“I have.” He doesn't say anything else. But I can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds himself rigid even while I'm practically wrapped around him. And of course, there’s a hard poking at my lower back. I play with the thought of innocently reaching back there and asking what that is, but it would be too blatant, and I don’t want to embarrass him.
I actually don’t really know what I want. Although there must be a reason why all the girls who are married to cavemen are so happy. The hints I’ve picked up indicate that they’re all being takenreallywell care of. In every way. And nobody can blame a girl for being curious.
Sleep eventually takes us both.
Morning light glows through the viewing walls when I wake.
Nator’ax is already sitting upright beside me. “Something's coming,” he says, staring at the screens.
I push myself up and follow his gaze out through the transparent wall. At first, I think the shapes moving across the glacier are rocks. Then they move again. People. A group of them.
“They look… big,” I say.
“They are tribesmen,” Nator’ax replies. “As big as me.”
The figures grow clearer as they approach. They are tall men wrapped in heavy furs, carrying spears and bone-tipped weapons. Pale, white stripes cover their arms.
They walk directly toward the saucer.
“They saw the smoke,” I whisper.
“Possibly. It’s also possible this is where they walk anyway.”
“Should we run?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks. “This is their hunting ground. If we run, they will chase us. Some tribes allow others to tread on their turf. We’re not here by choice. We will talk to them and hope that they are honorable men.”
We make our way out of the saucer and stand in front of it. Nator’ax keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword. For all the good it’ll do—this is a group of about fifteen men.
The hunters spread out as they approach, quietly forming a loose circle around us. Their weapons are not raised, but the tension is clear.
One of them steps forward. Then he stops, and his gray eyes lock on me.
The others follow his gaze. For a moment, none of them move. They just stare. At me. One of them mutters what sounds alarmingly like a prayer of thanks.
“A woman,” the first man breathes, in ordinary cavemannish, to my surprise.
“A woman on the ice,” says another. “And we found her.”
They all stare. Which is understandable. I’m the first woman they ever see.
Nator’ax steps in front of me, placing himself between me and the hunters.
“Greetings, hunters,” he says calmly. “I am Nator’ax of the Borok tribe. This is Riley, from the same tribe. We mean no harm to you or your tribe.”
The hunters look at Nator’ax when he speaks, but their eyes keep drifting back to me. I can feel their curiosity almost like a physical thing.
The man who spoke first studies Nator’ax for a long moment. He’s wide, even compared to the others, his fur cloak heavy with frost and his bone mask pushed up onto his forehead. White stripes spiral along his arms and chest.
“You stand on the hunting ice of the Gar tribe,” he says at last. His voice is deep and controlled. “You crossed into our turf.”
“We did not cross by choice,” Nator’ax replies. “We fell from the sky.”
That gets a reaction. Several hunters glance behind us at the tilted curve of the saucer. One of them mutters something sharp.
The chief’s eyes narrow slightly. “We saw smoke yesterday.”
“That was us roasting food,” Nator’ax says calmly.
