Tribunal Kingdom In A Stone Age: Blood, Lust, Gladiators and Milfs

Chapter 20: Chapter 20: The Hallow Trails..

They left the valley under a thin moon, eight first-band fighters who had stood with Korr at the river and trusted him with their backs. No drums.

No painted faces beyond the practical ash that dulled skin against the night. Axes and spears wrapped to kill the gleam.

The path east was already known; the deeper trails the captive had spoken of were not.

Bor walked at Korr’s right shoulder, the older hunter who read ground better than most men read faces.

The others spread in a loose diamond, quiet as the hills themselves.

They moved without torch, letting the moon and the pale stones guide them.

By the time the first gray light touched the ridges, they had passed the site of the earlier meeting and begun the climb toward the higher defiles the River woman had named.

The trails were there.

Not heavily used, but used.

Prints of bare feet and rough hide. Occasional scuff marks where someone had moved in haste or in the dark.

A broken stem of dry grass still bent the wrong way.

Bor crouched, fingers hovering above a partial track.

”Same stride as the unmarked ones,” he murmured. ”And newer.

Within two days. They came back after we took the others.”

Korr scanned the ridges.

”How many?”

”Four, maybe five. Moving light.

No heavy packs. Scouts, not a full party.”

They followed.

The higher the ground rose, the older the stone felt. These were not the familiar hunting paths of the Tribunal.

The rock itself changed darker, veined with pale seams, broken into sharp planes that caught the morning light like teeth.

Ancient handprints in faded ochre marked a low overhang. Spirals.

A shape that might have been a man with too many joints.

The Hollow Kin had left their signs here long before any living Matron had ruled the valley below.

Near midday they found the first clear camp.

A narrow ledge sheltered by an overhang, the fire ring cold but not old.

Bones of a small animal cracked for marrow. A scrap of cured hide marked with a symbol none of them recognized three parallel lines crossed by a fourth.

Bor touched it once and drew his hand back.

”Not River. Not ours.”

Korr ordered a full sweep of the surrounding ground.

They found more tracks leading higher, toward a narrow pass that opened north. And they found something else: a single fresh drop of blood on a flat stone, already darkened, and the partial print of a bare foot that had slipped in it.

Someone had been cut.

Recently.

They moved with greater care after that. The pass narrowed until only two men could walk abreast.

The rock walls rose high on either side, cutting the wind and the sound. Perfect ground for an ambush.

Korr sent two men high on the left wall and two on the right.

The rest advanced low and slow.

The attack came from above and behind at the same moment.

A thrown stone cracked against the cliff near Bor’s head.

A second struck one of the rear fighters in the shoulder and spun him.

Then figures dropped from the high ledges lean, quick, painted in patterns of ash and dark clay that broke the shape of the body.

Not River blue.

Not Tribunal ochre. Something older.

Korr met the first with the axe already swinging.

The flint edge took the man across the collarbone and dropped him.

A second came in low with a short, leaf-shaped blade.

Korr twisted, felt the knife score a shallow line across his ribs, and answered with a short, brutal stroke that opened the attacker’s throat.

Hot blood sprayed across his arm.

Around him the first band fought with the tight, ugly efficiency of men who had bled together before.

Bor’s spear took one through the side. Another of Korr’s fighters went down with a deep cut across the thigh and kept fighting from the ground until a second blow finished him.

The Hollow Kin if that was what they were fought without war cries, without wasted motion.

They came to kill and to vanish.

It ended as quickly as it began.

Three of the attackers lay dead.

Two more fled up the pass and were gone before the high men could cut them off.

One of Korr’s fighters was dead.

Two more were bleeding hard enough to slow the group.

The shallow cut on Korr’s ribs burned, but the bleeding was manageable.

They did not pursue the runners.

The pass was unknown ground, and the wounded needed to live long enough to speak of what they had seen.

Bor crouched over one of the dead.

He turned the man’s face to the light.

The paint was thick, the features sharp, the teeth filed in a way no Tribunal or River fighter used.

Around the neck hung a cord of twisted sinew strung with small, yellowed bones finger bones, carefully cleaned.

”Hollow Kin,” Bor said quietly.

”The old songs were not empty.”

They stripped the bodies of anything useful blades, the strange marked hide, a small pouch of dried meat and bitter root and began the slow return.

The wounded were supported between stronger men. Korr walked at the rear, axe ready, every sense stretched toward the ridges behind them.

No further attack came, but the feeling of being watched never fully left.

They reached the valley again near dusk on the second day, earlier than any full sweep should have returned.

The sight of the wounded and the strange trophies brought the tribe out in a tight, uneasy crowd.

Vara was already on the ledge with Gron. Elka appeared moments later, Sura and Drak at her sides.

The air itself felt tighter than when Korr had left.

Korr climbed the steps and spoke so the whole gathering could hear.

”The trails the captive named are real.

The Hollow Kin are real.

We found their camp, their signs, and their blades. They attacked in the high pass. Three of them dead.

One of ours dead.

Two more bleeding.

They are not a story.

They are moving, and they have already reached into our hills.”

He held up the marked scrap of hide and the bone necklace taken from the dead.

A low, fearful sound moved through the tribe.

Even Elka’s face showed a flicker of something colder than calculation.

Vara’s voice cut across it.

”The wounded will be tended.

The dead will be burned with honor.

The proof will be held under stone until the Tribunal has weighed it.

Double the watches on every northern path. No one walks the high ridges alone.”

She looked at Elka.

”Your circle remains inside the valley.

The Hollow Kin change nothing about that order. They only make the cost of breaking it higher.”

Elka inclined her head.

”As the Matron commands.”

The words were correct.

The eyes were not.

Later, in the deep council chamber, the three of the Tribunal met with Korr present. The marked hide and the bone necklace lay on the stone between them.

Gron spoke first, voice heavier than usual. ”The Hollow Kin were never many, but they were never fools.

They take the high caves, the isolated trails, the people no one will miss at first.

If they are reaching this far south again, it is because they smell weakness.

The split in the second band. The songs that pull too hard toward one gladiator.

The river war that left us looking outward while older eyes watched from above.”

Vara’s fingers rested on the bone necklace both her own and the one taken from the dead. ”Then we close the paths.

We pull every restless fighter back under clear command.

And we make certain that when the Hollow Kin come in force, they find a single wall, not two sides already cutting each other.”

Her gaze settled on Korr.

”You brought the truth back bleeding.

The tribe saw it. Elka saw it.

The next move is hers, or ours. I prefer ours.”

She dismissed Gron with a look.

When the elder had gone, she closed the distance to Korr, eyes dark in the lamp light. The cut on his ribs had been cleaned and bound, but fresh blood still seeped through the moss in places.

She touched the edge of the bandage, then raised her fingers to her mouth and tasted, the same ritual as always.

”You live,” she said.

”That is what matters tonight.”

She pushed him back against the painted wall, worked the loincloth free, and wrapped her hand around him until he thickened under her grip.

Then she turned, braced her hands on the stone, and looked back over her shoulder.

”Take what is yours while the blood is still warm.”

Korr stepped in, shoved the leather up, and drove into her in one deep, hard thrust. She was ready for him.

The sound she made was low and fierce.

He set a steady, punishing rhythm, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced beside hers.

Each stroke drove a sharp breath from her throat. The bone necklace her own swung and clicked against the wall.

”Harder,” she ordered. ”Make me feel that the hills did not take what I claimed.”

He gave her harder.

The wet slap of skin filled the chamber.

Vara pushed back to meet every thrust, silver-streaked hair falling forward.

When she came it was with a raw, open cry. The clench of her body pulled Korr over the edge with her.

He buried himself deep and spilled while she shuddered around him, the two of them locked together in the lamp light while the kingdom outside absorbed the knowledge that the Hollow Kin were no longer only a song.

Afterward she straightened, turned, and rested her forehead against his for a single breath.

”The ground has shifted again,” she said quietly. ”The Hollow Kin above us.

Elka beside us. The songs still loud around your name. Stay alive, Korr.

The next cut will not come only from one direction.”