Savage Betrayal (32 page)

“Had, Sarita,” he corrected gently. “You had privileges. Now you don’t. Now you are a spoil of war.”

She turned to look at him, and he could see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly, “You’re right. Your revenge is complete now.”

Something in the way she said those few words made him feel strange, as if something precious had been lost. But he would not let her know her words had shaken him. “Yes,” he repeated, just as softly. “My revenge is complete.” Again he felt that inexplicable sense of loss.

She gazed at him for a long time before she turned away from him and faced the wall. He reached over and pulled her close to him, his grip warm and possessive. One hand lay over her breast, one leg over her thighs. Unaware of the silent tears of despair coursing down her cheeks, Fighting Wolf whispered into her ear, “You’re mine.” He held her tighter. “Mine.”

Sarita awoke the next morning and reached out blindly for Fighting Wolf. The furs next to her were still warm from his body heat, but he himself was gone. Her spirits sagged as the memory of last night returned. Finally she dragged herself out of bed. Goosebumps dotted her skin as the cool morning air touched her with light fingers.

She slipped into her cedar smock, wondering briefly when she would get a chance to wash it. It was the only robe she owned, except for her wedding robe. That was put away in a safe place. She must remember to take the beautiful dress with her when she escaped.

The thought of escaping buoyed her spirits. In the new light of morning, anything was possible.

Humming quietly to herself, she slipped from the alcove. Now she faced the most difficult part of her day—facing the knowing smiles and lewd winks of the serving women and female slaves who gathered about the fire as they prepared the morning meal. This morning, however, she saw that few were up. It was still early.

Fighting Wolf was nowhere in sight. Coughing discreetly to catch Sarita’s attention, one of the oldest slave women tittered knowingly. “He’s gone, you know. Left early this morning to look for that dear sister of his. But he’ll be back.” Her old eyes sparkled good-naturedly. “He won’t forget you, slave. Ha ha!”

At this news of Fighting Wolf’s departure, relief washed over Sarita. After last night’s conversation, she did not want to face him for a long time, if ever!

Sarita’s attention was drawn back to what the old woman was saying. That worthy leaned close and confided in a sibilant whisper, “Did I ever tell you that I was this here war chief’s great-grandpa’s favorite concubine?” At Sarita’s astonished look, she smirked and said proudly, “Yep, his favorite I was. Why, he and I used to—“

“That’s enough,” cut in Sarita hastily. “I’m sure you have work to do,” she emphasized with a pointed look.

“Don’t give me orders,” bristled the older woman.

“I didn’t mean—“ Sarita began, uncomfortably aware she had no right to tell another slave what to do. She just had not wanted to listen to the old woman’s tales. Would that be
her
in several years? Boasting to the young concubines of how she’d been Fighting Wolf’s favorite? She shuddered at the thought.

Head tilted to one side, the old woman’s bright eyes regarded Sarita steadily. She reminded Sarita of a precocious bird. At Sarita’s look of discomfiture, the old woman relented. “He said to tell you he may be gone for several days. Said he isn’t coming back ‘til he finds his sister. Yep, gonna be gone a while—“ She smirked again before shuffling off to idly pick at some dried salmon bits left over from the previous night’s meal.

Strangely uneasy, Sarita went to the door. She had to get some fresh air. Outside, a low fog bank hung over the land, hiding the beach, the trees, and the sea from her gaze. She could only see a short distance, and she wondered how the searchers would ever find Precious Copper in such thick fog.

Suddenly a twig snapped, the sound loud in the smothering silence of the fog. Poised to dart back into the longhouse, she was stopped by a hissing sound.

“Sarita, it’s me!” She was barely able to make out the words. All around her the fog swirled; an eerie silence pervaded the land. “Sarita,” the voice came again, a little louder.

“Who is it?” she whispered back, surprised by her own courage in answering. She should go back to the house, she knew. A shadowy shape loomed out of the shrouded trees. With a gasp, her hand flew to her rapidly beating heart. Before she could run, however, she recognized the dim figure of Rottenwood. “What do you want?” she asked, visibly shaken by the eeriness of his sudden appearance.

“Quickly,” he commanded. “Come here. We must plan. Now!”

Clutching her cloak about her, she stepped forward, closer to the trees. “Yes?” she asked uncertainly.

Rottenwood looked down at her. “We’re taking a great risk, meeting this morning,” he began. “But there’s no help for it. We must leave tonight!”

“Tonight!” gasped the girl. “But—“

“We have no choice,” he hissed shortly. “We must leave while the warriors are away searching for the woman.”

“You,” began Sarita. “You told Fighting Wolf to search to the south. You said that so we could get away! Away to the north!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she realized his cunning. She stared at him.

He gave a low, husky laugh. “It’s the truth,” he vowed. “I swear it. It’s true that I did happen to see the woman and her two old slaves paddling away that morning.” He saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “I decided to use the situation to our advantage, that’s all,” he said flippantly. Seeing that she was unsure of him, he continued sullenly, “Enough of that. Believe what you will.”

When Sarita continued to eye him with a fathomless expression, he changed the topic. “Are you still willing to escape? If so, we go tonight. We’d be fools to wait any longer!”

Sarita nodded quickly. “Yes,” she agreed, “I must escape. I’ll be ready. I’ve hidden away some dried food and skins for carrying our drinking water.”

He nodded. “Good. Tonight, after everyone is asleep, wait for me just inside the main door of the longhouse. Got that?”

She repeated, “Wait for you inside the longhouse, at the main door.”

“Good. Once we’re away from the house, we’ll run to where I’ve hidden a canoe. If we can clear the harbor without being seen, we’ll have a good chance of getting away safely.”

Sarita nodded, her voice quivering with excitement. “Yes. I’ll be waiting.”

But Rottenwood had gone, slipping away into the fog like a wraith. She shivered as she turned back towards the longhouse knowing she had set foot on a trail from which there was no turning back.

* * * *

It was evening. A pall seemed to hang over Fighting Wolf’s longhouse. Conversations were desultory or mere murmurs. On this particular evening, no one laughed and no one wanted to play the usual gambling games. No one was even singing. Everyone missed Precious Copper and anxiously awaited her return.

Sarita glanced around the longhouse, feeling uneasy. Tonight she would escape. She tried to appear calm and relaxed in front of the others, but when one of the slave women accidentally dropped one large fire-heated rock onto another, a loud crack split the air, and Sarita’s calm façade split just as easily. She jumped and gave a shriek at the sudden noise.

Several of the other women laughed at her reaction. She wanted to lash out at them, to scream her fear and torment at them, but with great difficulty she controlled herself. No good would come of indulging in a tantrum, this night of all nights, she told herself. Still, she was glad when the occupants of the longhouse finally settled down to sleep for the night, and she relaxed a little as silence descended.

Sitting quietly in her alcove, she took inventory of her few possessions as they lay scattered over her bed. The creamy wedding dress and beautiful blue trading blanket cloak were folded neatly in a small pile, and tied with cedar bark rope. She clutched the package to her chest for a moment, stroking the soft material and dreaming of what might have been… If it had been a
real
marriage ceremony, she might now be happily married to Fighting Wolf as a beloved, esteemed wife, expecting his long-awaited heir. She sighed heavily. No use dwelling on what might have been…

Her jewelry, the copper necklace and earrings, were wrapped carefully in soft, shredded cedar bark. On the floor squatted an ancient basket, its empty maw waiting for her precious paraphernalia.

She was wearing the same kutsack she wore every day, and her long, thick hair was tied back. A somewhat worn cloak she had found was set next to her things. No one would notice it was missing, she hoped.

Several packages of dried fish were laid out; she assured herself that they would prove sufficient for the journey. They were all she had managed to secrete away in preparation for this night. Two large seal bladders bulged with fresh water. Dewy droplets of moisture running off the bladders pooled unnoticed on the cedar mat floor.

She went over every item one more time, determined to remember everything needed for the journey.

Listening carefully, she could detect no unusual sounds in the nightly routine of the longhouse’s inhabitants. She crept stealthily from the alcove, her paltry possessions crammed tightly into the old cedar basket. She tiptoed through the large open space, holding her breath.

Loud snores drummed occasionally through the house, while outside she could hear a raucous chorus of frogs. For one timeless moment, someone’s sharp hacking coughs froze her in mid-step. She waited, her heart beating loudly, until the coughs died away.

At last she reached the main door, the designated meeting place, and waited nervously in the shadows for Rottenwood. She crouched quietly for what seemed to be a very long time.

Once she peeked around the deerskin flap, and could barely make out the dim outline of a man. That Rottenwood! There he was, leaning against a tree mere footstep away when he’d told her to meet him inside the longhouse. Now here he was outside, no doubt impatient because she hadn’t shown up yet! She was just about to step forward and reproach him for keeping her waiting when suddenly he shifted position. That blunt profile did not belong to Rottenwood. Who--? A guard! Fighting Wolf had posted a guard.

Her heart beating frantically, she pulled back into the deep shadows. She held her breath and made not a sound. After a few minutes, nothing happened and she relaxed a little. Rottenwood would come soon, she reassured herself.

His sudden, silent materialization from nowhere unnerved her. “Ready?” he breathed.

Urgently, Sarita pointed to the deerskin flap on the door and, with agitated gestures indicated the guard she’d seen. Nodding grimly, Rottenwood glided to the edge of the doorway and peered out. Drawing back, he reached soundlessly for a nearby war club, then he slipped outside.

Sarita peered into the dimness. The moon was hidden behind large gray clouds, leaving meager light to see by. Her heart in her mouth, she watched as he crept up behind the unsuspecting guard. Rottenwood lifted the war club high and brought it down on the man’s head with a sickening thud. The man crumpled to the ground. Sarita couldn’t believe it was over so soon.

Turning to her, he stealthily gestured for her to follow him. She hurriedly obeyed, grasping the basket tightly on one arm.

He was barely visible, a swiftly moving shadow in the darkness just ahead of her. Her eyes strained with the effort of keeping him in view as they slunk alongside the longhouse. They were about to round a corner, when he halted suddenly and she bumped into his solid back. Annoyed, she was about to reprimand him for his clumsiness when he urgently gestured her to silence.

Over his shoulder she could see another guard, lounging against the longhouse as he looked idly out to sea. Even as she watched, the guard yawned loudly.

Still carrying the war club, Rottenwood sidled up to the preoccupied guard. Knocking him on the side of the head, he waited for the man to slump forward. Instead of falling unconscious, the man turned and, in one smooth movement pulled a knife from his belt. The slave raised the war club to strike a second blow, but the guard sliced at him with the sharp blade.

Sarita heard a grunt. Fear for Rottenwood spurred her into action. Dropping her basket, she bent down and groped about for a heavy rock. Quickly finding one, she hefted it and crept behind the guard.

The two men fought silently and viciously, oblivious to her movements. She could see Rottenwood was tiring rapidly. Although strong, a slave was no match for a highly trained warrior.

Looming over him, the guard lifted his knife for the final blow.

She struck with all her strength. The heavy rock slammed into the guard’s head, and he pitched forward to lie immobile on the ground.

“Thanks,” muttered Rottenwood tersely. “I was sure he was going to kill me.”

For a moment Sarita was speechless, reeling from what she’d just done. “Is—is he dead?” she managed to quaver at last.

The man lay face down. His thick hair prevented her from seeing if his skull had caved in. A thin trickle of blood seeped past one ear.

“He’s not dead,” answered Rottenwood. “But you sure knocked him out.”

Kneeling next to the unconscious victim, the slave used a leather thong that Sarita guessed had tied his own kutsack. Speedily, he bound the guard’s hands behind his back. “In case he wakes up soon,” explained Rottenwood, still breathing hard from his exertions.

Glancing about, he was reassured their struggle had not been overheard. Nodding quickly to her, he urged, “Let’s get out of here!”

He set off along an almost invisible forest path at a fast pace. Still trembling from the fight, she hastily grabbed her cedar basket and ran after him.

It was a struggle to keep up, and in the dim light, her footing on the trail was shaky. Several times she stumbled and almost fell. At last, afraid she would lose him completely, she risked calling out. “Rottenwood, please wait!”

In an instant, he was there. “Silence, woman,” he hissed, looming in front of her. “If we’re caught, it’s death for both of us!”