by Max Keith
Everybody Loves A Bard
Raxillene's Rogues: Book One
Max Keith
Uruk Press
Uruk Press
Great Britain
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© Max Keith 2017
All rights reserved.
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover by Arthur Asa.
Also from Max Keith
Raxillene's Rogues
"A Man Needs A Whore, So..." in Sex & Sorcery 3
Everybody Loves A Bard
The Valkyrie (forthcoming)
From Biggest Blade Books
Gym Wife
Fool Me One
Open Wide
IOU
Frenemies
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Epilogue
One
The first time he saw her, he couldn’t even look at her.
It’s not as if he wasn’t paying attention: his job was to watch, after all, so he was doing so. Nor was it anything so hackneyed as her beauty being great enough to dim the sun, or to overwhelm his senses, or anything like that.
No, he was just dazzled by the morning sun shattering through the massive ring on her right hand.
It moved mesmerically, that hand, scattering rainbows across the street, the light swinging as she walked. It passed over Cashel’s face like a million stars, at least as bright and distracting as the light off the sea a few feet away. It made him look away, instinctively, aiming his eyes into the filthy gutter where the puddles oozed like grease over a fire. Which worked; he was posing as a beggar, so looking into a puddle was part and parcel.
So he couldn’t look. But he could certainly smell, the sudden and intoxicating rush of a woman’s smell cutting sharply through the waterfront odors of sea and salt, of fish and ropes, and the neverending miasma given off by a hundred men already hard at work, though the sun was just a few fingers over the Cockles offshore. There’s no very great difference between the way people smell if all you’re doing is walking along the street on a bland late-summer day, but Cashel was not just walking along. He was squatting among the filth of a busy harbor, surrounded by the sour effluvia of centuries of seagull shit, the whole area packed with the breath and farts of noisy men.
And in that setting, a woman surely did smell different.
Blinking cautiously he poked his head back up toward the street, looking (had he known it) oddly like a turtle, and he craned his neck sideways toward where the Gallant Wanderer had been loading since yesterday noon, taking care not to look directly at the woman while he studied her; one learned such things when one worked for the Princess.
She was taller than most women, though it was difficult to judge from where he was sitting. Certainly she was taller than the older-looking man walking beside her, his pig eyes roving. Nicely dressed, not quite at the height of fashion but near it, her skirts a vivid yellow that shouted out among the reds and greens and leathers of the crowd. He could see, beneath a finely-made silk mantle, the way her waist swooped inward, cinched tightly by violet ties that crosshatched their way up toward what looked like a gloriously made pair of breasts; even now, at a very sneaky and rapid glance, he could see that she carried herself with the pride of a woman who knows she is beautiful, and who likes the world to see.
Her face was not visible; she was talking with the pig-eyed man on the wrong side, but Cashel did see the smooth pale skin of a high cheekbone, no wrinkles or scars anywhere. He strained to hear her voice, the movement of her face and neck telling him she was speaking, but the crowd was too loud; Cashel contented himself, then, with the rest of her, the sight and scent of a truly lovely woman.
A woman traveling with her own crowd. He saw, now, that the pig-eyed bald man was just one of three companions, though a particularly loudly-dressed one. A pair of men followed, as oddly matched as any two men could be: one was a reedy little fellow of perhaps forty years, uncomfortable in the blue robes of a Guildmage, with a thick leather folder jammed precariously into his armpit. His friend was a brutal-looking warrior, tall and savage, scarred and overmuscled, his dark eyes seeing everything: this was the bodyguard, obviously. In keeping with the Lord Mayor’s edict he carried no blade, but with fists like his he wouldn’t need one.
To be on the safe side, though, he had a massive studded hammer swinging from his broad leather belt.
Cashel kept his gaze on the puddle, knowing the warrior would spot him soon and note his interest; it was not natural to Cashel to avoid notice, but he could certainly do it for what the Princess was paying him. She’d offered an obscenely large amount for this job, and even Drinn had been able to see how it pained her.
“I’m paying this much because of how dangerous these people are,” she’d grated for the fifth time. Drinn had nodded cheerfully, as always unfazed by anything involving death.
“We get it,” he shrugged. “Quit worrying, Highness.” He’d plucked critically at his bound hair, studying the resulting louse. “We always come through.” Over by the fireplace, the valkyrie had rolled her eyes.
And now, a month later, Cashel sat in the gutter and waited, the sun having just barely peeped above the horizon, the ships bumping and wrestling at the quays as the city came to slow, oozing life around him. Yesterday and the day before the beauty and her three odd friends had come, moving past the quays as though they owned them, and each of those days Cashel had been quietly dazzled by the sun crashing through the monstrous sapphire ring as she passed, her head turned aside each time while he gazed furtively at her.
And, as he had the two days before, Cashel found himself thinking, dreaming, fantasizing; his days left a great deal of time for that, as he squatted waiting to get a glimpse of Farrick and the Blade of Langmyre, wallowing in the stink of the great port. The surroundings mortified him, as did his outfit: so repulsive, so different from his usual silks and satins. These days found him in worn wool, smelly leather, and several artfully-applied stains courtesy of the anuses of local animals. In short, he was not the sort of man to attract any kind of attention from the likes of the woman with the ring.
But that didn’t stop Cashel from thinking about her.
Twice already he had found himself masturbating furiously in the little garret Franx had found for them to use as a headquarters during this job, tucked into a corner of his mattress before the rest of them would come in from their tasks. He’d wiped the cumstains spitefully on the underside of Franx’ pillow, panting as he closed his eyes and remembered her, pondering her smell, imagining what he would do to her.
His fantasies about this woman had a strong nautical flavor to them, no doubt because of the surroundings; plus, he’d never been any sort of sailor, so there was something mysterious and exciting about sailor-ish things. In his dreams she was bent over a barrel, no, tied over a barrel, some sort of sun-bleached rope wound about her arms and ankles, leaving her helpless against the rough barrel staves. The sun would be shining, with salt and tar filling the air, and she’d be moaning slightly with anticipation as she waited for him.
He’d be dressed as this mission required, like a vagrant. Filth would follow in a trail behind him as he came up behind her, maybe shuffling like the dockside drunk he was supposed to be, and pressed his itchy body against her, hard, pushing her legs against the barrel and feeling the fullness of her ass squashed under his hips. His hand would find her spine, splaying as he pushed her down hard against the top of the barrel, l
etting her feel the pressure, the excitement as her ribs dug into the wood. She’d gasp then in passion and pain, and he’d let her soak it up for a moment or two while he ran his other hand down the taut satin alongside her ribcage, feeling the fullness there as she breathed desperately, and then along her wide sleek hips, down her trembling thighs, and then up underneath her skirts.
The tar and filth would give way then to the rich, heady smell of cunt; she’d gasp as his hand found her wet and willing, leaking shamefully against the barrel. Up would come the skirt, and then he’d groan at the sight of her gloriously upturned ass, naked and sweaty in the warm breeze off the water. He’d let her stew there for awhile, seeping, her body making little rhythmic movements against the barrel, trying vainly to get some relief as he fumbled with the greasy ties at the waist of his sweat-stiffened breeches, so mischievously distracted by the weeping red pussy that waited for him, wrapped wide open around the barrel.
His cock, long and narrow, would spring out like an overwound catapult, quivering and questing, nudging against her flesh, wanting nothing but to thrust into that sloppy, tight hole that waited so impatiently. He’d watch the muscles behind her shoulders flex as she tensed, her knees coming up as high as the cruel ropes allowed, and then he’d laugh grimly as he wiped his filthy hands against her skirt and threw his hips forward to launch his prick right into her.
They’d both gasp, her pussy hot and grasping and so, so slick, and the warm wood of the barrel staves would chafe across both their thighs as he moved all the way in. He’d dig broken-nailed fingers into the rich reddened flesh of her hips, a thumb already jammed harsh and dry into her asshole as his body pummeled her into submission. He’d laugh, deep and long, as she wept against the side of the barrel, and the slivers would dig into her skin with the violence of his thrusts as she continued to grip his cock, his movements speeding faster and faster, the sweat flying, until he could hold himself back no more.
And then he gasped, the explosion shaking him, and Franx’ pillow had another load of semen to deal with.
Drinn always claimed it was dishonorable to fuck your own hand, that a real man should have no need. “The only proper place for your seed is inside a woman,” he’d said on many, many occasions. “If you can’t fuck her, then buy her; if you can’t buy her, then rape her.” Cashel knew of Drinn’s past, knew how warriors behaved after battle. He lay there and fumbled back into his breeches (the clean ones, for sleeping) and he knew, absolutely knew, that the old Drinn would have taken one look at the woman by the docks, swept the head off her bodyguard, kicked the other two men into immediate submission, and then simply taken the woman’s body whether she wanted him or not.
He was having issues on this job, was Drinn. The tall warrior was a man who liked to drain himself into a woman at least every three days, but he’d spent the week posing as, of all things, a monk. It was a useful ruse, given that the Princess had said Farrick was traveling as a priest, but it did mean the warrior would need to forego wenching as long as he was out in public. He was getting visibly shaky with each passing day he failed to empty himself.
As for the valkyrie… well, Alorin Kaye’s disguise had been the simple one any woman could employ, and in this case it was leaving her well satisfied. Not that she ever seemed to need much cock; she’d always appeared calm and serene whether or not she was getting it regularly. But now she was posing as a whore, so clearly there was no need that went unsated for her. “How much do you charge?” Drinn had leered, staring with something more than friendliness at the hair that one of Franx’ dyes had turned a bright orange. She’d smoothed her tunic over her firm young breasts and stared severely into a mirror.
“More than you can afford, Drinn.” She applied a careful coat of red to her lips, while Drinn licked his. It was common knowledge he’d wanted to fuck Alorin for years. She was dressed now in a wildly embroidered silk tunic and a flimsy skirt that left nothing at all to the imagination, her long legs graceful as she knelt to the mirror. “I’ve got standards to maintain.”
“Shit,” muttered the warrior. He swallowed. “You’re, uhm, keeping your earnings?”
She raised her fine brows at him. “Should I not? I’m surely working hard for them.” She puckered and kissed at herself in the glass. “I think of it as a bonus, like whatever pittance Cash is able to beg at the docks.”
“Fuck you, Alorin.” Cashel was scrubbing at his hands just then, trying to get the filth out. She turned to him, smiled sweetly, and was drifting out with her usual steely fluidity as she winked broadly at Drinn.
“Farewell, dear Drinn,” she purred, her deep voice loaded with mirth, and the warrior had managed only a thick grunt in reply. She spent most of her nights elsewhere, as it was the nature of her supposed trade, and the four of them were seldom together. Tonight Franx was chewing irritably at a bowl of pigeon pie while Cashel and Drinn gave their reports.
“So, Cash,” he asked between bites, “see any clergy today? Anyone from the Fane, perhaps?”
“Nothing.” The bard had opted for meat stew, and was looking enviously at the mage’s pie. “The only temple folk I saw today were an old fucking monk and his little apprentice.”
Franx’ chewing slowed, cudlike. He stared hard. “How old?”
“Old?” Cashel gestured with irritated dismissiveness. “How the hell should I know? Seventy? Eighty?”
“No.” The mage swallowed, his look suddenly keen. “The apprentice.”
Cashel stared while Drinn grunted from his corner. “Shit, Franx. If you want to fuck a boy, just go rent one. You needn’t mess with the holy ones.”
Franx ignored the jibe. “How old?”
The bard shrugged, disquieted. “Twelve perhaps? Fourteen?” He leaned back onto his little cot. “Thin little whelp. Dark hair and eyes.”
The mage thought about that, then nodded. “If you see them again tomorrow,” he said with quiet intensity, “follow them. See where they go and who they speak with.”
Cashel blinked. “They’ll go to the temple, you moron, and speak to some worshippers.” Drinn chuckled.
“Just do it,” hissed the mage, and then off he’d gone to visit the privy. Warrior and bard looked warily at each other.
“He seems insistent,” Cashel observed, leaning over to steal a large bite of the pigeon pie. “I suppose I should comply.”
“Normally an excellent idea,” Drinn agreed grumpily. “He’s the Princess’ favorite. Ordinarily I’m not into kissing mages’ asses, but he’s usually right. So…” He frowned and looked down into his lap. “Speaking of Franx, if he asks, tell him I’ve gone to, uh, scout the walls.” His warm brown eyes took on a faraway look, and Cashel had difficulty suppressing a grin.
“Scout the walls. For what?” He raised his eyebrows. “Pussy?”
“You know me too well.” The warrior adjusted himself in his leather breeches, his eyes shifting uncomfortably back and forth. “You know what Alorin does to me. The sight of her with red hair has me hard enough to fuck five wenches in a row.” Drinn had red hair, too. “Don’t wait up, Cash.”
Strictly speaking, the Princess discouraged sex while on the job. Since she often didn’t accompany her employees, though, and since Poildrin Franx was no snitch, it was usually possible to get some judicious whoring done provided no ill effects followed. Princess Raxillene was not fond of preventable diseases, still less of bastards.
“You’ll need to remain focused in Crownport,” she’d emphasized the night before they’d left. “Aslo Ferrick is one of the Emperor’s finest and most cunning mages, and the Blade of Langmyre is just outright dangerous.”
“What makes him so lethal?” Drinn was often asking questions of that sort, mostly out of professional curiosity. The Princess shrugged.
“Nobody knows. Nobody’s seen him, talked to him, nor indeed so much as gotten a clear description of him. He just leaves gutted corpses wrapped in their own entrails, with their balls sliced off.” She looked warily at Drinn. “Ma
ny of his victims have been warriors of some renown.” Drinn looked away.
“Balls sliced off,” Alorin the valkyrie repeated softly. She looked troubled.
“We think,” Franx put in from his spot near the fire, “that Langmyre runs the entire Imperial spy network in the Northlands. We need to find him and kill him.”
“That’s it?” Cashel laughed bitterly. “The greatest killer in the Northlands, and we’re just supposed to, what, ask him to fall on his own knife?”
The Princess rolled her eyes. “Four of you, and one a Shadowmage?” She glanced at Franx. “You should be able to manage it.”
“You said Langmyre would be in company with a mage of his own,” Alorin said, her deep voice husky with the accent of Lammorel. “Is our mage as good as their mage?”
“No, actually,” Franx replied at once. “Let’s have no mistake there. I’m good, but he’s better. He’s older and more experienced than I am. And he’s a Kingsmage as well.”
“They call them Kingsmages there?” Drinn smiled sourly. “I’d think the Emperor would prefer something less royal.”
“I think they’re called Imperial Mages or something like that,” Franx waved, “but it’s the same as a Kingsmage. One rank higher than me. He can do everything I can do, plus healing and such: surgery, bonesetting, you know.” He glared evenly around the table. “These skills make him a most effective torturer, I am told.”
The clink of Cashel’s goblet broke the silence which followed. “Why then,” the bard said lightly, “we’ll just have to avoid being captured.” He shrugged. “So then we need to travel to Crownport. Figure out who the Blade is. Wait until we find him with this mage, Also? Aslo? Asshole? And then we murder them.” He drank deeply. “Seems simple.”
“We should try not to kill Farrick, actually.” Franx frowned. “His death would have certain… repercussions. Of a magical nature. Also, it would be politically awkward for the Regent.” All eyes shifted to the Princess; her hatred of her brother was well known.
