Primitive Nights (16 page)

He had no idea what to expect. Would the government protect the land they lived upon now? Would his tribe be forced to leave and settle in another location? What restrictions would be placed on his people? The litany of questions refused to leave his head. But they would have to wait. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Tonight, Myla needed sleep.

Damon closed his eyes and recalled his favorite poem. “El Dorado.” Did he seek for a treasure out of his reach like the knight? Would he die old and worn, chasing a peace that would never be found? He hoped not. But only Myla held the key to that possibility. His Myla…

A sharp pain roused him from the depths of sleep. He did not recall drifting off, but the bright morning sun peeking over the horizon proved the night had passed.

Blinking through the blurriness of sleep, he felt the poison seep into his arm and course through his veins. A black tunnel formed before his barely cleared eyes and he recognized the Hounta warriors’ markings before the poison claimed him.

Myla’s scream split the silence that clouded his ears, and then there was darkness again.

Chapter Eleven

The bonds around her wrists chafed the skin, but Myla pressed on. If she could just get her hands free… She’d rubbed both wrists raw shifting the ropes up and down against the tree behind her, but the numerous tribesmen at the encampment made it difficult to exert any real effort or consistency.

She had no idea what had happened to Damon. Her last glimpse of him being hauled away unconscious replayed in her mind. She didn’t even know if these men had brought him here. Fear raced through her body in thick, breathtaking waves.

It was nearly impossible to remain calm. She wanted to scream her head off in the hopes someone would help. It wouldn’t do any good to panic even if the terror this tribe created within her was paramount. Damon’s tribe, even Tinjtol, seemed calm compared to the dark, pagan atmosphere in this camp.

How had E.I. never discovered this tribe? There were documents proving the existence of nearly thirty other tribes, and it was possible that one of them could be this particular tribe, but she was relatively certain she would have remembered them. They were so different from most of the others.

The way they moved and talked seemed removed from the normal way she saw the other tribes in her research. The other tribes were recognizable as family, working together as a unit, where this tribe lacked any real order or station. Some of the women could even be likened to the warriors.

Morbid decorations littered the entire camp. Skulls and bones dangled from long staffs, rattling with the slightest movements or breeze. Animal skins in fiercely painted patterns draped the backs of the men, their clothing laced with sharpened bones and animal teeth. Each man had an intricate design painted across his head and face to resemble a skull, animal or something similar to a demon.

The members were thin, some of the women and children so tiny Myla wondered if they were starving. They looked almost emaciated. Flies buzzed about, landing on the children set to the task of carving weapons. They sat in the shade, their angry glances shooting in her direction from time to time. Even the children disliked her.

Thus far she hadn’t been harmed, but the heated stares she received from the tribe members gave her no illusion that she was welcome or safe. Her only chance would be to escape, and to do that, she had to get free. With renewed effort, she scratched the ropes against the tree. The bark bit into her sore skin, but she gritted her teeth against the pain.

Damon watched her from the hut. Her fear was tangible. The need to reassure her, to calm her fear pressed in heavily on him. He had no choice other than to wait. The meeting with
Bajluk
Hounta would have to come first.

He released the fronds and turned away from the door. The leader’s unorthodox behavior so far confused Damon. Hounta killed trespassers. He did not capture them. Foolish as it might be, Damon hoped Hounta’s actions would lead to a peaceful solution. The time had come for all tribes to unite. Today might be the start.

“Sit without fear for now, Maglayo.”

Damon turned as the old man entered through the rear of the hut. The years had not been kind. His hair, once dark and long, now nothing more than thin, gray strands that hung around his weathered face. He waved a gnarled hand to indicate Damon should sit before settling himself onto a stool.

“
Bajluk
Hounta, you honor me with peaceful talk.” Damon sat and crossed his legs. “I fear we have much to discuss.”

The old man lit a bowl of
pochila
moss, inhaling the aromatic smoke with wheezing breaths. “The jungle is changing. Strange men and machines rape our land and our women. They kill without prejudice. They take without shame.”

Damon nodded. “The time for change is upon us. What will you and your people choose as your path?”

Hounta leaned forward and waved a hand over the bowl to spread the smoke through the hut. “We will continue as we have for thousands of years. We will protect our land.”

The answer was no surprise to Damon, though he hoped the old man might be swayed to other options. “I have spoken many times to our elders. They have agreed to consider more peaceful solutions.”

“There is no peace with the white men.”

“There can be.”

The old man’s eyes flared in anger, and a scowl crinkled his features even more. “Your father never spoke of surrender. He would have stood to fight this invader.”

Had he not heard this before? “I am not my father. Nor do I share his singular sight. I look for a way to save my people. If that can be accomplished without death, then I will consider it.”

Hounta cackled viciously at that statement. “You are weak, Maglayo. A warrior, a leader, does not bow to the hand of the intruder; he crushes it beneath his own.”

Damon cringed. This old man’s thoughts mirrored Tinjtol’s. “I have no intention of bowing. But there are more white men than we can fight. Some of them even wish to help us.”

“Lies!” The old man’s eyes bulged with his ire. Spit flecked from his mouth as he spoke. “Lies and death is all they bring. Those who claim they wish to help bring nothing more than suffering.”

“Not all.”

“All!” His body shook as he pushed up from his seat and pointed to a strange circular mark on his upper arm. “The white man came before, years ago. They brought promise of help and they pierced our arms with long pointed objects that burned with the poison they forced into our bodies. They left with smiles on their faces, and our tribe died.”

He paced across the hut and pulled back the fronds. “Fifty-six of my people perished from heated bodies. They spewed blood from their mouths, and the food ran from their bodies like water until they collapsed. They were too weak to stand or move. Men, women, babies, dead within the moon’s phases from the white man’s help.”

Damon recalled the stories of a great sickness. His mother had told him of the horrific deaths. He had always hoped the tales were exaggerated, used to scare children, to keep them from wandering or accepting the help of the white man.

He had seen death from strange disease, but never to the extent of the stories told by the elders. Now it seemed it was the truth. “You believe the white men brought these deaths on purpose?”

“I do.”

Damon stood and walked over to the old man. “I have seen this death before. Not so great in number as yours, but devastating in losses. It kills the white men as well. But they have medicine to cure it.” The old man was staring at Myla. “She is not your enemy,
Bajluk
Hounta. She is peace.”

The old man shook his head. “I cannot believe this. Our peace is done here today, Maglayo. The only reason you were not killed was to appease my curiosity. I could not believe you were brave enough to enter my land. Your trespass is forgiven this once, because in your worthless quest for peace, you brought me something of value. Leave now with your life.”

Damon’s entire body stiffened. Myla was the “something of value”. Hounta meant to keep her. “The woman goes with me.”

“No, Maglayo.” Throaty laughter filled the hut. “She stays with me.”

Damon pushed past the old man and walked out into the camp. His eyes held Myla’s, her fear pressing in on him. He would not leave her behind, even if he would die to protect her. “She is my woman,
Bajluk
Hounta. Give her to me.”

The moment he said the words, a rush of warriors surrounded him with spears. The old man moved through them, his bent frame eclipsed in their shadows. “I knew you were foolish. Your mother’s blood, no doubt. You entertain me with this dedication to a lost cause. This day your foolishness will take away the advantage it first gave you, Maglayo. I see you will not leave my land without the woman and so you must not value your life.”

Damon remained silent. Hounta was a tactician. He gave options he knew Damon could not accept.

“She will remain here. I will use her to stave off the white man.” Hounta sneered. “He will not attack with her in our midst.”

The sharp press of a spear at Damon’s neck accentuated the old man’s words, but Damon held his ground. “The white men you speak of wish her dead. They will attack and kill her as well. She holds information that could stop them.” He eyed the old man carefully. “The choice is yours, but I will not leave without her. She is mine.”

“She was yours,” Hounta corrected. “In this unsettled time, do you wish to create war between our tribes for the sake of this woman?”

A great leader would walk away. His people could suffer from his protection of Myla and yet—was she not his people as well now? Her words pulsed through his mind.

A sister in humanity.

He had offered her protection, brought her back from the safety she may have found if he had let her go back to her own home. She was his to protect, and he would not leave her.

He squared his shoulders. “Bring your best warrior. I will fight for her.”

Silence settled around the camp. No one moved, not a sound was uttered. The old man stared, his keen eyes bright with excitement. “You would truly give your life for this outsider?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” The old man stared, waiting.

“Because he is weak.” Tinjtol moved forward through the Hounta warriors. His body tense, hands fisted at his sides. “My brother will destroy our people because of this woman. The same as my father gave all for his white witch.”

“Tinjtol came to us when he was banished.” The old man’s assessing gaze never left Damon’s. He searched for something, though Damon had no idea what it was. “He proved himself a fierce warrior and has joined with us.”

Damon ignored his brother. “Hounta, I have no brother. The man before you has no allegiance to anyone. He will bring death and destruction to your people the same as he would to mine. You would do well to remove him.”

In a blur of movement, Tinjtol lunged forward and knocked Damon to the ground. The knife in his hand pressed into the skin at Damon’s neck. “You have insulted me for the last time, Maglayo. I accept his challenge, Hounta. He will die fighting or gasping for breath through the hole I carve in his neck.”

Hounta’s eyes gleamed with excitement. His hands clenched and loosened as though he himself were the one to fight. “What will you do now,
Bajluk
Maglayo? Will you spill the blood of your own?”

Myla’s soft cries filtered through the pounding in Damon’s ears. He had to keep her safe. Meeting the hatred in Tinjtol’s glare, he growled, “Without remorse.”

A loud cry went up from the warriors surrounding them, and Hounta placed a hand on Tinjtol’s shoulder. “Come. You will have your battle. Within the hour, brothers will meet. Until then, both shall prepare.”

Tinjtol slid his knife across Damon’s throat when he pushed up. The pressure he exerted was harsh enough to pierce the skin. Damp, stickiness trickled down Damon’s neck, and Tinjtol smiled. “I will be ready.”

Damon’s hold on his anger snapped. It was one thing to control his anger in the presence of another
bajluk
, but his brother’s insipid arrogance was too much to tolerate. He drove his hand up against Tinjtol’s chin with enough force that he heard his brother’s teeth crack together.

Tinjtol fell back, and Damon followed, surging to his feet. The movement toppled Tinjtol into the dirt where he landed with a heavy thud. Damon stared down at him. “You should pray before we meet. This time, I will show no mercy.”

He turned from Tinjtol and walked to where Myla stood tied to the tree. Her gaze moved over him frantically, finally resting on his neck when he stopped before her. “That man hurt you.”

Damon wiped a finger over the small cut. “I will live. My brother does not scare me.”

“Your brother? The one that attacked me? What’s he doing here?” She closed her eyes and leaned into him. “Tell me what’s happening?”

“He came here after his banishment.” Damon wrapped his arms around her and loosened her bonds. “It seems I must fight him again. This time, he will die.”

She gripped his arms, holding him close. “You can’t. Not again. This is madness.”

Damon cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “If I do not fight, we both die.”

“Please, Damon,” she breathed. “Let me try to talk to them.”