Page 208 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

My Sam watches all this happen with wary eyes, looking between Jortan and Sansla, and then back up to the warrior standing over her.

Jestaw, I realise, another of my old tribe.

He looks far older than his seasons, wearied, his face lined.

He does not speak out against Sansla and Jortan, but he remains close to my linasha, and the way she looks to him - I think there is some trust there.

Supplies are handed out - scant meals, barely big enough to satisfy the youngest of younglings.

They eat ravenously, the food disappearing in moments.

My Sam watches, her lips parted a little.

She hungers. She hungers and they do not feed her.

They do not treat her injuries, either. I see them handing round a waterskin laced with djenti berries, each male taking a mouthful and grimacing in turn.

But they do not hand it to her, even though the cut on her temple is garish against her pale skin, the bruising on her arms and legs deep purple.

She must hurt, I think, my heartspace aching.

She must hurt and hunger, and yet every time a male glances her way, she smiles a bright, sunny smile, as if she had no cares or fears in her heartspace.

It is as they make to leave that I get my first chance.

One of the males leaves the group, heading back the way they have come from, fidgeting with the ties to his leathers.

A full bladder to relieve. I follow him, disturbing the trees as little as I can.

He moves some distance from the others, the gap between them widening as the others start heading off, expecting their companion will catch up when he is finished.

I smile to myself. This one will not follow after them, and by the time they question what has become of him, it will be too late for them to track back to find out.

With little attention on his surroundings, the male frees his cock and begins to piss against a tree. It is an undignified manner to meet his end, but this male has hunted his own kind. Perhaps killed many who did not deserve such a fate. I will not lose sleep over his death.

I drop out of the trees, clamping my hand over his mouth before he can cry out, driving my blade deep into his back with my other hand, before wrenching it across, severing his backbone.

It is savage, but swift, and guarantees he will not live to hurt another.

That he will not lay another finger on my Sam.

I lower him to the floor, watch as the light fades out of his eyes. Then I wipe my blade clean on his leathers before heading after the rest of the group.

It is some time before the others notice their missing companion. That they number only sixteen now. I am not surprised that it is Sansla that notices first.

“Fool must have tripped,” Jortan says. “Injured himself.”

“Or met the same fate as Arztal,” Sansla says.

“Arztal lost a fight with one of Walset’s tribe. But all of Walset’s tribe are long behind us. They did not follow.”

“Are you so certain, Jortan?” Sansla’s voice is light, but it pricks at Jortan’s pride sharply enough. “Could be that they are gaining on us, even now.”

“Nargin, track back,” Jortan says. “Look for signs we are followed.”

One of Jortan’s hunters peels away from the group, moving in my direction.

“Do not go alone,” Sansla says.

Nargin gestures to another of the hunters, and the two of them head into the trees, clutching their bows.

I let them move some distance away from the group, watching them as they carelessly look for signs of anyone following.

They do not follow the most basic of principles.

They do not check the trees. I think of Arztal and his poor form.

Basran’s tribe are sloppy. Poorly trained and overconfident.

If Sansla thinks that there being two of them will protect them, he is very wrong about that.

When the two hunters have not returned by the time the group stops for another meal break, a feeling of unease settles over them. It is obvious in the way they look around at the trees, huddling closer to each other than they did before.

My Sam picks up on it. I see the questioning look come into her sky eyes.

See how she thinks on it. Clever little female is playing her own game, I think.

Doing what she can to save herself. Her kindness to the others earlier has not yielded much kindness in return, but I spy Jestaw sneaking her food from his pocket.

See how he continues to guard her without being obvious.

“We should all go back,” a large warrior named Fomsat says. “It is Walset’s tribe. They think to confuse us with stealth and cunning. We should take them head on as a group.”

“No,” Sansla says. “We should press forward. Stick together as one and reunite with the rest of the tribe.”

“And never know what happened to our brothers?” Jortan says, though his eyes dart about, and I think he only argues with Sansla to maintain his position of authority.

“We know what has happened,” Sansla says, rising to his feet. “We are being hunted.”

A clever and dangerous one, this one. And he looks to the trees. I hold still until his eyes graze past my hiding space, then move back a little further to be certain he does not detect me.

“By Walset?” Jortan scoffs. “He would not think to hunt us that way.”

“No.” Sansla picks up his pack, still watchful. “But perhaps the male that travelled with her. The one who tried to take her from the encampment.”

He stalks towards her, and I see my Sam fighting the urge to shrink back. She looks up at him, wide-eyed and innocent in her expression. A good male would not be able to suffer such a look and remain sharp, but Sansla is not a good male. He only sneers at her, contempt seething out of him.

“Did you warm his pelts, little creature?” Sansla says to her. “Did you trade that place between your thighs for his protection? Is that why he hunts us?”

My Sam blinks. “ Ahmsorry. Ahvenoideerwhachuresayin. ”

The words coming out of her mouth are musical nonsense.

Does she not speak our words? I think of all the strange words she spoke to me in the dreamspace.

Technology. Mercenia. Hangry. Of course her words are different to my own.

We were able to understand each other in the dreamspace because it connected our spirits in such a deep way.

Here in the waking world, we do not have that connection, and so I do not know the meaning of what she says, and she does not understand those words spoken to her.

And oh, I am glad of that. Glad she does not have to hear the poison that Sansla spits. It is almost more than my spirit can take to hear it.

Sansla shakes his head, scowling at my Sam as though she were deliberately being difficult.

“We must move,” he says, addressing the whole group. “Speed is our best companion here. The sooner we’re back with the rest of the tribe, the sooner we have the strength of numbers on our side. Nobody stray from the group. We run til sunset.”

“Do not move away from the group,” Jortan says a moment later, his voice loud and trying to be authoritative. But the others look to Sansla, nod their heads.