” Nator’ax thunders, cutting across him as if he isn’t there. “All goes under in dragonfire. Everything! Except your spearheads and that hatchet.”
The shaman tries to interrupt again, but Nator’ax’s voice rolls over him, deeper, heavier, impossible to ignore.
“When all else burns,” he continues, each word deliberate, “when wood, leather, furs, tents, and men turn to ash, all that remains will be the iron. It will be forged in dragonfire, turned to the hardest steel in the world.” His gaze locks on the chief. “Chief Korr’ax will arrive. His men will walk into the ashes. They will take up that axe head and every spearhead that endures, and they will carry them to the mighty Chief Korr’ax.”
The village is dead quiet.
“He will see that the axe was made by me, his tribesman, wickedly murdered by the Gar. Perhaps he will let Riley keep the hatchet,” he ponders, looking at me. “For his own sword is already dragon steel.”
The men are exchanging glances. They’ve heard this once before. Now it’s settling in.
The shaman laughs, but it’s thin and strained. “Is this how the jungle men speak? Of dragons that burn whole tribes to ash, and yet obey the commands of men?”
“Your shaman knows,” Nator’ax says. “Only today he asked how the dragon may be controlled.” His gaze shifts to Crelt’ax, sharp as a blade. “Oh, cunning Crelt’ax. The dragon will never let you control him. Forget this folly!”
Another murmur moves through the village, louder this time.
Chief Hoker’iz raises his hand and stands up. “It’s the second time the outtriber Nator’ax talks about a dragon coming to burn our tribe. And it is true that he and Riley came to us by strange means. This makes it more likely that he’s speaking the truth about the dragon. For where there is one strange thing, there can be more. And we know that the Plood are the servants of the Darkness, the dragons. We must know more about this. The Plood ship must be examined. Tomorrow, I will send men to see what may be found out.”
Nator’ax bows his head a tiny fraction. “The Gar tribe is blessed with a wise chief. And of course, such a mission would be useless without Riley and me taking part. We shall both prepare.” He sends me a tight smile.
A spark of excitement shoots through me, sudden and bright. This could actually be our way out. If the Gar men help us push the saucer upright, we can get inside. I can still picture the controls, the sequence of buttons we pressed before. I’ve gone over it again and again in my head. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it fly.
“Youmay prepare for the long walk, warrior,” the chief says firmly. “But Dame Riley stays in the village.”
