Fire in the Cave (4 page)

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 stepped
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.