Savage Betrayal (10 page)

“Court me?” she echoed stupidly. Then regaining control, she sneered, “Slaves don’t court. Slaves have no choice when and if it comes to choosing a spouse.”

“Nevertheless,” he answered, unperturbed, “I want you for my wife, and I had hoped that, given time, you would want me. Now that you’re going away, I’m deeply disappointed.”

Spring Fern stood quietly, in a daze. At last, she sighed, a quiet, desperate sigh.

“If only we did have a choice, if only a slave could choose—“

“Would you choose me?” he broke in on her thoughts.

“B-but I hardly know you,” she answered, stalling.

“Well,” he answered sardonically, “it doesn’t seem like we’ll have any time to find out anyway, will we?" Still toying with her hair, he now reached over to run his fingers lightly down her arm.

“N-no, I guess not,” she answered doubtfully.

Chagrined with the way the conversation was going, Rottenwood leaned over and lightly brushed his lips against hers. Feeling her tremble, he pulled her closer and pressed more firmly. She tried to push him away with both her hands pressed against his chest, but after a moment relaxed with a small sigh. Slowly, hesitantly, she put her arms softly around his neck. Embracing her tenderly, he rained gentle kisses on her cheeks, forehead and eyelids.

Spring Fern grew warm under his touch and gave in to the marvelous sensations his lips were evoking. She felt his mouth rove slowly down her throat to the hollow at the base of her neck. Moving languidly against him, she sighed luxuriously.

Suddenly, louder noises from the party inside the longhouse crept into their consciousness and they broke slowly apart, staring at each other.

Rottenwood reached for her again, but she raised a palm to hold him off.

“P-please,” she begged feebly, “I—I must go in. They’ll miss me.” She quickly ducked around him and darted back into the longhouse, leaving him staring at the swaying flap of fur that marked the door.

He spat angrily into the sand, and stalked off towards the beach. Perhaps a brisk walk would cool his raging blood, he thought resentfully.

Once down on the beach, his silent figure moved restlessly in the bright moonlight. He could hear the sounds of revelry coming from Thunder Maker’s longhouse, but he had no desire to sit with the slaves and join in the festivities. His uneasiness intensified, but he didn’t know why.

He thought of Spring Fern. He’d seen her and touched her for such a short time, and yet it meant so much to him. Had those warm kisses meant anything to her? he wondered wistfully. She’d looked so lovely in the moonlight and her kisses had tasted so sweet it made his heart ache with longing for her.

With a grunt, he kicked at a piece of rotting kelp on the beach and strode onwards. As he approached the Ahousats’ canoes, lying in wait half on the sand, half in the water, he sat down to clear his head of his recent turmoil. Thoughts of Spring Fern, and the hiss of the waves lapping hungrily at the canoes, lulled him into a peaceful state, his anger forgotten.

* * * *

In the longhouse, people were commenting about how little the visitors had eaten. Despite Ahousat protests of satiation, the host’s men muttered amongst themselves. How could the guests be full? They hadn’t eaten that much! They were trying to insult Chief Thunder Maker’s generous hospitality. Guests should show better manners than that!

Hearing the murmurings of discontent and anxious to head off any confrontation, Thunder Maker sought a diversion. He decided to bring out Sarita, with some of her female attendants. She had not yet met her husband-to-be and Thunder Maker felt that now was the time to introduce her to her new people. At his gesture, Crab Woman heaved herself to her feet and marched over to their private apartments to fetch Sarita.

Sarita sat quietly with her women about her. Tensely awaiting her father’s summons, her thoughts raced on and on about her husband-to-be. She tried to reassure herself by telling herself over and over that this marriage was what her father and brother, who dearly loved her, wanted for her, and of the peace it would bring between the two peoples. Surely they would not arrange something harmful for her. Would they?

At Crab Woman’s curt order, Sarita rose and tried to still her trembling frame. She gave one last nervous touch to the neckline of her cloak, unconsciously twisting a lock of her shining seal-brown hair, then finally took a deep, shuddering breath. She gathered her courage and followed Crab Woman over to where the revelers were eating and talking loudly.

All conversation suddenly ceased as, head held high, Sarita entered the room, followed by her ladies. She briefly scanned the room, then went quietly to her place and sat down gracefully, head still high. Her women positioned themselves around her, grouped like a bouquet of summer flowers. After a moment, conversation resumed and Sarita felt herself relax now that she was no longer the center of everyone’s attention.

Amidst the background buzz of talking, Sarita surreptitiously looked about, trying to guess which man was her husband-to-be. Suddenly from across the room she was confronted by the darkest, most piercing, jet black eyes she had ever beheld. Set in an arrogant face, the eyes held hers imprisoned for a timeless moment until she finally forced herself to look away. Shaken inside, she tried to calm her suddenly rushing emotions. Lifting a cup of water to her lips, she sipped slowly and finally set it down again as she felt her heartbeat returning to normal.

Who was this man whose captivating gaze had slashed across her vision? He was dressed magnificently, like—like a groom should be. Surely he wasn’t Fighting Wolf! He didn’t look anything like the man Crab Woman had described. This man was young, handsome, and she was certain he had all his teeth. Yes. There, the flash of his smile for the space of a heartbeat. He had a full set of gleaming white teeth.

Turning her head as if to whisper to Spring Fern, Sarita glanced quickly out the corner of her eye to see what
he
was doing. She caught her breath as she realized his eyes were still on her. Mind awhirl, she tried to concentrate on the conversation around her, but all she could think of was the man whose dark gaze held her captive.

Fighting Wolf had been quietly fuming, dwelling on thoughts of revenge, when he noticed Thunder Maker’s signal to his wife. With unconcealed interest, Fighting Wolf watched her disappear behind a screen, only to reenter moments later followed by a retinue of women led by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Dressed in a blue trade blanket cloak that only partially covered her cream-colored wedding costume, she outshone any woman he had seen in a long, long time.

Unable to take his eyes off her, he followed her progress to her seating place and still he could not pull his eyes away. Long gleaming hair spread over her shoulders and hung down to her waist. The large expressive eyes, set in a flawless face, caught and held his for a moment before she looked haughtily away. Her dignified posture, her calm control, all served to overwhelm him with her presence. No one else in the room existed for him. Trying to cover his shock with a look of unconcern, he still could not tear his eyes away from the beautiful woman.

Who is she?
She had the noble bearing of a chief’s daughter. Could this lovely woman be his bride-to-be, Sarita? For a brief moment, intense regret flooded him. Then he recovered.
It doesn’t matter who she is…she’ll soon be mine!

Fighting Wolf at last managed to drag his eyes away from the tempting vision of the woman. He surveyed the room, watching his men. Dressed in their bulky robes, some sat and talked convivially with their hosts, others argued loudly. Nearby hovered several serving women and slaves who waited on the guests. The women laughed and giggled in their higher-pitched voices.

The meal was over with; many of the men were lying around, relaxing. His own men, noted Fighting Wolf, looked more alert and responsive than the indolently sprawling, satiated Hesquiats.

Fighting Wolf shifted impatiently in the heavy elk armor he wore under his robe. The armor, three hides thick, was the prerogative of a war chief and Fighting Wolf had decided to wear his tonight, despite the discomfort.

It is time
. Giving a quick nod to Otterskin on his right and Comes-from-Salish on his left, he tensed his muscles and sprang up.

Simultaneously the air was filled with loud screeches and victory yells as the vengeful Ahousats pulled out weapons from under their robes and turned viciously on their unsuspecting Hesquiat hosts. Caught completely unawares, most of the Hesquiats were weaponless. They moved slowly, as if unable to comprehend the full extent of the Ahousats’ treachery.

Fighting Wolf was immediately embroiled in a struggle with an unarmed Hesquiat. Fighting Wolf quickly dispatched the warrior and turned to see Otterskin give a ferocious laugh as he stabbed an open-mouthed Hesquiat man. Blood spurted and the man’s horrible gurgled cry added to the mad pandemonium. Another vicious stab by Otterskin and the victim was silenced forever.

Women rushed around screaming. Confusion reigned. One woman was shouting hysterically at the men, another sobbing uncontrollably. Panic-stricken women ran into the middle of fights only to be beaten back. Other frantic women darted about, searching desperately for children and clutching wailing babies to their breasts. The utter fear of the women could be seen on all their faces as they cried, watching husbands and sons, sweethearts and lovers, fall to the brutal enemy. Men’s shouts and hoarse screams added to the din.

Spring Fern, seeing from the first what was happening, shook Sarita’s shoulder to get her attention. Their only hope of safety lay in escape. Suddenly an enemy warrior swung brutally at her with his war club. She ducked instinctively. He missed.

Panicked, she raced to an escape hatch on one side of the longhouse. Slipping through, she ran as fast as she could into the nearby forest and crouched, gasping, under a thick net of bushes. Trembling, hidden in the dark, she resolved to wait until the last raider departed.

Birdwhistle was fighting off two determined Hesquiats, the struggle going against him until Comes-from-Salish leaped to his defense, striking one of the Hesquiats from behind. Quickly disposing of his man, he turned again to aid Birdwhistle, who by now needed no help. He had already killed the other adversary.

Fighting Wolf shouted encouragement to his men. His loud voice could be heard reminding them of their reasons for revenge and promising them many captives.

Searching through the fighting men, he quickly spied Feast Giver, the son of the Hesquiat chief, fighting off one of Ahousats best warriors. As he watched, Feast Giver quickly stabbed the man in the side of the neck and jumped back as the man crumpled in a bloody heap. Feast Giver bellowed a victorious war cry.

That was all the provocation Fighting Wolf needed. Rushing over, he attacked Feast Giver, clubbing him from the side. The blow glanced off his head and one shoulder. Caught unawares, the young Hesquiat twisted to one side, but lost his balance. As he fell to the ground he stabbed at Fighting Wolf with his knife. His target stepped back smoothly and missed the blow aimed at his thigh.

Now Fighting Wolf had the advantage and he used it. Kicking Feast Giver’s knife from his hand, he disarmed him. Then he lunged on top of the man, knife out, ready to stab. Fighting Wolf felt the fury over his father’s death erupt and cascade over him.

As he was about to bring his knife down for the second time, a large hand grabbed him from behind and spun him off Feast Giver’s prone body. Defending himself, Fighting Wolf lunged at his attacker. The man, large and strong, swung a war club at Fighting Wolf’s head, but missed. At the last moment, he was pushed off balance by Fighting Wolf’s tackle around the knees.

Completely caught up in defending himself from the brutal attack, Fighting Wolf had no time to see Crab Woman surreptitiously approach the almost unconscious Feast Giver. Looking hastily around to see that no one was paying her any attention, she grabbed him roughly about the shoulders. Gripping him underneath each arm, she staggered with the heavy body over to a haphazardly stacked wall of cedar chests. Grunting heavily, she pulled the inert body around the wall, hiding it from view. Looking around, she spied several cedar mats. Grabbing some, she tossed them over the body to hide it from searchers. That done, she ran back out into the melee.

The warrior was on his knees, Fighting Wolf wrapped around him. Seeing the man aim his war club again at his head, Fighting Wolf quickly stabbed him in the back several times. Blood was streaming down the man’s back as he bowed forward and fell on him face, never to stir again. Pushing the heavy body off himself, Fighting Wolf got slowly to his feet, panting. The suddenness of the man’s attack had caught him off guard. Turning quickly to confront Feast Giver once more, Fighting Wolf was surprised to find his opponent had disappeared. Puzzled, he had no time to wonder what happened before he was distracted by Thunder Maker, his archenemy.

He stalked over to where Thunder Maker was trying vainly to hold off two bloody Ahousat attackers. A guttural order from Fighting Wolf and the men slunk away to engage other enemy victims.

Facing the hated Thunder Maker, Fighting Wolf bared his teeth in a snarl and demanded, “Defend yourself, cur! I will defeat you in revenge for my father’s death, you offal!”

He thrust one of his own daggers into Thunder Maker’s hand. He would let no man say it was not a fair fight.

Thunder Maker circled his opponent warily. He saw the deep hatred in the glistening eyes, the breadth of the panting chest, the taut body in fighting stance, anger barely controlled. And he knew fear. More than that, he knew he looked into the face of death. He could hear the screams around him and he knew his time had come.

He lunged at the younger warrior, stabbing at him with a powerful blow. He missed. Fighting Wolf’s low laugh taunted him as he ducked the blow and returned one of his own. Thunder Maker felt a sharp, burning pain in his right shoulder, but knew he could not stop the fight. It was to the death.