Page 67 of Caveman Alien's Terror

“Well, you won, then. And I didn’t. That win-win you talked about didn’t happen after all.”

“What is this alien nonsense?” Shaman Dert’az exclaims. “We have given you a choice, Astrid the alien female. Kill the dragon or choose the much better option. We shall Worship you and Mate with you in the best possible way. We all know how. It will be a pleasant life for you here in our village. You will not need to hunt or ever go out into the jungle. We shall care for you and protect you. You will be our honored Woman!”

“Very true,” the chief agrees. “And of course your friends here shall be treated as the most honored guests. Your Chief Korr’ax’s offer of friendship shall be accepted! Yes? Agreed? Good. I shall send men to prepare my cave?—”

“I will kill him,” I declare, but my voice sounds thin. “I will kill him!” I repeat, much louder. “I will kill the dragon!”

Praxigor laughs. “Of course! How could you defeat me in a more resounding way? To think that at first I held you to be a small, harmless woman! Oh, your victory should be told through the ages! Bring your blade, then, woman. My scales are already cracked.”

“This is not the best choice,” Chief Sator’iz says, frowning. “But of course you may do both. You may both kill himandbecome our honored Woman!”

“I am already the shaman of the Borok tribe,” I remind them. “After I kill the dragon, I shall go back to my village. With my tribesmen.”

The shaman gives me an apologetic smile. “We may not allow that.”

“Indeed not,” the chief agrees, having had another tempting option dangled in front of him and now unwilling to give it up. “The Chief of the Ceremat tribe decides what happens in the village. And if I decide that you are to be our Woman, then that is the law.” He reaches out and puts a hand on my hip.

“Take your hand off Shaman Astrid!” Rater’ax bellows.

Two Ceremat men place the tips of their swords at his throat. “This is the Ceremat village. Chief Sator’iz decides.”

“It’s all right, Rater’ax,” I tell him. “I will kill the dragon. And then we will see.”

“It seems we’re both trapped,” Praxigor says, his clear, deep voice sounding like huge church bells. “And I think I’d prefer my fate to yours.”

I shake the chief’s hand off me and walk closer to the cage, making sure to stay out of reach of the dragon’s arms. “You should be happy. You always wanted to leave. Dying means leaving for good.”

He gives me a lopsided smile. “As it turned out, leaving you was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But I made this and kept it with me, which helped.” He tosses a black stone onto the ground in front of me. “I think you should have it. To remember your victory by.”

I carefully squat down and pick it up with one hand, dusting it off with the other.

It’s a finely carved woman’s head. At first I think it’s a copy of the famous Nefertiti sculpture from ancient Egypt, except without the colors. Then I see that this woman has a shorter neck, wider cheeks, and no hat on her curly hair, which is so finely carved that I’m sure every single hair is represented. There’s no paint, of course, but the stone is a dark obsidian and none is needed. Even the white in the eyes have been made as reflections of light, looking not straight ahead, but thoughtfully to the side with knitted brows.

“That’s…” I begin, but there’s suddenly a thickness in my throat.

“That’syou!” Tarat’ex says in triumph, looking over my shoulder. “The dragon has carved Astrid into a rock! Do we need any more evidence for her Darkness? The dragon loves her!”

I turn around. “Rater’ax, please hold this.”

The Ceremat men let him come over to me. “This is dangerous,” he hisses into my ear. “Pretend to go along with them. We shall get you out of here. Get away from the dragon!”

I hand him the small statue and put my hand on his arm. “Thank you for getting me this far, Warrior Rater’ax. Your duty to me has ended. Do with the statue whatever you wish.”

“Now, Shaman Astrid?—”

“I shall now kill the dragon!” I declare loudly. “He has given me the spoils, willingly. It is a sign of his defeat.” I locate the hidden dragon dagger in its secret place in my dress and take it out. “Ceremat men! Take the dragon out of the cage, that I may kill him.”

“Very well,” the chief sighs. “Let her kill the thing, if she desires. Then she is ours.”

Ten Ceremat tribesmen open the door in the cage and haul Praxigor out of it, two men holding each of his arms. They quickly tie his ankles and tighten the ropes until they creak, then put two nooses around his neck, each rope held by two men.

Then the dragon stands there, securely and even brutally held fast. And yet, even like this, even this sick and broken, it’s impossible to take my eyes off him. He’s a tragic, mythical hero, a demigod from the ancient Greek legends. The cavemen fade into insignificance around him, looking gray and dirty and unspeakably ugly against the dragon’s beauty.

“It’s not the worst way to go,” he says calmly. “I suppose I should be grateful to you. These little creatures would have made me suffer much longer.”

I clench the dagger in my hand, still inside its special sheath. “You saved my life many times, Praxigor. You kept me safe from everything except fromyou.”

He shrugs. “I still don’t know exactly why. But it’s starting to dawn on me. I fear it may be too late.”

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