Page 37 of Caveman Alien's Heat
The councilmen are visibly shaken after Nator’ax’s performance. But this isn’t over. That shaman is going to argue against us.
The chief slowly stands up. “The council will decide what shall now be done.”
Hunters with spears lead us over to the common table while the council stays and starts their discussion. I can’t hear what’s being said, but I hear the shaman’s voice a lot, and the chief’s.
As we sit down, Prak’ox comes over with two big mugs that smell of frit, that wine-like brew that they make from fruit. “Whatever the council decides, it is the time for a strong drink.”
“You are an honorable man, Hunter Prak’ox,” Nator’ax says. “If the council makes the wrong decision, I highly recommend you leave the tribe. Before disaster strikes.”
“If disaster is to strike, I will go where my tribe goes,” the Gar man replies. “Perhaps our spears are good against a dragon after all.”
“They are not,” Nator’ax says calmly. “But you can always hope to be among the first to burn. Perhaps the dragon will be merciful and use his full flame, turning you to a puff of smoke on the spot.”
Prak’ox goes pale. He draws breath to speak, but thinks better of it and walks away.
“They must know,” Nator’ax says to me, continuing the act because we can’t speak privately here, with six hunters pointing their spears at us from five feet away. “If I was wrong to reveal our tribe’s secret, then it will make no difference.”
I take a sip of the frit and wipe my lips. “It is a fine tribe,” I agree. I recognize that we should work on the whole tribe, not just the councilmen. “It would be a pity if they decide the wrong thing because they didn’t know about him. And yet, if they do, we shall both be received with honor by our Ancestors.”
A coldness goes through me when I say the words. Because I wasn’t kidding about asking Nator’ax to kill me first. There’s no chance I’ll submit to being a sex slave for these guys. I’d rather die. And there’s a good chance my life has entered its final half hour.
I pull Nator’ax’s head down to me. “You’re good,” I mutter in his ear. “Very good talker. If this doesn’t go well, you did better than anyone could expect. Thank you for that. And for all of it. I had a good time with you. I was… happy.”
He puts his massive arm around my shoulder. “We’re not dead yet.” He looks around in a way that tells me he’s thinking of escape.
Time stretches and becomes something brittle that might snap at any moment. The voices at the council fire rise and fall, too low to make out, but sharp enough to carry tension. Every now and then, the shaman’s voice cuts through the murmur, dry and insistent. I feel it like a finger tracing down my spine. He’s heard more and more, while the chief’s voice has gone still.
I wrap both hands around the mug of frit, more for something to hold than for the drink itself. My fingers are steady. That surprises me.
“I thought I would be shaking more,” I whisper.
Nator’ax doesn’t look at me. His eyes are on the council, on the men who are deciding whether we live or die, and on the darkness beyond the firelight. “You’re strong.”
“That’s not it.” I swallow. “I think my mind hasn’t caught up yet.”
A hunter moves closer. His spear dips, then steadies again, never leaving us. Always there. Always ready, along with his friends. They are just as aware as we are that we might want to escape from this.
I lower my voice further. “If it’s bad, you remember the oath.”
His hand touches the hilt of his sword. “You think I can forget?”
I look up. The starry sky is much clearer here than on the beach. There’s too much humidity close to the ocean. Here, every point of light just barely twinkles. Some of the constellations are the same as seen from Earth, and some are new. Just to remind me that this is an alien sky on an alien planet.
It’s not bad going, I suppose. We made it for years on a planet this hostile. It’s something to be proud of. And if this is the end, then at least I won’t have to deal with that damn jungle again.
The chief stands up and walks over, all eyes on him. Butterflies take off in my stomach.
“The council of the Gar tribe has reached a decision,” the chief says, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. “You will come and hear it.”
There’s something tight about his mouth when his gaze settles on me. It’s not quite a smile, but not anger either. I cling to that sliver of ambiguity as if it might save my life.
Nator’ax rises first, pulling me up with him. The hunters move around us, spears still raised, and we’re escorted back toward the council fire. The seven men are seated as before. The shaman doesn’t look at us. His head is bowed, his expression hidden. That has to be good. Ithasto be.
We stop a few paces in front of them. Nator’ax looks past the council, tense as scouts for an exit if this goes the wrong way.
“The Gar tribe accepts,” Chief Hoker’iz begins, “that you are guilty of trespassing on Gar hunting grounds. However…” He pauses, letting his gaze move between us. “We also accept that you did not do so with intent.”
A breath loosens in my chest, but it doesn’t get far.
