It was the mask, but Tokela didn’t care, because he’d seen the look in Našobok’s eyes. First when he had approached him—a hungry knowing flaming sparks all along Tokela’s nerves. Then when Našobok had stroked the haft of the spear with fingers just as knowing, making promises…
Hands slide up, from spear haft to wrists, a searing touch with cool fingertips. But Hare isn’t about to be won so easily, and with a twist of oiled forearms and a push with the spear haft, tiptoes aside.
Tokela didn’t know enough—didn’t know anything, not with this—but he didn’t have to understand anything in thisnow, only shiver with pleasure as those storm-hued eyes followed him….
Challenge answered as opponent/partner circles, stalks. Here is danger, Hare knows, danger to set heart drum dancing, for where a bistre-maned wolf had been yawning and stretching, lazy-drunk in Sun’s setting, now the yawn turns fierce, grin gliding into low laugh. Hare feints with the spear left, then right and upward. But there is none where the strike would touch, only a blur of motion as a River Wolf spins, then snatches at the spear.
It was the mask. The mask, and Tokela laughed, soft, because with the mask he wasn’t the Half-breed, wasn’t the little ahlóssa cousin. He was oških, Hare, Swiftfoot, Ša’abo the trickster. The choices were laid before Tokela even as he’d laid indigo on his cheekbones, with Fire purling in his abdomen and a drum for a heart, chanting…
So Hare paces, step by slow step. Remains quick, wary, for Wolf outweighs him twice again. Close enough to touch, to want to touch—
N’da, impatient cousin, says Hare. Touching is for later. Now is for testing.
Tokela laughed out loud, heard Našobok answer with a chuckle as they circled, both holding the spear.
First Dance.
The drum rhythms slowed then sped, demanding the steps. Bare hands sharing the spear’s haft, bare feet circling and pointing, pounding and shuffling. Dust rising, sifting across their ankles, coating silver bangles upon Tokela, breathing a curling, stark tattoo of emerald/black kelp upon Našobok. Laughter, and panting breaths, and hair flying, Fire glittering upon sweat as the drums quickened even more, setting the stage for struggle…
Hare opens heart, growls as he tugs—mine, this weapon, mine!—but Wolf bares teeth back, dares: take it! Hare swings hind foot, pulls then pushes, hard; Wolf trips back, surprised… and doesn’t loose the spear.
Tokela gave a yip as he was yanked down; the yip throttled into a gasp as he landed on Našobok and slid sideways, propped only by his fists clutching the horizontal spear haft.
“A little soon to have me on my back yet, eh?” Našobok twisted, yanked the spear—and Tokela—over. Pushed against the spear, pushed down with his hips as he straddled Tokela…
Hare freezes. Quivers. Bodytalk humming—gasping in it, writhing/ sinking/ drowning in the Storm-wrack of Wolf’s eyes, in the heat of his body, hard and growing harder. The sound of him.
The sound of Her.
River.
The sense of recognition nigh flattened Tokela; his heart pulsed wild then smoothed, rippled into rhythmic currents that crooned a wordless melody behind his eyes: Come to me. He is mine. You are mine, little wyrhling…
Hare tries to break the spell—not yet, not yet! Are you so little and foolish, ahlóssa heart still, to give in so easily?
“I think this Dance is over, lovely one,” Našobok breathed against Tokela’s ear, then nipped it. “Want to try another?”
Tokela’s back arched, the spear pressing against his throat, pushing the air from him. Wasn’t sure he cared.
“Ai, I think you do.” And Našobok sat up, loosened the spear, reached for the mask…
Hare leaps, shrieks, scoots for cover.
Tokela gave a quick twist, one hand shielding the mask, the other still on the spear. He twisted, wriggled, and scooted downward. Dirt scraped his buttocks, clung to his back. Našobok, taken unawares, snatched a belated grab. It slid on oiled skin, and only a swift hand propped to keep Našobok from falling on his face. Tokela kept scooting, yanked the spear haft. Našobok grunted, lurched forwards again. In another swift and desperate motion, Tokela escaped out from between Našobok’s legs, yanking the spear with him and curling his knees upward into Našobok’s haunches.
Našobok went flying, heels over shoulders, and smacked flat on his back with a heavy thud and a great huff! of lost breath…
Free! Hare leans against his weapon and vaults to his feet. Shifts, hind foot to hind foot, watching Wolf shake his heavy mane and roll to one side, eyeing him. There is surprise. There is…
Respect.
It fills Hare, sleek and Power-full as the bodytalk, as the slide of skin upon skin.
Skin within skin, croons Hare, is even better. But make him earn it. Remember you have teeth at your throat already.
A’io. He wanted this Wolf fangs and all. Tokela spun the spear one-handed, pulled it back over his shoulder, and rocked into a crouch. He held his free hand out, palm up, and twitched his fingers in the same sign Akumeh had given Mordeleg earlier, in the weapons cache.
Come, then.
Našobok’s mouth pulled sideways in a grin as he rolled to his feet. He made a show of rubbing at one haunch, and several watchers laughed. Tokela thought he caught Palatan, lying ai-so-casually back on his blanket, rolling his eyes. But there was a smirk on his face to match Našobok’s.
“Treat him gently, young Ša’abo!” Palatan suddenly called above the din. “He’s old for this game!”
“Not that old!” Našobok avowed. “Never too old ’til I’m dead.”
Several dancers cut between them, intent on their own sparring; one whirled a spear so close to
