Fire in the Cave (13 page)

He stood in silence. The swaying tree-branches cast shifting
patterns of sun and shadow over him. Then leaned his spear against a
tree, walked into the clearing, and sat, cross-legged, on the other
side of the fire.

“I greet you, witch-girl of the lake and the cave.” His
voice was surprisingly soft for such a large man. “I will sit
by your fire and rest, for a moment, before I and my brothers
continue on our path. Then we will go to your village, kill your
warriors, burn your homes, and take the Red Cave for ourselves. If
you choose to speak while I am resting here, perhaps I will listen.”

The witch-girl’s breath caught in her throat. The smoke from
the fire was, for a moment, the stench of burning huts. She saw her
friends cut down, Highhawk falling with a spear through her stomach,
old Heartwood felled by River-warriors with stone knives. White-stag
roaring his defiance, swinging his great stone axe, as spears pierced
him from every side. Black-dog, snarling, blood pouring from his
wounds, rushing toward his enemies again and again to lay his hands
on them, break them, kill them, give pain to as many as he could
before his last drop of blood left him.

Another path, she thought. I will find another path.

Her gaze had not wavered. Her voice was steady. “It has been
many years since River and Cave sought to kill each other, noble
Ten-hands. There have been raids, theft, kidnappings, as
River-warrior and Cave-warrior alike sought to test their skills.
But no death. Why do you seek it now? Why do you long for mothers
weeping and young men lying cold upon the ground?”

Ten-hands sat with his hands on his knees, back rigidly straight,
head high. He glared down his nose at her. “For many years,
the River has been stronger than the Cave. Your warriors use tricks
and deceptions, desperate in their weakness. In our mercy, we have
allowed this. But now you have taken our priestess. Manala,
river-witch, who speaks to the gods for us, is gone. We will not
wait for your wicked plan to work. We will not wait to be killed by
sickness or flood, with no witch to protect us from the unclean
spirits your people send. We will punish you now.”

The witch-girl nodded once, slowly. She felt exposed, with so many
strangers’ eyes upon her. Nothing was right; she should be
sleeping while the sun was high and walking at night, she should be
tending to problems within the tribe while the hunt-chief dealt with
outsiders. But if things were not unnatural, they would not need a
witch to fix them.

She took a deep breath, and hoped Ten-hands wanted peace. “Out
of great need, a warrior of the Red Cave has sought the help of
Manala, wise witch of the river. It is true that this leaves the
River-folk without a witch, until their business is done. Therefore,
I offer my skills. If you will leave the Red Cave in peace, I will
be healer and priestess for you and your people until Manala returns.
I will perform my duties faithfully, as if you were my own tribe, my
own blood. I swear this on my eyes, my teeth, and my name.”

Ten-hands narrowed his eyes, glaring at her. Her heart sank. “Red
Cave witch. Necromancer. Your skin is pale as bones. Your magic is
wicked and false. You will not be our priestess.” His legs
unfolded as he stood, towering over her. His lip curled in a snarl.
“We will have the Red Cave, and be warm there in winter. We
will have the lake and hunting grounds, and grow fat and strong.”
He turned away, walking back toward his spear.

“They say that you speak with ghosts, witch-girl,” he
called over his shoulder. “Listen well! You will hear your
people’s voices soon!”

The witch-girl’s fingers gripped her knees. Her stomach was
twisting. She hadn’t stopped them. She had barely slowed them
down.

She would be safe. They wouldn’t dare attack a witch. They
would simply kill or enslave everyone she knew. Everyone she loved,
or hated, or mocked, or admired. Every friend and lover. And she
would be left alone, exiled, free to wander into the wilderness and
go slowly mad with loneliness.

She needed to buy more time. Time for the women to come in from
gathering and arm themselves, time for the hunters to return.

There was one last thing that she could do.

The River-warriors were turning away, vanishing back into the forest.
Her voice cracked as she called out to them.

“I ask for mercy!”

Ten-hands paused, looking back at her.

“I ask for mercy! You have me surrounded. I am your captive.
I surrender, I submit.” She bowed forward, hair trailing in
the dust, hands stretched out in supplication. “I will obey, I
will serve. I will not resist. I will take no revenge. Do as you
will with me for a night, but show me mercy and spare my life.”

A wave of whispers passed through the forest around her, the
River-warriors muttering to each other. Suspicious. Greedy. She
closed her eyes tight and bowed even lower, flexing her back, raising
her hips, showing them the curves of her body. Her face burned with
embarrassment, but she could think of no other way. She must offer
herself to delay them.

She gritted her teeth, swallowing her shame. If she must do this
thing, she would do it well. By all the ghosts in the earth and the
lights in the sky, she would do it well. She would show these
wide-eyed brutes the power of desire; she would make them want her,
make them hunger for her, make them worship her body as they bruised
it. She would make them mad for her, even if that meant they would
tear her apart.

She raised her head, pale hair shrouding her eyes, lips parted. They
were watching her. They were all watching. She spread her fingers
wide in the dust and slowly raised her body, back curved, breasts
hanging full and round. Ten-hands was staring. His hand was frozen
in the air, reaching for his spear. The witch-girl drew her arms
close to her sides, framing her breasts, pushing them forward.

Want me, she thought. Look at me, you blood-thirsting giant. Look
at my skin, glowing in the sun, blushing with your stares. Look at
my lips, my pink tongue running over them. Look at my face,
pleading, vulnerable. Look into my eyes. This is an old, old spell
I’m putting on us now. Want me. And then take what you want.

He was coming toward her, Ten-hands, tall and cruel. He reached
down, grabbed her by the hair, turned her face up toward him.

“You want mercy, Cave bitch?” There was heat in his
eyes. “Mercy, in war?”

The witch-girl whimpered, to hide her relief. He might kill her.
But he would use her first, and then his warriors would want a turn.
The Red Cave tribe would have time to prepare. They would live.

Ten-hands’ cheek twitched when she whimpered. He liked that.
Liked seeing her pride break. She gave him more. Shame burned in
her cheeks as she let herself beg.

“Please.”

His lips curled in a smile. She looked up at him, eyes wide, tears
gathering.

“Please, just let me live.”

His lips split, showing his teeth in a cruel grin. His fist
tightened in her hair. All around them, his warriors were drawing
closer, watching, muttering.

“You have no magic at all, do you,” he said softly.
“Just tricks and ghost stories. Tricks, like all of your clan.
Tricks, like a wicked child.”

He pulled her head back, baring her throat. Her chest jutted
forward. She gasped, the position painful. She could feel the
warriors watching, feel their fear fading, their hunger for her
growing as they closed in.

“Wicked child.” Ten-hands was loosening his belt. His
breath was coming faster, she could hear it. As she surrendered her
control, he was losing his. “Wicked, pale-skinned little cave
slut. I will punish you.”

He hit her, hard. Her head snapped sideways, and a stunning light
flashing in her eyes. Her cheek felt icy, a feeling that gradually
thawed into pain as her mouth opened in surprise and she shook her
head to clear it.

He grabbed her head in both hands. Before she could close her mouth,
he hauled her forward, forcing his cock between her lips, choking
her. She raised her hands to push him back, to pull away and
breathe, but strong hands closed around her wrists and hauled them
behind her back. The men were all around her, now, holding her arms,
her neck, her hair, forcing her forward for Ten-hands to use.

Her eyes watered as Ten-hands slid in and out of her mouth. She
couldn’t pull away, couldn’t even move. The time for
planning and manipulation was over. All she could do now was try to
please them, and try to breathe enough to stay conscious.

Ten-hands pulled away. She gasped for breath, drooling and coughing.
His hand flashed out, slapped her other cheek. She could feel his
stinging handprint lingering, like a pink sunburn on her skin. She
looked up at him as he towered over her, grinning cruelly and flexing
his hand, deciding whether to hurt her more. She opened her mouth to
speak, but hands reached around from behind her and pulled a thick
leather rope into her mouth, gagging her, tying it tight behind her
head.

Ten-hands stepped away, took a seat on a stone. He patted his knee
and beckoned. The men all around her laughed, lifted her, carried
her forward, dropped her bent over his knees with her hindquarters in
the air. Her arms were free only a moment before he caught them, the
fingers of his left hand easily closing around both her wrists. Her
head hung down toward the dusty ground, hair veiling her eyes, gag
salty in her mouth from some man’s sweat. She felt exposed,
embarrassed, flushing pink as the warriors gathered around, laughing
and muttering and staring at her raised ass.

She felt Ten-hands shift, and clenched her eyes shut. He was holding
her wrists with one hand, leaving the other free to… SLAP.
The impact rocked her forward, forced a muffled cry out past her gag.
She was just beginning to feel the sting, feel her bottom begin to
burn, when his hand came down again, on the same side, rocking her
forward, beginning a rhythm. Quick waves of pain shot up her spine
with each blow. The pain never had time to burn and fade, but only
to grow and grow with each slap of his hand on her left cheek, her
right, her left again. She she felt like she must be glowing red as
a hot coal down there, hot and stinging, whimpering around her gag as
the brute enjoyed himself, as the warriors watched. Left cheek,
right, left, and then she screamed as the hand came down low between
them, pain shooting through her mound as he slapped it.

He wasn’t hitting her any more. She gasped for breath,
choking. He was saying something to his men, she could dimly hear
him speaking of punishment, of sharing, hear them laughing in turn.
The pain wasn’t fading so much as settling in, turning into a
hot, steady ache in her cheeks, a painful tingling in her cunt. She
should listen. She needed to know what was coming next.

Hands on her back. Hands in her hair. Hands reaching down to cup
her breasts and squeeze, to tug hard on her tender nipples. Most of
all, hands coming down behind, spanking, slapping, pinching, smacking
her thighs and cheeks, gripping her mound, running fingers up down
her slit. Her eyes went wide with surprise and embarrassment; until
they started touching her there, she hadn’t realized she was
wet. But they were crowding around, hurting her, using her, enjoying
themselves by toying with her helpless body, and despite the pain
when they touched her cunt she was dripping. She was glad they
couldn’t see her face, hanging down toward the dirt, burning
with shame. This wasn’t what she wanted, wasn’t what she
liked. It didn’t make sense that the heat of the pain was
rising into her belly, that she was starting to ride the waves of
shame and pain and almost enjoy them. It wasn’t right. She
only ever felt this way with Black-dog.

At the thought of him, something broke inside her.

Hands gripped her breasts, squeezing, crushing, and they were his
hands. Blows rained down on her ass and thighs, and it was him
hitting her, using her, pouring his anger and lust out onto her. The
heat inside her was him, she was taking the pain for him, everything
he wanted to do to her, everything painful and obscene, she wouldn’t
say no, couldn’t, she rejoiced in his using her. Her body
shook. All the air in her lungs left her in a long, helpless,
muffled moan, as hands touched and squeezed her, as fingers slipped
inside her wetness to curl and stroke and force more sensation into
her.

They threw her down on the ground, on her back. Pulled her arms out
to the sides and held them down. Someone tugged the gag out of her
mouth and she gasped, tried to explain, tried to tell them what she
was feeling, but the only words she could form were “please”
and “yes.” They were crowding close now, coming down on
top of her, and in the crowd she could see him, just in glimpses.
His dark hair. The broad plane of his chest. His eyes, watching.
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

They forced her legs apart. Someone kissed her, biting her lip, then
someone else was biting her neck while others kneeled over her,
stroking their shafts, and she raised her head to kiss and lick at
the underside of a ready cock, looking up with pleading eyes at the
river-warrior she was serving, seeing only Black-dog. Then the first
one shoved into her below, painful in her sore cunt, but finally,
finally touching the waiting places inside her. She moaned
mindlessly, arching her back. Her vision swam with images of
taut-stomached warriors staring down at her with undisguised lust,
stroking themselves faster and faster. The one using her was
slamming into her, reaching deep, each impact of his hips on her sore
mound making her cry out, his long hair spreading over her chest as
he bent to suck at her breast, bite her nipple. And then he was
pulling out, pouring hot whiteness onto her stomach, leaving her
sticky, and another was taking his place.