by P. W. Chance
She slipped through the woods. She felt quick, alert; she could see the little ghosts in the shadows, and feel the brush of small, simple spirits on her skin as she pushed through the vines and smoke. She could feel, too, an echo of what was coming, a heat in her core, a warmth between her legs when her thighs brushed past each other. She wanted to run from it. She wanted to run toward it.
There was a sound behind her. The witch-girl froze, perfect stillness settling over her.
The hunter stepped closer. The witch-girl felt hot breath on her skin, on her back, felt the touch of a hand on her neck… panic and desire flashed through her like a lightning strike, and she ran.
They crashed through the forest, tearing through the vines, the smoky air hot in their throats. The witch-girl was ecstatic, desperate to escape, desperate to be caught, the leaves whipping over her skin promising the touch of hands later.
A vine caught her foot and she went down, falling forward onto a heap of leaves and furs beside the fire. At once, the hunter was on her, body pressing down on her back, firm hands curling around her thigh, her throat, the touch burning with sweet warmth. She was caught, caught, caught, and she threw back her head and let out a long, whimpering cry. The hunter’s mouth closed on the side of her neck, and she knew it was over, she would be bitten, her blood spilled, her life taken. But the bite was gentle. She whined. The teeth released, and the bite turned to a kiss, tongue tracking up the side of her throat to her jaw, licking and nibbling her ear. And the hand on her thigh was moving, the fearful-hot touch of it sliding up her side and then around to her stomach. And then down, down, to her hidden thatch of curled hair. Highhawk was whispering to her, words she couldn’t understand, and then a finger slipped into hot wetness and her entire body jerked.
Highhawk held her down, caught and captured, her heart beating against the witch-girl’s back, her small, soft breasts pressing against her as their bodies gently rocked. The hunter had one hand on her neck, holding her still so the hunter could lick and nibble her throat. The other hand was cupping her mound, two fingers sliding over her bud, pressing and rocking, never slowing, never releasing, never letting the core of heat inside her stop building. Highhawk’s skin was hot, smooth, a little slippery with sweat and pigment as she moved atop her prey.
The witch-girl turned her head, lips parted, eyes open wide in her painted deer-mask. A quiver of fear went through her as she saw the hunter’s face, the dark-circled eyes, the bloody red down her throat… Highhawk’s left hand slid up the back of the witch-girl’s head, fingers tangled in her hair. She held her prey still and leaned in for a hungry kiss. Lips brushed against each other, then pressed, the hunter’s tongue slipping between them to seek and find and tangle with its mate.
She gasped for breath as Highhawk released her, then whined as the hunter’s mouth moved downward, along her throat, kissing the hollow of her shoulder, tongue licking eagerly. The witch-girl’s head rolled as she rode the sensations, baring her throat in surrender as the steady, sliding rhythm of the hand between her legs stroked away her resistance.
The weight of Highhawk’s body lifted off her back, and she rolled onto her side, baring her throat and breasts and stomach in surrender. Highhawk pulled her close and kissed her once more, her little breasts pressing against the witch-girl’s larger, softer ones. The hunter stroked her hair, petting her, trailing warm fingers down her back, whispering to her with lips still touching. They were both reaching down, now, hands slipping between thighs, reaching for heat, for tenderness and pleasure.
The witch-girl tasted berry-juice, and smoke, and sweat, and the hunter. Their lips brushed as they moved against each other, their breasts pressed and slipped, sensitive tips sliding over soft, hot skin. Below, the witch-girl could feel Highhawk’s fingers stroking, rolling over and over her bud like waves on the beach. She mirrored the motion, Highhawk’s bud small and smooth under her fingertips, rocking towards each other as they drove each other closer to their finish.
Highhawk was close, she could tell, her hips pushing faster against the witch-girl’s hand, her mouth hungrier, nipping at her lips, gasping against her. The witch-girl smiled and closed her eyes, her own shoulders starting to shake with the heat inside her, almost complete, almost visible in its intensity…
Highhawk’s fingers moved against her faster, frantically, and the hunter’s mouth closed painfully tight on her breast. The witch-girl gasped as the heat inside her broke. She came, moaning, writhing, her hips rocking helplessly, and the hunter’s hands were on her, in her, holding her, she was prey, she was captured, taken, caught.
*********
They lay together in the pile of leaves and furs. Their heads cleared as the smoke spiralled out the hole in the roof, into the night. Highhawk stretched, her smooth stomach arching, her long arms crossed above her head. Her eyes were half-closed, a look of lazy satisfaction visible beneath her smeared warpaint.
“Tell me a story,” said the witch-girl.
“Mmm. What do you want to hear?” Highhawk murmured.
The witch-girl was silent for a while. Her eyes were on the painted skull, high up on the wall. Highhawk was her friend. Highhawk was one of the brothers’ hunters. She couldn’t ask for help, but she could ask for stories. “I need to know about the brothers. About Black-dog.”
Highhawk yawned. “They lead well. They hunt well. It is good that we have them. What else do you need to know?”
The witch-girl’s head rested on Highhawk’s chest. Highhawk had draped an arm over her, holding her close. The witch-girl closed her eyes. “I need to know if Black-dog is dangerous. If I should fix him. Bind him. I have seen him being cruel.”
Highhawk was silent. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed. The witch-girl’s heart thudded.
“Have you ever seen it?” The witch-girl whispered. “Have you seen him be cruel, to a woman?”
Highhawk stared up into the circle of sky, the hole in the roof above the fire. “I have.”
“Tell me.”
Highhawk took a deep breath, and began.
*********
It happened in the spring, when Nim was kidnapped by the River-folk. You remember how they took her? She had gone up the hillside to gather watercress from the stream. When Mother Mara went to join her, Nim was gone. There were footprints, from three men.
Mother Mara cried out for the hunters, and we gathered quickly. We armed ourselves with staffs and throwing-stones, we fed our dogs, we blacked our eyes with soot. When the sun set, we went over the hill and through the forest to the river, like a great pack of wolves running through the night.
Redheart was mad with worry. He bared his teeth as he ran. He pounded the earth with his feet, heedless of noise. He slashed at vines and branches with his staff, and asked why he could not have a proper stone-tipped spear. Dogs and men glanced at him and growled.
We all knew of his love for tall, long-haired Nim, how he longed to choose her but thought no gift would be great enough. How he sighed whenever he saw a willow tree, because they reminded him of her. The birthmark on his chest is no lie; Redheart wears his heart open for all to see. We had laughed at him, and encouraged him, but now his love was making him foolish. If he could not be careful and quiet, he would ruin the rescue. If he killed someone, the tribes would be at war.
White-stag and Black-dog looked to each other, speaking with their eyes as they ran.
White-stag spoke. “Calm yourself, Redheart. Look around you. See our strength, the warriors of Red Cave! Do we need spears to beat weakling River-warriors? Are they as fast as deer, as strong as bears, for us to need such weapons?”
White-stag leapt over a fallen log as he ran, laughing. “No! That strength and speed is ours!” he said. “We will take our sister home, and strip their town of treasures, and leave their hunters bruised and shamed! But be calm, Redheart, be swift and silent, show me all your skill. Or you will not be the one to find and free her first!”
Redheart scowled. I hid a smile.
Such a handsome boy, red-haired, red-hearted warrior. So simple and pure! “I will be the one to find her,” he muttered. “I will free her myself.” He turned his eyes to the ground, and his pace became more even, his footfalls quieter. He held his staff level with the ground as he ran, and the dog that ran beside him grinned, tongue hanging.
Better, I thought. But not enough.
Black-dog spoke, then. His voice was low, hushed, like the wind rushing through the tall grass. “I will take the dogs, and two hunters. We will go to the south of the village. We will howl and challenge, light a torch and burn a hut. When River-warriors come, we will lead them into the forest and then slip away.”
White-stag was silent for a moment. Then, “Who will you take? Bors, for strength, or Highhawk, for stealth?”
He knew my skill. Pride made me smile.
“Highhawk,” said Black-dog. “And Heartwood.”
Heartwood padded close, silent as a gliding owl. The old warrior was lean and scarred, with gray in his beard. “I am not fast,” he whispered.
“You have skill,” said Black-dog. “You can vanish like a shadow in the sun. Or are you too tired, old man?”
Heartwood chuckled. “No, young one, I am too greedy. While the others take treasure from the village, what gifts shall we have? The rocks the River-folk throw at us?”
I laughed, but nodded my agreement.
Black-dog ducked under a branch, running with body bent as low as the dogs for a moment, never slowing. He rose, and called to his brother. “White-stag. Gifts for the scouts.”
White-stag grinned in the night. “Treasure and gifts for the brave, clever scouts! We’ll find you something fine.”
We split off, then. Black-dog, Heartwood, and me. Black-dog whistled, and the hounds followed us. We headed south.
Hours, then, of attack and retreat. Stealth, then shouts and staves striking flesh, then stealth once more. We surprised a sentry, bursting out of the forest around him, screaming our war-cries, the dogs around us barking and howling for his blood. We let him escape, let him run back to his village, crying out in alarm. Warriors flooded out like ants from a kicked hill, and we led them deep into the moonlit woods.
I saw Black-dog beat two strong men into the ground, his staff whipping through the air with a sound like bird’s wings, his dogs biting their ankles and rushing them from behind. I saw Heartwood appear out of nothing, shadows and fallen leaves suddenly standing and becoming the old warrior. He struck a man on the back of the head, and then vanished once more. I myself defeated a strong young man in fair combat. By fair, of course, I mean that I swung my staff at him and screamed in his face so that he did not notice the dogs coming up behind him. When a dog bit his rump, I kicked him in the stomach. Ha!
And then Black-dog whistled, and we faded into the forest like spirits. We left the River-folk warriors shamed and confused, crying out to one another like lost children.
Oh, it was a good fight, witch-girl! We ran home through the woods, swift and silent and smiling like hungry wolves. My blood was singing, laughter filled my head, I felt like I was made of fire!
We came to the hillside, and saw that our skill had not been wasted. Our friends were waiting for us around a fire, cheering and laughing, showing each other the feathers and tools they had taken from the River-folk village. Big Bors nursed a bruise on his arm, but carried a long flint knife. Redheart had Nim, or she had him; he was lying on the grass with her on top of him, her hair falling to hide their faces as they whispered to each other. I saw him reach up and pull her closer for a kiss. Others had lesser treasures. White-stag was wearing a necklace of shells, but he had not forgotten us! Oh no, he had not.
For us, they had caught a woman.
She was tan-skinned and dark-haired, as the River-folk always are. Her hands and ankles were tied with leather straps. She was short, but well-curved, with round breasts and hips and lips. Her hair hung in loose curls, half-hiding one of her wide, round eyes as she sat on the grass and nervously watched the warriors around her. They watched her too, glancing at her and grinning, talking to each other in low voices and laughing. Firelight shone red on their strong arms, bare chests, dark eyes as they moved around her. The woman bit her lip, uncertain.
White-stag stepped up to her, laughing. He put his big hands under her bound arms and lifted her easily off the ground. “Brother!” he called out as we approached. “Highhawk, Heartwood, brave friends! For you, the prettiest treasure we took tonight! She is sweet, is she not?”
She was. The fight was still singing in my blood, and I panted for breath as I looked at her. She looked up at me from behind her veil of curled hair, biting her lip, and desire roared up inside me like fire in dry grass. I wanted to bite her lips. I wanted to feel them on my skin.
I glanced to my companions. Heartwood was grinning, happy. Black-dog… I caught my breath. Black-dog looked hungry. Dangerous. His chest was rising and falling from the run, his eyes were fixed on the girl like a hawk on its prey. His mouth was half-open, breathing, and I saw his tongue run over his teeth.
The warriors had formed a circle around the fire, White-stag and the girl near the center. They were watching her, smiling, eager. White-stag set the girl down, a little roughly; she wound up face-down, tied hands out before her, round bottom in the air, only a little deerhide skirt hiding it. The men murmured their appreciation, laughed and growled. She shivered a little, as if their eyes were fingers stroking up and down her legs, her body.
Nim pushed her way into the circle. Redheart following, holding his lover’s hand. Nim rolled her eyes at the men, then knelt by the captive River-girl. She stroked the captive girl’s hair.
“Poor thing,” she said, “Have you never been carried off before? It’s not so bad. It’s very simple. You can struggle, or you can ask for mercy. If you struggle, we keep you as a slave. Tight collar, cords around your ankles so you can’t run, hard work, and you wait for your people to ransom you or rescue you. If you ask for mercy, the men have their fun with you, and then we let you go.” She looked back to Redheart and smiled. “I struggled. I was waiting for someone. But you should ask for… Haha!” Redheart tugged her hand, grinning, and pulled her out of the circle. He kissed her, lifted her, spun her around, and then she was leading him, away from the firelight, off into the trees.
The girl rolled onto her side, looking up at us. Scared. Considering.
Heartwood stepped forward. He kneeled before her, reached out with one hand, pushed his fingers into her hair. Her eyes closed as his fingertips rolled over her scalp, petting her. The gray in his beard was stained red by the firelight, the scars on his chest were white lines over his hard muscles. “Pretty thing,” he said. “Pretty pet. Ask me for mercy.”
She closed her eyes tighter, and shook her head.
He sighed, and smiled, and stood. He looked to me, shrugged, and stepped away.
I was more eager. I stepped forward, licking my lips, unlacing the front of my vest. I kneeled, wrapped my arms around her, pulled her into my lap. Her dark curls tickled my skin. I shivered. Her head was on my bare chest, her full lips nearly brushing my skin as she looked up at me, her eyes wondering, her breath fast. Her skin was warm, warm and soft against mine. My fingers stroked down her arm, down her back, along her spine under her little vest. She shivered, trying to pull away from my hand, pressing against my body. I reached further down, my heart thumping, cupped her soft ass in my hand and squeezed.
“Ask me,” I whispered, my voice rough. My fingers trailed down her thigh, then inward, and up. I leaned down, grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, whispered with my lips brushing hers. “Ask me for mercy.”
For a moment, I thought I had her. For a moment, I thought the confusion in her eyes would break, thought she would close her eyes as my tongue slipped between her lips and my hand found the hot, slick place… she pulled away, shaking her head, raising her bound hands between us. “No,” she said, her accent strange. “No. I fight.” I let her go, and s
tepped away.
She had refused twice. Three times, and she’d be a slave. Black-dog stepped forward.
She was sitting, bound feet curled beside her, looking up at him. There was fear in her eyes... and perhaps a little curiosity. He is a handsome man.
He stepped closer, looming over her, so that her head tilted back to look at him, showing the curve of her throat. The circle was silent as they watched. Black-dog seemed huge in the firelight, skin shining red, the muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his stomach and arms all showing clearly in the light and shadow. His chin was dark with the day’s growth of beard. His eyes gave away nothing as he stared down at her. Like he was looking at a mouse. An insect. A stone.
Then he moved, faster than I could see. She was on her back, now, her tied hands up above her head, and he was on top of her, the weight of his body pressing her down, one hand on her wrists, one hand trailing fingers down her throat. Her eyes were wide, staring into his, hypnotized. Her lips were parted as she tried to breath beneath his warm, strong weight. His hair hung down around her face. His eyes were pools of night, locked on hers, as he closed his hand around her throat and began to squeeze.
Her mouth opened wide. Her back tried to arch, but he held her down, held her still, slowly increasing the pressure on her throat, his own breath coming in slow, great heaves, almost growling. He looked up at the warriors around him, glaring, snarling like a wolf defending its meal; all stepped back, moved away. No one was close enough to hear when her lips moved, when he turned his head to bring his ear closer. She whispered something as her eyelids fluttered and her body went limp.
Black-dog raised his head, a savage grin on his face.
“Mercy,” he growled. “She asked for mercy.”
The men cheered, whistled. I was silent, my eyes wide, my face flushed. I was uncertain, but I could not look away as Black-dog pressed down upon the girl once more. I saw his hand on her throat relax, saw her eyes open and roll back as he pressed his lips against hers. She gasped for air, and he fed it to her carefully, closing her throat with his hand when she tried to pull away, rewarding her with his own breath when she learned to suck greedily at his lips. She was writhing beneath him, her shoulders shifting, her back arching and hips pushing against him. I couldn’t tell, and I doubt she could either, whether she was trying to escape or press against him closer. But when her body moved, so did mine, shifting and squirming where I stood. And when he blocked her breath, I held mine.
