Page 59 of Caveman Alien's Heat
“How does he call it to him?”
“I don’t know. I try to stay away from the dragon as much as I can. Stop talking about him. I’m afraid.” I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, scanning the sky.
“Are you?” the shaman asks. “Will he kill you too, if he comes?”
“He will kill the Gar tribe only. But he is terrible. I don’t want to see him.”
The ringing of the hammer stops. The sudden silence is almost louder than the noise had been.
The shaman’s gaze flicks behind him, and I don’t have to look around him to know why. Nator’ax is coming.
I feel it before I see it. The change in the air, the way the tribesmen follow him with their eyes.
Then he’s there, one hand on his sword. His expression is neutral.
He stops beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat still radiating off his skin. “Is there a problem?” he asks, his voice just as neutral as his face.
The shaman answers before I can. “There’s no problem, jungle man. We were speaking.”
“When a shaman speaks, it is often good to listen. Was it the dragon, perhaps?”
Their eyes meet, and something passes between them, something tight and sharp and unmistakable.
The shaman’s smile doesn’t fade. “You work with iron, using our forge. You bring noise and change to our village.”
Nator’ax doesn’t look away from him. “I bring what’s useful. While it lasts.”
“You don’t expect the iron you forge to last, then? Or do you mean something else?” The shaman’s eyes narrow, as if he finds it funny.
“The tribe won’t last much longer.” Nator’ax lowers his voice, so that only we can hear. “Days only, if you’re lucky.”
“Someof us have only days left,” the shaman says. “We shall see who it is.”
“The Gar tribe will see nothing more,” Nator’ax says. “I’ve never seen men go so willingly to their deaths. Is it the cold that makes you so passive and pitiful?”
Silence stretches between them, thin as wire. For a moment, I think the shaman will bite and snap something angry. Then he inclines his head again, as if satisfied. “We shall see who has only days left,” he repeats, before he turns and walks away without another word.
I let out a breath. Nator’ax looks down at me. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to know about the dragon. How it works. How to control it.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “And what did you tell him?”
“That only Korr’ax can. I said nothing more.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods once. “It’s better if you keep some distance from him. He is not our friend.”
“I didn’t exactly invite him over,” I mutter.
“Of course.” His gaze shifts to the direction the shaman went, then back to me. “But he will come again. Those are strange questions to ask.”
“If he can,” I say. “But that may be a good sign. He may still believe that the dragon is coming.”
“He may want it to come, so that he can try to conquer it. The death of his tribe may mean nothing to him. He’s willing to risk it.”
“If so,” I think aloud, “it doesn’t matter if the shaman believes in the dragon or not. If the dragon comes, he’ll try to control it. When it doesn’t, he’ll look smart, because everyone will think he knew it. His only way to lose is if Praxigor comes and kills them all. Which we know he won’t.”
Nator’ax nods, his jaw tight. “This is an unusual shaman. He must know that he’s taking a bad risk. It’s the chief we must look to, I think. I know I scared him in the beginning.”
