CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lander moved silently through the woods, seeking prey. Finally, he heard voices. He made his way toward them. Crouching behind a tree, he saw four Krulls sitting in the shade nearby.
Three men, one woman.
They were talking quietly in their strange language.
The woman sat with her back to Lander. Her thick, blond hair hung almost to the ground. Her skin was tanned and shiny. It would feel moist in his hands. Moist and pliant.
He wished he could see her breasts.
If he waited, perhaps she would stand and turn.
But the men were most vulnerable now, sitting and relaxed. One had no right arm. The other two, however, looked lean and fit.
I’ll hack them before they…
With what?
Lander frowned. He glanced down at his empty hands.
What had become of his hatchet? He’d had one earlier, he was sure of it.
He patted his vest. He looked down at himself. He drew a hand across his naked rump. He turned, and studied the ground behind him. His hatchet was gone.
Gone!
How could he have lost his hatchet! How could he take this girl, and clutch her breasts, and plunder her dark wet hole…
Lander saw spears on the ground within reach of two of the men. A knife hung by a thong at the side of the woman. The one-armed man had a hatchet.
He would go for the hatchet. If he could get to it quickly, before the others…
The woman got to her feet.
She turned.
She held an infant in her arms, its mouth latched to one of her swollen breasts.
Lander ducked out of sight.
Oh, a baby. He didn’t wish to kill a baby.
Why not? They all were babies once.
But he cringed at the thought of killing it.
No pleasure there.
No pleasure fucking the woman while her murdered infant lay in the bushes, watching with pale, dead eyes.
No no no.
He would let them live.
He waited, and listened as the group departed.
When the last sounds of their chatter faded in the distance, Lander stood.
He headed for the stream. That’s where he’d seen lots of fine women. He could wade into the cool water, and drink his fill, and wait for a young, lovely one. And if none pleased him, he would head to the village, this night, and take his pick.
When Lander drew near the stream, he crouched and listened. He heard only birds, and the rush of the water. He crept to the shore, just at the point where he’d entered the water that morning.
The stream was deserted.
He took a step forward. His bare foot came down on a smooth, hard surface.
The head of his hatchet.
“Passing strange,” he said.
He picked it up. Inspected it. This hatchet looked markedly similar to the one he’d lost.
He took it with him into the water. Ducking, he felt the coolness rise to his shoulders. He drank. It tasted fine.
A heady brew.
Staying close to shore where the water was waist high, he began to walk downstream. His eyes searched the shores. He saw no one.
At the bend, the water moved swiftly. It slid over his skin like a caress. He crouched to savor its touch.
Something flicked his thigh.
A snake?
Heart racing, he stood and gazed into the water. His pale legs, rippling with shadows, vanished into the darkness.
A silvery shape glided past his knee.
A fish!
He could
He smashed down his hatchet. Water exploded into his face. He pounded again and again. Then he waited for the fish to float up, dead. It didn’t appear.
He walked downstream, eyes an inch above the surface, seeking it.
Water plopped into his face.
Had the fish jumped?
No.
His head jerked toward shore, but he saw only bushes and trees. Maybe something had fallen from above. He raised his eyes to the tree limbs hanging over the water.
This time, he saw it—a quick, tiny blur near his face and dropping into the stream.
He looked again toward the shore. Though he still saw no one, the nearby bushes were dense enough to hide behind.
As he watched, an arm flicked into view and vanished. A stone curved slowly toward him. Reaching out, he caught it. He turned the stone in his hand. It was squarish, with sharp edges, but too small to inflict much damage.
Someone, obviously, was toying with him.
He tossed the stone into the bushes.
A young woman pushed through the foliage and stepped toward the shore. Thick, tangled tresses of blond hair draped her shoulders and breasts. Except for the knife belt low on her hips, she seemed naked.
She stopped at the edge of the stream. Feet apart, hands on hips, she smiled. But only with half her face. It might have been a sneer.
She spoke in a whisper-words unknown to Lander, soft words. Then she drew apart the thick curtain of hair over her left breast. Her forefinger traced circles around the nipple. She spoke again. She bared her other breast.
A hand on each breast, she sighed. Gracefully, she lowered herself to her knees. Her hands massaged. Her breathing quickened.
Lander watched, standing in the chest-high water that concealed his erection.
Was this her way of beckoning him?
Her hands slid down her body, and over the leather belt. They moved down the fronts of her legs, then curved inward, stroking the inner thighs, moving higher, finally caressing her hair-tufted pubis.
She moaned and writhed.
In thrall.
