by Mike Truk
He was immediately hard. Fought to stay level on the water as she bobbed her head up and down, licking the underside of his cock as she worked his length. Fuck, she had to have done more than knife handles to suck cock like this - and for some reason the thought made him angry.
Her head broke the surface, a sharp inhalation for air, and then she went back down on him. And - Hugh’s whole body spasmed as something - her finger? - slid into his ass, the sensation so surprising, shocking, and intense, that a moment later he came.
She came up spluttering, laughing, and swam onto her back, her small, high breasts breaking the water’s surface.
Hugh cursed as he swam in place, glaring at her, thinking: what by Fortuna’s tits had that been?
“Oh, calm the fuck down,” Morwyn called out. “You never had one of your whores do that to you?”
“No,” he said stiffly.
“Well, now you know.” She swam lazily, floating effortlessly, the water pooling in her hollows, lapping at her sides, spilling over her. “And don’t worry. You’re not the first guy to come like that. You want to feel something crazy, wait till I get at you there with my tongue while pumping your cock.”
Hugh’s mind was spinning. He’d fucked scores of women over the past three years - a hundred? Maybe more? But never done anything like that. Never thought of going - there. Each one had been the same. Throw the woman down on the bed, taste her, suck her, slide inside her, quest for oblivion.
Disconcerted, he swam to the pool’s edge, striking out for the side on which their estate was built. Pulled himself out of the water and sat, shivering for the first time as the wind blew down past him.
Morwyn lazily followed after and pulled herself out to stand beside him, water coursing down her toned body, canting her head to one side to gather her wet hair in both hands. “What?”
“Nothing. I just… I hadn’t realized you’d so much experience in the sack.”
A dark, bitter laugh. “Grow up, Hugh. What do you think it took for me to survive in those barracks growing up?”
He looked up to her. “You were forced?”
“No.” She threshed her hair with her fingers, shivered, and cast around for her wet clothing. “But on some level it was fuck or be fucked. Like everything during training. I could have held back, waited for true love or some shit, and made myself a target.” She bent down to scoop up her scabbard and pants. “Or I could wade into the trenches, enjoy myself, grow up fast, and stay in control.”
“I’d have thought wading into the trenches would have made things harder for you,” said Hugh, rising to his feet as well.
Morwyn laughed again, that bitter, mocking chuckle. “Oh, some of the guys tried to talk shit. Call me names. Coerce me into doing things for them I didn’t want. But that never lasted long. All I had to do was go hard during a sparring session, break a bone or two, and they’d shut the fuck up.”
She grabbed her tunic and boots. “Now. You done interrogating me about my past?”
“Yeah,” said Hugh. “But Morwyn. What I said on the bridge.”
“I know,” she said, turning to pick her way up the steep bank to the road. “No need to keep repeating yourself.”
Hugh snorted, watching her lithe body as she navigated the rocks, then shook his head. Something huge had happened here. And not just the sex. Some breakthrough. Some forging of a bond. Not that it looked like it was going to make life any easier for him.
But still.
He began to make his way up the bank. Thought of her up on that railing, the devilish gleam in her eye, the way her muscular body had flexed and undulated as she’d fucked him back just as hard.
What else had she learned in those barracks? How were things going to change between them? What was her secret, and was she any closer to sharing it with him?
Chapter Nine
Hugh awoke early, his body restless, his muscles twitching from lack of use. Without much thought he thrust aside the sheets and stood, stretching and reaching for the ceiling until his spine popped, then dropped to the ground and began to exercise, knocking out a few hundred push-ups before flipping over to do crunches. This he did mindlessly for some spell of time - the sky outside his window lightened as he worked out, until at last he stood, cast around, and saw nothing suitable for him to lift.
Putting on his breeches, he let himself out a side door and moved around to where the stables were built; River Street across the Mandroga was already bustling with villagers at this dawn hour, but the imperial estate was silent. Moving to the wagon, Hugh considered the front axle. The idea had occurred to him early during their voyage north, but some inhibition had kept him from trying it out before the ladies.
Now, however, was the perfect moment.
Bullnip and Blue swung their heads over their stall doors to regard him.
“Just ignore me,” he said, moving to the front of the wagon and examining the axle. “Just, ah, a human acting really strangely.”
The axle was low, perhaps two feet off the ground. No way he could squat low enough to get his shoulders under it. Lowering himself into a deep crouch, he took hold of the frame. How much would the wagon weigh? A thousand pounds? More?
Time to find out if he could.
A deep breath, he straightened his spine, arms straight, and tried to rise, doing all the work with his legs, hands latched like iron manacles around the axle. The wagon creaked, shifted, and slowly, very slowly, rose.
Legs quivering, Hugh stood up straight, his thigh muscles writhing, his shoulders straining, till at last he was able to lock his hips forward and stand fully erect, the wagon wheels hovering a good two or three feet off the stable floor.
Down he went, sinking carefully, the wagon groaning and creaking in protest as the wheels touched the ground.
Good. He could just do that over and over again. But he wanted more. A wild idea came to him. Rubbing his hands together, he shifted his feet about for a better stance, crouched, and took a deep breath. Held it, chest full near to bursting, and grasped the axle once more.
He’d taken the wagon’s measure. Time to put some fire into the lift. With a grunt he rose swiftly to his feet, hauling the wagon up onto its rear wheels with explosive force, and as momentum carried it higher, he ducked down and under it, catching the axle across his clavicles on the bunched mass of his shoulders.
Held it. Grunted again as it sagged down onto his frame - and then he rose.
Inch by quivering inch. All the way to standing, the wagon tilting back to a near 45-degree angle, rear wheels sliding back a few inches.
For a moment Hugh just stood there, breathing in short snorts through his nose, then he worked his way around, turning until the axle was settled across his back and shoulders in the same manner he’d supported the tree trunk on the voyage north.
Only to see Zarja in her Elena-guise and Anastasia standing at the front of the stables, steaming mugs in hand, eyes wide.
Almost he dropped the wagon, but instinct bade him hold onto it. Legs quivering with effort, he glared at them. “What?”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “Don’t mind us. We came to take care of the horses, but… this is much more entertaining.”
Anastasia’s gaze worked its way down his frame then back up. Very slowly. Hugh felt his face burn. Why had he forgotten to put on his shirt?
“Yes.” The disciplus’ voice was faint. “We, ah… this is very… I mean, please. Continue.”
Grimacing with effort, Hugh considered simply dropping the wagon. But by Fortuna’s perfect tits it had taken so much work to get it up onto his shoulders. He scowled at them both, then focused, staring past them and out over the river. With precise control, he slowly sank into a crouch, the wagon creaking, boards protesting as he did so.
The front wheels just barely touched the muddy, straw-covered floor when he rose once more, motes of red dancing in his vision, his whole body shaking, muscles quivering. To let out an explosive breath at the top.
�
��I’m feeling a little faint,” said Elena. “I wasn’t ready for this kind of display so early in the morning.”
“Agreed,” said Anastasia. “I… is he going to do that again?”
“I know!” said Elena. “We should charge an admittance fee. Put up a curtain. A silver for a view, a gold to touch his body. We’d make a fortune from the local women.”
“I’m… I’m not sure I want to let them see,” said Anastasia, then blushed furiously. “I mean, the lord’s dignity would be imperiled by such a commercial venture, and -”
“I know exactly what you’re saying,” said Elena with a smirk. “And I guess I agree. Hugh? Another repetition, please. We’re waiting.”
Despite himself Hugh let out a spluttering laugh. “Enough! Be quiet or get out.”
Elena reached out to clamp her hand over Anastasia’s mouth.
Hugh filtered them out. Took another deep breath, and sank low, fought to rise, and slowly did so. And again. Each repetition required the utmost focus. He’d never lifted this much. Each time he thought he’d fail, but each time he simply willed himself to stand back up.
Six. Seven. He decided at that point to go for ten. Eight. Stopped, his body drenched in sweat, legs quivering, gaze reduced to tunnel vision.
Nine. A cry tore itself free from his depths as he straightened.
“Enough, Hugh!” Anastasia’s face was pale. “That… you can’t!”
He ignored her. One last repetition. Quick, shallow breaths, little more than pants, and then he sucked the last one in deep and sank low. His legs were so weak it was little more than a controlled collapse. Down into a low squat, the mass of the wagon looming above his shoulders.
He tried to rise.
Couldn’t.
Clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack. Fought to rise, managed to raise the wagon a few inches, then sank back down.
“I’ll help!” Anastasia drew her wand and hurried forward, went to inscribe something on the side of the wagon.
“No,” growled Hugh. “Stop.”
And thought about the Goat’s Wood. Thought about Dragoslav’s mocking glare. Reached deep into his shame and fury and found the strength to rise, inch by quaking inch, till he locked out his hips again, breathing in furious, deep snorts, whole body swaying like the canvas of a sail before a tremulous wind.
Anastasia backed away, eyes wide.
A deep, final breath, then he bucked the wagon up off his shoulders and allowed it to fall with a crash behind him. He staggered forward, legs so weak he felt as if he’d taken a blow to the head, only for Anastasia to step forward and catch him in her arms.
She helped him move over to a stool where he sank gratefully, gasping, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.
“I…” Anastasia was still blushing, her gaze wandering up and down his frame before pulling away only to return as if against her will. “That was… inhuman.”
Elena moved up to crouch before him, one hand on his knee. “Are you all right? Were you calling on the Lost Reavers? I felt no pulse of magic…”
“No,” he said, forcing himself to sit up straight. “Just… just a little exercise to start the day.” And he grinned. “Felt good.”
Anastasia looked to the wagon. “Not sure you should do that again. Near broke the axle.”
Hugh laughed. “Fair enough. Still. You said something about breakfast?”
Elena grinned, drinking in his body much as Anastasia had done. “Yes. Though I’ve forgotten what we made. And oh - Branka came by. She offered her services. Suggested you might like a tour of the closest farms to get a better sense of Erro. Said she’d wait for you at her tavern.”
“Good,” said Hugh. The jellied sensation in his legs was already fading. “I’ve a mind to sound her out on certain key areas. A tour sounds perfect. First a swim in the Mandroga, then breakfast, then I’ll seek her out.”
* * *
“Through here,” said Branka, turning off the high mountain road to step over the narrow ditch and into the undergrowth. “There’s a deer trail that’ll bring us to an overlook with a view over the valley. Much easier way to explain where everything lies.”
She didn’t wait for him to agree, but simply pushed aside the low-hanging branches and slipped into the shadows of the forest beyond.
Hugh considered. Branka had been different all morning: polite where she’d been confrontational; evasive where she’d been direct; flirtatious even where she’d been abrasive. The first three homesteads had proven to be quick visits, their owners out working in the woods. But their goal all morning had been a look-out rock that would allow her to show him more in a few minutes then they’d learn trekking for days.
Hugh stepped off the road, ducked under the branches, and followed the tavern keeper into a gloomy world beneath the translucent green canopy overhead. These trees were old, their trunks wizened, roots grasping like desperate fingers through the leaf litter and loam. Birds called in piercing song from hidden nooks, while vividly colored fungi and shelf mushrooms provided dashes of color. The air was cool, thick with the silty smell of the woods, and the colors were muted all the more by brilliant rays of occasional sunlight that speared through the leaves overhead.
“There has to be an official census roll somewhere,” said Hugh, catching up with her. “Records kept by the Fate Maker when he comes through. Something.”
Branka gave the same one-shouldered shrug she’d been giving him all morning. She wore her blonde hair in a tight braid, thick as her wrist, and this bounced across her back as she stepped over a fallen log. “Perhaps Little Ivan could have told you more. I’m sorry. I’ve not seen any such records.”
“You said the Fate Maker stays at the imperial estate when he passes through. Shouldn’t the records be there?”
“Perhaps,” said Branka.
“But they’re not,” said Hugh. And indeed, Anastasia had spent a good hour that morning going through each drawer and cupboard, pulling out anything that could have been an official record book and found little more than yellowed scraps, a few collections of recipes written in faded inks, and a portfolio of risqué drawings of young women being despoiled by satyrs.
“Fate Maker Jarmoc will be arriving in a few days for Subrogation,” said Branka, climbing the steep path easily, long legs eating up the yards. “Perhaps you could ask him then?”
Hugh didn’t reply. He loathed dealing with Fate Makers. Suffering their gimlet stares, their probing questions, their stultifying disapproval. But without the last official census he couldn’t make sense of the two-decade-old tax roll they’d brought with them from Stasiek, nor be able to gauge how much Erro had grown and changed. They’d have to start completely fresh, a job that would take an immeasurably longer time.
Which in turn would delay raising funds for rebuilding the fort, which would leave them open to an attack from Niestor, which - Hugh sighed. The cascading series of consequences were galling.
“Up here,” called back Branka, quickening her pace. The path had grown so steep that Hugh had to haul himself up parts of it by grasping onto tree roots where they emerged from the ground and the trunks of slender trees. Branka disappeared up ahead, her striped blue pantaloons momentarily visible through the foliage, and then Hugh climbed up the last stretch and stepped out alongside her.
“The Mandroga Valley,” she said, a hint of perspiration on the bridge of her nose, a wistful smile on her wide lips. “See up there to the north? Those three different falls combine to form the river itself. The pass over to Baron Niestor’s lands is just to the west there, though you can’t see it for the trees, but you can just make out the ruined fort beside it.”
Hugh could barely make out the gray smudge of geometric angularity hidden amidst the trees farther up the valley slopes.
“Most of the homesteads are built within a stone’s throw of the river, and you can trace its passage down to Erro by the clearings in the woods. See, there’s Iarosh, just a quarter mile below. Beyon
d it is Kuzma farm, though it’s been abandoned since the fire last year. Demyd farm on the far side there - can you see the plume of smoke? The Demyds are famous for their sourdough seed loaves, and always have their ovens burning. Ship ‘em all the way to Vuk, they do. A triple cluster of farms just below - goat farmers all of them, the Yvas, the Farysas, and the Hapons. You can’t see their buildings from here, but you can see where they’ve cut down the forest for their herds. And then there’s Erro, far below. See it?”
Hugh followed her finger as she traced out the contours of civilization in the valley, most of it barely discernible amidst the thick, dark green forest that cloaked the slopes. Erro was a small smear of rooftops far below, the Mandroga falls and its pool barely visible, the line of houses along River Street reduced to tiny specks.
“Nobody’s built deeper into the woods?” he asked.
“Leave the Mandroga’s banks? Well. No. It’s dangerous to stray deeper into the woods around these parts or build higher up in the mountains. To do so is to court the attention of the fae.”
Hugh stepped back from the edge and pulled free his waterskin. Took a deep draught. “Want some?”
“I’ve my own, thank you.” She pulled her own skin from her low-slung belt, shirt riding up to reveal her flat stomach, the points of her hip bones. She raised the skin to her lips, eyeing him speculatively, and drank deep before lowering it and wiping the water from her lips with the back of her wrist.
Hugh stepped back to sit on a fallen log. “Branka, when are you going to come clean and tell me the truth?”
She hid her surprise well; brows quirked down a fraction, her jaw clenched, but then the moment was gone and she assumed a look of innocence. “What truth, my lord?”
“The smuggling. I’m guessing it’s salt. Am I right?”
She stilled, surprised again for a second time, but turned away to hide her reaction as she placed her waterskin on a rugged shelf of rock. “Smuggling, my lord?”
