Too Many Bad Days (Raxillene's Rogues Book 3)

by Max Keith

  Too Many Bad Days

  Raxillene's Rogues: Book Three

  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

  Too Many Bad Days

  Shadowmage

  From Biggest Blade Books

  Gym Wife

  Fool Me One

  Open Wide

  IOU

  Frenemies

  Also from Max Keith

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Introducing Uruk Press

  Uruk Novellas

  Uruk Press - Fantasy

  One

  Tomorrow, Drinn reflected, might be the worst day of his life.

  Which was saying something. He was a hard man, living a hard life in a hard land. He could think of many times his life had seemed horrible.

  Once, for example, he and Cashel had rounded the corner of the steep path leading to the mighty Starkhorn, the King’s impregnable fortress in the Borderlands, to warn the garrison of an impending attack. Alas, though, they’d been delayed and the enemy had not, sweeping in only hours before and putting the entire garrison to torment. The two of them had fled, pursued by the enemy’s laughter and the severed hands of the garrison, flying over the walls. That had been a horrible day.

  Then there was the time he’d been lying around, all dissolute and lazy after he’d at last left home to join the Army. He’d just spent a week with a pretty young whore called Dusky Suze, followed by another week with a prettier one called Cora, and Suze had burst into Cora’s bedroom one sweaty day to rail at him that she was pregnant. He’d been panicked for three more days until she’d bled, but the horror of her announcement remained with him still, all these years later. That had been a terrifying day.

  Another time he’d found himself humiliated by one of his nephews and his eight-year-old friends when, while visiting after his first return from the War, his sister had dragooned him into refereeing their game of jar-ball. He’d agreed good-naturedly enough, but had then shown his ignorance of the offside rule. The boys had jeered him off the pitch to the laughter of the crowd. That had been an awful day.

  But, of course, all of those paled by comparison to the time he’d seen his pinkie finger cut off and eaten in front of his eyes by a pig. That had been the way the highwaymen on the roads in the Southlands chose to torment their victims: they cut them apart piece by piece and fed them to pigs or, if not available, fighting lizards. Getting the finger chopped off had hurt, but somehow watching the animal devour something that had been an important part of him just minutes before was much worse. That had been a hideous day.

  And yet, tomorrow was going to be even worse than that.

  It had all started well before dawn, when the shoeing of horses and the grinding of swords had woken him up well before his time. Drinn was a man who liked to wake up a certain way, preferably after the sun and with a nearby wench to service his cock. It was almost always hard in the morning, and Drinn was not a man who believed in masturbation; on days like today, there was absolutely nothing to do but wait for it to settle down on its own, praying to find a whore later among the camp followers. Like that one he’d taken back on the Lammorel border, the corporal’s wife; a smoky-eyed slut, that one. She’d been begging for it, and he’d been happy to spend the silvers.

  Not that he’d had much time for that; he was with the army now, back among captains and sergeants and corporals after so many years, and even though he wasn’t technically a soldier he was oppressed enough just being in their vicinity. Worse, Poildrin Franx was keeping him constantly occupied; the Princess had sent him to watch over the mage and make sure nothing befell him, but that meant going where he went. And Franx was a busy little asshole, even though the whole army had halted here for the past week.

  Of course, he should have known it would be busy; Franx was advising the commander of a full Regiment, which should have been a task for a mere Firemage. But with none willing to go all the way up into this hell-fucked countryside west of Lammorel, none willing to cross into the Empire and, in truth, none the Duke would trust to come along on such an important task, the Princess had airily nominated her own private Shadowmage. So Franx had accepted the deal, at an exorbitant rate, with his usual lack of warmth or, indeed, without much more than a sour grunt.

  That a great deal of the money would also go to Drinn was not really enough to make up for the general shittishness of the whole deal.

  Especially now, when every bit of Drinn’s experience, every ounce of his common sense, and the incontrovertible evidence of his eyes all combined to one inescapable conclusion: the Duke was going to lose his army. Today.

  It wasn’t his fault, necessarily. The Duke had always been a steady, reliable war leader, a noted captain with several successful campaigns to his credit. It wasn’t his fault that a sudden spring storm had smashed into western Lammorel at precisely the moment they’d started to turn the northern corner of the Tangled Mountains. It had been a thick, cloying, wet snow, as heavy as mortar, and it had delayed them for days. Nor was it his fault that some amorous soldier had gotten the pox from fucking one of the less discriminating camp-followers, then spread it to several others, who kept it all going; a third of the men were now limping listlessly along with weepy pricks, their women enraged behind them and unable to explain the situation to their husbands.

  All of which was the Duke’s problem, though not his doing. The burdens of command, Drinn laughed sourly to himself; never, ever would that sort of thing ever happen to him. Drinn was nobody’s leader, never had been. But the Regent had given the King’s orders, and the Duke was going to do his best to fulfill them come hell, high water, or oversexed soldiers. So he had marched mercilessly along into the Empire, between the Mountains and the Sea, losing men by the day without even catching sight of the enemy. Until Monday, when the Imperials had finally shown up.

  Behind them.

  No telling how they’d gotten there; a local sheep-fucker confessed that there was a hidden pass back there near the Needle, a peak they’d all gotten sick of staring at during the snowstorm. The enemy, probably their Imperial Mountain Guides, had led some of the 12th Legion around that way. Or not; who knew? It was unimportant now. What mattered was that they were there, and even the rawest, freshest, most-poxed young Royal recruit knew what it meant when the enemy was behind you:

  It meant you were assfucked. No gentleness, no play, no oil: you were assfucked.

  The Duke had to know too, even though his career so far had been successful enough that he’d never before had a foe in his rear. And if he didn’t know? Why, that’s what Princess Raxillene’s Shadowmage was for. Drinn had been present, slumped on a barrel in the great man’s purple silk tent the night before, as Franx and the Duke had spoken frankly.

  The great man had spent most of the time frowning, his scribe in the corner trying to figure out how to make his words sound heroic for the annals. “We’re assfucked,” he’d pointed out gloomily. The scribe was trying hard.

  “We’ve just got to abandon the mission, sir.” The mage was sti
ll, calm; he was an excellent reader of men, and he knew the Duke needed coolness now. “Better to retire and abandon our task than to die here.”

  “Or surrender.” The Duke was bitter. Franx shrugged.

  “Either way, m’lord,” he murmured. He was too careful a speaker to let the Duke hear what he was thinking, but Drinn knew him well: the mage, with Drinn himself in tow, was not about to surrender. He’d figure out a way to get free of the clinging army, especially if the Duke insisted on fighting. Drinn would need to be sure he didn't miss Franx’ move whenever he left. “Alas, if we wait much longer, even that choice will not remain.” He shrugged. “Even now it might be too late.”

  “We can continue anyway,” the Duke insisted, as he had for the past hour. “We move forward, go straight over the River, into the Central Rump, then go over Claring Pass.”

  The mage said nothing; a response would have merely repeated what he’d pointed out six or seven times now: that the enemy knew they were here, so they’d destroy their own fields ahead of the Duke. They’d melt away into the countryside. It was more than two hundred miles, the journey the Duke was proposing. He’d starve before he even reached Wynnse.

  The argument, Drinn saw, would go on far longer, and he needed a piss. So he nodded an ironic farewell to the scribe, ducked out of the tent flap, and found a corner away from the guards. His sturdy canvas trousers came down, he fished his cock from the loincloth, and he commenced to watering the sparse, cold grass.

  Gods, what had it been? Four days? Four days and nights, at least, since he’d had a woman. The sight of the healers in the tents near Much Ormold, tending desperately to all those rotting pox-cocks, had chilled him. Now every pair of tits he saw in the camps represented nothing but a storm of plague, a fierce onslaught worse than any army, the totally ravaging destruction of his prick. And no way could he permit that.

  In the old days, when he’d been a soldier, things had been easier: the followers had been married, or they’d been available, never both. Nowadays, even the wives whored themselves, and that had made the pox catch like a fire in a dry wood. Then again, he’d been a rapist in those days: he’d thought nothing of seizing any handy wench he came across, especially after battle, then throwing her down and doing what he wished. There was none of that now; he’d gotten too old, too soft.

  Seen too much.

  So he sullenly shook himself dry, feeling the tension in his shaft, knowing he’d get hard again the moment he thought about anything but the enemy behind. A nearby guard stirred nervously. “Who’s there?”

  The warrior sighed; it sounded like a boy, inexperienced enough to have missed him doing his business until he was done. “I’m Drinn of Fiveoaks,” he bellowed. He wanted no confusion. Drinn knew he would die one day, but he had no intention of being spitted on some frightened lad’s spear for pissing too loudly. “I’m with the mage. Poildrin Franx.”

  “Ah.” The boy sounded relieved. He was clearly scared to death of ever having to use his spear. For what felt like the eightieth time this hour alone, Drinn shook his head; they were doomed, all of them. One way or another, they’d wind up dead or enslaved, for Franx had told the Duke the truth: time was running out. By morning, perhaps, the 12th would have closed the ring behind them. They’d be surrounded.

  Shit. Worst day ever.

  The horse lines were loud and smelly, for the fodder was not of the highest quality and the poor animals were gassy; the even poorer grooms had been strolling around for days with cloths over their noses. The torches over there were guttering madly in a continuous breeze off the sea a few miles off, which was why the entire encampment now stank. Drinn shook his head, exasperated.

  For all his vaunted reputation, he decided, the Duke was a fool. A man who encamps men downwind from horses deserves what he gets, the warrior thought savagely. Banners and tentflaps fluttered, and Drinn glared balefully through the night toward the sick tents, thinking again of the pox, and wondering whether he should just go find a woman and dare it.

  Behind him, Franx materialized. The mage didn’t ordinarily levitate himself; he didn’t need to. He was a furtive man by nature, with a quiet tread. For a moment the two of them stood and stared at the moon on the sea far away. “You’d be wise, perhaps, to pack up all your shit tonight,” Franx muttered. “He’s not going to try to retreat.”

  Drinn snorted. “I’ve been with armies before, Poildrin. My shit is always packed.” Beside him, the mage frowned; presumably, all his stuff was still scattered carelessly around his little tent. Franx had always been untidy. “Tonight, then?”

  “No. Morning.” The mage shrugged. “We’ll need a guide, for I suspect we’ll be passing through the mountains.” He thought for a moment. “Think you can find someone tonight?”

  “Depends on how much we’re paying,” the warrior replied sourly. “Speaking of which, we probably won’t get paid if we leave.” He waited, but heard nothing from the mage. “You know that, right?”

  “I know it.” He kicked moodily at the grass. “I’d prefer not to be paid,” he finally said, “than not to be alive.”

  Drinn frowned. He had bills to pay. “There’s another way,” he suggested carefully. He felt Franx glance over at him. “We could surrender with the rest of the army. That way we’d be due our wages. And the Princess would buy us back, surely, as soon as she could.”

  Franx was silent for an unexpectedly long time. “She’d buy me back as soon as she could,” he said slowly.

  Drinn grew angry. “You think she’d let me be enslaved?”

  “No…” Franx was treading carefully. “I do think she’d buy you back, Drinn. But I think she’d buy me back first. I also think the Duke would sooner stand up for me than for you.” He paused. “You know that.”

  “I do,” the warrior snapped.

  “Yes. So, while you’d become a freedman soon,” he finished gently, “it might not be soon enough.” He waited while Drinn thought about it, the sights he’d seen so many times before: the circular brand on the forehead, the chains, the whips. “And the Empire has got some of the Free Folk on their side, as well,” Franx reminded him.

  Drinn sighed heavily. The Free Folk of Lammorel had strange religious practices. They felt it was sinful to leave sperm in a dead man’s balls, so they always tried to castrate their enemies before they died. But in the big battles like the one to come, there was no way they could find the time. So, to put their debt to the gods back into balance, they would keep a count of the men they killed unseeded, then hope to find enough penises after the battle to empty into themselves before they could kill again.

  It was easier, even strangely exciting, when the Free Fighters in debt were women. When they were men, well, that meant they needed to find a man willing to launch a load into them. Few men were into that, so as the saying went in Lammorel, “That’s what slaves are for!” They didn’t enjoy it either, but if given the choice of fucking some Free Fighter’s rectum or getting your own head removed, well… pass the oil.

  Alorin Kaye, back home, was from Lammorel. She’d described all this once. At the time, it had merely been fascinating. Now, with the possibility fast becoming a probability, it no longer seemed fascinating. It simply seemed imminent. The mage increased the pressure. “You’ll be bought back, but how many asses will you have to fuck in the meantime?”

  “Shit.” Drinn spat. He smirked sardonically. “As backed up as I am right now, that might not be such a bad option.” But he was joking, and Franx knew it. “So how much do we offer for a guide, Poildrin?”

  The mage considered, sighing at the sea. They had little enough to spare. “Servant’s wages are, what, ten silvers per week? Cheaper in the Empire, but not here. Not with the war in their backyard.”

  “Ten in the Realm, yes. To fetch dinner, lay the fire, and clean the floors, it’s ten silver mergansers. It’s a guide we’re hiring, not a servant.” He shook his head. “Nobody will come with us for ten fucking silvers.”

  “Not
for ten fucking golds, either,” the mage hissed. “I won’t pay it.” Ten gold mergansers were forty silvers.

  “Split the difference, then.” Consumer math was something Drinn was good at. “That’s, let’s see, at four silvers per gold, that’s an extra two silvers. A mayrine.” That’s what they called the coin in the Realm; who the fuck knew what name it went by here?

  “That’s called a kloster here.” Drinn rolled his eyes; of course. Franx the fuck knew. “So offer fifteen silvers a week.”

  “You did that wrong,” Drinn replied calmly. “It’s an extra fifteen a week. So twenty-five total.”

  “Hells,” cursed the mage. Drinn agreed. “And it’s our pockets it’ll come out of, not the Princess’,” he went on mercilessly.

  “So what?” Drinn shrugged, his mind made up. “It’s our lives it’ll save, too. Or at least my cock in some fucking Free Fighter’s hole.”

  “Right. Yours.” The mage was already bargaining. “Which is why you’ll pay thirteen, I’ll pay twelve.”

  “Fuck you. The Princess pays you more than she pays me.”

  “Half and half, then.” Franx grinned. “I can always just stroll on over to the other side and pose as one of them,” he pointed out. “Nobody questions a Shadowmage.”

  Drinn spat again. “Twenty-five silver mergansers a week. No, we’ll give ourselves a break and offer three silvers a day. That’s only twenty-one a week.” He shrugged. “I can always go up a little from there, if they insist on haggling.”

  “Whatever.” The mage was already tired of this. “Just find someone fast. We’ll leave at dawn. Oh, and they’re not called mergansers here. I think they’re called imperials.” He shrugged. “Same weight.”

  * * *

  Drinn set off at once for the village of Much Ormold. He was in a savage mood. He knew that it was the business of armies to lose every now and then, just as it was the business of soldiers to die from time to time. But neither had ever happened to him before. And it surprised him what a sour taste words like “retreat” or “surrender” left in his mouth, so many years removed from his own service in the cavalry.