The Chieftain’s Daughter (6 page)

Chapter Six

Days passed Ishara by as she sat, naked and alone in her slave pen. Another woman from the tribe delivered her the dregs of someone’s dinner served in the same, dirty bowl at the same time every night. She only got one meal a day, and as soon as it came, Ishara devoured it quickly, afraid that someone would steal it away from her.

She was becoming an animal. A frightened, penned up, helpless animal. She hardly took her eyes off Mechan’s tent, and every time he would slip out to attend to business, she would fill with hope that today would be the day he would release her. Sometimes, if she was lucky, he’d stop by her cage to drop off a warm, dry blanket. She always wished he’d hopefully let her out, but it never happened. If he did let her out, she planned on apologizing over and over again and begging for his forgiveness. Part of her was sickened by this evolution, but she hurt Mechan, and the other part of her wanted to fix the mistake she made.

But he never did look at her. He walked by, his hardened feet squishing in the mud, and not once did he acknowledge that she was even alive any more. It stung Ishara, and she did not know how much longer she could take being caged.

The morning sun peeked over the horizon, painting the skies in pinks and purples. Fingering the ivory bead in her hair, Ishara hummed softly to herself and thought about her father
.
Where could he be? Why hadn’t he come for her yet? She feared that perhaps her father died as a result of the camp raid. Maybe that damned Aloran killed him when no one else was looking.

Ishara looked down to her feet as a beetle ran over her toes. She plucked the bug from her skin and popped it into her mouth. Crunching on the small snack, she watched a group of women carry baskets on their hips and heads. Most of the baskets were filled with clothing, but some were filled with small children, sleepy from the previous night. They were going to the river to bathe, and as each woman passed Mechan’s slave pen, they looked on Ishara with contempt darkening their gazes.

Some of the women carried spears, their baskets empty. They must be the huntresses of the group, as they were younger and more fit, built for running. Stalking. Killing. They too watched Ishara through hardened glares. Despite this, she did not take her eyes off any one of them. She might have hurt Mechan, but to the rest of the tribe, she could not appear to be weak.

Eventually, the group passed and began their conversations again, and the forest seemed to envelop them. From behind her, someone tapped on the bars of her pen. Ishara jumped and reeled back to the opposite corner.

A small girl stood with an arm extended. In her hand, she held the end piece of a crusted loaf of bread. The child looked nervous, her eyes darting here and there, watching to make sure that no one caught her act of kindness.

“You should not have done this.”

The shy girl blushed and let go of the bread, dropping it into the cage. “I do not like to see my chieftain sad.”

Ishara picked the bread up out of the mud and brushed it off against her thigh. “And what does bread have to do with your chieftain being sad?”

“You made him happy.” The girl faintly smiled, but at the call of her mother, she looked off toward the trees and ran in that direction.

Pulling the bread apart into smaller pieces, Ishara greedily inhaled the portions, and when there was no more to eat, she immediately regretted not saving some for the middle of the day. Her stomach churned, and she was sure that others could probably hear it from inside their warm tents.

“Happy? How could I make him happy?” Ishara spoke the words to herself, all the while watching for Mechan to come out. He had to leave his tent soon, after all. He hasn’t been to the river in the days since he put her out.

“You could leave.”

Ishara looked to the towering woman who loomed above her pen. “Who are you?”

“Zari.”

The way the woman spoke her name reminded her of a hiss, and it made the hair on her arms bristle in warning.

“If he wanted me to leave, I think he would have turned me out to the forest days ago.” Though, Ishara didn’t understand this logic either. Mechan obviously did not want her to be around him, so why did he bother to hold on to her?

“Ah. But, girl, you are his prize. You are a chieftain’s daughter.” Zari didn’t stoop or try to make amends for the gap between her and Ishara. She continued to hover ominously over her as she spoke, both hands on her hips. She had to be at least two decades older than Ishara. The sun left damaged spots across her skin. Small wrinkles formed in the creases of the woman’s eyes. She might have been just a few years younger than Mechan. “Men do not give up their prizes so easily.”

Ishara remained silent. This made some sense. Maybe he really did want her gone. Maybe she would be making it up to him if she disappeared one night, and he would no longer have the burden of keeping a prize that broke his heart.

“And how am I supposed to get out of here, even if I wanted to?” Ishara put a hand to the necklace that Mechan had yet to take back. The mountain cat’s tooth.

Zari laughed, and when she did, her teeth gleamed in the sunlight, like that of a hungry mountain cat. She tossed in a suede dress. “What do you mean you do not want to? You are telling me you much rather spend your time out in this…this pen, like some dirty, pack wolf?” The woman finally kneeled down to imposingly bring herself to the same level as Ishara. “Come now. We both know better. You would rather be back with your tribe, and I would rather you get out of my way.”

Ishara quickly pulled the dress over her naked form. “Out of your way?”

“Yes. Out of my way. You are causing Mechan to brood and become quite intolerable, and if we are to marry soon and mate, the last thing I want is for the cause of all of this to be lingering about outside in a pen.” Zari looked to the necklace that Ishara held, her eyes lingering for a long moment. “What a dirty thing. Your tribe truly is savage, with your knotty hair and the junk you’ve woven through it.”

“They are not junk. They are memory beads. They mark important times in our lives that we wish not to forget.” Ishara let go of the necklace and lifted her chin.

“Junk.” Zari echoed the word with a roll of her eyes. “In either case, I am willing to help you, if you want. If I let you out of this pen, I want you to run and never come back this way. Go find your tribe, your father…I do not care what you do with yourself. Just leave the Manahotchi.” She nodded in the direction of the forest. “There is a path off west that you can take out to the dry lands. It is rough to travel, but you will pass by fruit trees and a fresh spring before you have to cross.”

“And then what?”

“I can’t tell you everything, girl. Go find your tribe. I’m sure they’re out there somewhere.” Zari pulled a key out from between her breasts, which were tightly bound in a suede dress. With a click, she unlocked the pen, and the cage door swung open.

Ishara glanced between the door and Mechan’s tent. Her heart beat faster with the hesitancy of leaving the chieftain behind. She could hear the little girl’s words echo through her mind. At the same time, she wanted to be home with her father. She wanted to be free, and if Mechan truly didn’t want to see her any more, then it would be for the best. At least, she hoped it would be the best for him. She has hurt him enough, and a good part of her didn’t want to hurt him any more.

After ducking out of the pen, Ishara rose to her full height, her bones cracking from being cooped up in such a small place for many days. She turned to regard Zari, who managed to stand much taller than her, and Ishara nodded her head. Without another word, she bounded off west to find the path to the dry lands. She did not know where she would go or end up, but she did know she had to leave the Manahotchi and get back home. Hopefully, Mechan would be okay without her.

Ishara sliced through the pelt from the rabbit’s still-warm body. She slid the crude, stone dagger she had spent half the day sharpening into the flesh of the creature and smelled the fresh blood as it welled to the surface. She wouldn’t have time to cook it, not if she wanted to avoid the other creatures out in the desert land. After carving away a piece of meat, she popped it into her mouth and chewed on it. It was tough, and the blood tasted coppery, masking any flavor that the rabbit might have had. Her stomach churned and grumbled, and she wished more than ever she could light a fire and cook her kill, but she would have to deal with what she had.

It didn’t take long before she heard the howling—the fierce, primal calling of the canines that roamed the acrid plains in search for anything to eat. Anything, including herself.

Crouched above her rabbit corpse, Ishara squinted her green eyes in an effort to discern the creatures from the rest of her tan and brown surroundings. Their fur was much the same color, camouflaging them against the monotony of sand against sand.

In just one moment, one fleeting glimpse, she spotted the pack as they started to run at full speed toward her. She could hear their teeth gnashing together as they barked and growled, ready to fight.

Ishara left the rabbit corpse behind to clamor up a purple fruit tree as the bark cut at her skin, leaving small, bleeding scratches. Below her, the pack of wild dogs yelped and barked, and one even tried to jump and climb up after her. Most of them were busy devouring the dead rabbit, which didn’t last long and was soon a pile of bones. Ishara hissed at the pack, tore a branch off the tree, and speared it down at what appeared to be the alpha male.

The branch hit the dirty canine and it whimpered, snarled, and then started its retreat in the direction of the dry lands. The rest of the pack followed after him. Ishara knew the dangers of walking across the arid earth alone, and she heard of the desert dogs that roamed in packs and viciously killed anything that they could eat, but she never expected to have to actually deal with them. Not by herself, at least, and definitely not when she had much farther to go before she even reached the edge of the dry lands.

Now stranded in a tree, Ishara climbed up farther to see if she could scout out a reasonable route to the springs and fruit trees. The sun heated her skin, and it quickly dried up the forest ground from the previous days of rain. She gathered her dreadlocks off her neck and held them in her hand as she peered across the treetops. “I will never make it home.”

Convinced that the dogs were gone, Ishara carefully climbed back down the tree until her toes met the ground. She brushed the blood off her shins from the climb up, and turned to set out on her way back home.

The sounds of forest birds echoed through the trees. Ishara watched above her and caught flashes of rainbow-colored parrot wings as they flew back and forth from tree-to-tree. She put a hand to her necklace and a pang of guilt radiated through her body. She thought of Mechan back at his tent and saw him stepping out to go to the river, only to find the slave pen empty—abandoned. Would he even care?

“Stubborn old man. He should have known that a chieftain’s daughter isn’t someone’s pet anyway.” Ishara navigated her way over an old, fallen tree. She stepped away from the tree, and when she looked over her shoulder to study it, she realized it was an elder tree. Like so many of the elder trees, this one had fallen, marking the end of its life. Still, its branches were strong and sturdy, not yet permeated with the dampness of the forest ground.

“Stupid old man and your stupid dress…and your stupid elder tree.” Ishara yanked on a branch until it snapped off the trunk. Her fingers traced the lines of the bark, which reminded her of facial wrinkles on an old man. She smiled and decided to use the branch to aid her walk through the forest.

The snap of a twig behind her stopped her pace. Ishara spun on a heel, holding the branch in one hand, and her stone dagger in the other. With prey-like instinct, she backed up toward a tree, keeping her back safe. She could see everything in front of her. Ishara scanned the brush for any movement. Only the wind rustled the leaves on the trees. Another parrot screeched by overhead, its long tail a blur of reds and blues. It only took a second to look up at it, but in that second, an arrow whizzed by her ear and stuck in the wood behind her head.

“By the Spirits!” Ishara rolled around to the back of the tree, seeking cover. By the angle of the arrow, she knew someone shot it from above. She scanned the trees again, but all she could see were the hundreds of multi-colored birds, all strangely quiet and staring.

Another arrow hit the trunk, digging itself into the bark. This time, Ishara caught movement in a tall tree to her left. Ishara stepped beside her cover and into a beam of light peeking through the treetops. Ishara did not fear her predator, for she knew she was not prey. At least, she wasn’t going to be made prey anytime soon.

“Show yourself!” She yelled up into the trees, only to receive a hundred parrot calls in response. The calls gave way to social chattering, the noise almost deafening.

Barely heard over the parrots, a voice called back in reply, “Tell me who you are, first.”

“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 line 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.