Broken Shield Ch. 01

Chapter 1

"She looks like the kinda girl a cow'd thank for milkin' it." Wall-eyed Roger hocked a brown glob at her feet and nudged his brother hard in the ribs. "Should we cut her outta them leathers before or after we gut her?"

Chum honked a laugh. "Don't matter as long as she's still warm."

Greasy, small, and gin-boiled, the brothers didn't have a full set of teeth between them, but they had managed to "harass"--rape, murder, and rob-- enough travelers on the Queens Road for the Merchants Guild to post a bounty.

"You'd think, between a dozen dead bandits and highwaymen, we'd eventually meet one not dead-pig stupid." Blue shrugged thick shoulders toward her partner. A blonde braid snaked down her back like a fat rope. "Not sure why we bother anymore."

"Good enough coin in killin the unsavory." Larch said, ruined voice crunching like gravel. He shrugged and shouldered his crossbow.

"Fair enough." Blue really didn't mind the work.

Just the monotony.

She jerked her coat of plate straight-- though it was still too damned hot to wear, even at the autumnal equinox-- and hefted her axe.

Roger laughed, "Whatcha gonna do wit that. Pick me teeth?"

"Hmm?" Blue cocked it back and feigned inspection. It really wasn't much of an axe, just a hand-sized lump of iron and an oaken haft. "Aye."

She flicked her wrist. The axe buried itself in Roger's face with a meaty thunk. Like splitting a harvest pumpkin. He flailed at the handle for a moment, wonky eye wide and glassy, and fell back into the pine needles.

To her left, Larch's crossbow thrummed.

A shivering bolt blossomed in Chum's throat. Blood bubbled around the shaft.

Blue yanked the matching axe from her belt left-handed. Two long strides crossed the camp. Though calling a dead firepit and a scabby lean-to a full camp was too generous. They'd only half-hidden the damn thing a dozen yards into the orange woods. She nudged the bandit with the worn toe of her boot, and, when he flopped, twisted the right-hand axe free of Roger's forehead.

A couple years ago, the spout of gore and blood might have bothered her.

Narrow at the hip and long at the leg, skin the color of pearwood, Larch leaned over Chum. "They live?"

"Well, one is." Blue wiped the axe mostly clean on Roger's shirt.

Larch settled his cloak like crow wings. "Good. Worth more breathin'."

Long hair maybe a few shades darker than his skin, and tinged with red, curtained his face. A good face, narrow and fox-like with heavy brows and a straight thin nose, and eyes, bottle green and glittering.

Pretty as the innkeepers' daughters he liked so much.

"Let's get them to the magistrate." Prettier than Blue, too. An aquiline nose stuck out too sharply from her oval face, but her eyes were cornflower blue and her smile curved like a bow.

"Not carrying either." Larch wrinkled that elegant nose. "Smell'd never come out."

In the end, they had to load the bandits in their own donkey cart to make it back to town, but Rivers Bend's magistrate paid them three gold ten in bounty and another two for the donkey and cart. More than enough for a bath, two rooms at the Gilded Duck, hot food, and most importantly, ale sufficient for people of their significant stature.

The Gilded Duck was twin to every other pub Blue'd ever set foot in: public room downstairs, rented rooms up, ale of some regional variety, and hot food of some seasonal variety.

Tucked into the back corner of the bustling common room, feet propped on the stone hearth, Blue'd imbibed just enough to grin when Larch pulled his fat-bellied lute into his lap. She eyebrowed at the bar wenches. "Raven-haired or honey?"

"Honey." He strummed a couple tuneless notes and tightened the strings. "Raven's a maid. Too much work."

"Think so?" Blue leaned back, chair creaking. The raven hair'd wench met her gaze and glanced away quickly, dark skin dewy with the heat from the cookfire backlighting her in smokey reds. Blue was warm and full, freshly washed hair dampening the shoulder of a laundered tunic. And nothing felt as lonely as comfort after weeks of discomfort.

She asked, "Want me to sing? 'The Golden Skein?'"

"'Nut Brown Maid,' first." Larch swept sharp eyes across the blonde-haired young woman, who flicked workworn fingers in his direction. The public house bustled with round orchard owners and muddy-booted plowman, but Larch was a handsome stranger with the jingle of gold about his belt and easily found a "mild-eyed Mary" in every pub.

A Midlander to her bones, Blue found the whole love song bloody ridiculous.

Ridiculous but a quick way under those dun muslin skirts. These Flatlanders could never resist a love song.

"Aye, alright." Blue downed her beer and motioned for another before standing up.

Larch's whistle sliced through the ale-scented chatter. Long, quick fingers picking the melody into the sudden silence.

"Horo, my nut brown maiden / Hiri, my nut brown maiden." Her voice was clear and rich and in key, though not as lovely as Larch's had been, before a jealous wretch--in another nearly identical little town--ruptured his throat with a stave. "Horo, ro maiden / For she's the maid for me."

The patrons of the Gilded Duck picked up the chorus, stomping and clapping along with Larch's nimble playing. Bloody Flatlanders. "The light grace of thy going / The witchcraft of thy smile."

Raven-hair drifted into eyesight, tray heavy with mugs propped on a narrow hip. She stepped lightly through the crowded common room, experience keeping her well clear of groping hands, and delivered fresh pints to their little table. Honey gold eyes scraped Blue from crown to boots before thick fringed lashes lowered shyly as the barmaid retreated again. Genuine or artificial, the combination of boldness and modesty had lust throbbing in Blue's pelvis.

The song ended to applause and a scattering of copper coins at their feet. Larch picked idly with one hand while he and Blue drank in silent competition. Larch came up for air first with a rusty, harsh laugh. They ran through "Golden Skein" and "The Ballad of Amethyst Darling" before the honey-hair'd lass pulled Larch from the hearth and lead him up the rickety steps into the dark.

Blue finished her beer and Larch's while she gathered the fair evening's wage from the sticky floor and table. Enough to pay for another night in River Bend, unless word of other work came from the Adventure's Guild in Westerport.

Without a war, trade dispute, or major diplomatic incident, adventuring work amounted to little more than bounties and bodyguards. Nearly as monotonous as farming and twice as uncomfortable.

Before retiring upstairs to her rented room, Blue glanced toward the bar, but the dark beauty had vanished with the bulk of the crowd. If her bed felt too empty, she supposed that Larch would hardly mind if she joined him. He liked an audience, and she didn't mind watching.

But her room was comfortable and clean, and the magistrate had gifted her a fine mead, so Blue shed her boots and belts and trousers and, with bottle uncorked, unfurled a nearly blank letter on the lopsided table.

Beneath "Dearest Daisy," she managed to scrawl, "Weather too bloody hot and work too bloody to warrant mention" before the candle flickered too low and yellow to continue.

The barest, breath of a knock whispered at the door. A single knuckle or the tip of one finger on the scarred oak. Blue's heart stuttered. Hard and hot in her chest. Penknife held by her thigh, she eased the door open only to be greeted by large brown eyes, pupils blown wide in the darkness, set in the raven-hair'd barmaid's lovely face.

"One more drink?" The maid asked, holding up a bottle of last harvest's lavender mead. Her accent was pure Flatland, her voice young and sweet. Her question hesitant enough to betray her true intentions.

"Aye." Blue opened the door in invitation and closed it with a quiet click behind the barmaid's slight figure. The motion caged her between Blue's arms and the threshold. Blue kept her there just long enough for a deep flush to stain dark cheeks before pulling back into the room. "What're you called?"

"Mirri." She twisted her fingers around the bottle's neck, knuckles pale with tension. "Yer Blue, right? Come up from the capital ta deal for a bounty?"

"Aye, 'tis I." Blue rolled the penknife up with her quill and spare paper. She took a deep pull from her open bottle before turning back to shy Mirri. "Nervous?"

"Nay." Mirri shook her head so that the cloud of her black hair bounced gently against her shoulders and cheeks.

"Not even a little?" Blue gently peeled her fingers from the bottle and set it next to the open one.

Mirri sighed, "A little."

"No need to fear, luv." Blue cupped calloused palms around her elbows and slid them down to twine fingers together. Mirri was trembling. "We can play cards and drink mead and talk 'till dawn." She rubbed small circles across the other woman's knuckles. "You can leave now, virtue completely intact."

"Nay!" Mirri's hard worked fingers tightened. "I want to be here. Wit' you."

"Sure?" Blue searched the oval of her face. The earnestness of her black, winged brow. The softness of her dimpled left cheek. Rapidity of the pulse at the base of her throat.

Mirr stepped closer, close enough that Blue felt the heat of her skin. So close that her inhales brushed breast to breast. "Am sure as Sunlight."

"Tell me and I'll stop. No questions, no hard words." Blue smiled then, full and true. Lust on her face as beautiful as joy. She released Mirri's hand and took a long, deep swallow of mead before offering the rest to Mirri. "Tending bar is hard, hot work on a night like tonight."

"'Tis, and most are no' so generous as you two. A hot bath and a pint o' this," Mirri drank, tasting summer honey and Blue's mouth, "I'm off to the Nightlands o' dreams and shadows."

"I've no copper bath on offer, but the basin is cool and clean." Blue crowded back into Mirri's space, miles of strong, pale legs and bare, elegant feet.

"Ye mean to have me wash like a 'hore?"

"Nay." Blue pulled Mirri's belt free of its buckles. It clattered to the floorboards. She dragged a finger down the taught laces of Mirri's bodice. "I mean to wash you myself, like a servant to a queen." Her grip pulled the stays tighter, pressed Mirri's breasts up so that the upper curl of areola peeled above the rough spun cotton. Blue's voice hushed, "I mean to touch every inch of that beautiful skin." She yanked the tie loose so that only the ledge of Mirri's hipbone kept the dress from the floor. Blue spoke against Mirri's mouth so that she tasted the threat and promise on her breath. "I mean to ruin you."

"Please." Mirri shrugged free of her skirt and rose to tiptoe in an effort to kiss Blue properly, but Blue stepped back. The sound of water splashing into the basin was lost in pulse and gasping breath.

Beautiful. Blue just looked for a heartbeat. Mirri's small breasts, nipples hard and dark. Narrow hips. Soft thighs. The delicate shadow of heat and tender passion between them. Threadbare stockings gartered at the knee. Scuffed boots buried in the nest of her discarded skirts. "Take off your boots. Stockings, too."

Mirri flinched at the order, artificially loud in the midnight air, but immediately obeyed. Naked and trembling and so lovely it made Blue's lungs hurt.

"Come here."

She did.

Blue wanted to crush her, use her for selfish, momentary pleasure, and so forced herself to be gentle. To brush the damp washcloth across Mirri's right hand, up the delicate flesh of her wrist, elbows, beneath her arms. Along her collarbone. Up the slim column of her throat and back again.

Down the other arm. Wrist, palm, fingers.

Blue rewet the cloth and lowered to her knees. Dragged the cloth down Mirri's breastbone and the long line of her stomach. Her own desire beat like a heart trapped between her legs. A wild, monstrous thing of fire. Of loneliness.

She pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to one dark nipple. Then, the other. Mouth open just enough to catch the promise of teeth.

Mirri rolled her hips forward.

Blue dropped her attention to her left foot. The toes and high arches. Ankle. Knee. Thigh.

The velvet skin at the crease of one hip. Lips pressed to the softness below Mirri's bellybutton.

Insides of her thighs already wet and scorching. Blue scraped the edge of her thumb nail across to the other thigh. Down Mirri's right leg to the opposite foot.

On another, more patient, night, Blue would work down her back next. Soothing tired muscles. Biting at the firm globes of her ass until Mirri was bent over, weeping, open and begging for tongue and mouth and hand. One finger, two. Three.

But Blue had no patience left. Only the animal heat in her own cunt.

And Mirri's tender flesh to remind her to be human.

So, she swept her palms up the outside of Mirri's legs so that they met at the top. Thumbs teasing the damp black curls.              Blue looked up. Mirri had braced her hands against the footboard of the bed. Head dropped back so that Blue could only see breasts and the point of her chin.

One thumb stroked, just hard enough to part lips and graze her clit. Mirri gasped and shook. Thighs pressing reflexively closed and then open again.

"Don't move." Blue voice gone hoarse and deep. "And tell me if you want to stop."

Buried her mouth between Mirri's thighs.

And everything was lost in the wet, red haze of fucking. The feel of heat around her fingers. Sharp taste of orgasm on her tongue.

The other hand between her own spread thighs. Clit caught hard and fast between index and ring finger until she came. Beast satiated enough not to rend Mirri to pieces.

Only then did Blue stand and kiss Mirri on the mouth. Gentle, sweet, palms cupped around hot cheeks. "Will you stay?"

Mirri nodded and slipped hot hands under the hem of Blue's loose shirt, inched the linen up past her hips and breasts until it was shucked to the floor. Naked in the cool sheets, Mirri did what everyone of Blue's lovers always did: traced her scars with questioning fingers.

A shiny burn the shape of a solstice bun on her upper arm: "Horse thief threw a lit torch."

Puckered red puncture on her left hip: "Hunting accident." Larch shot me in the ass.

Thin slice in her forearm from learning to throw knives. The tattoo inked around her bicep by the saltiest sailor in Westerport. A long-faded crescent on her knee: "Clover the goat, not my sister, bit me."

Mirri laughed, silent breath on Blue's neck, and asked the question they all wanted answered, "An' this? Husband?"

She hooked a delicate forefinger in the leather thong around Blue's neck and lifted the heavy ring strung through it away from Blue's breastbone. Sized for a man's finger and made from thick yellow gold, flattened on the top with an imprint of a star. A tiny sapphire lit the center of the carved star. Blue could've bought a small orchard and a lovely little cottage if she sold it.

It had not left her neck in ten years.

"Never married." Blue took Mirri's hand in hers and pressed a kiss to the palm. "A ghost gifted it to me in a dream." The girl was just as dissatisfied with the answer as everyone else who'd ever asked it, but let the tension fade and cuddled herself into the curve of Blue's body to sleep.