Page 46 of Caveman Alien's Heat
“They will not need to fight,” I say. “There will be nobody left to oppose them.”
Another hunter, older, with a thick beard rimed with frost, speaks from ahead of us without turning. “The beast,” he says. “The flying one. The one you spoke of.”
“Praxigor the dragon,” I say crisply, so they can all hear. “Indeed, he does fly.” The words carry in the cold air.
The younger man glances upward instinctively, as if expecting to see something vast and terrible circling above us. “It is real?” he asks.
“Heis real,” I confirm. “Your shaman knows it. But he doesn’t fear the dragon the way he should.”
“Can you control it?” he asks.
“Only Chief Korr’ax can control Praxigor. And only for destruction. The dragon can do nothing else. He can only kill.”
That answer unsettles him more than anything else I have said.
“Then why would it come for you?” the scarred man asks.
“Because Korr’ax takes care of his men,” I say. “And the women of his tribe. In truth, the dragon may not come for me. But it will certainly come for Riley. Can you guess why?”
The bearded hunter slows slightly, enough that we draw closer to him. “She’s a woman.”
“She’s a special woman,” I reply. “All women are special. Riley even more so.”
That is vague, and I let it remain vague. Specifics invite doubt. Certainty without detail invites fear.
The younger man is not satisfied. “If it can’t be controlled,” he presses, “then how do you survive it?”
“Oh, that’s easy: you don’t pick a fight with the Borok tribe,” I tell them. “That’s the only way to survive it. Your council decided to be our enemies. That makes you the enemies of Praxigor.”
That quiets him for a time.
We move on. The wind cuts across the ice in long, low gusts. The tracks we follow deepen, the impressions become more pronounced. The dondar is not far ahead. I can see the pattern now, the weight of it, the way it moves, the slight drag of one rear limb. It’s a large Big, and it plainly doesn’t expect to be hunted.
The younger man’s curiosity shifts. His gaze flicks to me again, then away, then back. “The woman,” he says at last. “She is yours.”
I let a moment pass before I answer. “She’s with me. I am to keep her safe.”
“That is not the same,” the scarred man says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not the same as Riley being mine. She hasn’t chosen me.”
The younger man smiles, a little too eagerly. “She is different,” he says. “We have never seen one like her.”
“Of course not. If you had, none of this would have happened. You would have known how to act and what to do. Your tribe might have lived.”
“Will you give her to the tribe?” he asks.
The question is asked lightly, but there is nothing light in the way the others listen for my answer.
I stop walking and let my fingers just touch the hilt of my sword. “What was that, young hunter?”
They take another step before they realize I have not followed, and then they turn back toward me. The wind moves between us, carrying the sound of their breathing, the faint creak of leather and fur.
The young man’s eyes flicker to his friends, realizing that he’s made a mistake. “I only mean?—”
“No,” I state with weight. “Riley will never be a part of your tribe. That was always a dream only, a fantasy. I know what you thinkwill happen. Get rid of the Borok warrior, and then Riley will be yours. Forget that deadly dream, hunters.”
The younger man tilts his head. “You say that as if you can decide.”
