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

by Max Keith

  “I wouldn’t expect more than a few minutes,” he’d warned, his voice thick, and she’d giggled.

  “Don’t worry,” she’d shot back, her own voice coming out raspy. “I’m as far gone as you. Gods willing, we’ll have time for some proper fucking some other night.” She’d already been up, high on her knees on the cold ground with her hand reaching professionally down past her butt to hold his penis aloft. They’d collided with the wet, slippery ease of two thoroughly aroused animals, cock smashing into cunt with no resistance at all.

  For Drinn, sexless since the smoky-eyed corporal’s wife east of Lesser Ormold and that stringy two-silver bitch in the village, her body had been sheer, blissful heaven. He’d felt the chowdery heat of her juices, the strength of her firm legs clasping his, and the brief wash of pain as her fingers crossed his wound on their way up to his shoulders, where they’d clutched him tightly as she’d begun to rise and fall with a look of firm determination on her long face. Their pubic hair had met and twined as their bodies moved together insistently, trying to stay quiet.

  “You feel amazing,” she’d at last admitted, her muscles rippling as she’d felt his cock scraping against the walls of her vagina. He’d rewarded her by grabbing at her ass. “A few minutes, Drinn, is all I ask.”

  “I would wish for a few hours,” he’d replied sincerely, but her hips were swinging and her abdomen twisting and he’d already felt the delicious, tickling warmth working its way up from his balls, so he’d gritted his teeth and clung to her lithe body and felt the wonder as her pussy kissed his cock, and at that point an entire Imperial cavalry regiment could have cantered up to spear them and neither would have stopped, or indeed cared.

  Now she approached the trees with her brown waxed bundle, and she felt again the flutter in her crotch as she remembered the hot oily slap of his discharge inside her, the teeth-grinding moan with which he’d fired it into her three, four, perhaps five times, and then her own climax had struck her; pink bliss, foggy and warm, radiating out from her pussy. She’d heard herself gasp.

  It had been wonderful. And the next night had been even better once the mage went out to the hilltop on watch, her hands and mouth whipping Drinn into a frenzy. And the following day; he’d taken her from behind then, the sun glimmering through the pine boughs on their naked skin.

  She grimaced as she reached the line of trees, the rank smell of her own clothes offending even her. She felt like she’d taken a gallon of the warrior’s cum, and leaked most of it right back into her breeches. No wonder the owl had hopped away so quickly.

  The men were awake as she scuttled in, Franx bent low to listen as the owl made its odd little night-noises in his ear. Drinn looked on expressionlessly as she tossed him the wax bundle. “For you two,” she wheezed, and then she plopped beside the cold little firepit to dig for any spare rabbit bones.

  “Got bored out on the hilltop?” Drinn was smiling. He still found it wonderful, the knowledge that he’d fucked her. Those freckles really were arresting. He’d had many, many women in his time, but some were more special than others. He pulled out his knife and began to cut carefully at the brown wax. Franx was still bent intently to the bird, and Chiara sighed.

  “I don't want to head all the way back down there. I think I’ll just watch from here; it’s only a little longer, anyway.” She yawned elaborately, her arms stretched high, and caught him staring at her breasts; it was with a very feminine smile, then, that she turned and walked slowly back south, just outside the ring of the trees.

  Drinn got the wax flaked off, then rolled the little bundle out on the ground while he dug in his pack. His match flared, flickered, and then caught on the stubby little candle he kept in there. First he picked up the note, written in Princess Raxillene’s own overly-schooled hand; it rested atop two piled strips of silk, intricately embroidered, and a small golden badge with the unmistakeable stink of the Empire about it.

  “Ah!” Franx had been peering over from his spot with the owl. “Excellent. Her plan must be that we sneak through the garrison with an Imperial Pass.”

  “What the fuck are those?” Drinn held the candle carefully, aware he shouldn’t get wax on any of this. The mage shook off the owl and then bent forward to snatch both letter and candle.

  “Just what they sound like.” He shrugged as he perused the words. “A pass given out by the Emperor. I mean, personally; he stamps them himself and gives them to the recipient with his own hand.” He frowned down at the golden bauble, “I’ve never seen one; my heart shudders at the thought of how the Princess got one. But they’re only sent directly from the Capital, and the idea is that their business trumps anything else happening anywhere else in the Empire.” He frowned at the letter. “I told the Princess we had Imperial uniforms and a woman. Her idea is that Chiara wear the Imperial Pass, we be her protectors.” He shrugged. “You tie the silk things around your helmets, and hey presto. You’re on the Emperor’s business.”

  Drinn stared in disbelief. “I’m not privy to the Emperor’s counsels,” he admitted sarcastically, “but the idea that he would dispatch a girl of twenty to do… well, anything…” He blinked. “Who would believe that?”

  Franx’ eyes narrowed. “I’m not so sure about that myself, but the people who sent these things to the Princess insist it’s done.” He turned the letter over to scan the back. “Ah. Ah! I see!” He devoured the words more avidly. “Says here it’s common for the system to be used by powerful families sending their children to study at the Mages’ Colleges or the Universities.”

  Drinn frowned. “So, she’s supposed to be a wealthy student?”

  Franx shrugged. “The Princess sent along letters of introduction and safe-conduct in the name of Lady Errin Burrowes, third daughter of someone called the Earl of Fensburgh.” He read on. “Says here her auntie will meet her at the Imperial end of the Pass to pick her up. We’ll simply be along for the ride.” He rubbed at the various seals and ribbons. “Passes for the girl and two bodyguards. These seem remarkably genuine.” Even at the height of the War, there was still plenty of travel in the Claring Pass; soldiers couldn’t cross, but traders could; diplomats, messengers, and adventurers crowded all the roads. And, of course, the mail had to go through.

  The warrior sounded skeptical. “Who’s the aunt?”

  Franx flipped the paper over several times. “Doesn’t say, but I’m sure she’ll send Alorin in a costume. Or Lynna, perhaps; she might enjoy a bracing mountain journey.” He smiled as Drinn looked away. Lynna was the kitchen wench Drinn normally used to keep his cock soft. “Probably Firkis or Cashel as a ‘bodyguard.’ We’ll know when we arrive.” He put the letter carefully down and leaned back against a rock. “We’ll need to steal three horses, but other than that it might work.”

  Drinn spat sourly. “Seems like a flimsy plan.”

  “The Princess agrees.” He looked up at the warrior. “She says, and I quote, ‘Drinn was a bloody fool for thinking with his cock when he hired a young woman.’”

  “I wasn’t!” he protested. The mage shrugged.

  “I know, but it makes no difference now. I see just one difficulty: Chiara’s cousin Pede. He’ll surely be at the Pass looking at anyone trying to cross. Maybe I can enchant him somehow.” He noticed when Drinn’s expression changed, and he squinted. “What?”

  The warrior looked evenly back at Franx. “I don’t think young Pede will be present at the Pass,” he said quietly, a glance flickering to see whether Chiara was listening by the trees. The mage waited for more. “It was Pede that gave me this.” He pointed at the stitched wound, now hidden beneath one of Franx’ poultices, and the mage caught on.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I guessed perhaps something like that had happened. Does she know? I know the two of you have been… talking, shall we say. During the nights.”

  “She doesn’t know.” He was not at all surprised the mage knew of their nocturnal activities. “And I’d prefer to keep it so.” He didn’t say what he felt: Ch
iara clearly had a soft spot for her cousin, and she didn’t need to know he’d been beheaded by the man she was fucking.

  “Yes. That would be less complicated,” Franx agreed. He paused. “She seemed fond of him, from what she says.”

  Drinn shrugged brutally. “I like my cousins, too. Can’t say I’d care overmuch if they died, though.” He stood and stretched. “When it’s your time, it’s your time. And men who take up with mages in the mountains should not be surprised when their time comes.”

  “Yours didn’t,” Franx observed.

  “I was faster.” There it was again, the brutal logic of the warrior’s life. He glared. “I hope Raxillene does send Alorin,” he said pointedly. “It’ll be nice to have someone around I can talk to properly.”

  “Relax.” The mage took his own advice, settling back again. “No need to get uppity, Drinn. We’re all tired.”

  “Huh.” They both turned when Chiara’s voice came barreling from the trees.

  “One of you assholes planning on relieving me?” she demanded. “This is getting old.”

  Franx smiled thinly. “My turn. Think about where we might find some horses,” he suggested, collecting his spindly legs underneath him, “while you sleep. Or not sleep,” he added, with a nod toward the girl. “I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of the Lady Errin.” He was gone into the night, silent-footed, leaving Drinn frowning over the plan ahead of them.

  * * *

  “See, I’ll be casting a spell the entire time,” Franx had explained. “It’ll change your features in your cousin’s eyes, even while his features are changed in yours.” All lies, naturally, but she had to be told something. “That way, you won’t react to him by mistake. You won’t even see him.”

  The plan intrigued her, though, so Chiara was in the mood to believe whatever the mage told her. She was, after all, just a village girl. She’d been raised to believe mages could do anything. She’d been fascinated when Drinn had told her the plan, and had giggled like a schoolgirl when, at long last, she’d been able to put a dress on again. “It’s a wonder to me,” she teased, “how you men can tolerate trousers.” Now she stood knee-deep in a pond, naked but for the cloth she’d been wrapping around her breasts since the night at the water temple. She summoned Drinn with her eyes. “Help me out?” She gathered her weed-choked hair in her arms and held it out of the way.

  So, sighing, Drinn kicked off his boots and waded in to help untie the wrapping. “You and Poildrin have a lot more faith in this plan than I do,” he grumbled. The knot came free in his hands, her bare flesh exciting him as it always did. “Personally, I think we’ll be caught and thrown into the snakepit.”

  “They don’t throw earls' daughters into snakepits,” she replied prettily, twirling as she unwound herself. “Mages either, though you’re probably right about yourself.” Now the wrappings hung, limp and stretched, in his hands, the girl naked and proud before him. “Shall you help me wash?” she asked archly. “I’m told that noblewomen in your land often have bathers to help them. Or even slaves!” Her eyes crinkled with a saucy grin. “You can be my slave, Drinn.” She trailed a finger down his tunic, punctuating it with a heavy grope at his crotch. “Would you like that?”

  He laughed grimly, but glanced up at the sun. “I doubt there’s time,” he shrugged. He was already stirring beneath her questing fingers. She grinned up at him. “You’re insatiable. And you’re tiring me out.”

  “What?” Her eyes went innocently wide. “Don’t forget, warrior, I waited almost as many weeks as you did.” He shuffled backward. “What’s the matter?” she purred. “Not interested in fucking me now that I’m the daughter of an earl?” Her hand tightened. “You only like it from common wenches, hmm?”

  She’d been tickled mightily by the entire notion, at once constructing a detailed story for herself. Without delay she had taken her best dress, the thin one she hadn’t worn since Wynsse, and scrubbed it in the little pond; it dangled now from one of the trees, dripping in the late-morning air. She had plans for her hair, elaborate ones involving the few pins and combs she’d kept when they’d dumped so much of their gear at the water temple.

  She was now a student at the Imperial Academy of Music in the Capital, studying vocal composition and the use of the lute. “Can you play the lute?” Drinn had asked sourly. She’d tossed her head, her attention firmly on her stained dress.

  “If asked? Sure. If given one to play? I’ll simply remind them I am a student, not a master.” She’d shrugged. “Then I’ll flash that shiny badge in their faces. If Poildin is right, they’ll shut up at that point.”

  “Right,” the mage had agreed, not looking up. He was back in consultation with the owl, preparing a message for it to bring to whomever the Princess had sent to the Claring.

  “I learned, both as a barmaid and a whore,” she’d continued coolly, “that there are few situations that cannot be overcome by a confident manner and a firm belief in your own importance.”

  “Truth,” Franx had muttered distantly. He’d looked up with a rare smile. “M’lady graces her servants with her wit.” They’d giggled, and Drinn had merely glared.

  “The two of you are enjoying this a bit too much,” he’d groused. His wound was itchy and achy both, and the past few nights had left him with a sore cock. “Truly, Poildrin, I swear you secretly enjoy it when pretty women take you over.” Chiara had simpered prettily, and the mage had merely tipped his head back and looked down his nose at Drinn.

  “Who’s Poildrin?” He’d blinked. “I’m just a poor soldier named Nikobar, out to protect this young friend of the Emperor’s Grand Vizier, the daughter of one of his closest earls.” He’d stared hard. “See?”

  “You’re a twit,” Drinn had replied tartly, “out to steal three horses and bluff his way past a Firemage and fifty Imperials.”

  “Pah. A Firemage.” Franx made a dismissive wave. “I myself am a Shadowmage, or had you forgotten?”

  “I had.” Drinn had showed him two fingers. “I thought you were a poor soldier named Nikobar.” He was bitter about that; Franx had suggested the two names on the forged safe-conduct passes be Nikobar and Glump, and that left Drinn with a pseudonym that sounded like a disease.

  But now the ersatz daughter of the earl was getting horny while bathing, and with the mage of whichever name off finding a trio of mounts, there was nothing to protect Drinn from the girl’s advances. Ironic, he thought to himself. Barely a week ago he’d been distracted enough to pay two full silvers for an indifferent amateur whore in the mountains; now, he was actually trying to think of an excuse that would give his battered cock a rest despite the wet, naked nymph before him. What a difference a week makes, he reflected bitterly.

  The early stages of her bath had involved a judicious bit of trimming and shaving, and now she looked like the whore she thought of herself as, all smooth tight flesh and those beguiling freckles. Her hair, already beginning to dry in the sun, was twisting itself back into its gentle waves. She was altogether amazing. And now, with a final playful squeeze, she let go of Drinn’s laboring cock and stepped back so that he could admire her.

  “What is it you and Poildrin owe me, anyway?” she asked suddenly, her head carefully sideways as she wrung out her hair. “I’ve lost count of the days, I admit.”

  “He hasn’t.” Drinn sat heavily on a rock, his feet feeling delicious in the water. There are really few sights better, he pondered, than a naked and beautiful girl. “You can ask him later. But I’m glad you came, despite what it’s costing me.”

  “You’re sweet.” Chiara sat once more in the water, rinsing herself carefully, and then padded to the bank to reach for her blanket. “In case things get bloody later,” she added with a shy sideward glance; she clearly had no idea how to broach the subject, but she was game. She paused. “What I mean to say is that if this plan doesn’t work, or if one of us gets hurt, or whatever,” she went on, wrapping herself tight, “I wanted to make sure I thanked you. A future of whel
ks, whoring, and tavernkeeping pales by comparison. Even though it would have been safe enough.”

  “My pleasure.” He smiled back, tired; he felt in desperate need for a nap, but all went well they’d be back in the Realm tomorrow. He could sleep then, stretched uncaring in the leaf-mould of some forest looking down on Claring Wood or the Fleens in the distance, and he’d care nothing for pursuing Firemages or the strange vicissitudes of different types of coinage. He’d sleep long and dreamlessly, and at the end of it there would be time to figure out what to do about Chiara. He had a sudden wild hope that Lynna wasn’t meeting them at the Pass; he didn’t need her around while he sorted out that particular problem. Alorin would be bad enough.

  Early afternoon found the two of them dozing, heedless without a guard, lying back on their readied packs in the broad, high sunlight; the owl was in the tree, though, and Franx had told it to keep a careful watch. Sun, shadow, and breeze had conspired to make it an absolutely glorious day, and when Franx returned leading three horses Drinn barely stirred. The mage looked down for a moment at the two of them sleeping, admiring the girl’s freckled face now framed by a mane of combed, clean hair, then he kicked the bottom of the warrior’s boot. “Time, Drinn.”

  As always, the warrior came to at once, the eyes flapping open like bowstrings snapping, darting around until he figured out where he was, and then he was sitting up with a slightly bashful glance at the girl, now stretching lean and tempting in her underclothes. Above her the washed dress fluttered, and she grinned up at it.

  “Time for me to be a princess?” she sang. Drinn frowned.

  “A student. Daughter of an earl. Don’t get above your station.”

  “Shut your mouth, Glump.” She smacked him with a lazy arm, the silly name making her grin widen. “Take your own advice; you’re not to berate your betters.”

  “If you’re quite finished…” The mage was getting sick of holding the horses, one of which was most spirited. It tossed its white-blazed head restively, its fellows watching with dull brown-pool eyes. Drinn looked the animals critically over.