Dasheen had waited a week, hiding at the edge of the forest on the other side of the valley. The Kirabi were restless and bickering among themselves as to the soundness of the mission, and they grumbled about the foolishness of the improbable quest. Then, one morning, the Vastara walked out from the trees through the pre-dawn mist, onto the tall grass.
“They still exist,” Masan whispered in awe. It had been many, many years since a Vastara was sighted. Most in their generation thought the tribe was a myth, or surely extinct. Every other known tribe had been conquered, and they traded their safety with the Kirabi for whatever the fierce tribe commanded.
The other tribes had slowly absorbed the addition of meat into their diet. They did not work off the added sustenance, and the added fat gave them a more substantial physical structure. Their backs and chests broadened, and their thighs and arms thickened for traveling long distances and carrying supplies and possessions.
Only the Kirabi dared to harness the banta and tame them to ride. The jagged teeth and clawed front feet of the beasts were razor sharp, and it required the speed and strength of the Kirabi to capture them. Once a warrior had trained his animal, it remained loyal to him alone. The claws and teeth worked like machetes, thrashing through overgrown vegetation… or enemies… and clearing a path without stopping.
“On the ready,” Dasheen ordered. The men beside him were paired off, with fifteen-foot nets spread between them. They were tied to the saddles of their bantas and fisted in one strong hand. Dasheen noticed the fixed stare of his brothers, some swiping their tongues across their lips in excitement.
This was the first capture for many years, and although they would not be conquering the tribe, they would be acquiring new slave women. The men had seen the petite, alluring women outlined across the meadow. Even from the distance, they could see these females did not have the bulky shapes of the captives they already possessed.
The first of the gatherers broke out onto the meadow and Dasheen raised his arm, holding the ambitious riders back. “We wait until our brothers emerge from the trees. If not, the women will see the trap and turn back towards the forest. Our nets will be useless.”
The bantas, sensing their riders’ impatience, began pawing the grass with their hooves. More women ran in panicked terror, beginning to group together. Dasheen narrowed his eyes, trying to see across the distance. It was true. The Vastaras’ hair color was like a rainbow, with browns and yellows instead of the bluish black shared by the tribes they knew. Dasheen wondered if the stories of the colorful eyes would be accurate. His cock began to get thick, pushing his resolve to hold his beast riders back.
Perhaps twenty gatherers were gliding through the grass, trying to move sideways when they saw Dasheen and his file in front of them. The Kirabi chasing them, smoothly closed ranks on the edges, funneling their tiring run straight towards the nets.
Dasheen smiled, his white teeth shining against his tanned face and showing through his trimmed black beard and mustache. He drew his arm down. “Go, beast riders,” he yelled. With triumphant cries, the men rode forward, dipping their nets low and scooping two or three gatherers in their mesh.
Sabra had burst out onto the grass, sure she would feel the claws of a banta tearing through her spine at any moment. She had made it close to the shifon tree with only Anali managing to make it further. It had done her no good, as Sabra caught the terrifying sight of a giant on the back of a beast and close on Anali’s heels. The panicked woman ran towards Sabra, and the two of them tried to reach the rest of their tribe.
The beast riders did not stop them from trying to group together, but all efforts to get around the bantas and head back to the forest were quickly diverted. They were being herded further onto the meadow, further than Sabra had ever gone.
“Oh, Mother of Life,” Sabra sobbed. Anali began wailing beside her, gulping in tired breaths. The two women watched a line of beast riders galloping towards them with huge nets spread. Several women screamed as they were scooped up. Sabra caught sight of two such captures before she twisted to the side to escape.
Rough hemp swept under her feet, lifting her as a banta passed within inches of her face. Anali rolled into her as the net closed, being drawn tight at the top by a rope threaded through the mesh. “Your knife,” Sabra screamed. Her own sobs were drowned out in the chaos. Her trembling hand worked frantically at the thick vines, sawing jagged cuts while the net basket swung between the beast riders.
“I dropped it,” Anali cried. “It fell when we were scooped up.”
Sabra could not get a steady stroke on a vine to cut through, and her other arm was twisted behind her and pinned by Anali’s back as they were crushed together. It seemed too soon, when the bantas stopped and their net was lowered to the ground. Now, the knife was caught under Sabra’s own weight and useless to even raise to cut her throat.
Sabra could hear the cries of victory over the fearful wailing of her friends. It was several moments before the cheering died down. Sabra stared through the vines at a giant on a banta lifting the green and black horn of a kilara and blowing the hollow echo of triumph across the plain.
A sinking feeling of despair chilled her. Felana would return to the Vastara with the tansas safe, and there would be a ritual of loss in the young gatherers’ honor that would last several days. There would be no attempt to rescue them, as the Vastara had neither the skills nor weapons for such an exercise. Sabra and her captured group of gatherers would become another Vastara legend.
“Watch for their knives,” a deep voice boomed, but Sabra could not turn her trapped body to see its source.
Dasheen had warned them many times that the harvesters carried knives. He was not worried that the beast riders might be injured, but he was extremely concerned the frightened women might prefer an honorable sacrificial death to a position of captive.
Sabra felt a strong hand wrap around the arm trapped between her and Anali. A strap of leather was looped around her wrist and cinched tight. The beast rider gripped her other arm, and Sabra fought to hold her blade. Before she could strike at the man… or herself… it was plucked from her fingers and tossed onto the grass in front of her. Sabra shook in fear as her other wrist was tied, and they were latched together behind her.
Anali was wailing, and Sabra could tell by the tugging that she was being secured in the same manner. The net was loosened on the top, and then it was spread flat on the grass around them. Sabra was too shocked to move. The glimpse she had dared of the beast riders was terrifying. A fleeting thought of a nice boring life with Zifan melted away.
It had already been decided that Dasheen and his troop of beast riders, would have first selection of their captives. Several of the men would not be honored with a slave, but the exhilarating chase was worth the trip north while the winds were still cool.
Dasheen dismounted and his banta stayed close, searching the ground for veran. “Raise them so that we might see these elusive creatures.”
Sabra felt a hand grip the lashing binding her wrists, and another threaded through her long hair. She was raised to her feet, and she tried to control her buckling knees while she stared at the Kirabi beast riders. Their leader, at least she decided the red emblem on his vest declared him to be, was walking down the line of terrified women, studying them. Anali’s legs did give way, and the man behind her held her up by her blonde braid.
When Dasheen was in front of them, Sabra stared straight ahead, directly at the emblem on his vest. No way was she going to lift her eyes and risk fainting. She was already quivering so hard that her teeth were chattering, even under the hot afternoon sun.
Dasheen was delighted to see the colored hair and eyes. Over generations, the trait had bred out of the Kirabi. At first, he expected his decision to be difficult, and then he saw a flash of fire in one of the nets. There was only one with this flame colored hair, and he knew that would be the captive he would select. He walked down the line, observing all of the Vastara. Like his br
others, he was amazed by their small size and womanly shape. His fingers itched to caress their curves, and his cock pressed hotly against his leather breeches.
At last, he stood in front of the fire siren, basking in her fear. “Raise your eyes, girl,” he demanded.
Sabra jerked back a step, pushing into the muscled chest of the man holding her. She squeezed her eyes closed and trembled. A finger pressed under her chin, tilting her head up. Sabra squeezed her eyes closed tighter, tears leaking out from the corners of them. She squealed when lips pressed against her ear, and the deep voice whispered, “Raise your eyes to me, siren.”
Sabra slowly opened her eyes, and stared into a pitch black gaze of unfathomable depth. There was a fierce passion in the beast rider’s gaze, and a frightened whimper escaped from deep within her soul. If she could have found her voice she might have pleaded. Her throat was so tight… so raw with her fear… that only quiet cries would come out.
Her quivering was as persistent as the wind waving the grass. The man’s huge arms were as thick as her thighs, and he reached out to caress down her sides. His hands pulled together to cup her breasts, and Sabra let out a sob. All the terrifying legends strobed through her mind and Sabra knew that the stories had all been true.
“You have decided, Dasheen?” an impatient voice called out.
“I have decided,” Dasheen announced. He smiled down at the frightened green eyes when she let out a sob.
The man behind her released her so abruptly that Sabra fell forward a step. The beast rider in front of her gripped her arm and began to pull her away from her friends. Sabra heard Anali cry out. “Stop. Don’t. Don’t touch me.”
Several more gatherers began wailing, and there were the sounds of thrashing kicks and twisting from behind Sabra. She was still mute with terror and only capable of making pitiful whimpers and mewling cries. The man pulled her towards a banta, and Sabra gulped down a sob. She realized that she was to be a sacrifice. Perhaps this was how the Kirabi were able to tame the ferocious creatures.
Dasheen felt the girl’s skin turn cold, and he stared down at her. Her face had gone white. It was several shades paler than her naturally wan complexion from living in the shadows. “Take care to keep them covered in the sun. They will burn and peel and lose the soft texture,” Dasheen called out. This was something his mother had suggested before they left on the early expedition. She would be so proud to have a Vastara slave in their possession.
They were a few feet from the banta when Sabra dropped to her knees. She laid her head on his boots and finally found her voice. “Please,” she begged. “Please, Kirabi, don’t let your beast tear me.” Sabra could practically feel the sharp claws and jagged teeth ripping her apart. Despair melded with her fear, as she knew that she was too terrified to offer herself in sacrifice.
Dasheen looked down and arched an eyebrow in amusement. He had heard the Vastara were compulsively wasteful with their rituals. “You do not wish the honor of being a sacrifice to our victory?” he teased. The thought of spending half a year to convince the leaders to let him make the questionable journey, only to allow a banta to destroy his captive, was ludicrous. Dasheen knew his slave had no knowledge of coercive strategy, and he decided this might make a good bargaining ploy. He might be able to gain some ground on her training.
Sabra cried and rubbed her tearful face on his laces. “Please, beast rider,” she begged. Sabra was certain their rituals must be as vicious as their nature.
“Stand,” Dasheen ordered. He watched the terrified girl rise on her shaking legs. She was quite beautiful, with her flowing mane of fire hair, frightened green eyes, and a voluptuous figure for one so small. Dasheen remembered the weight of her breasts in his hands. He studied her shapely legs. They had slightly rounded calves and thighs, and he could not detect the chorded muscles beneath her pale skin. From the chase, he knew that beneath her fragile soft appearance, the young woman was strong.
Sabra watched the banta in nervous apprehension. It was slicing the veran off its short stalks with one claw. The creature sensed her stare, and it lifted its head. She jumped towards the beast rider when the animal’s golden slitted gaze narrowed on her. “Please,” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Dasheen wrapped a fist in her flaming waves and tilted her head up towards him. “Then you will do as I say,” he declared.
Sabra nodded. “I will, beast rider. Please.” The time for begging for release had long since passed. It would be a futile attempt that could land her in the banta’s claws.
“Shiru,” the Kirabi called out, and Sabra watched the banta stand from its feeding and walk towards them. She buried her face in his vest and shook. His fingers lightened their hold on her head, and he said, “I am Dasheen. What is your name?”
“Sssabra,” she quivered. “I am Sabra of the Vastara tribe.” The last pronouncement might not be necessary, she thought, but perhaps they held a belief that the tribe was a useless, weak lot.
Dasheen laughed. “And now you are Sabra, a Kirabi slave.” Without warning, he lifted her by her arms and threw her over the banta’s saddle.
“Oh… Oh, Mother of Life,” Sabra cried.
Dasheen swung up behind her and readjusted her position so she was lying over his massive thighs. “Your Mother of Life has been left in your dark jungle and rocks,” he said, not bothering to hide his contempt. The tribe of beautiful slaves had been denied to them because of their ignorant belief in fantasy and spirits.
Sabra felt the hand not gripping the reins rest on her bottom. Her fur skirt had risen up, exposing her pale globes to the sun. Dasheen caressed the smooth skin, staring with building passion at her round cheeks. Mindful of the sun’s burning effect on the girl, he called out, “Mount up, Kirabi. Let’s get our captives into the shadows.”
Sabra stared at the grass moving aside as the banta kept to a slow steady walk. There was a slap of leather against the creature’s neck, and soon it was gliding in a blinding run. She was grateful the beast rider kept his hand on her bottom, occasionally gripping the hem of her dress to steady her. The banta had a smooth gait, and she found herself rocking against the man. The soft leather of his breeches and his thick thighs kept her somewhat comfortable.
Soon, she was seeing small rocks and brush, and Sabra realized that they were approaching the far forest on the other side of the meadow. She turned her head and could barely make out the land of the Vastara on the horizon. “Be well, Chabil. Be happy,” she whispered.
Chapter II
Sabra heard raspy, guttural voices, and she turned towards the sound of strange accents. It was not the deep resonance of the Kirabi nor the lilting roll of the Vastara. She had an awkward, sideways glance at strangely built people who were quickly and efficiently preparing a campsite for the beast riders’ return.
At last, the banta slowed to a walk, and then it stopped before a small crowd of the sturdy workers. The man pushed her forward onto the saddle while he dismounted. He gripped her arms again, sliding her off the banta. Sabra was grateful to feel the dirt under her feet. She stood still in the man’s grip while he used his other hand to unsaddle the beast and remove its headgear and reins. “Feed,” he ordered, and the banta glided off at a run, back towards the meadow.
“You have really tamed a banta,” Sabra said, not able to hide her awe at the discovery.
“As you will be tamed,” Dasheen chuckled.
One of the hunched-over workers picked up the gear and walked off with it. Sabra stared around the campsite where other beast riders were dismounting. She was dismayed to see that none of the first or second season gatherers had escaped capture. Most were standing much as she, in shocked silence. A few were still crying. Sabra found her thoughts not so much preoccupied on her own predicament as that of the Vastara who would have to forego the first season harvest. The tribe would be hungry in fourth season with only the nuts and fruits of the forests to assuage their appetites.
She wondered if the beast r
ider would have her gather food for the Kirabi. As a commoner, it was her only skill, so it seemed to make sense to her. Sabra looked at the pelted, hunched people that were arranging the campsite, and she watched the stacks they had unpacked. There was an abundance of vegetables from what she could see, far more than her tribe’s gatherers collected for the year.
Sabra studied a sliver of light piercing through leaves overhead. It was almost dark and she was rested. Sabra was certain she could accomplish the long run across the meadow. Without his banta to ride and chase after her… the banta. He sent it to the field.
Dasheen noticed her longing gaze towards home. “The bantas act as sentries at night, and mine has scented you. He will use his hooves to kick and beat you back to me,” Dasheen warned. He was rewarded with her gasp.
Sabra longed to ask why he had captured her. It was obvious they had plenty of slaves to gather food. An uneasy feeling came over her, and she looked around at the faces of the beast riders. Their eyes shined with some unknown desire while they looked at their captives. It seemed as though her head moved in slow motion as it made the arc until she was facing Dasheen. The look in his eyes was dangerous… predatory and victorious, all at the same time.
Something deep inside her quivered with the need to escape. It was a primitive premonition that caused panic to rise. Without thinking, or the carefully conscious reflective process she was used to among her tribe, Sabra jerked free from the beast rider’s grip and dashed across the glade towards the meadow. With a quick glance, she made a mental note that she was not the only captive who made this unlikely choice. Anali and two others had joined in the run.
“Split up,” Palla screamed. As the quickest of the girls, she was determined to go on alone.
“What about the bantas?” Anali called out.
“They’re eating. I don’t believe they will follow us,” Palla answered.
The First Tribe Page 3