Page 45 of Caveman Alien's Heat
- Nator’ax-
The cold doesn’t bother me as much as I thought.
I still feel it, of course. The air bites at my face, creeps through seams in the fur cloak they lent me. It presses against skin and bone. But it doesn’t slow me, and it doesn’t distract me. What distracts me is behind me.
I know better than to look back at the village as I leave with the hunting party. A man who keeps turning around is a man who doesn’t belong where he is walking. Still, I know exactly where she is. I can see the cave in my mind, the angle of the entrance, the way the wind curls past it. I can imagine her standing there, watching us go.
Leaving her here is risky. I see how the shaman looks at her. But leaving her is also necessary.
The men spread out as we move onto the open ice. They don’t march in single line, the way we would in the jungle, but there is order in their spacing. Each man keeps enough distance to movefreely, but not enough to lose sight of the others. They know this land. They know how to move across it without wasting strength. I would prefer to not leave these tracks in the ice and snow, but I assume they won’t last long.
Their weapons are functional for their use. Their spears are tipped with iron, some better forged than others. I spot knives of bone and flint, worn but cared for. Their furs are layered intelligently, patched where needed, and reinforced where it matters most. There is a great deal of care taken with it all, securing themselves against the cold the way I would secure myself against certain venomous Tinies in the jungle. Of course, here any Big can be spotted a long way away.
These men may not be Borok, but they aren’t weak. That makes this more complicated.
A man with a heavy build and a pale scar across his jaw slows his pace until he walks beside me. His eyes move over me without hiding the assessment. “You walk like a hunter,” he says. “Even on ground that isn’t yours.”
“I am a warrior,” I reply. “And a warrior must sometimes hunt. The ground doesn’t change that.”
He huffs out a breath that might be amusement. “You will find that this ground changes more than you think.”
“I’m sure it does. Sometimes it’s slippery, sometimes it’s dry. The hunter must change the way he walks on it.”
Another man moves closer on my other side. He is younger, leaner, with the restless energy of someone who hasn’t yet learned patience. His eyes are sharp and curious. “They say you come from a place with no ice. Is that true?”
I tense up, keeping a bit of distance. I remember Riley’s words, but if these men try to kill me, they’ll find it harder than they suspected. “It is true. There’s never snow in the jungle. Never ice. It has snowed, but the snow melts within a few heartbeats.”
He looks out over the frozen expanse, as if trying to imagine it. “Then how do you track anything?”
I gesture ahead of us, toward the faint depressions in the snow that the others are following. “You look for what doesn’t belong,” I tell him. “Here, the snow shows you everything. There, you learn to see without it: broken branches, disturbed ground, and silence where there should be noise.”
He considers that, then nods slowly. “That sounds harder.”
“It is different,” I say. “Difficulty depends on what you are used to.”
The scarred man glances at me again. “And what are you used to?”
I meet his gaze without turning my head. “Winning battles.”
That earns a low chuckle from somewhere behind us, but it also sharpens the attention on me. They are measuring me. They have been measuring me since I arrived. Every word, every movement, and every decision adds to the shape they are building in their minds.
I let them build it, because perhaps I can make their minds serve me.
We follow the tracks across the ice for some time before the questions begin in earnest.
The younger man speaks first. “Prak’ox says your people will come for you,” he says. “That they will cross the ice.”
“They will,” I answer. “They will fly here in saucers.”
“How many?” he asks.
“As many as are needed.”
He frowns. “Don’t you know?”
“It is the only answer that matters,” I say. “If a small group is enough, a small group will come. If it is not, then more will follow. But you want numbers? Chief Korr’ax will bring… I think a hundred and fifty men in the first wave. Then the saucers will go back for more warriors, if needed. But it won’t be needed.”
The scarred man’s expression hardens slightly. “They must still fight,” he says. “Both us and the land. This land kills those who do not respect it.”
