“Yes,” another agrees. “But she speaks well.”
The chief raises a hand again. Silence falls, and we all hear the trapped Big roaring faintly from deep inside the crack.
A hunter grins widely. “A stoka fell.”
Several of the men walk quickly toward the edge and look down. Excited voices rise.
“A large one!”
“Good horns!”
“Very good horns!”
The chief walks over and peers down as well. Even he looks pleased.
“A gift from the ice,” he says. “Was this you as well, outtribers?”
Before Nator’ax can reply, one of the hunters looks at the tracks in the snow, then glances back at me. “She baited it.”
Now the chief looks at me again. “You hunted a Big?”
“We try to chase it away,” I say, unsure whether this is good or bad. “Not hunted.”
The hunters stare at me with renewed interest. One of them laughs in disbelief. “She runs like prey, and the stoka follows across a crack. The snow holds her, but not the stoka.”
Prak’ox considers this for a moment, then turns back to Nator’ax. “You will come with us. The chief will decide what we shall do with you, and with the Plood ship.” The words are calm but absolute.
“And if we refuse?” Nator’ax asks, touching the hilt of his sword.
The leader taps the end of his spear on the ice. “You are on Gar turf. Surely jungle tribes understand what that is, and what it means? Baper’iz, see if that stoka can be killed, and its tusks harvested.”
Three men get busy with ropes, hammers, and iron spikes.
“Nork’oz, see if you can get inside that Plood ship. There may be more intruders inside.”
A smaller man looks up at the saucer that stands on its side. With the hatch closed, it’s nearly impossible to see where the opening is. And it takes a knack to open it with the hidden button. At least, I hope it’ll be hard for them to do. Because if they discover that actual, half-living Plood inside, it’s not going to improve our standing with them, or mine with Nator’ax.
I have an idea. “Warrior Prak’ox. This is easy. Help us push the saucer so it flat on the ground.” I show it with my hands. “Then we will leave and never intrude again.” I have no expectation of it working, and I’m right.
“You are here now,” Prak’ox says flatly. “The chief will decide.”
Two hunters step forward with long leather cords. Before I can react, they grab my arms.
“Hey!” I protest. Nator’ax growls and takes hold of his sword.
Instantly three spears point toward his chest.
“Come peacefully and this may not end in death,” Prak’ox says. “Our chief is wise.” I don’t think he’s a bad man, but he is bound by his tribal laws and obviously doesn’t have a choice in this.
Nator’ax slowly relaxes his shoulders. “They are afraid we will run,” he tells me quietly.
“They not need to be,” I state. “We may run from stoka, but not from men.”
The men bind Nator’ax’s hands, too. It doesn’t look like it would stop him for long if he really wanted to break free.
Prak’ox gives me a thoughtful look. “You were inside that Plood ship? How do we get in?”
I think fast. “It only opens if no enemies around. It think you are enemies. And maybe is it right.”
