by Lynn Lorenz
The camp was a half circle of tents, a horse line stretched between two trees, and two fire pits. Not unusual, unless you looked past it. Between the tents, I could see the men and boys taken from the village, tied by their wrists, strung out on their own horse line.
“I count seven horses.” I pointed and Ansel nodded. “If we can, let’s get in and out before any raise the alarm.”
“What’s your plan?” His eyes burned with an intensity I’d never seen in them before, and I realized this is what he looked like before going into battle. I’d seen the same calm yet alert look on the faces of men I’d known and respected, and I knew then Ansel would be a good man to have fighting at my side.
“There are four around the fire, so I count three in the tents. We can take the men in the open, but knowing which tent will be harder.”
“The hostages might know.” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Perhaps. But I’m not ready to involve them yet. Don’t forget, we have seven more coming back to handle, if not more.” I stared at the tents, hoping for just a bit of luck. It arrived when one of the men walked to a nearby tent and called out to someone inside.
Two men emerged and began arguing with the others.
“I’ll take the men on the right of the fire, you the ones on the left.”
Ansel nodded, gave the dog a command to stay, and we drew our broadswords. With more than enough room to swing the big, heavy swords, we wouldn’t need the short blades unless we found ourselves in closer quarters.
Crouched, we inched to the edge of the woods near the clearing, then separated and made our way to the sides of the tents. At my signal, we charged without a sound while the men still argued.
I skewered the first man. My blade in his stomach spilled his guts before they knew we were among them. Freeing my sword, I spun to catch the second. Both were dead before they hit the ground. The third man had barely drawn his sword before I was on him and cut off his head with a two-handed swing. His body fell into the fire and his clothing began to burn. Now the other men were yelling, but Ansel and I were silent death, cutting and slicing through them as if they were mere wicker men, practice targets, and there for our amusement.
Glancing across to Ansel, I saw he’d felled two of his men and jumped over the bodies to greet his last man, who, hearing the noise, rushed out of the tent to see what was going on. Ansel dropped him with a thrust to his chest. The man fell to his knees and, placing his boot on the man’s chest, Ansel pulled out his sword. The body toppled to the side and Ansel turned to me with that same calm look.
My final man broke and ran toward the horse line. If he made it and escaped, he’d bring the others. I pulled a knife from my boot, aimed, and threw it.
The blade found its home in the center of his back, between his shoulders, and he fell forward in a heap.
By now, the men tied to the line were straining to see what was going on, and their eyes, wide and white rimmed, held all their fear as they struggled like fish on a line, thinking they were next to die.
“Go to them, Ansel. Tell them they’re safe for now and cut them free. I’ll get these bodies out of sight.”
Ansel trotted off. After I’d retrieved the burning body from the fire, I rolled it in the dirt to put out the flames. Dragging the dead men one at a time by their boots, I placed them in the closest tents. Blood soaked into the ground where the bodies had lain, but not much. Few of them had lived long enough to pump out much of their hearts’ blood. I pulled my knife from the back of the one who had tried to run and wiped it clean on his tabard, tucked it back into my boot, and then pulled him inside a tent.
I was kicking dirt over the largest of the pools of blood when Ansel returned with a small crowd following him. He reminded me of an uncomfortable holy man being followed by disciples he didn’t know he possessed.
“What do I do with them?” He looked at me wide-eyed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“Nothing for now.” I turned to the group. “I need five men to act as your captors to fool the others. The rest must go back to the line and wait.”
They stood and stared at me. I wondered if I needed to repeat myself slower and louder, when one man stepped forward, a young lad at his side.
“I’ll stay.”
The boy clutched his father’s hand and looked up into his face.
“Go back with the others, Cedric. I’ll be safe.” His father tried to reassure him, but there was no telling what horrors the boy had seen. His small blond brows furrowed and he bit his bottom lip, looking back at his father as one of the other men led him away.
A few of the younger men stepped forward as the others returned to the line.
“I hid the bodies in the tents. Put on what tabards you can find to disguise yourselves. Then take a seat around the fire.” They ambled off to search the tents.
“Half of them are just lads. What were they thinking?” Ansel shook his head in disbelief. “What good is a lad of ten and two?”
“To keep the father in line is my guess. Threatening to kill a man’s son would be enough to buy most men’s cooperation.”
Ansel’s hand clenched the hilt of his still drawn sword as he growled, “Not mine.”
“You are a warrior, pup. These men are nothing more than farmers, and most have never handled a sword or had to fight to survive.” I looked at the men as they collected clothing to disguise themselves. A sadder group of souls I’d never seen. They hadn’t stood a chance against their captors.
Nodding his understanding as I clapped him on the back, Ansel walked off to check on the others behind the tents, his dog following. I found a rag and began to clean my broadsword, readying it for the next round.
Half an hour later, all was ready, and Ansel and I went back to the woods to take our places and wait for the others.
I hoped they wouldn’t be returning with reinforcements.
•●•
They arrived several hours later. The seven returned and we killed them as they dismounted.
From what we learned from their captives, they were taking men of good age and health to be conscripted into Istend’s forces. If the Duke of Istend had come to this, perhaps the battle wouldn’t be as fierce as I’d thought. Of course, any battle is fierce when you’re in the midst of it.
We stripped the bodies of their weapons, boots, and leathers, then piled them near the woods, leaving them to the scavengers, just as they’d left the lad. Then the now freed men sorted through all the clothes, supplies, weapons, and tents and took what they wanted. Ansel and I took nothing.
I found the father of the boy who’d been killed at the mound of bodies. The man, fists clenched, his face frowning fiercely, stared down at the body of one of the last men we’d killed. The father looked to be the same age as I, a farmer by his clothes. As we spoke, he told me his story. The lad had been made an example to the others, pulled from his father’s arms, and slain for no purpose but to terrify the others into submission.
I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him as he left to find his son, and I warned him of the condition of the boy’s body. He thanked me, his face grim and eyes bleak, then climbed onto one of the horses and left.
The rest of the horses were taken by the freed men, who mounted, some with boys hanging on behind them, and headed back to their villages. Ansel and I watched them go, then burned the tents and what little was left.
Watching the last of the flames die, I swung up on Horse and turned him west.
“Come along, pup. We’ve given the lad justice.”
He nodded, mounted, and we were on our way once again to Foray.
•●•
Ansel lowered himself with effort to the ground and leaned back on his saddle. From across the fire I could tell he still ached. I rummaged in my saddlebag and found the vial of oil I used to keep my leathers supple. It would work for Ansel’s back.
“That’s enough moaning from you. Take off your shirt and stretch out; I’m giving you a rubdow
n before you become so stiff you can’t move.” It came out more like an order, and Ansel obeyed.
He unlaced his leather vest, removed it, and then with careful motions, pulled his shirt over his head. Smooth chest met my gaze, lean muscles and wide shoulders. Dark hair trailed down his stomach to disappear beneath the strings of his breeches.
“Lay on your belly.” It was not the wisest thing I’d ever done, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. In truth, I wanted to touch him.
He stretched out on his cloak, his smooth broad back to me, arms over his head. There were no scars on his back or on his chest. Hidden scars, indeed.
He turned his head and looked up at me as I stood over him, his eye reflecting the firelight. I kneeled and straddled his hips. As I settled my weight on him, he gave a small grunt.
“Not too heavy for you?” I poured some of the oil from the vial and worked it over my hands.
“No.” He watched as I spread the oil between my fingers.
At the first touch of my hands on his skin, he shuddered. I smiled as his eye caught mine, then he closed it, giving me a ghost of a smile.
My hands roved over his back, lightly at first, then I increased the pressure as I pressed into his muscles, working them like a woman kneads bread dough. His smooth skin glistened in the firelight as my oiled hands glided across. Despite my best intentions, I grew hard as I touched him. Damn me, but I’d longed to do this. For his part, his breathing deepened and I could feel his chest expanding with each inhale. Was he as hard as I was? If so, it must have been uncomfortable to have his cock pressed into the hard ground.
I slid back, moving lower to sit at the tops of his thighs, his round buttocks firm in front of me. I rocked forward and back as I rubbed, pressing my hardness against him, watching for his reaction.
Part of me wanted to go further and part of me wanted him to tell me to stop. He never made a sound or moved.
“Roll over.” I stood, still straddling him.
Ansel pushed himself over, and I gazed down at the bulge in his breeches, long and hard. My eyes traveled to his face. No sign of shame, just that calm, steady gaze of his telling me to continue. He lay there, propped on his elbows, and looked up at my own hard bulge, then he slid flat to the ground.
I went down on my knees and sat across his hips, trapping his rod beneath me, a hard lump against my stones. Pouring more oil into my hands, I began to rub his shoulders, working my way to the sharp planes of his chest. His eyes were shut, and his mouth held that vague smile. I ran my thumbs across his small, dark nipples, resisting urges I didn’t want to give in to.
He hissed in a deep breath and held it as my thumbs played with those sharp points. Circling them first one way, then another, I showed him no mercy. For myself, I could feel my own nipples harden and ache under my shirt. At last, I stopped my torture, and he sighed, letting his breath out in a slow exhale. Damn, I wanted to take one of those sharp points in my mouth and make him moan for me.
Moving lower, I worked my hands over his taut stomach muscles and the tender, purple bruises I’d given him. He winced only once.
I rocked forward on his rod and he moaned. By all the gods, it sounded so good to my ears that I did it again. And again. My sac tightened as my rod swelled.
I lowered my body closer, rocked my hardness against his, and felt his responding push back. Supporting my body with my hands on his chest, all pretense of rubbing sore muscles was gone. I set a steady rhythm and pressed harder.
Ansel’s hands reached up and took my hips, pulling them tighter, his hips answering. He eyes were very dark, wide open, and locked with mine. Sliding over his chest, my hands ran down his arms, locked fingers with his, and pulled them from my hips and over his head. I stretched my clothed body against his bare chest and pumped.
His breath came ragged and his moans louder. My face was mere inches from his. This was it. If I lowered my mouth to his, I’d be kissing a man. Then I thought, we were two layers of cloth from fucking, what was a kiss? Merely damnation.
As if he’d read my mind, his lips parted and he closed his eyes. Unable to resist, I covered his mouth with mine and slammed my rod against him. I thrust faster now, even as my tongue entered his mouth to dance with his tongue, exchanging our tastes. He was as sweet tasting as any woman I’d kissed.
When he groaned into my mouth, I could feel it in my chest. I rocked faster and pressed harder. His legs widened, to give me more room, and I pumped harder. Sucking his tongue into my mouth, I held it captive. A groan ripped his lips from mine as he arched his back, his entire body tensed, and his hands clenched mine. I felt the jerking of his cock beneath me as he spilled and almost joined him.
With a shudder, he opened his eyes and looked into mine.
“Damn.” I smiled.
“Damn.” He smiled and licked his lips. I watched his tongue make a pass over the top and then the bottom, and then disappear inside. I wanted to take it in my mouth again.
Instead, freeing his hands, I rolled off him and sat against my saddle.
He propped himself up on one elbow, dipped his fingers beneath his breeches and pulled them out. They shone in the light, his cream covering them. Gods, I wondered what it would taste like.
“I should clean up.” He stood, went to his bag, rummaged in it, and came up with a bit of cloth. Wiping himself, he dropped the rag on the ground and came back to the fire.
I watched him as he stood in front of me.
“You’re still needing.” He kneeled, locked eyes with me, and pushed my knees apart. My rod strained against my breeches, so any denial would be seen for the lie it was.
When he reached for my strings, I should have said something, such as “Stop” or “Don’t touch me,” but we’d gone too far for false words.
His fingers made short work of the strings and he sat back. Without my shifting, my rod would remain firmly in place. There could be no more pretenses; if I wanted him, I had to move. I took a breath, shifted, pushed my breeches open, pulled the string of my trews, and freed my cock.
It stood tall, thick and long, dark with blood, as I took it in my already slick hand and greeted it like an old friend, with a slow, long stroke. Ansel’s gaze never left my hand as he moved closer.
“Let me.” He reached for my rod, and our fingers touched as he covered my hand with his. Together we glided over my quivering shaft, his fingers picking up traces of oil. Prickles of pleasure danced through my body, settling in my sac.
I slipped my hand from under his, sat back, and watched as his hand pleasured me. I’d held back before he’d released, but now it would be much harder with his hand wrapped around the bared shaft of my cock.
And what pleasure he gave me, like none I’d had before. He knew just how I needed to be touched, just how to stroke long, then fast and short, then long and squeeze the tip. I had to grit my teeth to keep from moaning as each stroke brought me closer to the cliffs of release. I wanted more. I wanted to possess him, own him, and make him mine in every way.
“Lick me.” My voice was quiet, deep, commanding.
Without a word, he lowered his head. I watched as his tongue made a long, slow pass over the blood-swollen tip, pulling a moan from me. He licked under the rim of my rod’s head and I moaned again.
Who possessed whom?
When he took me into his mouth, I cried out. Such a sweet, tender, yet strong mouth he possessed. My sac tightened and I was no longer able to control myself. Ansel took me deep in his throat and then raked his teeth over my rod as he pulled away.
I wove my fingers in his hair and pulled him down again. I was climbing that cliff, sac tight against my body, rod aching, my body screaming to spill. Pumping my hips, my cock slid over his lips, as I fucked him in his mouth.
With a final thrust, I roared, spilled, and holding his head down, forced him to take what I gave him, whether he wanted to or not. And he took it. I felt the sucking with each strong spurt as he swallowed my hot cream.
My body f
ell slack to the ground, and he released me. Climbing over me on all fours, he placed a kiss on my lips. I could taste the salty cream that still lingered there.
He kissed my forehead, soft and tender, and then opened his mouth and used his tongue to trace the ragged scar that marred my face. I shuddered.
“You are so handsome.” His whisper was soft against my ear.
My throat tightened as I tried to swallow. Handsome? Not me. I shook my head, denying it, still unable to speak without giving myself away.
“I wanted you the first time I saw you, Drake.”
“Have you done this before?” Had I been the first or one of many, and why the hell did I care what he said?
“Never. You?” He licked his lips and rolled over to lie next to me. Reaching out his hand, he rested it on my stomach. Did he care what my answer would be?
“Never.”
He seemed to take that in, thinking, and then he gave an odd nod.
“Let’s get some sleep.” I rolled over, away from him.
Ansel rolled up against me, his knees behind mine and his arm draped over my waist. His soft breathing ruffled the hair on the back of my neck, and his scent filled my nostrils. We slept like that until morning.
Chapter Four
Late afternoon the next day, the road dipped and rose in front of us as we climbed higher into hills. Neither of us spoke of what had happened the night before, as if to speak of it would make it more real or would break the spell we were under. For my part, if asked, I would have sworn it had been a spell.
We came to a small stream, its waters a gentle rush as the road disappeared under it and emerged on the other side. The water was free running and fresh, and the horses stopped to drink their fill.
I dismounted and filled my water sack, and Ansel did the same. As I cupped water to my mouth, I could hear a low rushing. The stream had a soft current, nothing that would create so much noise. I stood and began to follow the stream, dragging Horse behind me.
