Page 22 of Caveman Alien's Heat
The man assigned to the saucer kicks at the ashes in the crevasse. “Strange place for a fire.”
“Will it fly away again?” Prak’ox asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. Warrior Prak’ox, can you see that we are not dressed for cold weather? Can you see that we do not want to be on ice, on your turf?”
He barks a command, and two of his hunting party shrug off their long furs. One drapes his over my shoulders, almost making my knees buckle with its weight. The other tries the same with Nator’ax, but he just snarls and shrugs the thing off him. “I won’t wear the fell of a tribe who won’t trust me to not run like a scared visk pup!”
Prak’ox shrugs.
There’s a great deal of yelling and activity from the crevasse where the stoka fell. After a while, men climb back up carrying two enormous curved horns and several slabs of thick fur.
“You may not have meant to hunt it, but it was a good hunt even so,” one of the men says. “It’s rare to conquer a stoka. Who shall own the tusks?”
“The tribe that owns the turf,” Prak’ox says easily. “We’re ready.”
The hunters start walking.
And we go with them across the frozen world.
7
- Nator’ax-
The wind moves slowly across the glacier, dragging long veils of powdered ice across the hard surface. The snow whispers against the ground like dry sand.
I walk among the Gar hunters with steady steps, the cord around my wrists loose enough that it barely presses against my skin. They have bound me out of caution, not hostility. Any warrior can recognize the difference. Letting me keep the sword is also a clear sign: they assume I am a man of honor who will accept their authority on their turf.
Riley walks a short distance ahead of me. Her hands are tied as well, though the hunters have not been cruel about it. The cord allows her arms to move enough that she can keep her balance. Even so, the glacier is not kind to someone who did not grow up upon ice.
She slips. Her boot skids sideways, and she makes a small startled sound as her feet slide out from under her.
One of the Gar hunters immediately reaches out and catches her by the upper arm before she can fall. He steadies her with surprising gentleness for a warrior who carries a spear large enough to kill a stoka. And yet a sudden fire sparks in me, resenting his touch on her.
In two steps I am alongside, pushing the Gar man away with my bulk. “It’s your own fault, warrior. It’s hard to keep balance with her hands tied.”
Riley exhales sharply and laughs under her breath. “Ground is very slip,” she says, searching for the word. “Ice is tricky.”
“You must place your feet flatter,” the warrior says from the other side of me. “Ice rewards patience.”
Riley nods as if this is valuable wisdom. “I try not to die walking,” she replies.
The hunter frowns slightly, clearly uncertain whether she is joking, but he says nothing more.
I give her a little smile to show that I got the joke, and she rewards me with a conspiratorial grin and a roll of her eyes. That sends warmth through me and brightens my mind. I think we can deal with this tribe.
We continue walking, me right next to Riley. As we move, I study the Gar hunters carefully. They are disciplined men. That much becomes clear long before we have traveled far. Their formation shifts constantly: two hunters moving ahead, others drifting along the flanks, the rest trailing behind us. They adjust to the terrain, watching the ridges of ice and the shadowed cracks where crevasses might hide.
They are ice hunters, and so their movement is different from the warriors of jungle tribes. In the jungle, a hunter moves lightly and quickly between the trees. On the glacier, much of the danger lies beneath your feet. A careless step can mean death. The Gar walk with shorter strides and lower balance. Their knees remain slightly bent. Their weight shifts slowly from one foot to the next, ready to shift back if the ground were to suddenly give.
Their weapons interest me as well. Each man carries a long spear tipped with a narrow iron point reinforced with metal. The design is meant for piercing thick hide rather than slicing. But with their length, they are clearly used for hunting Bigs on open plains, not in a dense jungle. A sword would be of limited use here, where they can comfortably stay at a distance. But in a war against another tribe, they might struggle to win against swordsmen. Perhaps there are no other tribes nearby.
White stripes stretch across their chests and shoulders in horizontal bands. They look remarkably well suited for this white landscape.
But I must think about the future. There is a chance we cannot get the saucer to work again. Tipping it over should be possible, but after that, it may not work. And even if it does, it might dump us somewhere worse than this. There are many things that are unknown.
I test the cord around my wrists again as we walk. The knot is secure, but the hunter who tied it left enough space that I could easily slip my hands free if I wished. The Gar understand that a warrior does not like to be bound tightly. It is a small gesture of respect, I suppose, a sign that they are simply doing what their rules say they must, while at the same time showing me that they trust my word.
If I choose to escape, I could free myself within moments. My gaze moves across the hunters around us. Fifteen warriors. All of them experienced hunters. All of them accustomed to this terrain. But possibly not used to fighting a swordsman.
