Page 48 of Caveman Alien's Heat
“And you have lost men doing it.”
He bristles at that, but the scarred man raises a hand slightly, silencing him. “What do you suggest?” he asks.
I point toward the narrow path. “We drive it there,” I say. “Into the dip. It will charge. It won’t be able to turn on the hard surface. It may even fall over.”
The bearded hunter frowns. “It will crush anything in front of it.”
“Then we won’t stand in front of it,” I say. “Position yourselves along the sides. Stay out of its path. Let it commit to the charge, and then let the ground take its balance.”
They consider that. “It could work,” the scarred man says slowly. “A hunt can always be improved.”
“That is the wisdom of an experienced man,” I reply. “And unless we try, we’ll never know.”
There’s a moment of silence while they realize that I said something nice, for a change.
Then the scarred man nods. “We try it your way.”
We move quickly, circling wide, using the ridges to hide our approach. Each man takes a position along the sides of the narrow path, just far enough back to avoid the initial charge.
I take the position that will draw its attention. When the dondar sees me, it reacts exactly as I expect. Its head lifts, and its body shifts. Then it charges.
The ground trembles under its weight as it comes at me, faster than something that size should be able to move. I wait until the last moment, until its focus is absolute, and then I move, stepping aside and back, out of its direct path.
The moment its weight carries it onto the hard-packed surface of the dip, its footing changes. Its massive legs struggle for purchase on the slick ice. It can’t stop, but it also can’t turn.
It slips. The fall lacks all grace. It crashes forward, its momentum carrying it down and onto its side. The impact shakes the ground so hard a hunter falls over.
“Now!” the scarred man shouts. The hunters move in from the sides, spears driving down toward the exposed underside, toward the softer flesh beneath the heavy plating of its hide. I move with them, striking my sword where it matters, where the hide thins near the neck.
The dondar thrashes, but its position works against it. It can’t rise quickly enough. It can’t bring its full strength to bear. Within moments, it is over.
The great body stills, its breath leaving it in a long, shuddering exhale that fades into silence.
For a few seconds, no one speaks.
Then the younger man lets out a sharp laugh, half disbelief, half exhilaration. “That was almost too easy!”
I grin. “Well done! And no injuries!”
The scarred man looks at me, something new in his expression. “You have done this before.”
I replace my sword. “Similar things. In the jungle, hunts are deadly. If we can make them less so, that’s the way we choose.”
“Prak’ox says that it would be folly to kill a good hunter,” a young man says.
“Perhaps Prak’ox should lead the tribe,” I suggest, “and not the shaman.”
The men look at me and nod. Respect is a dangerous thing. It changes how they see me. It makes me more than a stranger. It makes me something they can use, something they can value, something they may not want to lose.
That could buy time for Riley and me. It could also change the outcome, although I doubt it.
We begin the work of cutting the carcass into pieces, preparing it to be carried home. The long spears are used to make a crude sled that can be dragged with the meat on it.
The mood is different now. Lighter, but also more focused. They speak to me more directly, more openly.
“If you stayed,” the younger man says, “you would lead hunts like this.”
“I will not stay,” I reply. “Banish that from your mind, hunter. The dragon will burn you all. I regret that now, for the Gar men are clearly skilled hunters.”
