The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Book 2 Mailing List

  The Lost Reavers

  Book 1 of the Lost Reavers Series

  By Mike Truk

  Chapter One

  Sweat burned in his eyes, ran down his brow and cheeks to soak into his beard. The rhythmic creaking of the bed frame and the knock of the headboard against the wall was like the pounding of a hammer, incessant, unstoppable, accompanying his every thrust as he stared into nothingness. The moans of the woman beneath him came as if from a mile away, her cries rising higher and higher, her nails scoring the flesh of his arms, her body writhing under him, head thrown back as if in despair.

  Hugh growled deep in the base of his throat as he sought release. Fought for it. Again. How many times had he come already? He’d lost track. His body didn’t seem to care. One more time, though, one more time might break the fever. Give him surcease, if only for a while. Gripping the sheet in his fist, he buried his face in the woman’s neck and pounded harder, her whole body bucking each time he slammed into her.

  She screamed, the sound almost a howl, rising and rising as he fucked her mercilessly, her nails now gouging his back, her hips thrusting back against him, her back arching as she came - and then she collapsed, her head turning from side to side.

  “No,” she moaned. “My lord. No more. I can’t. No more.”

  A flicker of rage threatened to light an inferno within his chest, but he clamped down on that anger and pulled himself off her. So close. With a grunt he climbed off the bed to stagger back, chest heaving, his whole body glistening with sweat in the candlelight, shoulders rising and falling as he stared at the woman.

  Her name?

  He’d forgotten. Had he? No. Mathera. That was it.

  She propped herself up on her elbows, her body as soaked as his own, tremors still causing her stomach to flutter, but there was amazement in her eyes, confusion, something perhaps even akin to shock.

  Hugh had seen that expression far too many times. He turned away and padded to the tower window, shoving open the shutters so that the cool night air could bathe his body. That need was still coiled within his core, that surfeit of energy, of ever-burning vitality.

  Next time he’d ask Johan to send up two women.

  Maybe three.

  “What is it?” asked Mathera, then gave a hollow laugh. “You must have come - what - three times? Maybe four? Surely you must be sated?”

  Hugh pressed one large fist against the window frame and bowed his head. “It’s not you. Don’t think that.”

  Again she laughed. “Oh, I know it’s not me. This isn’t my first sally. I’ve just never met a man…”

  Like you.

  He heard the whisper of sheets as she moved to the edge of the bed, the soft pad of feet as she moved to stand behind him. Her hand curled around his stomach. “If you think one more is what you need…”

  Her hand drifted down, fingers curling around the base of his shaft, his pubic hair damp with her juices. “Then I can see what can be done…”

  For a moment he was tempted. He stared out the window, not seeing the moon which had risen over the distant foothills to cast its gleaming reflection down the length of the Zienko River. The sound of revelry rose up from the Rusałka Inn just below, shouts from the direction of the stables, the distant strains of Micko’s fiddle coming from the common room.

  “No,” he sighed, resting his heated brow against his forearm and leaning forward. “My apologies. I don’t think one more will cut it.”

  Mathera pressed her body against him, her breasts soft against his back, her cheek against his shoulder. “You’re a frightening man, Sir Hugh.” Her hand rose from his cock, fingertips brushing up his stomach, lingering on the ridges of his abs, up to his slab-like chest muscles, then out over the boulder-like swell of his shoulder. “Your body. It’s… Mesmerizing. Fascinating. I don’t want to stop touching you…”

  She kissed his back, her lips tracing a trail that he knew would bring her around into his arms. Perhaps she was ready to go again. Perhaps he’d bend her over the windowsill and take her again here, a fistful of her hair in his hand, taking her until he finally exhausted himself, her cries ringing out across the trading station and the inn below, quietening conversation as everyone looked to his tower -

  “No,” he said, pushing off the wall to turn and grasp her arms gently. Mathera was tall, but still he loomed over her. “I appreciate your company. But our time together has come to an end.”

  She bit her lower lip as she studied him, then gave a graceful shrug of one tanned shoulder. “As you will, my lord. Though I’ve never received fainter praise.”

  He laughed darkly. “I am no poet. But truly. You have my thanks, Mathera.”

  Her smile was mercurial. She stepped back, stretched, her whole body extending, breasts rising, her head turning sinuously to one side as she smiled, then released with a sigh to walk over to her fallen clothing. “Unfortunately, it seems most of the pleasure was mine.” She bent to take up her skirt. “One might almost think I was paying you for the service. Oh. You tore my dress.”

  Hugh winced. He’d been… eager to disrobe her once she’d entered his tower-top room. “Apologies.”

  She stepped into the skirt, pulled it up over her wide hips, then clucked her tongue over the ripped seam. “No matter. Your payment will more than compensate.” She busied herself with the rest of her clothing. “Will you be turning in now, my lord?”

  “No.” Hugh turned back to the window. Stared out over the night-shrouded land. Fields upon more fields on both sides of the Zienko, which was shrouded by a strip of trees that ran along its wide banks. The city of Stasiek was a good five miles up the road. A run, perhaps, to burn off his remaining energy? Along the river, or up the road? Ten miles all told might dim his energy some.

  The sound of laughter spilled up from the distant common room, followed by a crash of breaking plates. Johan’s angry yells followed right after. A good crowd tonight. Strangers with whom to gamble.

  “I might try my hand at cards,” he said, moving to where his tunic and pants lay fallen.

  Strangers with whom to drink.

  “Normally, I’d join you, perhaps find myself another customer,” said Mathera, lacing up the front of her dress. “But… I think I’m finished for the night.” She winced, rocking her hips experimentally. “I might ask for your arm getting down the stairs, however.”

  Hugh pulled his shoulder length hair back to bind it roughly at the nape of his neck, enough long strands falling free to frame his face. Swept his hand over his beard and the twin slender braids that fell from each corner of his chin. Soaked still in sweat. Perhaps a dive in the Zienko first, though it wasn’t like the patrons of the Rusałka would care if he stank.

  The wooden steps affixed to the exterior of the tower creaked. A familiar light tread. Elena? Hugh took up his sword belt and buckled it over his hips as a knock sounded. Tentative. Elena, then. She knew he had company.

  He strode across the square chamber, his own footfalls muffled by the bearskin rug, and pulled the door open.

  Elena stood on the narrow platform just outside, a bucket still in hand. Ash blonde hair fell past her shoulders, locks pulled across her face to cover the old scars th
at marked each cheek. She’d have been a beauty if not for those, and in Hugh’s eyes was a beauty still, but nothing could convince her that she wasn’t permanently disfigured, and so, as always, she pulled her hair across her cheek with one nervous hand and curtseyed.

  “Excuse me, my lord. There are men down below looking for you.”

  Elena was more hesitant than usual. No, not hesitant; frightened. “What manner of men?” he asked.

  She glanced past him to where Mathera no doubt stood and quickly averted her eyes. “They’re armed and look dangerous. Iron clubs, ship blades, axes. They’re trouble, my lord. I can sense it.”

  Damn it. Whom did he owe that might go to such effort to collect? Hugh ran through his debtors. He’d been careful in one thing at least: to not rack up enough debt with any one man that it’d be worth their effort to collect from a member of the nobility.

  Even a down-and-out excuse of a noble like himself.

  Hugh forced a smile. “Thank you, Elena. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be right down.”

  Elena bobbed her head. “Of course, Sir Hugh. Just… just wanted to let you know.” She tried for a nervous smile, didn’t quite manage it, and instead turned to hurry down the steps to the stable yard below.

  “Trouble?” asked Mathera, sitting down to pull on her shoes.

  “No. A misunderstanding, I’m sure.” He pulled on a loose gray tunic, tugged on his boots - he’d need a new pair soon - and slipped his dagger inside the left one. “Ready?”

  Mathera stood, blew a lock of hair out of her face, and then winced. “Fortuna wept, I can barely walk. What did you do to me?”

  Hugh extended his arm.

  She took it, and together they stepped outside. His tower room was three flights up, high enough that he had ample view over the inn to the great, ancient stone bridge that arched up over the Zienko. No horses were tethered on its far side. Nor was the stable crowded with new arrivals.

  They’d have arrived by boat, then.

  Down they went, Mathera laughing ruefully under breath, but Hugh’s thoughts were on his debtors. Who could it be? What if they weren’t debtors? Whom else could he have offended? Nobody came to mind. It had been three years since the debacle in Goat’s Wood. Long enough that anybody with a grudge would have come for him already.

  Then who?

  Though the river breeze was sweet and brought with it hints of flowers and the scent of trees, the rich clay smell of the banks, it was still unable to mask the reek of horse manure from the stables, the rich tang of straw, the acrid stench of urine from the darker corners of the yard. A crowd was gathered under the ivy-covered pergola that stood about the Rusałka’s entrance, many of them staring inside through the front door or the broad window.

  His arrival caused them to startle. He recognized a fair number of regulars, one of whom, old Berchold, pulled his pipe out of his seamed lips and stepped up, stooped by the seventy decades of fishing along the Zienko.

  “Might want to consider turnin’ round and hiding yerself till this lot clears out, Hugh.” He nodded toward the doorway. “They don’t look friendly to me.”

  Hugh patted Berchold on his narrow shoulder, not breaking his stride. Released Mathera’s arm, and entered the hot, smoky room, the sounds and smells washing over him. A large fire crackled in a brick-lined fireplace, the floorboards creaked as men trod on them with heavy boots, though more than one patron did so gingerly; the far side of the room where the cards were played was built out over the water, and though Hugh knew the construction to be sound, it wasn’t too hard to imagine boards snapping and oneself plunging down twenty yards to crash into the river.

  Micko was seated on a stool in the corner, swaying back and forth as he sawed at his fiddle, and everything was ruddy light and thick shadows, the high rafters hidden by thick smoke, strings of onions and dried haunches of meat hanging above their heads. The far wall was dominated by a painting of a Rusałka emerging from the Zienko, her long hair green, her face pale and gleaming with river water, her gown clinging wetly to her full body, her eyes cruel, her smile crueler.

  Johan was behind his bar, a freestanding candle-strewn bench. Five heavyset men stood before him, and as Hugh entered Johan sighed with obvious relief and pointed him out.

  Micko ceased his sawing as Hugh approached the group. The trick to owing money, he’d discovered, was to owe many people small sums. Never allow a debt to accumulate to the point where it was worth getting violent in order to collect. He did a final, quick revision of his latest debts and assured himself all was in order; the most he owed was a hundred crowns to Chrol, and he was, if not an old friend, than a comrade who understood that a debt to a duke’s younger brother was worth more than the actual crowns owed.

  “Gentlemen,” Hugh said, stepping up and placing his hands on his hips. “Word is you’ve a desire to speak with me.”

  Elena was right. They were a hard lot. None were familiar, but they shared that brutal, obdurate look of men who’d grown used to relying on force in order to get what they wanted. Large hands; plain, well-used hilts on their blades; functional leather armor; noses that had most likely been broken more than once. No humor in their eyes, nothing more than reflected flames.

  “You Hugh of Stasiek?” Their leader was distinguished from the other four only by how many more times his large nose had been broken.

  “Lord Hugh,” he said, allowing some steel to creep into his voice.

  “Lord Hugh,” said the man, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm. “We’ve come to collect.”

  “I don’t recall your face, nor borrowing money from you.” Hugh stood lightly on the balls of his feet. Any fatigue he might have earned with Mathera was now long gone. He felt so light he might float off the floor.

  “We work for the Mink. Time’s come to pay up.”

  A knot formed in Hugh’s gut. The Mink. Now that was a name he’d hoped to never hear associated with pay up. A notorious smuggler, he was a wanted man along the length of the Zienko river, and as hard to pin down as he was good at making money. Word was that he was as wealthy as most of the landed nobility. An exceedingly dangerous man.

  “Well,” Hugh said, keeping his voice even, “there’s been a mistake. I’ve not borrowed from the Mink.”

  “He’s bought up your debts,” said the man. “All of ‘em.”

  Hugh’s chin rose a fraction. “All of them.”

  Without looking away, the man extended his palm. One of his fellows placed a scroll in it. He unrolled the scroll. “Biernat, sixty-seven crowns. Osyp, son of Osiep the Elder, thirty-two crowns. Tinko, boatswain on the Raven, forty crowns. Chrol of Wiercha, a hundred and twenty crowns. The list goes on. The total is a thousand, three hundred and twenty-one crowns.”

  The fist in Hugh’s stomach gave a twist. His heart began pounding as if he’d just finished racing up the river stairs.

  “Gentlemen, let’s be reasonable. You don’t expect me to have a thousand crowns on my person. That and I need proof these debts have been purchased. Honorable as you may be, I’m not going to simply take your word on it.”

  “We’ve signed affidavits,” said the man. For such a brute he was surprisingly well spoken. “And the Mink says, if you’ve not the gold on your person, then you’re to come with us and explain that to him, in person.”

  “I see.” And suddenly Hugh did. It all made sense. The thousand crowns were but a pretext. How much more could the Mink wrest from Hugh’s brother as ransom?

  The situation had grown exceedingly simple. He had but three options. Draw his blade and cut down the five men. Go with them peacefully and allow himself to be caught. Or avoid either bloodshed or dishonor by attempting an escape.

  Cut them down, coward, came Black Evec’s voice in his mind.

  The sound of it made Hugh’s blood run cold. He kept his hand clear of his blade. The five men were watching him closely. If he were to fight, this was it. The moment he’d draw. Their own hands clasped hilts. A wrong moveme
nt, and the common room would be awash in blood.

  No. Not if Hugh could help it.

  He spread both his arms wide. “Very well. You have me at a disadvantage. But what about the parade?”

  Brows quirked in confusion, eyes narrowing, five different minds simultaneously asking themselves: what fucking parade?

  And in that moment Hugh threw himself back, sliding over a trestle table, spilling cups and flagons, and raced toward the back corner of the common room where a narrow door led out to the perilous outdoor pantry walkway.

  Shouts. The ring of blades being drawn. Cries of excitement and horror. Johan bellowing for everyone to stop.

  Hugh sprinted across the room, darting nimbly around stupefied patrons, and reached the narrow door. A quirk of the inn. An elbow of walkway suspended high, high above the steep bank and swirling waters of the Zienko, leading around the corner to the pantry, a small room without window or doorway and thus inaccessible from the main road and bridge.

  The door slammed open before Hugh’s turned shoulder and he staggered out onto the walkway. The cold wind whipped his hair back. A half dozen plans flickered through his mind - leap up and grasp the eaves, to haul himself up and cross the roof? Barricade the doorway from within the pantry -

  The debtors filled the doorway, their leader at the fore, a surprisingly slender blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight. “Got nowhere to run, Hugh.” His smile was more leer than anything else. “C’mon. The hero of the Goat’s Wood surely has nothing to fear from -”

  A deep breath. Hugh ran at the men - but leaped up at the last second, boot finding purchase on the stout railing, and he shoved off, surged out into the night, out past the men, to fall, arms raised, cry trapped in his throat, fall a good seven yards down the stone side of the inn, to come crashing down on the broad river steps that descended from the back of the stables to the Zienko itself, hugging the inn’s rear wall.

  The steps hit him like a charging knight, pain flaring up his knees and hips as they took the impact, but he kept his balance, the sheer power and flexibility of his body helping him survive the impossible fall. New shouts - two more men had been stationed at the top of the stairs where they opened up behind the stables - no doubt to prevent his bolting if he’d sought to avoid the common room altogether.