THE STORY OF THE PANTHER SHEYLA

 

4° part

As the sun began to set, painting the jungle a blood-gold hue, Sheila gave the signal. The panther tribe, leaving Thorval tied up by the stream under the care of his two younger sisters, silently returned to the trail. The caravan had only managed to move a little further: the pickaxes dragged wearily, the mercenary nervously clutched the hilt of his sword, and the merchant woman kept glancing back, as if feeling the breath of danger on the back of her neck.

Sheila raised her hand—and the panthers surged out of the thicket like a black wave.

The first arrow, fired from the short bow of one of the savages, pierced the neck of the lead pickaxe; the animal roared and collapsed, blocking the trail. The mercenary drew his sword and crossbow simultaneously, but Lyra was already in the air—her bronze body flashed, clawed fingers clutching his shoulders, knocking him off his feet. They rolled across the ground; the mercenary's blade slashed across her side, leaving a long, bloody furrow from rib to hip.

Lyra roared in pain and rage, her amber eyes flashing, the crescent-shaped scar on her chest flushing crimson. But she didn't retreat: her knee pressed against the man's throat, and her knife found his own throat before he could scream.

The elder merchant dropped the reins and raised his hands, muttering about ransom, but Kaira was already behind him; a thin rope wrapped around his neck, and he sank to his knees, gasping with fear. The other savages surrounded the woman—she was retreating toward the fallen pickaxe, her dress hiked up at her hips, revealing slender legs, her eyes wide with horror at these naked, bloodied predators. Sheila was the last to emerge onto the trail. Her green eyes coldly surveyed the battlefield: one kyle dead, the other bound, the mercenary motionless, the merchant on his knees, the woman surrounded. But the leader's gaze settled on Lyra.

The first mate rose, pressing her palm to the wound on her side—blood flowed between her fingers, staining her bronze skin dark red. She staggered, but rose proudly, baring her teeth in a pained smile.

"He was a tenacious beast," Lyra breathed hoarsely, nodding toward the dead mercenary. "But he paid."

Sheila stepped closer, her fingers gently pushing Lyra's hand away, examining the deep cut. The leader's abdominal muscles tensed—the wound was serious, but not fatal for the panther. "You will not die today, sister," Sheila said quietly, her voice a mixture of command and promise. She turned to Kyra. "Bind these two. Kayla, too. Everything valuable—to the clearing. And quickly: we must return before dark."

Kyra nodded, already throwing vines around the wrists of the woman and the merchant. The woman didn't resist, only looking at the naked savages with a shudder.

Lyra, supported by Sheila's arm, walked ahead, leaving a trail of blood on the leaves. Her naked body, despite the wound, still radiated strength; her chest heaved, her thighs tensed with each step. Sheila hugged her tighter, feeling the heat of blood and skin.

"Nyra is escaping you," she whispered to her sister with concern, "you're not the first, you're not the last."

The bushes closed behind them, hiding the traces of the attack. The caravan became prey. One of the panthers was wounded. But Sheila's tribe returned home stronger than before—with new slaves, new trophies.In the clearing, as the last rays of sun sank into the foliage and the fire crackled, casting golden reflections on the panthers' naked bodies, Sheila led the wounded Lyra to the center of the camp. The blood on her side had already dried into a dark crust, but the wound still oozed, and every attempt to take a step further forced Lyra to grit her teeth.

Nyra, the tribe's shaman and the eldest of the sisters, emerged from the shadow of an old tree. Her skin was the color of dark ebony, and her long, graying hair was entwined with the bones of slain enemies and the feathers of forest birds. Her body, like everyone else's, remained naked, but a necklace of sleen fangs hung around her neck, and a belt of dried herbs and roots hung around her hips. Nayra's eyes, deep and black as a night pond, saw more than mere mortals. "Put her down," Naira commanded quietly, her voice like the rustling of leaves before a storm.

The two younger wildlings spread soft skins on the ground, and Lyra lay on her side, revealing a long cut from her rib to her hip. The bronze skin around the wound was inflamed and red, and the crescent-shaped scar above her chest seemed paler than usual. Lyra's amber eyes glowed feverishly, but she made no sound—the panther wasn't complaining.

Sheila knelt beside her, her hand on Lyra's shoulder, her fingers gripping the muscle tightly—the leader's silent support. Kaira stood behind her, her arms crossed beneath her chest, her dark eyes watching the shaman's every movement.

Naira squatted down. First, she placed her palm directly on the wound—Lyra flinched, but didn't pull away. The old panther closed her eyes and began to softly chant an ancient Gorean chant of healing, its words like the growl of the earth and the whisper of the wind. Then she took a small pot of thick green paste from her belt—a mixture of crushed kanda leaves, moss from a sacred tree, and the venom of a slain snake, diluted with the honey of wild bees.

With her fingers, Naira generously spread the paste along the entire length of the wound. Lyra hissed—it burned like red-hot iron—but she immediately sank her teeth into her own forearm to keep from screaming. The scent of herbs hit everyone around her sharply, bitter and heavy. "Hold her," Naira said curtly to Sheila.

The leader lay down next to her, pressing Lira to her with her whole body—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—wrapping her in her arms so tightly that the wounded panther couldn't move. The warmth of Sheila's skin, her strong heartbeat, and the scent of a wild female helped Lira endure the pain.

Naira took a thin bone needle and a thread made from the sinew of a slain larl. With quick, precise movements, she began stitching the edges of the wound—each stitch accompanied by a new chant, as if the shaman were weaving not only the thread but also the power of the forest into Lira's flesh. The blood began to flow again, but less rapidly.

When the last stitch was tied, Naira placed a wide leaf soaked in the juice of medicinal roots on top and tightly bound everything with a strip of soft leather.

*Three days—no sharp ones and no males,* she said sternly. She raised her gaze to Sheila. *The scar will be beautiful later. Like that old one.*

Lyra, still pressed against the leader, smiled weakly through her sweat. *Three days... that's a long time, sister.*

Nyra chuckled, stroking Lyra's bronze thigh. *Thorval will lick the wound every morning and evening. His tongue is better than any ointment. And you—lie there and let him.*

Sheila nodded, not letting go of Lyra. The fire crackled higher, casting shadows on the naked bodies of the new slaves bound at the edge of the clearing. The merchant woman watched, wide-eyed, as the wild panthers treated their sister—with the same primal tenderness with which they killed enemies.

Night fell over the camp. Lyra finally relaxed in Sheila's embrace, her breathing evening. The wound was closed, the pain easing under the influence of the herbs. and the warmth of a sister. The tribe growled quietly around the fire—content, strong, invincible.

to be continued

The photos do not represent Sheyla But Panthers whom I met in my travels

darianeditor

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