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

by Max Keith

  “Ten or eleven in sum, according to Aunt Sharna…” The mage was nodding. “Say three down below to hold the horses?” His eyes searched the cliff in the darkness, but Drinn knew they’d not find a way over tonight. “Did you not hear them coming up?”

  “I was shitting,” Drinn lied. “For part of it, anyway. And it was a dark night, plus they attacked from a distance, with arrows.”

  “Arrows in the dark?” Franx shook his head. “Idiocy. It’s as if they wanted to fail.”

  “They’re Imperials.” The warrior shrugged. “There’s a reason they’re not beating us in this war, despite how badly we fight.”

  Franx sighed and shook his head. “We must leave. Now.”

  “Plainly.” Drinn was poking gingerly at his wound. “We should double back, into the last valley, and descend as soon as we get there. Find somewhere in the lowlands to hide out tomorrow?”

  “Indeed.” The mage took a deep breath and another glance down the mountainside. “We must wait upon the owl, I think, down in the low country. It might be too dangerous to go any further along now; certainly it’s too dangerous to try the Pass.”

  “Agreed.” And that was when Chiara arrived.

  She’d squeezed her wet, frigid body into the soldier’s tunic and breeches with haste enough to leave all her various laces and buttons undone, and scuttled now with a pained and mincing gait, her lank hair soaked over her shoulders while her teeth clattered violently. The hand that held Franx’ shortsword was shuddering with cold. “Wh-what happened?” she stammered, looking around with wide brown eyes.

  Franx glanced quickly down at her, squinting through the night. “An attack,” he said simply. He looked back down the hill. “Your breeches are on backward.”

  She scowled. “Was-was it the Imp-imp-imperials?”

  Drinn rolled his eyes; he wondered who else she imagined it could be. But he was slowly recovering, the fight flowing out of him to leave an icy and detached calm, and he could see how chilled she was. “Come on, girl; you need to get warm.” He gathered her into the sweaty, bloody circle of his arm and guided her gently back up the slope toward the campsite. He felt guilty. “I’m, er, sorry for shoving you into the water.” She trembled violently beside him, the mage staying back to glean what he could from the tiny battlefield. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  She tipped her head briefly against him, and then shrank back. “You’re all bloody. Are you hurt?”

  “Not very.” The cut didn’t feel very deep, but Drinn knew he’d need to get Franx to sew it up once daylight came. It was one of those wounds that would never heal properly; it would be moving all the time. He felt a new gush of blood now as he tightened his grip on her. “I’ll be fine.” He glanced at her in profile, the long face with its little nose, and he thought then about the tall farmboy he’d left headless and knew why the face seemed familiar. He sighed. “We’ll need to step off soon,” he said gently, hoping she’d not ever see the corpse, “so get your britches squared away and your other things packed.”

  He felt her gaze at him in the starlight. “Did you kill any of them?”

  “A couple.” Pede, he thought. That’s what she’d said her cousin’s name was. A nice fellow, she’d said, and Drinn thought about the tall farmboy’s wavering sword, the clumsy slash that had connected well enough through luck and strength and the sheer confusion of the fight, but then left him open for Drinn’s fatal strike, and he sighed. “It was quick for both of them. Hurry, now.”

  They found another dell in a copse of trees just as dawn was breaking up over the mountains behind them, and even though they were still higher up than the mage liked, it was a good enough spot that he decided they should rest. The three were all exhausted, and Drinn needed his wound taken care of; they had no sooner found their way into the trees than they fumbled into a weary collapse, their packs and cloaks flopping to the ground unheeded.

  “Gods,” Chiara moaned. Her breeches were fraying inside the thighs, her bootheel was flopping loose, and the scabbard had chafed at her hip all night. “I could sleep all day.”

  “Or not.” Franx was already rolling to the side to get at his pouch. “Drinn needs to be repaired. Would you rather sew, or keep watch?”

  “I want her to sew,” the warrior said at once. “You’ve stitched me up often enough, Poildrin, and I know your work. She can’t be any worse.”

  “Fuck you,” the mage suggested dryly. “Fine with me.” He hitched up his swordbelt and sighed his way up a tree. “I’ll be back down to wake one of you in a couple of hours,” he warned, his skinny legs scrambling at the trunk.

  And then it was the two of them, the girl watching him through lidded eyes as she rummaged for a needle. “You were avoiding me on the trail last night,” she accused softly, but without much malice; she sounded curious. “I’d thought to chastise you for rolling me into the pond.”

  Drinn held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. She looked a good deal like Pede. “You seemed to need a bath,” he told her shortly.

  She giggled softly. “I suppose I did,” she agreed, and then he was going hard again; gods damn this girl! It was the freckles, he decided; he had difficulty resisting them. “I don't suppose I can complain,” she went on, threading the needle. “You surely didn’t avoid me for the entire night…”

  He sighed. He did not feel like having this kind of conversation, and he’d never been good at them anyway. He winced as he untied the tunic and pulled it up over his head; when he looked back at Chiara, she was staring hard at his body, her mouth open slightly. He had to be a mess, he knew, his chest hair matted with blood and sweat and the filth of the trail, with long grimy streaks leading down into his breeches. He heard her sigh.

  “You’re magnificent,” she observed quietly. “You were wasted on that whore.” Still accusing.

  “Shall I sit up, or lie down?”

  She arched her eyebrow. “Fine. You may lie down then. I’m off to fetch some water,” she went on, summoning a certain briskness as she got fluidly to her feet. “Try not to miss me, warrior.” And then she was off, and the way she swung her ass in the breeches was plain for him to see; he was already adjusting himself when she looked carelessly back, grinning as soon as she saw what he was doing. He shrugged mentally; after last night, what did it matter? She knew what she did to him, and she knew what he’d done to her.

  But she didn't know what he’d done to her cousin.

  It shouldn’t matter, obviously; he knew that well. He’d killed many men, and all of them were somebody’s cousin, or brother, or son, or father. That side of his business had never before bothered him, for he lived the warrior’s simple code: when a man has a sword pointed at you, you’ve got the rest of your life to figure out how to stop him. And he had, so far; he’d been a very successful killer, all things considered, though he thought of it as business. And if he hadn’t killed Pede, Pede would have killed him; the boy had been willing enough when put to it, the evidence already crusty beneath his breast. Angry, Drinn picked at the inadequate scab.

  When the girl returned, he had the blood flowing nicely again, the tree swaying above where Franx perched among the branches. “It’s a clean enough cut, in fairness,” she said critically, setting down her water canteen. “I’ll show you what a good handmaiden I can be.”

  “I’ll try to be a good patient,” he replied dryly, and then he relaxed as lassitude came over him with the rising of the sun, the pleasure and terror of the night drifting away. “I trust you.”

  “I hope so.” When she knelt, her thighs supple beneath the overstressed breeches, he smelled her again and closed his eyes. She giggled once more. “Shall I… adjust you?” she whispered. “I don’t think the mage is looking, and you seem uncomfortable in places.”

  “Gahh,” he moaned as he felt her fine-fingered hands reach without shame to shove his hardened dick into a more vertical position. He opened his eyes to see her biting her lip mischievously. “Do you never stop?”

&nb
sp; “I’ll stop,” she promised, “but now that I know where we’re going, I’ll know when to stop.” With a final squeeze she let him go. “Poildrin will sleep, eventually.”

  She took her handkerchief, wet it, and dredged it across his chest, the water cold and refreshing from the mountains above. “You want it as badly as I do, anyway,” she went on coolly. “You needn’t admit it.”

  “I know.” He exhaled raggedly as the water soothed his wound, her hands gentle on his skin. “Truth? It’s as if that whore did nothing for me at all.”

  “See?” She shrugged. “You should have simply asked.” She pushed his shoulder lightly down, uncorking Franx’ brandy flask. “Take care,” she advised. “This will hurt.”

  And it did, the alcohol sluicing through Pede’s cut, Chiara’s grip on his body firm. When next he spoke, it was through clenched teeth. “I should have simply taken you in the stream, while you were bathing.”

  “That was rude of me,” she admitted softly, watching the blood ooze out. “I apologize.”

  “Bent you over and fucked you hard,” he went on, and now she was flushing. She flicked her head, tossing her hair back.

  “I’m told men like to bite on things while getting stitched,” she mocked, her voice deep and husky. “Shall I pull out my tits, Drinn?” And then she gasped as his hand, strong and urgent, snaked around her thighs and clamped itself to her ass. “Or they like to grab onto things; either way,” she laughed. She had the needle ready, swirling it in the flask, and when she glanced back into his eyes her eyes were wide and hot. “Ready, warrior?”

  Drinn of Fiveoaks was not a stranger to being sewn shut. He’d long since lost count of all his wounds, and most had been worse than this one. But the night’s walk had done its damage, the edges of the slice a dull inflamed pink, and his tough skin resisted the needle; after the second stitch Chiara had to stop, apologizing, then go fetch a flat pebble to use in driving the needle. “This is not as easy as sewing up my brother after a fight,” she grunted, her teeth clenched. She felt his hand tighten upon her ass as she sent the thread through yet again.

  “You spend as many years at war as I have,” Drinn shot back bleakly, “and your skin will toughen some, too.” He groaned as he forced his head to relax back to the dirt. “As I recall, yours is pretty soft in places.” He tried hard to keep his mind off Chiara’s efforts, her face close to his chest, her hair brushing across his flank. “Small stitches, girl. We’ve got all morning.”

  “We haven’t.” She squinted down at her work. “He’s going to force one of us up that fucking tree in a few hours, and I’m wagering it’ll be me.”

  “I’ll come up with you.” Drinn swallowed, the pain mounting. “We can fuck on one of the branches.”

  “I’m not that easy,” but she blushed anyway. She sneaked a peek back down at his pants. “At least your cock seems to have calmed some,” and she was right; it’s difficult for a man to stay hard while getting his chest sewn slowly shut. “I’ll need you to get some rest, at any rate, or I’ll exhaust your fragile spirits.”

  “Hah.” Drinn scoffed, but she was right; a hard fuck right now would burst the stitches, and what was the point if that happened? He moved his hand from her rear, not without a final squeeze, and laid it as gently as he could on her hip. “Listen, girl,” and he could hear the grate in his voice. “Time’s getting short, you know?”

  “I know it.” She didn’t know how close they were to the Claring Pass, but she had to have guessed it was near. She was nearly done with her embroidery. “What of it?”

  He waited until her eyes met his. “The pass is sure to be held against us.”

  She looked down a moment, then nodded. “So you say.”

  “I do.” He was under control now, stroking her ribcage absently. “We await Poildrin’s owl, and then we hope for rescue, or distraction, or… who knows what? Another pass? A hidden path?” He frowned, not sure what he was saying. “Danger, anyway. And when the owl comes, it’ll all happen quickly. Within a day, or perhaps two.” His eyes roved straight down at where she’d continued her stitching, a bit more slowly. “I’m saying we could well be dead by two or three sundowns from now.” He tightened his grip on her hip until she stopped and glared at him, defiant. “You should leave. Go back to your Uncle Bann, over to the coast… whatever.” He looked back at his wound. “We’ll send the owl back over the mountains with a message; our Princess will see you’re paid.”

  She scowled as she finished up the last of the stitches. “It’s been some time,” she said slowly, “since I’ve been along for the money.” She swept her knife across the last of the thread, leaving him sore and pale. “I’m not one for poultices or bandages, warrior,” she declared, wiping at her nose. “For that, you’ll need to wait for your friend the mage to come down from his perch. For myself, I need sleep.” She got to her feet and looked back down at him with a certain coolness before shaking her head and striding off. “But I’m not leaving,” she threw over her shoulder.

  Drinn lay back again, the earth warming beneath his head. Fucking women.

  Six

  The owl came after two fearful nights, descending in the last of the moon on silent feathers. It flew slowly, carefully, a large bundle held hard under its breast against the night wind, and Chiara was on watch to receive it.

  She had given up on the tree after her first attempt to watch from among its branches; the pine needles were thick, and what was the point of a high watchtower when one could see nothing from it? So now she lay on her belly atop a little hill about a furlong south of the campsite, in the direction where Drinn had decided a threat may come.

  The owl’s wings flapped, suddenly loud just as it landed, and she sprang up in alarm. The night was quiet around her, as the last two had been; nothing moved in the lowlands, but for two distant watchfires as outriders to a larger red glow some five miles away, around a massively buttressed spur of the Tangles. “The Imperial garrison at the Claring Pass,” Drinn had told her softly on the first night, nodding toward the glow. He’d told her there were usually at least fifty men at the foot of the Pass, with patrols wrestling their way constantly up and down the trails leading to the border at the summit.

  “Have you and Poildrin figured out how we can get past?” She’d whispered it softly, not meaning to make him lean toward her but not unhappy when he did; the day had been awkward since the stitching, but they’d made a brusque truce after dinner. Then the mage had gone to bed that first night, and she and Drinn had spent the rest of the night naked and tangled on the hilltop.

  “I thought we’d give you to them, then sneak past while they’re using you.” It was a bad joke, but she hadn’t minded; her body had been in a state of delicious languor since he’d come to her at the beginning of her watch, bearing some tea as a peace offering. She’d known exactly what he was about, had known even before, when he’d killed a spare rabbit just for her; bending the bow for the extra shot had burst one of the stitches, but he’d made light of it.

  “You’re bringing me something hot and wet?” she’d mocked him, her black mood gone; she’d decided he’d tried to send her away because he was worried about her, which was touching. Besides, she’d been as horny then as she’d been since the night by the tarn; it was easy to forgive Drinn when he had the nearest ready cock. She’d caught his grin in the moonlight.

  “Merely checking to ensure you're awake,” he’d said innocently, and then he’d sunk down alongside her, his hands already reaching for her as he’d hit the hilltop. “Remember, I was on watch the other night; I was distracted by something.” He settled against her. “Perhaps you recall?”

  “My cunt does,” and then she’d been kissing him, soft and fluttery, her lips growing more forceful as her hands found the ties to his breeches. “It’s empty again, as I think you well know.” Her fingers wasted no time, pushing through the mustiness of his groin and wrapping comfortably around his eager dick.

  “In my present weakened condit
ion,” he’d murmured back against her teeth, their breath hot in each other’s mouths, “I’m not sure what you expect from me.”

  “I expect you to lie there,” she whispered back, her quick fingers clawing at her own ties, “and remain hard.” That had been when she’d begun devouring him, her tongue and lips hot and eager and demanding, grunting as she tried to peel herself out of her clothes.

  She was thinking of that now as the owl flapped its wings in her face and dropped its burden, hopping quickly toward a nearby rock with what looked suspiciously like relief. Chiara looked, hard and quick, to make sure the watchfires hadn’t moved, and then she picked up what the owl had dropped: a bundle, perhaps as large as a grapefruit, slathered in cracked brown wax. She looked again toward the fires, decided the owl’s arrival was more important than her eyes continuing to stare dully south, and frowned at the bird.

  “Your Poildrin’s back there about two hundred paces, sleeping,” she told it with a jerk of her head. “I’m sure I’ll arrive after you,” and then they’d both stolen away north to where the pines rose around their little glen, where the mage and the warrior lay sleeping.

  He’d been hard all right, she reflected as her feet trod the familiar path through the dark. They’d coupled with efficiency and no little haste, her ragged and smelly breeches disappearing into the night in a cloudy scent of pussy as she whipped her legs across his and settled onto him, feeling at last the prodding warmth of his cock against her naked flesh. “Mmm,” she’d grinned, her hips moving in the automatic rhythm she’d always been good at, even when she was fourteen out behind Father’s tavern, and she’d closed her eyes in pleasure at the feel of his powerful, callused fingers clutching her bare hips as if frightened she’d fly away like some sort of fairy.