by Leia Rice
“Why? Will my name protect you somehow?” The predator had a woman’s voice, though that was not reason enough to let her guard down. Women were fierce warriors; at least they were in the Oolani tribe. She did not know what other tribes bordered the Manahotchi, but she could only assume that their women were the same.
“No, but at least I will know whom I hunt.”
Ishara smirked, half leaning on the elder tree branch. “Then I am Ishara, daughter of the Oolani chieftain!”
“Ishara?” The voice lilted.
Did this woman know her? Ishara waited, unsure of what would happen next. The parrots kept talking to each other. Another branch snapped, and the parrots took to flight, two hundred wings flapping in unison. When they cleared the sky, Ishara spotted the woman, sitting up on a tree limb, her bow in hand.
A Manahotchi woman.
Chapter Seven
“I am Dahlia. What are you doing out here?” The woman slid her bow over one of her shoulders. Up close, Ishara could see the light, puckered scars that speckled the Manahotchi’s skin, scars from past battles maybe. She stood a half-foot taller than Ishara, but didn’t seem threatening or overpowering, like Zari.
“I escaped. I’m trying to find my way home, but I got a bit turned around by the wild dogs.” Ishara kept her distance. She studied the other woman’s movements, like how she gracefully swept her black hair out of her face, or swatted at a forest fly with a flick of her wrist. Though she looked like every other Manahotchi woman, there was something about Dahlia that was beautiful all on its own.
The woman laughed. “Yes, I see that. The last I heard, the chieftain put you out in quite a rage.”
Ishara lowered her green eyes and watched a fuzzy caterpillar inch its way across the matted leaves of the forest floor. “I’d rather not discuss that.” When she lifted her eyes again, she found Dahlia staring intently back at her. “It is behind me now.”
“But it is not behind us.” Dahlia’s black eyes flickered up toward the sky where the sun began to set in soft, coral colors. “We should find some shelter. I’ve managed to hunt two brush hares and a game fowl. I invite you to join me for dinner, if you please. I won’t be leaving back to camp until tomorrow morning, when I have more daylight.”
Ishara hesitated, and feared that Dahlia could be setting her up. Tricking her. Mechan would kill her if she was forced to go back. Not only did she anger him, but she defied him at every turn.
A rumbling deep in her stomach convinced her otherwise. With only her makeshift dagger, Ishara’s chances of finding a sustainable dinner were few, and she didn’t want to raise Dahlia’s suspicion. “It would be rude to turn down your invite.”
They walked together for what seemed like hours, and when they reached shelter, the sky darkened, lingering on the edge of twilight and night. Life teemed around them, and Ishara realized now, for the first time, how this part of the land was alive and not dead, as it was by the Manahotchi camp.
“The Spirits are strong here,” she whispered as she stared up at the trees, their branches laden with groggy birds, perched for the night.
“Yes, they are. I find that the more we separate ourselves from man, the stronger the Spirits seem to become. Out here, away from the camp, it is peaceful and serene.” Dahlia looked back at Ishara and smiled. “It is good that you recognize the Spirits in such a way. Few people do anymore.”
Dahlia then pulled aside some earthy, hanging moss to reveal a small mouth that lead back into the cozy cave. She had it set up like a tent would be, with a fire pit, some sleeping furs, and a small trunk for her belongings. On the walls, she had used a dusty, red stone to etch portraits of different types of animals onto the wall.
Ishara admired the humble living space, though she did not understand why the woman stayed out here. “Is this where you live?”
Dahlia unstrapped her bow and dagger from the leather thongs used to keep them bound to her toned body. When she tugged on the leather thong in her hair, the bunch of black tresses cascaded down her shoulders, knotty, but freed. “Most of the time, yes. I choose to be alone with the animals. It is much more peaceful when you are not dealing with the tribe and its politics.”
“What do you mean?” Ishara sat cross-legged in the furs and rubbed her fingers into the muscles of her calves, one at a time. Her body ached from her arduous journey, and the more the dull pain set in, the more grateful she was for Dahlia’s hospitality.
“Well, the younger men of the tribe, all they ever care about any more is themselves. They want the prettiest wives, they want to be the best warriors, and they want to be known throughout the land for being the best at this or that…it goes on and on.” Dahlia opened a pack that she carried close to her hip and pulled out a dead hare. Its feet were tucked in toward its body, like a curled up infant exposed to the cold. “They have lost the old ways.”
Ishara tugged on the bone in her hair as she thought about this. “And Mechan?”
“The chieftain is trying to keep us aware of the old ways. He clings to them ferociously. But it’s people like his son, Aloran, who spoil it. Behind his father’s back, he does the most disreputable things.” Dahlia worked on skinning the hare, and put aside its soft pelt. The deft motions spoke of how adept the Manahotchi woman was at surviving. Ishara appreciated the craft and dedication that extended well beyond simple hunting.
“Such as?” Ishara wanted to hear more about the secrets the Manahotchi kept hidden behind Mechan’s loyalty. She leaned forward, expecting Dahlia to answer. The woman only gave her a look that conveyed she knew better than to share these things with an Oolani, so Ishara respectfully let it go. “He wanted me, you know. Aloran. He said that he was going to come back for me and make me his rightful prize.”
Dahlia poked a spit through the hare’s body and set it over the crackling fire to cook. “Why would he say that?”
“He is the one who captured me. He wanted me for himself, but his friends insisted that I be presented as a gift to his father instead. Bowed under that pressure, he relented.” Her fingers left the ivory bead in her hair. Ishara glanced back around the cave and noticed a red rock drawing of a mountain cat and her two cubs. She though immediately of the cat that Mechan was going to kill out anger and a hand instinctively rose to the tooth she wore around her neck.
“Then it was for the better, Ishara.”
Ishara ran a finger down the jagged tooth edge, half lost in her own thoughts. “Why do you say this? Why would anyone think that being bound in slavery was for the better?”
Dahlia sank back into the furs as well. “Because. I saw you down by the river with him. I have never, in my lifetime, seen the chieftain smile.” She brushed her long, black hair back behind her shoulders, exposing her collarbones and delicate neck. “For you, he smiles.”
“Well, I don’t understand why. He’s a grumpy, insufferable man.” Ishara grunted her dissent under her breath.
“But you care for him.”
“Why would you say that? What makes you think that I, a Daughter of the Oolani, would ever have a care in the world for the chieftain of the Manahotchi?” Ishara’s fingers left the necklace, her attention solely on Dahlia. “Hmm?”
“Because. I’m sure that when you think of him kissing you, it is enough to make you blush.”
She could feel his lips on her again, just like the first night, when he showed her body how to blossom. Ishara’s face warmed with blood, knowing well that her light complexion could not hide the blush of color there. Hers gaze narrowed in annoyance.
Dahlia crawled forward onto her hands and knees, prowling toward where Ishara sat. “I am sure that when you think of his fingers between your legs, it makes you wet.”
“Now you are being lewd,” Ishara protested at the huntress’ forwardness.
But Dahlia seemed not to care. She stopped crawling only when she could rest on her knees in front of Ishara, and reached out and stroked the side of the chieftain slave’s face, fingers tracing the lin
e of her jaw. “And when you are on your knees, you cannot help but to think of his cock pressing against the back of your mouth.”
Ishara felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
Dahlia pushed a hand up Ishara’s dress, and at the same time, she urged them both to lie back in the furs. The Manahotchi woman rested to the side, propped up above Ishara. Dahlia grazed her fingers up the soft, sensitive skin of Ishara’s inner thigh, and before she could even try to stop her, Dahlia pressed her thumb against the swollen nub between Ishara’s legs.
Her thumb circled around Ishara’s clit, enticing moans. She remembered the way the Manahotchi women dusted her in gold. She remembered their wandering fingers and the coiling sensation inside her. It felt the same way now—intoxicating. Ishara could not focus. The overwhelming lust blinded her. She thought she’d never be able to contain herself, and just as Ishara’s self-control unraveled, Dahlia pulled her fingers away, drawing them from between Ishara’s legs.
A glittering string of her sweet juices pulled between Dahlia’s fingers like a spider web. “See? You are just as I said you would be—wet.”
Ishara’s chest rapidly rose and fell. She could not move. If she did, she would set her body off and come. She stayed perfectly still, staring up at Dahlia in confusion.
“Oh, come on. I see the way you look at me. Is it the way you look at him?”
“No!” Ishara immediately replied.
Dahlia noticed it too, her smile said it what her lips didn’t.
“I mean… This…this isn’t feeling. This isn’t caring. This is…it is…”
“Lust?”
“Yes. Lust. It is lust.”
“And do you not lust for him, Ishara?”
“I…”
Dahlia’s fingertips rested on Ishara’s thigh, drawing her attention back to her throbbing pussy.
“You do. So, you lust for him. But you do not care for him?”
“Why would I care about my father’s enemy?” Ishara wanted the fingers back between her legs. She wanted Dahlia’s lips on her skin. She wanted to taste the woman, but imagine Mechan. He was both gentle and rough at once. She was yearning for him all over again.
“Why would you have held on to his wife’s necklace?” Dahlia removed her fingers from Ishara’s leg, lifting them instead to touch the necklace that rested at the base of her throat. The Manahotchi woman pulled Ishara’s dress down and trailed the fingers down between Ishara’s naked breasts, circling each one of her nipples, encouraging them to stiffen.
Ishara paused, gasping. “I…I forgot that I wore it.”
“Then why not throw it away?”
Arching her back, Ishara pushed her breasts up toward Dahlia’s hands and whimpered her answer. “I don’t know. I don’t know!” Darting upward, Ishara grabbed Dahlia by her face, placing her fingers by each ear, and drew her in to kiss her roughly. Her tongue pressed beyond Dahlia’s lips; she wanted to taste her, and in tasting her, she could taste herself.
Ishara adjusted herself, kneeling as Dahlia did earlier. She drew the other woman up to kneel as well, though Dahlia would not let Ishara gain the upper hand. The Manahotchi knew well where Ishara’s place should be, and with a yank of the woman’s hair, Ishara was pulled downward, on top of Dahlia’s knee.
She brushed her cunt against the knee, moaning into the kiss that had yet to be broken. Ishara did not know if this is what Dahlia wanted her to do, but the contact brought pleasure, so she kept grinding against the huntress’ knee and thigh, soaking it with wetness.
Dahlia had her fingers twisted into Ishara’s braids, and each time the slave’s hips gyrated against her leg, Ishara received a tug, pulling her down to grind harder. As she ground into Dahlia, Dahlia rubbed her own pussy against Ishara’s kneecap.
They kept up like this, clawing, humping, grinding desperately, until all at once, Ishara came, her moans echoing through the cave. Dahlia’s orgasm rose soon after, and as she came, Ishara pushed her lips against the other woman’s. They hungrily kissed each other as the intense pleasure rose and subsided, and when it was over—almost as quickly as it started—they were left damp and sated.
The huntress grinned an all-too-knowing grin and brushed back one of Ishara’s dreads. “Told you that you cared.”
When the sun rose the next morning, they were ready to leave. Wearing a borrowed dress that hardly kept her body concealed, Ishara tugged on the belt that held a leather pack tightly to her hips, checking to make sure that her food rations for the day were secure. Strapped to her back, she wore one of Dahlia’s spears, which had a throng of feathers that dripped down from the spearhead.
Dahlia looked just as savage, with her black hair pulled up at the top of her head, falling over her shoulders like a fountain of inky water. She wore a tight dress that covered little. Her whole midsection remained exposed and bared her toned torso.
“It will be a long walk back. We won’t return until after the sun goes down.” Dahlia set out at once, choosing to step into the brush instead of walking the barely-cleared path that lead in the direction of the Manahotchi.
“Why does it take so long? It only took me half a day to get this far.” Ishara didn’t have any problems with keeping up with Dahlia. In her childhood, her father couldn’t keep her away from the Dark Forest, where many men and women often got lost. Ishara wanted to explore. She had a pension for finding boundaries and pushing through them.
Much like she did with Mechan.
Dahlia pulled aside some hanging vines and held them for Ishara to pass. “I do not take the paths. Everyone else takes those paths as well. People who are not Manahotchi even. I would rather stay out of the way.”
Ishara ducked under the vines and continued on her way. They walked for a few hours and stopped by a small watering hole that was sheltered by tall, thick trees. Parched from the walk, Ishara squatted down to cup her hands beneath the water sipped at the cool liquid. When she looked at her reflection, she saw her bright green eyes staring back at her, seeing through her. She shivered.
Something unnerved her about this place. Lowering her hands again, Ishara refilled her cupped palms. And that is when she saw it in the reflection of the water.
They were not alone.
“Watch out!” Ishara spun around, yanking her spear from its resting spot on her back. At the same time, Dahlia drew her bow, aiming it at where Ishara’s voice faded into the trees.
Five men jumped down from the branches, much more heavily armed than the two women. They were fierce, with dark skin, chiseled muscles, top-knotted black hair, and murky black eyes. They were Manahotchi, and they were not happy.
Dahlia stepped ahead of Ishara, instinctively protecting her. “Put your weapons down. We are not who you are looking for.” She blinked, squinting toward the group of men. “Hey, I know you.”
One of the men smirked. Another stepped forward, as if to attack, but before he could, a sly-sounding voice came along, causing him to halt.
“Stop.”
“Aloran?” Dahlia’s tone expressed her confusion, and reluctantly she lowered her bow, the muscles in her upper back tense.
Ishara watched Aloran as he brushed past the other five men and hurried toward them. He did not seem angry or as ready to fight as the others. No, he was calm—controlled. Up to something.
Stopping before Ishara, the son of the chieftain stared her down, making her feel small. Defenseless. She squared her shoulders, trying to make herself taller.
Aloran smiled, his lips curling into a haughty grin. “I told you I would make you mine.”
Chapter Eight
“You did not need her anyway.”
Mechan hardly paid attention to Zari, who had been coming by ever since Ishara was discovered missing. He knew the woman had her own ambitions. In the past, he had rejected her proposals of marriage at least a dozen times. Today, the chieftain did not want to deal with her or her conniving ways.
“The daughte
r of a chieftain. The whole situation would have brought problems. How long do you think you could have kept her before her father showed up to take her back?” Zari faced the elder tree branch, one hand on her chin.
Mechan sighed and went back to cleaning off his machete. Earlier that day, he had gone hunting and found a worthy foe—a stag. The blood stained the cool metal of his weapon, painting it a dark, purple-red hue. Would she ever stop talking? He thought about throwing her out and making it clear that she wasn’t welcome to invite herself in whenever she pleased, but he could not slight the woman’s family by embarrassing her. They made up a good portion of his tribe and on their own would be a formidable enemy if they chose to leave. And her father was more exhausting than she was.
“I still do not understand why you do not get rid of this thing. I mean, it does not serve a purpose anymore, and soon it can be replaced with a…more attractive one.” Zari spoke the unspeakable.
“Leave it.” Mechan grunted in annoyance.
Zari turned away from the branch, and Mechan caught her rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to be so serious.” She knelt down beside him, intimately resting her cold fingers on his forearm.
“You should go for tonight, Zari. I am going to sleep.” Mechan avoided looking up into her unsettling eyes. Instead, he brushed a cloth up the length of the blade to soak up the blood.
Silence lingered between the two of them. Outside, the singing bugs filled the night air with their songs, lengthening the silence in his home.
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“I said that you can go.” His request bordered on the line of a command.
“In a moment.” Zari withdrew her hand, ducking her head down so that her face got in the way of Mechan’s weapon cleaning. “Tell me that you don’t miss her, Mechan. She’s a damned slave. The daughter of your enemy! It is foolish to feel for a slave, let alone the enemy.”
Mechan shifted his gaze from the blade to Zari. She immediately backed away from him, but not too far.