Page 68 of Caveman Alien's Heat
The chief glances at me, as if weighing the lack of argument. “We don’t know what lives in it. We hear them, but no one has seen one and lived.”
I lower my gaze briefly, then look back at the caves. “Then I would not wish to meet them.”
Silence stretches for a moment, filled with the rising howl of the wind.
“The shaman wanted your sword taken from you from the start,” Hoker’iz says as he turns toward the caves. “I saw no reason for that. You seemed an honorable man. But the fifth day is soon here, and a desperate man may do desperate things. The sword is important to you. We shall bury it with you.”
I incline my head a fraction. “As you think best, Chief.”
His shoulders sink a fraction, as if he’s been worried about how I would handle it. “Get inside your cave, warrior. Make the fur shield tight. Any opening will let the storm in. That’s how we lose men. And dying in a Blood Storm is worse than what awaits you from us.”
“I understand.” I don’t move at once. He watches me for a heartbeat longer, then turns and walks away toward the others.
Only then do I move, drawing the fur closer around me. I turn my back and walk over to the stones that mark the edge of the village. All the tents have been taken down. The only things that are left up are the totem pole, the iron forge, and the kilns, which can’t be taken apart.
My sword is in the chief’s hut, guarded by one man. If I were alone here, I’d yank the spear out of his hand, run him through with it, and get my sword. I could attack the others, at least until they killed me, which might not be a long time. Their spears are good, and they know how to use them.
That would be an end appropriate for a warrior. But it would not be a way to keep Riley safe, the way I’ve sworn.
No, I must find another way. A better way. The storm may be just what I need. A Blood Storm, the tribe calls it. And I have heard of those, once, when I was a boy and a traveler spent the night in the village. If his tales were true, then this could work.
The tribesmen are done with their preparations. Everything is dark, and the wind grows steadily, howling through the horns on the totem pole. Layers of heavy skins and furs close the openings to the caves, and not a single crack reveals the fire-lit insides of the caves.
I’ve noticed that the boys of the tribe haven’t assembled in one cave, but are spread through a dozen of them. That’s a real problem for my plan. But we shall see—perhaps they can be spared.
I go to Riley’s cave and quietly place heavy stones on the lower flap, so that it can’t move. The fur is thick and will protect her well.
I place my palm on the soft fur hanging, fighting the urge to go inside, to the warmth, and the wonderful smell of her. But if I go in, she will ask what I’m going to do. Then I either have to admit that I don’t know, or tell her about that terrible thing I will try. Right now, I’d prefer to do neither.
She’s so pure, so innocent in her own way. If I tell her, I know what she would say.
“Goodbye, my love,” I mumble as I stroke one finger along the fur, as if it were her cheek. “Don’t hate me for it.”
I tear myself away and go to the last cave, cold and unused. There’s no hanging closing it off, and the wind blows hard past the opening, making a strong, sucking draft in the air inside.
Again, I pull the fur around me. If it’s my last night, I will go out knowing I kept my word.
19
- Riley-
The wind keeps strengthening, the howls climbing higher, sharper, until they cut through each other in a constant, shrieking chorus. I can’t help but wonder what those gusts are howling around. There aren’t any corners here, no edges for the wind to catch on. Just smooth rock and ice, and yet it sounds like something is being torn apart out there.
Still no Nator’ax.
“Have to eat something,” I mutter. “I’ll need the energy.” My hands feel clumsy as I reach for the pot. I drink a couple of mugs of frit, barely tasting it, then force down some of the stew. I keep pausing, listening between swallows.
Nothing.
The storm builds another notch. The fur hanging jerks and snaps, bowing inward, then slamming back. The screeching is louder now, threading through the wind like something alive.
I glance at the entrance. Any moment now, he’ll come in, ducking through the hanging, shaking snow from his shoulders. Maybe he’s just finishing something. Maybe the chief needed him. Maybe a thousand things. Anything but what I suspect is really happening with him.
Another long stretch passes. Or maybe it’s only a few breaths. It’s impossible to tell anymore.
I add a piece of wood to the fire. Then another. My hands linger over the flames longer than they need to.
Still nothing. The realization presses in slowly, like the cold: he’s not coming.
