Chapter 8: Drums And Feast(18+)

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Drums And Feast(18+)

Fires roared in the great open space before the arena. Whole deer and wild pigs turned on spits.

Clay pots of fermented berry drink passed from hand to hand.

The tribe danced in circles, stamping bare feet until dust rose in thick clouds, bone rattles clacking in time with the heavy drums.

Korr sat on the raised stone platform reserved for the Tribunal and their favored fighters.

His wounds had been cleaned again and bound with fresh moss and hide.

The cut across his ribs still pulled when he moved, but the pain was distant beneath the heat of the day and the stronger heat of the looks the tribe kept throwing his way. Men nodded with respect.

Women watched with open interest. Children pointed and whispered his name.

Matron Vara sat at the center of the platform, one hand resting possessively on Korr’s thigh.

She wore her open leather vest and the finger-bone necklace; silver strands in her hair caught the light every time she turned her head.

She drank sparingly and watched everything.

Elka sat to Vara’s left, long legs crossed, a thin smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

She had washed the river blood from her skin but left a single streak of red ochre across one cheekbone like a trophy.

Elder Gron occupied the far seat, silent as always, eyes moving slowly over the crowd as if counting knives that had not yet been drawn.

A young fighter from the second band approached the platform and dropped to one knee. "Matron.

The three River wounded still live.

They are bound in the holding cave.

The tribe asks when they will dance in the pit."

Vara’s fingers tightened slightly on Korr’s thigh.

"Tomorrow at high sun.

Let them see the man who killed their leader one last time before they die.

Korr will open the first throat."

The fighter bowed and retreated.

A cheer went up from those close enough to hear.

Elka leaned sideways, voice low enough that only the platform could catch it.

"You give him every honor, Vara.

The pit kills.

The river kills.

Now the public executions.

The tribe will start believing the Tribunal has only one strong arm left."

Vara did not look at her.

"The tribe believes what it sees.

It sees a Matron who chooses well and a gladiator who does not fall.

If that troubles you, Elka, find a stronger arm of your own."

Elka’s smile widened a fraction. Her gaze slid to Korr and lingered, openly assessing the breadth of his shoulders, the fresh bandages, the way Vara’s hand claimed him. "Perhaps I will."

Gron spoke for the first time that afternoon, voice dry as old hide.

"The River Tribe will not wait for us to finish celebrating.

Their survivors will carry word. Pride demands an answer.

We should send scouts farther downriver before the next moon."

Vara nodded once.

"See it done.

Take volunteers only.

I will not strip the eastern grounds bare while we feast."

The drums grew louder as night approached.

Torches were lit.

The fermented drink flowed more freely.

Couples slipped away into the darker edges of the gathering or openly claimed each other near the fires.

The air thickened with smoke, sweat, and the musk of bodies.

Vara rose, drawing Korr with her by the simple pressure of her hand.

"Walk with me."

They left the platform and moved through the crowd.

Hands reached out to touch Korr’s arms, his back, the axe still hanging at his side.

Voices called blessings and challenges in the same breath.

Vara led him past the main fires to a quieter stretch of stone near the cave mouths, still visible to the tribe but removed from the thickest noise.

She turned to face him.

The torchlight painted her in gold and shadow.

"Elka is not subtle tonight.

She wants you to know she is watching. Gron wants us to remember the river is not finished.

And the tribe wants to see their new favorite fuck the Matron who claimed him."

Korr’s gray eyes held hers.

"And what do you want?"

"I want them all to see that you are still mine."

She stepped closer until her breasts brushed his chest.

One hand slid down and cupped him through the loincloth, finding him already half-hard from the feast, the fight’s aftermath, and her nearness.

"Here.

Not in the dark of the cave.

Where enough eyes can carry the story."

She did not wait for agreement.

She pushed him back against the stone wall, untied his loincloth with quick fingers, and freed his cock.

Then she turned, braced both hands on the rock, and looked back over her shoulder.

"Take what is yours to take, gladiator.

Make it clear."

Korr stepped in, shoved the leather skirt up over her hips, and found her already slick. He drove into her in one hard thrust.

Vara’s breath left her in a sharp, open sound that carried farther than the drums for a moment.

He set a steady, deep rhythm, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced on the stone beside hers.

The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with the distant feast noise.

Anyone who looked their way would see exactly what the Matron intended them to see: the victorious fighter buried to the hilt in the woman who ruled.

Vara pushed back to meet every thrust, silver-streaked hair swinging.

"Harder.

Let them hear."

He gave her harder.

The angle made her clench around him.

Her low moans turned sharper.

When she came it was with a broken cry that several nearby dancers turned to witness.

Korr followed soon after, driving deep and spilling inside her while her body still pulsed around him.

They stayed locked for several breaths. Then he withdrew.

Seed trickled down her inner thigh.

Vara straightened her skirt with deliberate calm, turned, and dragged two fingers through the mess.

She brought them to her mouth and tasted while looking straight at him.

"Now they know," she said.

They returned to the platform as the feast reached its peak.

Elka’s eyes tracked them the entire way, sharp and unreadable.

Gron simply watched, as he always did.

Later, when the fires burned lower and many of the tribe had paired off or collapsed into drunken sleep, Vara led Korr back to her chamber.

This time the claiming was slower, heavier, almost thoughtful.

She rode him face to face, hands framed on either side of his head, eyes never leaving his.

"The knives will come soon," she murmured between deep, rolling movements.

"From the river or from inside these caves.

When they do, I expect you to still be standing.

And I expect you to still be in my furs."

Korr thrust up to meet her.

"I plan on both."

She came again with a low, shuddering sound, forehead pressed to his, and he followed, filling her once more while the distant drums finally began to fade.

Afterward she lay against his uninjured side, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage.

"Sleep," she said.

"Tomorrow the River wounded die in the pit. The day after, the real work begins again."