The Chieftain’s Daughter
~ Acclaim for Leia Rice ~
For
The Queen’s Consort
“Short, hot, and extremely well-written, it's a tale that will linger.” –Author Stephanie Dray
The Chieftain’s Daughter
Leia Rice
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (
http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/
).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
The Chieftain’s Daughter
Copyright © 2012 by Leia Rice
ISBN: 978-1-939194-05-3
Edited by Rachel Firasek
Cover by Eithne Ni Anluaine
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: October 2012
Chapter One
The heavy drums throbbed through Ishara’s head with each beat. She had been shackled in a foreign pen for hours, and crude iron manacles dug into the delicate skin of her wrists. It had been hours since she had been fed or watered, which did not help her developing headache.
A few days ago Ishara would most definitely not have been in this state. She had been the pampered only daughter to the chieftain of the Oolani tribe. Now, she was filthy, exhausted, and terrified for her father—and her tribe—after the raid on her village. As a prisoner of the Manahotchi people, the Oolani’s sworn enemy from before her birth, Ishara would possibly never again experience the luxuries from her own station.
Her enemies had locked her in a rusted metal cage and forgotten her. It was not worthy of a chieftain’s daughter, even a captured one. It was not even worthy of their dogs.
While her new home wasn’t much it was like nothing she’d ever seen—a plain, metal structure with bars just wide enough to stick an arm through. She could only imagine the conditions in which the Manahotchi kept the other Oolani women and children.
The bars of her enclosure felt cool against her thighs. Ishara shifted to peek through the dark material covering her cage. As she twisted, the heavy chains that bound her wrists and connected to the manacle around her neck jingled. The sound boomed in her ears, but perhaps no one could hear it against the pounding of the drums. Her heart beat faster. Too fast. If they heard her, they would come for her. Ishara willed herself to remain still. Calm. Maybe they would forget she was even here. Maybe then she could figure out a way to escape this camp and free her people.
She, the daughter of the mighty Oolani chieftain, shouldn’t be here. Ishara sunk back down onto the floor of her cage and rested her head against the bars. Her matted hair kept her skull from rubbing against the hard rods. She fingered the locks, searching for the elephant tusk bead her father had carved for her. He tied it into one of her dreads back when they were newly forming and told her it would be the first of her many accomplishments. Ishara treasured it always. And she needed the comfort of his memory now.
The cloth curtain was drawn back, and light flooded into the cage. She squinted against the brightness, vaguely making out the dark figures of approaching women with large bowls in their hands. Some sort of gold dust covered every unbound woman surrounding her. A group of children, also painted in gold, sat around the cage, staring up at her with wide, captivated gazes. Some of them reached out, shoving their hands between the bars, opening and closing them in greedy little grasping motions. All of the children scurried to their knees, stretching their arms into the cage, trying to grab her.
One woman stepped forward and opened her cage while the rest thrust their hands inside and yanked her out with an unforgiving force. Ishara fell onto the floor, her face smashing into the dirt before she angrily rebounded, rolling up onto her knees. As she knelt she watched the children race away from the cage, all of them yelling and waving their arms in excitement.
“I am the daughter of the chieftain. How dare you treat me in this way?”
The enemy women only laughed and shoved her through a flap in a tent. Someone nudged her from behind, pushing her toward a wall with protruding metal hooks. The taunting women hung her manacles above her head, exposing her naked body to the whole of the room. What shamed Ishara more than the fact that she was completely nude was that her anger excited her, and her nipples tightened, catching the attention of almost all of the other women.
As she opened her mouth to protest again, a woman grabbed her chin and yanked it down, forcing her lips apart. The other hand pinched her nose, giving her no choice but to breathe through her lips. She gasped out for air. A cup was held above her gaping mouth, dumping a warm liquid down her throat. Ishara gagged, trying to cough it back up. A spray of crimson spittle spotted her captor’s face. The fiends had fed her blood.
The room swirled around her. The women blended, separated, doubled and tripled in her line of vision.
Two women with large wooden bowls approached Ishara. Beside them, two more women dipped their hands into a powder, cupping a handful and smearing it across Ishara’s breasts. At first, the women did not follow a pattern. They touched her gently, their fingers leaving behind gold lines, growing more personal the longer they painted, marking Ishara exactly as they were—golden. Everywhere.
She rolled her hips away, fighting the warm fuzzy feeling heating her body, when one of the women ran her fingers down her labia and eventually between the folds. The gentle sensation was pleasing against the heavy beating of the drums. They enticed her body to react in ways she could not control. The more they smeared the dust over the most intimate parts of her body, the more she became wet and desirous for more.
One of them smiled, and Ishara caught the look exchanged between the others. Where there were only two hands on her, suddenly there were four, then six. Ishara undulated her hips against their probing touches. Fingers speared into her, fingers spread the outer lips of her swollen pussy, and each pair of hands drove her mad as it worked in time with the drums.
Beads of sweat rolled down the sleek lines of her curvy form, erasing the gold in little streaks. As the feelings insider her built like a knot tightening in her center, she feared where it could go.
Soon enough, it was no longer a concern, as the women withdrew their fingers when one of the older ones clucked her tongue. Breathless, Ishara craved more as the group filtered out of the room and toward the direction of the celebration.
“Excuse me?” she shouted after them, the words caught between the heavy rise and fall of her chest.
Hours passed, and no one came. She forgot the mounting rush that threatened to seize her body. Tingles shot up her arms; they’d long since gone numb from being pinned above her head. The blood drink still tangled around her thoughts, making her dizzy. She did not know if they would come for her again, but part of her yearned for the women’s return.
“Father, forgive me.”
* * *
The Ceremony of the Slaves used to be a rare event. It only happened after every major battle against warring tribes, and for nearly a generation, Chief Mechan kept his own tribe, the Manahotchi, from having to pick up a weapon for anything besides hunting.
Times changed, and the ways of the proud, younger men created new enemies from camp to camp and village to village, and even with the men in large ships that ventured too far into their territory. Ambition and glory, mixed with the weakness of other tribal chiefs, made for a competition that made the whole land uneasy. And so when the Oolani tribe made the grave mistake of stealing a virgin daughter of a high-ranking Manahotchi elder, Mechan had no choice but to destroy them.
He had ordered the entire camp to be burned to the ground, but they were not to kill any Oolani. Instead, Mechan demanded slaves be taken, leaving the village helpless and broken.
He did not expect for his warriors to capture the Oolani chieftain’s daughter. Even if it had been many years since the last ceremony, the drums sounded louder than Mechan had ever heard, even in his childhood. The people had a valuable prisoner, and a statement would be made that night War was not a game to be played by blind ambitions.
If only he could convince his son of this.
Mechan pulled the thin, leather thongs of his loincloth around his waist. Aloran had been bragging endlessly for weeks about sparring, wrestling, and who would break whom. Too much of his son’s energy was spent on violent plotting when it could be used for the needs of the tribe. Though Mechan had never seen his son wound a man, rumor had spread through the camp that Aloran had killed an Oolani during the raid. If the claim proved true, then Aloran had disobeyed Mechan’s orders and would have to be punished. For now, Mechan was late to the ceremony.
Pushing the flap of his family tent aside, he stepped out into the circle of his gathered people who greeted him with shrill, palpitating calls. Young and old, women, men, and children gathered to see the reparations. Traditionally, all of the women of the tribe were nude and dusted in gold to honor the spirit of victory and light. They wore elaborate gold jewelry that weighed down their necks and ears, and some of them even dusted their inky-black hair, leaving only the deep brown, almost midnight orbs of their eyes to contrast against the sun-like hue of the rest of their bodies.
The drummer’s mallets beat harder against their instruments, announcing their chief with a heavy, pounding rhythm. Standing tall among his people, Mechan raised a hand and all the noise gave way to silence, leaving only the uncontrollable pop and crackle from the embers of the massive bonfire that lit the camp.
“Bring out the slaves.”
The pulse of the drums filled the camp again. From a large tent usually reserved for communal dining, females of every age were marched out to the middle of the camp, shackled by their wrists and ankles and bound to each other with long cords of twisted metal to prevent any chance of escape. Tears streamed down their faces, and some of the younger children wailed.
Only the women of warring tribes were taken as slaves—the loss of sisters, wives, mothers, and daughters punishment enough for the warriors left behind. There was no greater pain for a man than the loss of his women.
Mechan knew about that kind of pain. He’d lost his only wife and daughter eight years before to the childbirth fever.
Sometimes he questioned the Manahotchi’s women-stealing tradition. He took pity on the men who were left behind to mourn. But their message was necessary—do not challenge their tribe.
The females stopped next to the bonfires. Illuminated by the flames, their naked bodies glittered with gold dust. Many of them were beautiful, and he stared blatantly, his interest peaked. It was his right to watch. These were his spoils of war.
A little piece of him, somewhere under all the muscle and stony strength, still mourned for the family he had lost. Mechan always tried to keep his pain hidden from those around him, but he had a distinct feeling that everyone knew their chief would never wed or know true happiness again. Their pitiful glances never lasted longer than it took for him to look back.
The drums died.
From a smaller tent, which had just been set up that week, three, large Manahotchi men came out, each holding an iron chain. A woman, more beautiful and feistier than any of the other slaves, was attached to the end by rusty manacles. Instead of crying and wailing, this one fought the whole way, digging her heels into the ground, yelling, and pulling down on the fetters that kept her bound. The men holding her lurched back and forth. She had spirit that commanded Mechan’s attention.
Aloran stepped away from the crowd, dressed in a loincloth with colored bone beads. His jet-black hair was pulled up into a top knot that hung down to the nape of his neck “Manahotchi! Behold the daughter of the Oolani chieftain.” His voice rose above the crowd.
As soon as he spoke the word “Oolani,” the new slave thrashed some more. Though she tried, she was unable to form words behind the cloth gag shoved between her teeth.
“For the crimes against our tribe, I present the Oolani chieftain’s daughter to my father, our mighty and kind leader who protects us always.” Aloran grabbed one of the slave’s iron leads and violently yanked her to Mechan. Her head snapped back as the rest of her body jolted forward. Lowering his head, Aloran held out his hands, surrendering his treasured prize. “Father.”
Looking over the woman’s form, Mechan had to will his cock not to rise. She was like no creature he had ever seen before. At the sight of the woman’s rare, light green eyes, Mechan immediately wanted to possess her, claim her. Not only was she stunning, but she was his enemy’s daughter, and the Oolani had a lesson to learn.
Practicing his self-control, Mechan nodded and took the chain from Aloran’s hands. “Tonight is a great night for our people. We will celebrate until the sun rises, and then the slave games shall begin.”
He narrowed his eyes on his new prize, then glanced at his son. With a curt nod, Mechan led his slave girl into his tent to assess her—in detail and behind the prying eyes of the camp.