Dragon Jade Chronicle: The Warlock And The Warrior
Page 1
Dragon Jade Chronicle
The Warlock And The Warrior
Jamie MacFrey
Uruk Press
Fantasy
Uruk Press
Great Britain
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© Jamie MacFrey 2016
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 Rupert Everton
www.irovedout.com
Also by Jamie MacFrey
The Dragon Jade Chronicles
Dragon Jade Chronicle: The Warlock And The Warrior
"The Victor, The Spoils" in Sex & Sorcery 2
Also by Jamie MacFrey
Book One: A Warlock For The Guild
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Book Two: A Warrior For The Tower
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Book Three: A Sorcerer For The Clans
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About Jamie MacFrey
Uruk Novellas
Uruk Press - Fantasy
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Introducing Biggest Blade Books
Book One: A Warlock For The Guild
Chapter 1
Lona Harrity was the most beautiful woman in all of Lowvale. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Ala Hiu made every stitch of clothing she wore seem like a courtesan’s finery, and Coli Harrity, Lona’s sister, gathered a small following of Lowvale’s eligible young men (and more than few men who weren’t at all eligible) whenever she took a walk, but each of them had their hearts set on soldiers in the guard, and they wouldn’t let anyone get near them. Certainly not a man as far beneath them as Pol Burr.
But Lona was different. A soft word in her ear, a careful hand run down the small of her back and her face would light up, her smile broad enough that the joy seemed to catch in her eyes, and she’d take Pol by the hand and lead him upstairs to her room at Madam Xava’s. Because everything was a monetary transaction with Lona.
Which is why, despite gasping in delight at how his size filled her when Pol buried himself between her lower folds, she pulled away, stood up from where he’d bent her over the bed, and said, “Pol, you didn’t pay enough for down below.”
Pol groaned as the velvet glove of her pussy slid off his cock. He admired her naked body as she walked away from him.
“Madam Xava upped the rate again.”
“Madam Xava has a special rate for thieves,” said Lona. She pulled a drawer open from the bedside table and took out a bottle of oil.
“I’m not a thief,” said Pol as he watched Lona unstop the bottle.
Lona smiled at him. For a tall man, Pol was not terribly imposing—he had a pale complexion and the type of physique best suited to scaling drainpipes and scrambling through windows—but he was in better shape than most of the men who paid to poke her, and he certainly never commenced to just pounding away at her like so many did. That, his easy smile, and his substantial cock made the young thief a favored client of hers.
“Lie down,” she said and giggled at the eager speed with which he complied.
Lona climbed up after him. She stroked his straw-brown hair, then made sure to rub her breasts against him as she retreated along his body to his crotch.
She drizzled a bit of oil along Pol’s shaft, and used one hand to gently rub it in. Pol hissed in appreciation at how warm and smooth he became in her hands. His cock twitched slightly in anticipation as she ducked her head, but, at the last second, she kissed just down his thigh instead.
“Not a thief, eh?” she asked, stoppering the bottle again and placing it on the bed. She took her hands and rubbed them on his body around his cock which reached most of the way up to his navel.
“No, no—Vash damn it, girl—I’m a purveyor of goods,” said Pol. He tried to reach a hand around to encourage Lona along, but she pinned his wrist against the bed and licked up his thigh, stopping just shy of his balls.
“Difficult to obtain goods,” he clarified.
“Mmmhmm,” murmured Lona. She rose up until her chin was hovering just over him, her free hand resting at the place where his abdomen met his thigh.
“The type of goods you generally find in locked boxes,” explained Pol. Lona’s mouth was just over his cock and the warmth of her breath made the hairs on his arm stand on edge. Her tongue snaked out and, just for a moment, he felt its warm presence make the slightest contact with him, but Lona just grinned at him instead of continuing.
“So...not a thief?” she asked.
Pol gazed into her big brown eyes and, for a moment, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure why he was continuing with this game; Lona already knew what he was and where he got his money for her from, but part of him didn’t want her to think of him as a scoundrel.
But at the present moment, a much bigger part of him was interested in seeing what she’d do when he surrendered.
“All right, I’m a thief,” he said, and gasped as she forced as much of his cock into her mouth as she could manage, her nose just grazing his pubic hair. She gagged a little, and Pol could feel a bit of warm saliva trickling down his balls. Lona held her position for just a moment, then released him, her cheeks burning a delightful shade of pink and a tad starved for air.
“I’m a wonderful thief,” said Pol, propping himself up to wipe a strand of her red hair out of her face with a thumb. One hand had remained on his cock, and Lona stroked it up and down as she caught her breath. He cupped her chin, drew her up to him and kissed her. She tasted oily and salty and for all Pol was burning with desire for her, he could have sworn her lips were as hungry for his as his were for hers.
Still, Lona broke it off before he did.
“You ought to at least get what you paid for,” she said, and gave his cock a lick from base to tip. When she reached the top, she sucked the head into her mouth.
Pol groaned and entwined the fingers of one hand through Lona’s hair. She hummed a little, slurping more of him into the warmth of her lips. He wrapped his other hand over the first, and began to thrust his hips, driving himself deeper in with each push. Lona gagged a little, before placing a hand on his stomach to calm him. When he settled, she bobbed up and down along his length, using her hands to attend the part of the shaft left bare when her mouth retreated.
Though Pol had meant to make the coins he had paid Madam Xava last, it didn’t take long for Lona to push him to the edge.
“Oh Vash,” he swore. “I’m going to burst, sweet.”
Lona let him out of her mouth with a pop. She lay down on her back at the foot of the bed, pulling Pol along by his cock. She stroked him over her chest.
“Show me, Pol. Show me how much you wished you’d paid for me.”
Pol came hard. Spurt after spurt of semen rocketed out of him, plastering across Lona’s full breasts. A small pool collected in the hollow of her neck. When Lona pulled him back into her mouth, he shuddered and came again a final time.
“Mmmm,” said Lona, letting him go, finally, after he’d stopped quaking. She considered the warm mess he’d made of her. “I see you really did want more coin in your pocket when you came in here.”
Lona laughed and slid off the bed to her feet, and Pol took a moment to admire his handiwork, as his cum began trickling down her front, weaving its way between her breasts and sliding along her flat belly to the mound of hair above her vulva. She found the spare wet cloth she kept for these situations and began to wipe herself off, caught him lazing about watching and snaked out a foot to kick his breeches at him from the floor where he’d left them immediately upon entering her room.
“Get dressed and go get that gold then,” she said.
Pol pulled his breeches on, and found his shirt and boots and put those on too, while Lona slipped the thin wool dress she generally wore while working back on over her head. It clung tightly to her body and Pol admired the deep cleavage she displayed in its low cut neck. She began to open the door for him, but Pol stopped her with touch.
“I’m going to get that gold, and then I’m coming right back here,” he promised.
“My pussy and I will be waiting eagerly, but we won’t hold our breaths,” she laughed, opening the door. Then her face softened and she looked up at him.
“I hope you do, Pol.”
Maybe it was just something she said to keep him coming back, but it was good enough for Pol. He cupped a breast, caught a kiss from her again, the saltiness of his cum still clinging to her mouth, and scampered out the door.
The tavern below, where Madam Xava plied her trade, was filled with people drinking, laughing, and waiting for rooms to free. It was an interesting mix of folks, with types from the lady-in-waiting from Lowvale Keep, her face flush with excitement, watching two of Xava’s young gentlemen wrestling nude in the corner, to old Jot the one-armed veteran, who was using his remaining arm, and the balance of the hazard pay he received in exchange for it, to fondle a maid with a knack for feigning interest.
Madam Xava, a haughty imperious woman, who Pol knew had once kept a room of her own on the second floor, yet believed that success meant pretending you’d never had a past, fixed him with a frown.
“You were in there a long time for such little coin,” she observed.
“Don’t worry,” said Pol, striding past her. “Lona didn’t part with any free trade. And I’ll be back for the rest of her.”
“Make sure you’re back with gold, then!” called Xava called after him. “If I catch you climbing through a window at night, I’ll nail your tackle to the door.”
Pol chuckled to himself as he wandered down the street. As if she could ever catch him.
Lowvale was not a particularly notable town, though it did have a wall and a stone structure that on a good day resembled a castle and which had generously been named a keep by its residents. There were a few merchants and a few farmers, and Pol helped himself to an apple from a stall when the boy tending it wasn’t looking. It was mealy and a little tasteless, but it was free, which was what mattered at the moment.
The trouble, reflected Pol, was that there was not much opportunity in Lowvale to obtain the gold needed to satiate Madam Xava.
As if Vash herself had overheard his thoughts, there appeared a knight on a brilliant white stallion sauntering down the road. His armor was engraved with roses and thorns, and a heavy steel mace, tarnished black, rested at his side. But what interested Pol most was the fat purse that clung precariously to his belt.
Pol looked up and down the street. Broad daylight was not his forte, but he’d started as a pickpocket when he was just a boy. Up the street, he saw Doogli and a few of his boys standing around, and he stepped quickly to reach them ahead of the knight with just enough time.
Doogli was a small man, the rough sort who never had enough coin and, when he did, he had a hard time deciding whether he’d spend it on drink or food and tended to opt for drink.
“Doogli,” called Pol. “How’d you like to earn a coin or two?”
“Very much, Pol,” said Doogli. “Just so’s long as it’s not come by with honest work.”
“Never you fear,” said Pol. He pointed down the street. “Just need you and your lads there to hold that knight up until I give the signal. There’ll be a gold coin for each of you if you do.”
“How ‘bout it boys?” asked Doogli. There was a general agreement that, yes, this seemed an easy enough task with an ample enough reward.
Pol nodded and crossed to the other side of the road to rest in the crook of a building and watch as Doogli met his knight.
When the man on the stallion reached close to Doogli, one of the little man’s grubby hands reached up and seized the reins, drawing the stallion up.
“This is a nice horse, Sir Knight,” said Doogli. “How much would you part with him for?”
The knight looked taken aback, both by the stop and Doogli’s offer.
“The horse of Sir Vallan vai Farrow is not for sale,” he said, rising in the saddle to pull the reins away from Doogli.
But the little beggar had a firmer grasp than that.
“Not for sale, he says,” he told his boys. There was a bit of hurried whispering and conferring among the group and finally Doogli turned back to him. Pol lifted himself off his wall and began to stroll down the street in the opposite direction of the knight had been heading, as though he were merely an interested passerby.
“We’ll give you eight pennies for him,” said Doogli.
If Sir Vallan had been taken aback before, he was forcibly transported to the dumbfounded ignorance of a newborn by this statement.
“This horse is worth at least 200 gold dragons,” he sputtered. Pol brushed through the small crowd and moved further down the horse towards his prize.
“Okay, okay,” said Doogli. “How about this, then? We’ll give you eight pennies now, then 200 dragons when we’ve sold him. I know a fella who’ll buy him for twice that without asking too many questions, and he’ll pay cash, not a writ of promise like some of those Tia Joi horsetraders I’ve met.”
Pol slipped a knife out and sliced the purse free from the knight’s belt. One hand kept it from making too much noise as he freed it and he tucked it close to his body and continued on down the street.
“He’s not for sale!” exclaimed Sir Vallan, finally freeing the reins from Doogli’s hands.
“Hey, Sir Knight! He’s made off with your purse!” cried out a stall merchant, pointing at Pol. Sir Vallan grasped at his belt, then wheeled around, pulling his mace to the ready as he did so.
Pol broke into a run, cursing the merchant. He glanced over his shoulder. Doogli made another play for the reins, but Sir Vallan swung his mace out and cracked Doogli over the head. The little beggar crumpled and his friends rushed to his side. Sir Vallan dug his spurs into his stallion’s flanks and tore off after Pol.
The main street had been the wrong one to try this on, it occurred to Pol. Normally, he’d slip out a window and across the roofs to make his getaway. But you couldn’t do that cutting purses. Now he was attempting to outrun a warhorse on open ground, the canyon of the buildings providing no clear exit.
Pol spied a gap between two houses and dashed through. It was a tight fit and he scraped up against the wood and plaster. He could hear Sir Vallan cursing behind him, and then the sound of the hooves moving away. The purse snagged on a splinter, and Pol swore to hell and back again when it tore open, spilling the gold in the mud. He burst out onto the next street, leaking coins.
The North Gate wasn’t far from where he stood, but he didn’t intend to leave Lowvale. However, he spied a knight in green armor on foot leading a strong black mare through the gate, and Pol saw a chance for something.
“Help me,” he screamed at the green knight, whose lowered visor was molded into the shape of a griffin, as Sir Vallan rounded the corner. “This man’s killed my friend and he’s after me next!”
The green knight looked at Sir Vallan charging down the street, and considered Pol for a moment. He thrust the mare’s reins into Pol’s hands.
“Hold these,” he said, his voice tinny and a bit high through the armor, which Pol saw was not lacquered steel or tarnished bronze, but rather appeared a true green. The knight stepped into the middle of the road and drew his sword.
Sir Vallan drew up.
“Brother Knight,” said Sir Vallan. “I am here to dispense justice to that man.”
“I’m not your brother,” said the Green Knight. “And what sort of justice can be done on a street?”
“He has stolen from me,” said Sir Vallan. “A thief deserves to die.”
“He says you killed his friend.”
Sir Vallan frowned, and looked at his mace, still dripping Doogli’s blood. “I struck his accomplice. I suppose the man might very well be dead.”
“Then I will take this man to the castle,” said the green knight, gesturing to Lowvale Keep with one gauntleted hand. “And seek the Lord’s justice.”
Sir Vallan spat in the mud. “I have no time for a trial,” he said. “If this is how you want it, so be it.” He wheeled his stallion and raced back up the street.
The green knight was about to put up his sword, but Sir Vallan swung his horse back around and spurred him into a frenzied charge.
Pol saw the heavy rider bearing down on the dismounted knight, the crushing mace leaning out. If the horse didn’t get the green knight, the mace surely would, and one man on foot could not hope to defeat a charging man on horseback. And either way, Pol did not particularly desire to see the inside of Lowvale Keep for the lord’s justice. Thieves lost hands in there. He tried to mount the mare, but she turned her head and bit him hard, and he fell.
Sir Vallan had reached the green knight, and was ready for a killing blow, but the knight had a speed that belied the thick plate he wore for armor. He sidestepped the horse, ducked low and slashed at the mace’s head, away from the horse. His sword caught the mace and jerked. Sir Vallan went flying out of his saddle, smashing into the green knight and making a bruising landing on his side. He’d taken his opponent down with him, though, and both their weapons had gone sliding along the mud of the street.