Too Many Bad Days (Raxillene's Rogues Book 3)

by Max Keith

  “Your concern is touching.” She reached up to pluck the jerky straight out of his hand. “I’ll eat that, then, while you’re playing the cobbler.” She snorted, but devoured the jerky and started to kick off the boots. Drinn simply blinked and, with a grim smile, closed his great hand around the heel of her boot and gave a sharp tug. Her feet, swollen by the walking, fought back, and the end result saw the indignant girl, her skinny leg aloft and still inside the boot, cursing violently as Drinn shook her out of the footwear.

  “You want to do the other, or should I?” He sniffed at the inside of the boot and wrinkled his nose. “Socks, would be my first suggestion.” The mage, nibbling at his own piece of bread, frowned.

  “Your foot looks like shit,” he observed. “Must hurt.” It was raw and red on the tops of her toes and all around her heel. She spat.

  “Feels fine,” she insisted sullenly. She clamped the rest of Drinn’s jerky in her mouth while she tugged at the other boot. She looked around at the thicket where they’d taken refuge. “We sleeping here, or are you going to deduct another quarter for lodging?” she sneered.

  “Lie back.” The mage ignored her scowl, as Drinn could not, and rummaged into the pouch he wore over his shoulder. It clanked with small cans and bottles. “I’ve got some stuff I can put on your blisters. It can do its work while you sleep,” he went on, frowning into the pouch. He selected a bottle and then watched as she wrenched the other boot off, trying in vain to avoid a pained grunt. “Perfect. Nice to see that foot looks as bad as the first,” he said pleasantly, tugging his robe up to kneel at her feet. Chiara watched warily. “The gods love symmetry, say the priests.”

  “I’m agnostic.” She looked pointedly at Drinn until he pulled a piece of bread out of a floury sack. “You just let me know,” she told the mage with an odd little smile as he laid his strong-fingered hands on her feet, “if you want to go any higher, so that I can kick you properly.”

  “No need.” He sniffed, still speaking calmly. “I can smell your poxy pussy from here. You just keep your legs straight and your skirts down, and we’ll both be happier.”

  “So you say,” she fretted, smoothing her dress. “I’ve never had any complaints from man or boy, wizard.”

  “I’m a mage,” he shrugged, mixing a couple of smelly compounds. “And I’m sure you’re right. Now then. Lift your foot up, Chiara, and I’ll get you repaired.” And then, with a skill that plainly surprised her, Franx went to work with sure fingers, smearing pasty unguents where they were needed, adding a strange golden powder here and there, and binding the whole with some extra footcloths from his rucksack. “You’ll want to leave these on through the day,” he murmured, massaging, “and then I’ll check them again before we leave this afternoon. Meanwhile, they’ll start to itch.” He shook a severe finger. “It’s just like your pussy: no itching. It’ll only make it worse.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Chiara mocked, chewing furiously at the last of Drinn’s jerky. Drinn himself was nowhere to be found. “Can… can I ask you something?” she said hesitantly. “About the warrior?”

  Franx stared at her, his face inscrutable. “He’s unmarried and horny. What else did you wish to know?”

  Chiara’s eyes narrowed. “Just that, apparently,” she snapped. “You may leave me to my rest now, asshole.” She took a breath as she turned toward her pack. “And I’m obliged for your help,” she added grudgingly. He just smiled.

  * * *

  The owl returned in the late afternoon, having spent the day masquerading as a hawk, far up, and therefore not seeing a great deal very clearly. But daytime searching was fine in an owl, provided he was looking for something very big or very obvious. Like, say, a pursuing Imperial Legion. “Still nothing?” Drinn asked hopefully, trussing up his pack.

  The mage frowned, flickering a look over to where Chiara was snoring, truly quite impressively. They’d noticed, too, that she seemed to be a woman who flung her limbs, when sleeping, anywhere but near her. “It seems odd to me,” Franx said quietly, “that the Duke would not have told the Imperials who we are and where we went.”

  The warrior glanced up. “So?”

  “So, not to flatter myself, but the Duke knows who employs us.” He gazed long at Drinn. “Can you think of circumstances where, perhaps, he might have told the Legion Commander of our… importance?”

  Drinn stared, then shook his head. “The Imperials are not normally savages. They’d have treated the Duke with respect, I’m sure.”

  “All the same,” Franx pressed, “it’s not as if it would have taken very much for him to sell us out. You can see, I’d imagine, how upset he must have been to find us gone.” He looked away. “I’d have been useful during the negotiations, I can’t help but feel.”

  “Did the owl see anything of what happened at Much Ormold?”

  “No,” the mage admitted, “but I’m sure you’re right. Unless the Duke was a total idiot, he would have negotiated for 12-15% slavery and maybe 10% executions, at most; as you say, the Imperials are normally decent about such things.”

  Drinn spat some tobacco juice. “They weren’t at the Starkhorn.”

  “Normally, I said.” The two men brooded. “Whatever, I’m sure the Imperials would have let the Duke and his officers go. They might have avoided Lammorel, meaning they’ll be going home, horsed…”

  “…via the Claring.” The warrior sighed. “He’ll not be happy to find us.”

  Franx shrugged bitterly. “They’ll have left their arms behind, but even a Shadowmage and a warrior can only do so much against mounted men. In the mountain passes. For weeks.” He sucked some water from a canteen. “This could be a problem for us.”

  Drinn arched an ironic eyebrow. “A good thing, then, that our guide is so well-versed in the secret ways of the mountains.” Franx said nothing. “I’m sorry about that, Poildrin. She was a bad hire.”

  The mage smiled. “It’s not your fault. I sent you to hire a mountain guide in a seaside village during the worst of a war. I expected little.” Together, their eyes wandered toward the sleeping Chiara. “We’ll need to cut her loose before long,” he added gently. “She’s not useful to us anymore if she doesn’t know of any other way than the Claring.”

  “Cut her loose?” Drinn protested. He was a brutal man, but not a disloyal one. He felt an obligation to the girl, however slight; he’d pulled her from a home that, though bad, was probably better than being hunted through the foothills of the Tangle. Besides, it hadn’t even been a day yet. “She’s sick!”

  Franx stared at the warrior. “Are you daft? She’s no sicker than I am.”

  “She has the pox.”

  Franx snorted. “She has pink makeup all over her face and a small chunk of rotting cheese in her vagina.” He sighed. “An old trick. I have no doubt her mother taught it to her. You say she was poxed, as well?”

  Drinn recalled Brelle. “The same.”

  Franx put a companionable hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “Drinn, women fake things all the time. You know that, right?”

  “Eh?”

  “Like, when they say they enjoy fucking.” The mage waited for comprehension to dawn, and seemed surprised when it did not. His eyebrows rose. “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Women often fake their climaxes, Drinn.”

  The warrior frowned, his worldview offended. “What are you talking about?” His eyes darted wildly back and forth, thinking of women he had known. “Why would they do that?”

  The mage shrugged. “The reasons,” he replied loftily, “are not for us to know.” He looked more closely at the warrior. “What, did you never wonder whether they sometimes did not enjoy it?”

  “I was a soldier, you dumbass.” Drinn glanced speculatively over at Chiara. “I never cared.” He thought for a moment, then spoke haltingly. “So… you’re sure she’s not poxed?”

  “Certain.” The mage drained his canteen. “She’d be scratching herself in her sleep.”

/>   “Then… could she be… there’s no way she’s a virgin?”

  The mage laughed, loudly enough to make Chiara stir, her arms flopping. “She’s twenty years of age. She’s a barmaid in a boring town in the Northern Rump. She’s been raised to believe the collection of shellfish is life’s highest task, and on top of that, as you suggest from what you heard in the tavern, her father rents her out for spending money. No, I’m certain she’s had her fair share, albeit in an inbred seaside fashion.” He reached down to massage his own feet, a sock ready nearby. “She’s a fetching creature, though, in her way.”

  “Leave her alone, mage.”

  “Of course.” Franx started poking his toes into the long woolen socks. “She’s all yours, Drinn. I’m merely paying her wage. We’ll let her have her secrets, though.” He reached for the next sock. “It’ll be easier if she’s comfortable.” He tapped the silverbag within his rucksack. “Best wake her up. I’d unwrap her feet while she’s sleeping, but I’m afraid she’d waken and kick me.”

  Now, at close range, Drinn wondered how he’d ever thought her pink flush was real; flaking bits of makeup clung to her face, cracked and crumbly at the corners of her eyes and lips. The mage must be right, he reflected; there was indeed a sharp cheeselike smell coming from beneath her dress. He remembered the stinky whitish mess the barkeep had found beneath her nails last night, and shook his head in admiration. Sneaky, plucky little bitch.

  He bent low and whispered into her ear. “Chiara,” he urged. “Time to get up.”

  The dark brown eyes flapped open, glancing around until they found Drinn’s face. He saw them focus, then narrow. “Why?”

  He was confused. “Why what?”

  “Why do I need to get up?” She stretched, organizing her long limbs and then wincing mightily as they extended. “I’m sore like I’ve never been.”

  He nodded. “We probably did five leagues last night. We’ll need to do more tonight. Come, get up.” He crouched, then offered his hand; after some hesitation, she took it. Her grip was firm as he dragged her, staggering, to her feet.

  Her face took on a strange expression as she settled herself. “Umm. Excuse me, Drinn; I must piss again. Is it safe?”

  “Safe?” He frowned. “There are no giraffes around, if that’s what you’re talking about.” She rolled her eyes and, scratching vigorously and self-consciously at herself, she made for the bushes on the far side of their little dell. Drinn watched her go, then shrugged and ambled back to where Franx was slicing some sausage on a stump. “Says she’s got to piss,” he said. The mage looked up briefly.

  “I’m sure she feels a need to remove the cheese,” he explained. “I’ve got no way of knowing firsthand, but I’d be surprised if it isn't uncomfortable. She probably meant to do it before she slept, but forgot.” He went back to slicing. “She’ll come back and announce how much it hurt to pass her water,” he told the sausage.

  “Gods of the hells,” came a loud whine from the other side of some bushes, which shook to Chiara’s approaching footsteps. “It felt like I was pissing knives.” She looked suspicious as the men glanced at each other. “What?”

  “Nothing.” The mage smiled amiably. “How are your feet, Chiara?”

  She frowned, shifting her weight to test them. “They’re… not so bad, I think.” She looked down and wiggled her bandaged toes. “Thanks again, Master Franx.”

  “Poildrin,” the mage suggested, his smile widening, “please, Poildrin. If we’re to be on the road together, ‘Master Franx’ will grow tiresome soon.” He placidly returned to the food. “As will ‘asshole.’”

  She blushed slightly. “Yes, sorry. I was not myself last night.” She shifted her gaze to Drinn. “And my father did not raise me to be polite.”

  Drinn hauled himself up and walked off, fumbling with his trousers. “My turn.”

  “Wait!” called the girl. “Don’t go to the bushes where I was.” He looked back with an arched eyebrow. “It… there was some stuff that came out. It looked unpleasant.” She turned bright red. “I wouldn’t want you to worry.”

  The warrior nodded knowingly and headed for a different bush. Franx merely began sorting the slices into three piles. “If you’d let me,” he told her airily, “I could perhaps help you down there.”

  “Pervert.” She collapsed heavily beside the stump. “That’s what got me in this condition, letting men beneath my skirts. I’ll manage, thank you so much.” He nodded politely and started digging in the breadbag. “My father, see, he… he never really did give me much choice in the matter. Me or my mother.”

  The mage stared at her for a second. “Pardon, Chiara; I don’t mean to judge,” he began carefully, “but a father who whores out his daughter deserves nothing but a heated sword shoved up his asshole. I mean, I know he’s your father, but still.” He began to tear a small loaf apart. “His wife, as well?” He shook his head grimly.

  Chiara put her arms up. “He didn't do it regularly,” she pointed out. “No, usually I just did it myself. It was only after your Royal shitheads came that he insisted, he and the other fathers.” She took a slice of sausage and brushed off a little dirt. “Most of them, anyway. Pimping their women put more money into Much Ormold than any of them had ever seen.”

  The mage thought about that, then shrugged. “Not a very honorable way to make money, surely.”

  Chiara chewed loudly. “No less honorable than what you people did to Lesser Ormold,” she shot back, and he nodded. She had a point. “Until, you know, we all started getting poxy. That’s when the money stopped coming, but that was only last week.”

  Franx made a sympathetic sound. “An odd pity,” he said mildly, “all the Ormold women falling sick simultaneously.”

  “Do what? Simul-who?”

  “At the same time.” He smiled again. “That every woman in town should begin showing symptoms at once… seems a queer coincidence.” He watched her eat, his own food waiting until Drinn returned. She made a face; he could see her eyes shifting as she came up with something. Drinn was not wrong, he reflected; the freckles really were quite something.

  “Not so, Poildrin,” she replied. “A bunch of women, all fucking an army at the same time? Of course we’d all get sick at once.” Which wasn’t how it should have worked, but Franx merely nodded sympathetically. Feeling she should do something, the gave her greasy dress a perfunctory scratch. “Itchy,” she explained defiantly. The mage just nodded, looking up as Drinn came crashing through the bushes.

  “Ah!” came his happy cry. “Sausage!”

  Three

  They stole that night through a numbed, sleepy land of rock and sparse grass, with streams to cross seemingly every five or ten minutes. Chiara, her boots cut lower and laced tighter, did much better, and they were able to halt at midnight for a small meal, the stars very bright above. Off to the right, a village’s lights were sprinkled down in the plains.

  They weren’t high up yet, certainly, but Franx and Drinn had decided it would be best to make slower progress in the foothills to avoid being seen by anyone down below. What that meant was slow, tortuous progress in spiky pine forests, with nothing but occasional game trails to lead them south. It was an exhausting journey, and a cold one until they’d moved far enough to start sweating. After that, it was simply misery.

  Drinn clanked slightly as, not slackening his pace, he unstrapped his swordbelt and carried the heavy blade over his shoulder; the scabbard was tripping him up. One at a time the three of them made other little adjustments, freeing their legs or easing the straps of their packs. Chiara had made a good start, but was flagging visibly as the moon moved higher. Drinn sighed; he’d need to take some of the shit out of her pack when they halted. She’d complain, but he wasn’t interested in her complaints.

  “Lunch soon?” he muttered to the mage, the two of them leading the way down a long, gentle slope toward yet another brook. The night was airy and silent around them.

  “Sure. I’m just waiting for the
owl,” Franx replied, sounding as though he were out for a stroll across a meadow. He’d always been a tireless walker; Drinn had often wondered whether he had some sort of magic that he used when he traveled, but it seemed not.

  “Ah.” On night marches, Franx’ owl came into its own. The thing could give warning of pursuit, or seek out water, find campsites; there were even times when the mage had whispered into its ears and it had returned in a few minutes with a rabbit or two. “She’s falling behind, is all.”

  “I know it.” Franx sighed. “I’ll cut her wages unless she speeds up.”

  Drinn was dismayed. The girl, he felt, was only here because of him. “She’ll shape up,” he insisted. “Her feet just need to get used to walking.”

  “Yes.” The mage sniffed. “And she needs, also, to develop an intimate knowledge of the secret ways through the Tangles.” He glanced meaningfully to the left, where the jagged mountains poked toward the sky. “These are things guides can usually do.”

  “Come on.” The warrior sighed and looked toward that village out yonder, where the people no doubt would never have imagined there was a pair of Royal fugitives stealing through their hills. They’d be comfortable in their beds now, most sleeping, a few no doubt fucking. He thought, inevitably, about his cock, the balls more than full by now. It had been very bad in the early afternoon, when he’d awoken rested and only slightly footsore, but harder than he’d been in years. The girl and the mage had both been sprawled out over their bedrolls, and Drinn had frowned as he thought about how his life normally went: when awakening hard, he’d customarily go to the scullery and see if the wench there was stirring yet, and if she wanted to earn some extra money. If the answer to both was yes, she’d always give him a wet, warm place to stick his cock before breakfast; if not, well, there were sometimes other girls in the village near the Tower.

  The road was different, though, for the Princess discouraged sex on the job. Nobody ever let that stop them, even when she chose to come along, but Drinn usually found his need for a woman diminished if the job offered other things to do. Still, eventually matters always came to a jittery, cock-hardening point of intense sexual need, and then the choices were stark: a woman or his hand, and the world that Drinn came from felt the hand was unacceptable. The men of his village believed the only reasonable place for a man’s cum was inside a woman, so a woman it usually was, whether paid or not; his village felt no shame about buying whores.