Shadowmage (Raxillene's Rogues Book 4) Read online

  “I thought you didn’t have slaves in the Empire.” He was in desperate need of a drink. Before him her spine came into view as the falling corset exposed her back, slim and muscled and smooth in the flickering candlelight. “Did you buy him here?”

  “I think I just did,” she pointed out. “After seeing how you look at me, I’m fairly sure you’ll obey me.” Her back was naked at last, the garment forgotten on the dusty floor, and he was now painfully aware of the shape of her body, the curving swell as her hips flared, the full solid roundness of her ass right there in front of his straining cock, covered by nothing but a wisp of cheap satin. “Let’s try,” she suggested, her voice thickening. “Take the rest of my clothes off, slave.”

  His eyes widened still more at her tone, but by this time he was well past the point of any kind of hesitation; she was very right about what she’d done to him. So he reached hastily out and jerked her undershorts down, that being the only scrap of clothing she had left; the glorious swell of her nude ass loomed out of the dimness at him, stared him in the face as he knelt to get the garment over her feet, and then suddenly he was moving with a strange sense of dissociation, the kind the professors said came upon one during the working of a really long, really involved spell. He felt almost as if he was outside himself, watching as his own tentative hands shot upward with sudden passion and gripped hard and white-knuckled at the smooth young curve of her ass.

  She was still gasping, stumbling, as he shoved his face in there, his tongue and lips greedy against her skin, licking away the salt of a long day at the benches. He found himself, quite shocked at his own conduct, pushing his nose straight into the top of her crack, hearing a low moan of approval from up above as he began to lick and suck and nibble, his hands burying themselves in her flesh.

  “Gods.” The word flew slicing out of her as an unwilling grunt, her whole body leaning instinctively forward to rest her hands on the flimsy mattress. “Definitely my slave,” she sneered quietly, but it came out as a whimper and Poildrin knew it had been the right move. “Look at you. I’ve got you licking my ass just three minutes after I got you through the door.”

  Her thigh trembled, hot and tense as Poildrin allowed his hand to roam down over it, amazed that she was letting him do this. She was breathing harder now, her body moving rhythmically, and he noticed she was starting to smell richer, gamier, like one of the whores he’d used. Down near the floor as he squatted, his cock lurched with excitement. And at some point, as he stroked his hand along the top of her leg, his fingers found moisture and warmth, right up underneath where her slit was; he did not even think before he snaked his hand into the little gap between her flexing thighs and angled two fingers right up towards the hole. His searching thumb encountered rough lumpiness between her cheeks and, seeking leverage, he wedged his thumb tight against the dry grasping heat of her asshole as he thrust up into her cunt.

  Nothing in Poildrin’s education or experience prepared him for Jerren’s response.

  Her upper body fell straight onto the mattress as her arms went slack, quite unprepared for his eager fingers; the keening shriek that escaped her throat made his dick tighten further. Her entire body tightened beneath his hands and tongue, and then slowly relaxed as she moaned against her ratty blanket.

  Around that time Poildrin’s face came around the side of her butt, his fingers settling into the same rhythm as her softly swinging hips, and he beheld the glory of the girl’s pale, freckled frame, mashed against the mattress, one of her lush tits escaping out from underneath her spread arms as she moved for him. And then, his wits reddening with lust, he remembered his other hand and darted it straight up her flank, bouncing over the ladder of her ribcage and up to her armpit before it caressed the sweaty skin between there and that plump, inviting breast. His fingers were burrowing between the twin softnesses of mattress and tit before either of them thought about it, but by then neither of them was thinking much at all.

  “Yesss…” Her breath was a hissing grunt as she reared up off the mattress, her legs still swiveling around his fingertips as she hunched herself down against his hand; her fingers went straight to where he was cupping her breast, squeezing him desperately to hold him there while she gasped. “You’ll make me forget myself…” she purred. “Soon.” She giggled.

  He glanced up; she was staring down, her green eyes massive in the candleflame, at where his fingers were scraping the top of her slit, tangling themselves in the hair there and making her breath catch with each strong, steady squeeze. Forgotten for the moment, his dick remained twitching below; its patience would not last forever. She could see it as she looked between her feet. “You're leaking a little bit on my floor,” she mocked, her voice thick and strained.

  “So are you,” he pointed out, trailing a last swipe of his tongue across the bottom of her spine as he finally pulled his prunelike fingers from inside her, feeling her labia pulse slick and hot as he dragged his nails across them. Indeed, her inner thighs glistened. “Much more of this and your downstairs neighbors will be complaining about their roof.” He had no idea where the unwonted words came from; there was a tiny part of his mind, the part that was always working on problems and their solutions, that decided that pleasing a woman did wonders for a man’s confidence.

  “I can think of a way to plug me up,” she managed, gazing down at him now with a broad grin. She was bright scarlet from her forehead down to her nipples, which seemed to be sticking out an inch from her wonderfully jiggling breasts as she stood over him. “Can you?”

  “I can indeed.” Poildrin heard the excitement, the joy, in his own voice as he straightened his cramping legs and rose slowly. “I can’t promise I’ll last long,” he warned; that had been a problem with most of the whores, too.

  She winked as she tossed her hair to one side and then bent herself slowly back down, her arms once more straight against the mattress, her tits again swinging free. “Who says we’ll only do this once?” she asked, trying to be sexy; the effect was spoiled, though, as she giggled once more, her body in the dim orange light the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. He stood for a moment, his dick questing forward like an eager hound on a scent, resting his hand idly on the top of her ass. “Your cock is crooked,” she marveled. “I’ve never seen one quite like that.” She was giving herself to him, stretched and moist and ready, and all because his nervous knee movements had made a bench shake. Her glimmering cunt was plain to see between smooth, warm thighs.

  Flickering a quick glance at her smoldering avocado eyes, he took a deep breath and reached down to position his dick. It felt like it had just been in a forge, crackling with heat, nearly leaping in his hand. She stared hard at him as he stepped toward her. “I’ve never had any complaints,” he sputtered, hoping he sounded cool. Well, naturally; whores don't complain. That’s why you pay them. “Ready?”

  Her head rolled back toward the mattress, the girl letting it sink almost to the blankets. “You don't really need to ask that,” she challenged, her breath fast and light, and then he quit stalling. Poildrin took a deep breath, steered the threatening purple head of his dick right toward where her red labia quivered, and at last let his cock touch her, their breath hitching in their throats as they felt something like a spark pass through them both. Before he knew what he was doing he was halfway in, with no resistance, her intense wet heat clasping him as he automatically gripped her hipbones.

  He was staring down at the two of them, his eyes as wide as his mouth, when he plunged forward and watched his pubic hair mash up against her freckled ass, still glistening with his fading saliva. He heard a distinct squelching noise, soon drowned out by a long, blissful gasp from his partner; at last, she let her head hit the mattress.

  “Well.” She held him within her, feeling him, experimenting with her vaginal muscles. “That’s different.” It wasn’t a complaint; she sounded astonished, exhilarated. He felt her fingers reach tentatively back underneath her to fondle his balls, and then she was
fluttering those same fingers across her clit. “Feel good?” she asked, more curious than doubtful, and he told her the truth.

  “Right now, I’d die for you.” His entire body was singing with pride and excitement, the girl before him smoky and willing, and he felt better than he ever had. She laughed, low and husky.

  “Let’s hope it won’t come to that.” He pulled out, and then jabbed into her again, hard, and she grunted. “I'd lose your future services.” Another thrust, brutal, left her butt jiggling and her tits swaying, and then she wasn’t flirting anymore.

  The bed, among the cheapest possible, was in deep trouble by the fifth or sixth thrust. It creaked and shook, knocking plaster from the far wall, but it wasn’t until they heard a sharp cracking noise that they both decided things needed to change. Jerren twisted around, all shadowy curves and wriggling muscle in the light of the candle, and she sank wordlessly to the floor, on her back, her legs spread impossibly wide. Her mouth curved to one side in a broad smirk, her lips parted, the slight underbite not even noticeable as she reached her arms high.

  He was on his knees, between her thighs without a word. And when he flopped forward, their slippery bodies greased with sweat, both of them staring hard into each other’s faces while cock and cunt swiveled and pounded in a perfect, searing rhythm, Poildrin fell in love with her wide, dilated green eyes, and he kissed her long and sloppily.

  It had been the crowning moment of his life, to that point, far better than winning that damn prize his first year, better even than the time he’d won his first fistfight, against Lem Harrel’s son by the little dam near his childhood home. And when her body shook and surged, the avocado eyes falling far back behind their lids while he felt her body clench his shaft with nearly unbearable pressure, he felt his breath gust into her face even as his cock sent his seed flying into her womb. Five, perhaps six times he spewed into her, each time leaving him weak and trembling like a kitten, both of them collapsing afterward in a reeking puddle of sweat and cum.

  They lay later in the bed, talking in low, fond voices, his knees and her shoulderblades scraped hard by the rough wood of the floor. Still later she rode him, late into the night and far past the candle’s brittle lifespan, and by the time Poildrin dragged his eyelids open the next morning to find her gone to class, he felt deflated and flat, deliciously so.

  The memory of such joy, to say the least, put Lady Traxtell’s departure into perspective. He warned himself, that night at the joyful table in Berridge’s only good inn, that they weren’t back at the Tower yet. There remained a fortress in between.

  Four

  The fire two nights later, as the little band camped on the ridges east of Berridge, was still a lighthearted affair. Their night in the town, for all the comforts of hot stew and a warm bed, had ended up tense and more than a little awkward, for the locals had at once been justifiably suspicious of wool dealers who made no effort to deal wool, despite arriving with a laden pony. Curious and vaguely hostile eyes had seen them out of town along the coast road, which they’d traveled for a few miles before doubling back and heading toward the cliffs and crags behind the Starkhorn.

  “So then,” Firkis grunted quietly, leaning back on his elbows with his feet toward the little fire. “What’s the deal here? We've delivered our little traitor into the arms of your mage, so what does Her Highness need us to do now?” He wiped at his beard with the back of his wrist. “You said something about ‘causing trouble?’”

  Poildrin shook his head. Dammit. He was feeling sluggish and uncertain, not at all his usually cold and calculating self. He wondered why, but suspected seeing Jerren again was the beginning and the end of it. He shrugged. “The usual. The King’s army is already marching. Traxtell meets them, tells them how to get into the Starkhorn, then hightails it for the frontier to get away from whatever the Emperor sends after her. Although…” He glanced at Alorin Kaye. They’d had conversations about this already.

  “It’s not the Emperor she’ll need to worry about,” she finished calmly.

  “Right.” The mage sighed. “Then we just wait in the hills for the fortress to fall. Once we see the King’s flag go up, we wander in through the back gate.”

  “Back gate?” Aimee seemed skeptical. “What kind of fortress has a back gate?”

  “All of them,” Firkis put in shortly. He’d smithed at the Starkhorn for years, most of the reason he’d come along. “The one at the Starkhorn is a path, really narrow, east of the fortress, with switchbacks for horses. Very rough for people.” He dug at his nose, withdrawing a greenish wad and wiping it on his jerkin with some satisfaction. “You go down the path, through a cave, and you’re in the fortress.”

  “It’s how they’re being resupplied,” Poildrin put in helpfully. “The towns and villages around here know where their bread is buttered, no matter what side of the border they’re on. The Starkhorn is the only big post around. No matter who’s in charge down there, they’ll sell whatever they can to the soldiers.” He yawned. “The Army ought to get there in four days? Five? Until then, we sit tight. Maybe plunder a village, attack a supply caravan, capture and torture one of the Imperial patrols…” He shrugged. “As I said. The usual.”

  Aimee paused and nibbled at her thumbnail. “Why am I here?”

  Poildrin blinked. “The Princess and I thought you’d want to come!” he protested. “You’re always going on about how you’re tired of waiting around at the Tower.”

  She looked at him levelly. “Since I’ve been on this trip,” she snapped, “I’ve ridden along things that aren’t even trails, treated your headache, and done nothing else but get cold and wet. My hips are sore, my ass is chafed, and I really, really enjoyed sleeping in a bed the other night.” She dug at the fire with a stick. “I don’t feel especially valued.”

  Poildrin and Alorin traded a glance. They, along with Drinn and Cashel, were most often the people the Princess sent out. Firkis just sat and looked awkward. “Well,” Poildrin replied carefully, cocking his head, “of course, you’re a wise woman, and skilled in a crisis. And remember, Aimee, that just because we haven’t needed you yet, doesn’t mean we won’t. What if there’s a fight? What if Alorin here gets her arm chopped off or something?” He felt the valkyrie’s hard glance; she was appalled at the thought anyone would ever imagine she’d allow an enemy to cut off her arm. The mage spread his hands. “Just saying.”

  “Hmph.” Aimee got to her feet to find a place away from the fire where she could piss. “I want to be useful, Franx. Even if that means starting a fight just so I can bandage someone up.”

  He blinked. “I’ll certainly try to remember that, Aimee,” he called to her retreating back. Good gods! What was wrong with people? As he often did, the mage scowled. People gave him entirely too much credit. So he slept in a foul mood, his dreams full of repulsive Imperial traitors and soft-breasted women with green eyes.

  * * *

  In the morning he ducked into the shadow cast by one of the eastern peaks, affronted that the sun had woken him up so early. Around him the little camp was stirring; Firkis, who’d had the last watch, had dozed off as soon as Poildrin had dragged himself from his little nest of blankets. Aimee was just now able to get herself up, her eyes flitting about with the blear-eyed look of a hunted animal.

  Speaking of which, Alorin was already gone to chase down some breakfast. They’d all heard game aplenty lurking in the night; probably nothing either very large or very tasty, but better than another morning of salted pork and biscuits. Aimee squinted up at him, scratching irritably at her backside. “Where are we going today?”

  Poildrin frowned toward the east. “Thead,” he announced shortly.

  “Seed?” She blinked. “Have you developed a lisp in the night?”

  He looked down at where she clutched the blankets to her bare chest. Aimee was one of those who couldn’t bear to wear clothes while sleeping, no matter how bad an idea that might be. Like, when in enemy territory in the high mountains, with
scant opportunity for retreat. “Thead,” he repeated patiently. “It’s the only village name I know in these mountains. Can you remember, Aimee, where you’ve heard of it before?” He sighed. “If you’re going to be coming out on these expeditions with us, you need to pay better attention.”

  Firkis, who seldom left the Tower either, spoke without opening his eyes. “It’s where that woman we saw at the waterfall was from.” His broad forehead, shining in the morning light beneath his bald head. “I seem to remember we used to get iron from there. There’s more than one Thead, I think.”

  “Well done, Firkis!” said the mage, who had no idea how many Theads there might be. In truth, he didn’t care. He’d dreamed of Jerren last night, woken up with a stiff penis, and that was as far as his thinking had gone. “It’s to the east somewhere. This path must go there eventually. Or to some other path that does.”

  “You could always send Aimee and I to scout, like you did before.” Firkis was awake now, trying not to look eager as he thought about pretending, once more, to be the healer’s husband. Then he caught her strange glance and looked away. “Probably not a great idea, though. Forget I said anything.”

  She frowned. “I mind being on a horse, nearly falling over cliffs. I’d mind a lot more being afoot, and nearly falling over cliffs.” She stood up, the blanket wrapped tightly around her. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m off to make myself look decent.” She disappeared across the gravel of their campsite toward the little stream at the bottom of the slope. Firkis, the mage noticed, looked after her with that certain sense of longing he’d seen many times before, usually when Drinn looked at Alorin.