Free Doomsday Warrior 05 - America’s Last Declaration by Ryder Stacy

on earth—but they were no longer virgins.
    Outside, the Kreega warriors were stomping around, screaming as if all hell were about to break loose. The last Challenge had been years before and all knew that the future of their tribe would depend on who won the imminent battle between Reina and Ishtar. The women ritualistically drew the large fighting circle in the dirt about thirty feet in diameter. They put on their war makeup, jagged red and yellow stripes across their bodies, and sat at the edge of the circle waiting.
    They didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes the two challengers emerged from their tents and walked toward the circle, slowly, glaring at one another from across the open center of the camp. They looked fierce, terrifying with their full battle gear on. Each wore a fighting helmet made of a mountain stag’s head. The fur covered the top of their skulls and from the stag skulls rose the dead creatures’ horns, nearly five-feet long, thick and strong and capable of goring through flesh in a second. On their hands the two women wore the panther claws of dead cats. The cut-off paws were wrapped around their wrists coming nearly halfway up their forearms. The claws were extended, nearly six inches of razor-sharp, daggerlike weapons, able to slash open a stomach or a chest with a single swipe. Covering their chests were iron breastplates, one over each breast, covered with jewels and tied around their backs with leather straps. Each woman was unclothed beneath the waist but for their black fur loincloths and stripes painted down the sides of their legs—Reina, blue and Ishtar, green. The two warrior women reached the outer edge of the Challenge Circle as the Kreega women began beating on drums, pounding out a pulsating rhythm—the song of death. For two Kreega would enter the circle but only one would emerge alive. There was no mercy, no partial wounding. The Challenge would end when one of them lay dead in a pool of her own blood. The Kreega women looked excited, their pearly teeth flashing in cruel grimaces. This was their way. The strong ruled, the weak died and returned to the earth from which they had sprung.
    Rock and Archer had completed their deflowering of the vestal virgins who lay back on the bearskin beds with dazed but happy looks on their flushed faces. They breathed deeply, amazed and delighted at their entrance into the world of women. The two freefighters on a signal from Rockson grabbed the love-swooning women and quickly tied them up, putting gags around their mouths so they couldn’t scream.
    “Sorry, girls,” Rock said as he finished binding the females he had tenderly made love to just minutes before. “But we’ve got to get the hell out of here. And it’s better that you’re bound and gagged when the others find you. Tell them, ‘Le Rockson make vous son prisoner.’ Comprenez-vous?” The two young Kreega women looked up at him with fear and betrayal in their sky-blue eyes. He felt rotten about it all. He had never hurt a woman in his life—and though these two certainly hadn’t been hurt, still he knew they would face many problems from their adventures in the flesh. But then the freefighters hadn’t asked to be made prisoner. He hoped they would survive.
    He heard the drums outside suddenly stop and one of the Kreega women begin speaking. He peered cautiously through the teepee flap. A very tall and slender woman, herself with a stag helmet on her head but no other fighting apparel, was giving some sort of speech in the center of the circle. He could barely understand what she was saying but it was clear she was laying down the rules of the fight—and from what Rock could gather, there weren’t any. Anything was allowed. Any dirty trick they could come up with was part of the Challenge. There was only one outcome and that was life for one and death for the other. The gods were looking down—they would decide who deserved to be the victor.
    The speaker stepped back and