by P. W. Chance
With a roar of frustration, he grabbed her shoulders, lifted her like she weighed nothing, his hands gripping her like talons. He slammed her back against the wall, pinned her there, glared into her eyes from a hand’s breadth away.
“For years,” he said, “I have hated you. I have seen you taught and treasured while I wandered in the dark. I have seen you find a good and happy life, while I am destined for blood and death. Never have I harmed you, for you are not to blame for my fate. But now you have lied to me. Laid a curse upon me and pretended to break it. Now my true feelings are justified, even as your witchcraft tries to cloud my mind.” His hand closed over her throat. “I call you by your true name. Release me, Bright-owl. Now. Or I will send you down to your death, even if your binding drags us down together.”
“I cannot.” The witch-girl, Bright-owl, sobbed, fighting for breath. “I cannot break what is already broken. The binding is gone. I swear it on the stars and on the stones. It is gone. You are free.”
He threw back his head and screamed, face twisted in agony. “Then why do I still love you?”
His hands released her, braced against the wall to either side of her. His head bowed over her, shoulders shaking.
She reached up, touched his face. His dark eyes opened. They looked down into hers.
The hair on his chin was rough under her fingertips. She looked up at him.
“Black-dog.”
His eyes were locked on hers. She felt, more than heard, a low growl begin in his chest.
“Black-dog, there is a need inside you. A hunger.”
He bared his teeth. “Hungry,” he growled.
Her heart was pounding. She crushed the last of her fear.
“Black-dog. Let me be what you need.”
He smiled, eyes hard and cruel. His hand was on her shoulder, gliding toward her neck. “It will hurt.”
She closed her eyes. “Hurt me.”
She felt his hand close around her neck. His arm was around her waist, pulling her hard against the heat of his body. There was something ragged in his voice. “I will lose myself,” he said.
His hand was running down her back, over the curve of her hips, squeezing, gripping. “Lose yourself in me,” she gasped. Be what you are, she was thinking, her mind a confusion of heat and need. Be what you are, be Black-dog, take what you want!
She felt his mouth on her neck, breath warm, teeth sharp. His growl rolled through her, making her legs shake: “I want you.”
Her head was thrown back. She felt like she was on fire in his arms, her skin burning everywhere he touched her. She gasped for enough breath to answer.
“Take me.”
He threw her down, hard. She felt the fur of the cloak under her arms, and then he was on top of her. His hand was on the back of her neck, pushing her face down into the fur, smothering her, and she could feel him behind her, the heat of him on the back of her thighs. She could feel his length, hard and hot, pressed against her, rocking against her. She was on her knees, her rump raised against him, and a thrill of embarrassment ran through her as she realized he was going to hold her down and fuck her like an animal and she wanted him to do it. She wanted him to use her, to do anything he wanted to her, to be the tool he used to satisfy his desires.
His fingers on her neck were biting into her, holding her down like a wolf’s teeth. She whined, spreading her knees further apart, pushing her bottom back against him. She needed him, needed him inside and using her, needed the big, hard thing she could feel behind her to push inside and hurt her. But she realized, with a deep shudder of delight, that he was beyond caring what she wanted. He was rocking against her from behind, growling with satisfaction as she wriggled against him. The hand on her neck wrapped around, cutting off more of her air, making her dizzy, desperate. His other hand was trailing down, over her stomach, towards the warmth between her legs.
She whimpered when his fingers reached her there. She was slick, slippery, and his fingertips began rolling over her bead one after the other, stroking and polishing. She was gasping in the fur, half-sobbing with need, when he finally pulled back and shoved his full length into her in one long thrust.
It hurt, it hurt and she loved it. There were tears in her eyes. He felt huge inside her, she felt like her body was reshaping itself around him, desperately stretching and shifting to take him in, straining to fit him better, to give him more pleasure. He hauled back with a growl and started pounding into her. She could hear his breath, deep and quick, hear the hunger in it as every thrust rocked her body forward and then back onto him, every impact sending a quake of sensation rolling through her. His desire was rolling over her, beating down the walls of her mind, overcoming her completely. She felt limp, deliciously helpless in her own body, every movement something he was doing to her. She felt like she was going to come apart, like he was going to fuck her into pieces here on the floor of the cave, destroy her with his lust for her.
He was panting now, mounting her hard and fast like a beast, holding her down like a predator. There was none of the cruel control he had had before, none of the manipulation and holding back. He was letting everything go, his beautiful body shining with sweat as he finally, finally lost himself, finally took her completely, and she screamed into the fur as she came like a thunderstorm around his shaft, as his frenzy reached its peak and he roared and poured into her, each of them releasing a flood of pleasure, filling her with white fire.
His weight was on top of her, on her back, pressing her down into the fur. She was dizzy from lack of air, and half-mindless with bliss. It filled her, tingling and rushing. A long, glorious release, like the warm rainstorm that follows thunder, rolling through her in waves, washing her mind empty, washing her heart clean.
He kissed her neck. She turned her head to see him, sleepy and curious, and he rolled her onto her back and kissed her lips, kissed her, kissed her, pressing his body against her as they twined their legs together, ran their hands over each other, drunk on release, drunk on each other’s bodies. His kisses were on her neck, now, and her hand was on his shaft, stroking, cupping, reveling in the heat and size and strength of it, marvelling that it had fit inside her. His hands were rolling over breasts, stroking her nipples, awakening tingling sensations in her chest. A moment ago she had thought herself completely content, beyond satisfied. As she began to stroke him faster, as his tongue glided along her jaw, she realized neither of them would ever have enough. They would always want each other, want more.
She wrapped her legs around his waist as he raised himself over her, moving his hips slowly against hers. She could see through his mask, now, she could read him, and as his dark eyes looked down at her she saw adoration, desire, love. His body lowered, his lips were on hers as he pushed into her once more. It was easier this time, the stretching wonderfully pleasant, their bodies locking together perfectly as he began to move. Both of them sensitive, both of them tingling and bliss-flooded, moved by nothing but desire, no thoughts in their heads but the pleasure of moving against each other. He built slowly, this time, pressing close against her, hands reaching up to her shoulders to pull her down against him in time with his rhythm. Her eyes were half-closed as he took her. She was smiling, surrendering to the pleasure he was using her for, not even wondering what he would do, but only loving that in that moment he was doing it.
He was beautiful above her, shining in the firelight, his breath coming fast, his eyes burning with hunger for her. The heat was rising in her again as he moved more quickly, pulling her down against him hard and fast, hips slapping against hers, rousing sensation from the area around her sex. She could feel the need to release waking in her again, like a hard knot inside her. Like the hard knot he had bound her with in his den in the red cave, leaving her gasping and sore and on the ragged edge of sensation for hours afterward. She was feeling that again, feeling the pleasure rising almost to pain, needing to crest, needing to break, and he was slamming into her harder, reaching deep inside, and she wante
d to beg him but couldn’t find words. But it didn’t matter, he was doing as he pleased, he was raising her hips up off the ground as she sobbed with need, he was growling with satisfaction as she cried out and kicked her legs and came, jerking, around him, and he threw his head back and let out a long, ragged, satisfied sigh as he released inside her once more.
They lay together on the fur, together in the firelit shadows of the cave and the steam of the pool. Her head was on his chest, his hand slowly stroking her hair.
She heard a noise in his chest, a low rumbling.
“I am happy,” he sighed. He sounded contented, and bemused, as if the word was strange to him.
“Black-dog?” the witch-girl murmured.
“Mm?”
“How did you know my name? Did Grandmother tell you?”
His chest rose and fell beneath her head as he breathed. “No,” he said. “I know you. I have seen you, and thought of you, and before I knew what I felt for you I knew who you were.” His fingertips tickled her ear, and she snuggled against him more closely. “You are the bright bird in the night. The one who sees, when others sleep with eyes closed. The white shape moving silent in the dark forest. I know you, and so I know your name.”
She turned her face toward his body, enjoying the warmth of his skin on her lips. “Do you think anyone else knows?” she asked.
“No.” When he spoke, she could feel the vibration in her lips. It made her smile. “They see the witch-girl. They see you as the white light in the darkness where they do not go. Moving and changing by rules they do not understand.” His voice was slowing as he drifted toward sleep. “When they no longer call you girl, your mask-name will be something about the moon. But remember that I knew you.”
“Remember? Will you not be there to remind me?”
His breathing was slow, his body warm. “Tomorrow,” he said as his eyes closed, “tomorrow, there is war.”
Chapter 8
All the Way Down
They flew down the mountain. Black-dog had kept a wooden sled stowed near the painted cave, and the witch-girl sat in front of him as they hissed down the slope at terrifying speed. The morning light was brilliant, almost blinding on the ice and sparkling snow, as if overnight all the stars in the sky had fallen as powder to coat the earth. The witch-girl’s heart pounded in her chest, fear and fierce joy, as Black-dog leaned to guide them through the trees. His chest was behind her, his arms were around her, they were both wrapped in the cloak. Black tree-trunks passed them flicker-fast on either side. The wind of their speed stung tears from her eyes and shook diamond dust from the branches. Black-dog’s arms closed around her tighter. She laughed, high and long, her joy echoing for miles.
They came to the end of the snow and left the sled. Fika and Rika, the hunting-hounds, caught up to them as they shared a quick meal of nuts and dried berries. They drank from a stream (water so cold it hurt her hands to cup it,) then hurried onward, toward the lake, toward the Red Cave.
They moved quickly through the trees. Their footfalls were silent at first, padding over pine needles, but as they descended into the broad-leaf forest their feet crackled and rustled on the fallen leaves. Black-dog set a quick pace, but not so fast that the witch-girl struggled. His dogs moved like shadows in the woods to either side of them, sniffing and panting, watching for danger.
It was strange, travelling with him. Since Grandmother had died, most of the witch-girl’s walks had been alone at dusk. But now Black-dog moved through the daylit forest ahead of her, pausing often to watch, to listen. He glanced back at her, just for a moment, and gave her a slight nod.
He watched me more when he hated me, she thought. For a moment, she felt almost abandoned. But then her breath caught in her throat.
I’m not his enemy any more. He trusts me. He does not need to look, because he knows I am here. I am not just his woman, I am his comrade now, and we are going to war. Off to her right, Fika made a chuffing sound, sniffing at tracks. A warband of only four.
They drew close to the lake. Black-dog held up a hand to call a halt, then crept up the last low hill. He crouched behind a tree, watching, then beckoned her to join him. The witch-girl moved carefully up the hillside, then took shelter behind a stone. She looked out over the water, along the curve of the shore, to the huts of the village and the hill of the Red Cave.
Smoke. Fire.
Her eyes wanted to close, wanted to fill with tears, but she forced herself to look closer. There were boats pulled up on the beach, the long wooden canoes of the River-people. She could see the River-warriors, tiny distant figures. A few moved among the burning huts and picked through wreckage for trophies. But most were gathered on the hillside, a great crowd of them outside the mouth of the Cave. More than she had met in the woods, more than could possibly have come from one village.
“They must have sent a message downriver,” she whispered. “It’s as you said. Ten-hands called up the cousins, the other river-tribes.”
“They could not break us alone.” There was satisfaction in Black-dog’s voice. “A clever witch’s curse slowed their passage through the forest, and our tribe gathered to defend before the war-party arrived.” He pointed out across the lake, to the gathering on the hillside. “Even now, the River-folk do not take the cave. Cowards.”
The witch-girl strained her eyes. The bright daylight stung them. “If the River-warriors had already won, they would be all be dancing, looting. But they mill about like ants, with their weapons ready. Our people still live.” Relief rose within her, and she forced it back down. They might still be dead by nightfall if she didn’t find a way to save them. “Is the hidden entrance still blocked? Is there any way to sneak them out?”
“We tried to clear the cave-in last month, but more stones fell.” Black-dog muttered, focused on the distant warriors. “There are passages deep below that may lead away, but they are full of bad air and ghosts. All would die, wandering beneath the earth. But I think we will not run. Look.”
The witch-girl watched. On the distant hillside, the crowd of river-warriors was pulling back from the cave entrance. Two figures separated from the mass and approached the cave. One was tall, a head above all the tiny figures around him. The other had long hair, dark locks to her waist.
“Ten-hands,” the witch-girl muttered. “And Manala, the witch.”
The tall figure faced the cave and spread his arms wide. He spoke, shouted. They could hear the faint echo of his voice across the lake, over the distant barking of the dogs.
Black-dog grinned like a wolf. “He challenges. Their greatest warrior and witch, against ours. With you gone, he thinks his river-witch can defeat whatever woman is brave enough to stand. And if Ten-hands is doing this, my brother must already be injured. Not dead, or they would be celebrating.”
The witch-girl nodded, watching the distant figure raise his copper axe, letting it shine in the sun. “Ten-hands will delay the challenge until night, when White-stag is weak from lost blood and darkness. He thinks he can win easily, without having to gather his warriors and half-loyal cousins and ask them all to bleed fighting their way into the cave.” The smell of smoke was in the air. The witch-girl bared her teeth. “Ten-hands will be dead by dawn.”
*********
White-stag lay near the fire, head cushioned on a pile of rabbit furs. The wound in his side was stitched closed, but slow drops of blood still leaked onto the sand below him. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow. Flakes of ash were caught in his golden hair. Nearby, the people of the tribe rested, or conversed in low voices.
“We cannot win that way,” Highhawk hissed. “If I stand as the warrior and you stand as the witch, we will both die. I cannot defeat Ten-hands. You cannot defeat the river-witch. Strong Bors will stand as the warrior, and I will stand as the witch. I will slay Manala with my spear and then go to his aid.”
Mother Mara shook her head sadly. “You know no witchcraft, child. Do you think spears are stronger than spirits? Do you think you
could defeat our witch-girl? You do not know what the River-witch will do, or how to defend against it. I am not the witch-girl, I am not Grandmother Rattlebones, but I am not as helpless as you would be. Bors is strong, and good-hearted, but not fast enough to have a chance. Be our warrior, be our strength.” She closed her eyes. “You are right. Without a miracle, we will both die. But we must stand. There is no one else who can.”
White-stag groaned. Mother Mara went to him quickly, knelt beside him to check his forehead for fever.
“Brother,” White-stag groaned.
Mother Mara sighed. “No, child. He is gone.” She stroked his hair, her face falling with sorrow. “He has finally left us. Run off into the far forests, to be with the other wolves.”
“Brother,” White-stag muttered again. “Careful, brother.”
There was a shout from the entrance. Highhawk grabbed her spear and hurried outward, pushing through the tribe’s pack of growling, anxious dogs.
She found Nim and Redheart guarding the opening, clutching spears, holding hands. They were watching the massed warband of River-warriors, who were hurrying down toward the burning village. There were distant shouts. A man screamed.
“What happened?” Highhawk asked.
“Not sure,” Nim said, worry creasing her brow. “Are the river-folk fighting among themselves, arguing over our treasures?”
Redheart scowled. “I hope they tear each other’s throats out.”
“Catch me,” the witch-girl said.
They looked up in astonishment. Highhawk dropped her spear and jumped forward as the witch-girl dropped from above the entrance, falling into Highhawk’s arms. Highhawk went sprawling as Nim and Redheart rushed forward, raising their spears to fend off any River-folk who thought of coming close. “Inside! Quickly!” Nim hissed as Redheart stabbed at the air, shaking his spear and daring the River-folk to attack. Highhawk and the witch-girl scrambled to their feet and sprinted for the cover of the cave.
