Harrow's Wife Ch. 02

The compliment was delivered earnestly, without the teasing lilt in his voice, and she almost felt inclined to acknowledge it. Instead she remained still and silent, though she allowed some of the naked hostility to fade from her expression.

He bent forward and pressed his lips to her stomach, just below her navel. The contrast of his warm lips against her cool skin was pleasant and seemed to heat her whole belly.

"Not so bad, is it?"

"Hurry and be done," she said.

He kissed her again in the same spot, then once more, a little lower. She could feel his bristly chin brush against her pubic hair. Despite her resolve, her skin welcomed the hot kisses, especially after the chill of the cold river.

His next kiss was just inside her hip bone, causing her muscles to quiver and spasm with a strange, ticklish pleasure. He certainly seemed to know his way around. Gwen briefly wondered how many women he'd been with, then decided she'd rather not know. Mercenaries were notoriously randy, and he'd been twenty-five years in the business.

He kissed his way across to the other hip bone, in no hurry, savouring each one. Despite herself, Gwen found herself eager for his lips; her legs relaxed and her thighs parted a little more. He inched lower, nuzzling her damp pubic hair, brushing his lips over her mound. She felt warmer now, the chill of the water forgotten as a flush heated her from the inside.

It was indecent for his lips to be so close to her nether regions but somehow she couldn't find the voice to protest or to scold him. And when his hot kisses moved to her inner thigh she spread a little wider in shameful invitation. He remained there for several moments, teasing and tickling the soft skin mere inches from her sex.

He lay fully on his stomach, still kissing her thigh, and slid his hands up her belly to her breasts. His hands were somehow warm, and the heat of his touch was heavenly against her skin. She sighed appreciatively as he squeezed her, fingers capturing her erect nipples and rolling them gently. Maybe having a man with 'experience' wasn't such a bad thing after all!

He moved to her other thigh and started licking it with long, slow strokes of a hot tongue. The sensations were new and wonderful, and Gwen became aware of a throbbing between her legs -- her body's response to his attention. How would that tongue feel against the core of her womanhood? As lewd as the thought was, it became more persistent with every touch of his skillful tongue.

And when his tongue moved to her nether lips she couldn't stifle a needful moan. How could something so dirty and perverse feel so good? Or was that WHY it felt so good, as he'd suggested earlier? She had trouble controlling her hips, they squirmed eagerly under his patient mouth. Her breath was coming faster.

"Not so awful, would you agree?" he said, then resumed his work. His fingers continued their delightful torment of her nipples, adding to the powerful lust rippling through her.

"Gods, Harrow," she breathed.

When the tip of his tongue flicked the swollen bud near the top of her slit she gave an audible gasp. The man would put his tongue anywhere! The thought horrified and delighted her, and when he took a second, longer lick she lifted her lips against his mouth, eager for more. He melted her with slow, hot strokes of his tongue against her most sensitive spot, and before long she felt her climax building, an excited tightening between her legs.

"Don't stop," she said between hard breaths.

He grunted in response, not letting up, somehow knowing how hard and how fast she wanted it, driving her lust relentlessly higher. Suddenly, her climax hit hard, her inner muscles grabbed and released and she shook her with wonderful, uncontrollable spasms. And even as heavenly sensations rolled through her, his tongue teased, becoming slower and more gentle before backing off as she became too sensitive to handle even the lightest contact.

For a minute all she could do was shake and sweat and pant and try to recover herself. She realized her own wanton lust had shamed her again, but somehow it was difficult to hold in disdain the pleasure she'd just experienced.

At last she propped herself up on her elbows and found him grinning up at her from between her legs, his mouth and chin glistening with wetness.

"So? Surely you can't say you hated it," he said.

"I hated it. It was bloody awful," she said. As wonderful as it had been, there was no way she was taking his cock in her mouth! She'd surely die of shame.

He laughed at her stubborn defiance, and she couldn't help but crack a smile as well.

"Liar!" he said, then flipped her onto her stomach and pinned her there with his left arm slung across her waist. "Perhaps some marital discipline will teach you the virtue of honesty!"

The first stinging blow on her bare buttocks caused a gasp. It wasn't a hard strike, but the sheer indignity of being spanked like a small child left her without words.

Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.

More blows landed, each a little more forceful.

"So? Will I have the truth from my errant wife?" he said, and she could practically hear the smile in his tone.

"Let me up! Who do you think you are to just-"

SMACK. Another spank fell, the hardest one yet. She squirmed violently in an effort to escape him but he was far stronger and far heavier and held her in place with ease.

"Yeeow! That one hurt, you monster!"

"Confess the truth and I'll spare your backside further attention."

"I'll do no such thing."

"Suit yourself. This lovely arse could stand a little colour in any case."

He continued to spank her, and although the blows weren't all that painful the humiliation of being toyed with in this way raised her ire.

"Harrow, stop it at once. Harrow, stop!"

He paid her no heed. At the end of her patience, she drew in a deep breath.

"HARROW!" she screamed, expelling her frustrations all at once.

He looked chagrined as he rolled off her.

"Gods, woman! Keep your voice down or we'll have company before long."

She stood and turned her stinging rear away from him, rubbing it gingerly, not caring that her nudity was on full display.

"Company? You said this place was safe from prying eyes!"

"It is," he said. "But if you make enough noise, sooner or later someone will come looking."

She froze in mid-rub. He continued talking but she wasn't listening.

She knew how to save Ana from The Hound.

*

"We're going to try some weather effects today. They're a little bit trickier and require more power than simple elemental effects. Just like yesterday, I want to know right away if you feel winded, sleepy or if there's any pain at all. Good?"

"Good. Let's get started," Harrow said, rubbing his hands together.

Gwen took his hand firmly in her own. "We'll try to make it rain." She summoned her magic and directed it through the now-familiar Bond and into Harrow.

"Whoa...I see what you mean," he said. "I can really feel the magic this time."

"Stop?"

"I'm fine. Keep going."

There were two ways to make it rain. The first way was to condense moisture from the immediate environment into droplets. That was relatively easy; it wasn't much more than an elemental effect.

The second way was to create a weather vortex to pull existing rain clouds from distant locations -- miles away, sometimes many dozens of miles. This was more difficult by far, and required a lot more power. It was also extremely disruptive; creating a weather vortex was like dropping a pebble in a still pond -- it caused ripples and distortions far and wide. Someone sensitive to the use of magic could detect those ripples and follow them back to their source.

Someone like The Hound.

By using her magic recklessly, Gwen would make enough magical "noise" to draw The Hound away from her daughter. With some luck, that would allow Ana to get far enough away to be safe.

Unfortunately, the strategy had one big drawback -- it would lead The Hound and any number of Guardsmen right to Harrow's front door, likely dooming both Harrow and herself unless she could think of a way to outwit or overpower the witch hunter. An unlikely proposition.

But Ana was her priority, now and always. Gwen would ensure her daughter's safety first, and figure the rest out later.

For several minutes they stood in place, Gwen deep in concentration, Harrow still and silent next to her. Then the sunlight faded as the clouds crowded in, unnaturally fast, pulled from locations far and wide. The first cool pin-pricks of rain hit her skin just as Harrow gasped and dropped to one knee.

Gwen let go of his hand and severed the connection immediately. She crouched next to him.

"What's wrong?"

"Just...exhausted. Feels like I climbed a mountain in full gear."

"Can you walk back to the house?"

"Give me a minute." He tried to rise, then abandoned the effort and sat heavily on the ground. His face was deathly white. "Or maybe...a few minutes."

"We overdid it. You should have stopped me sooner," she admonished. The rain was beginning to fall in earnest.

He shook his head. "I wanted to see if I had enough power...to make it rain."

She grabbed a still-damp towel and draped it over his head to shield him from the downpour, then a second one for herself. The house was only a ten minute walk but she didn't want to leave him when he was in such a weakened condition.

"Well, at least we have a better idea where your limits are. We won't try anything this extravagant again."

Nor would they need to. For her purposes, Gwen knew they'd done more than enough already.

*

It soon became clear that Harrow wasn't merely fatigued. He could barely stagger back to the house, and went straight to bed at midday. He slept deeply until late morning the next day, neither stirring nor changing position. He managed to down some bread and stew for lunch, then surrendered to sleep again until the following morning. Over-taxing the Bond had drained him, depleting his energy in a way beyond mere physical exhaustion.

Gwen hoped the effects would clear up before too much longer. She found she missed his jovial spirit -- as irksome as his teasing and lewdness could be, seeing him weary and lethargic was even worse.

She hated that she'd taken advantage of his trust and used too much of his energy, and hated even more the fact that she'd betrayed his location to The Hound without even warning him. A necessary ruse, but there was no escaping shameful truth that she'd acted dishonorably towards a man who'd treated her with kindness.

And there were practical reasons why she needed Harrow at full strength. The Hound had surely detected the weather vortex and would be on his way. When would he arrive? Almost two days had passed since the vortex -- The Hound might appear at any moment. In his current condition, Harrow couldn't enact the Bond, and without the Bond, she and Harrow would be helpless.

Of course, even with the Bond, they faced steep odds. The Hound was formidable by reputation, and backed by the heavily-armed Guardsmen he was a force to be feared. But at least having her magic available would give them a fighting chance.

Fortunately by dawn the third day Harrow had recovered much of his strength and was able to make it to the creek to wash, then check on his chickens. And by dinner he was his old self again, brimming with naughty winks and unwelcome pats on the bottom. And even though she scolded him, it was a relief to see him restored.

She lay close to him that night, welcoming the arm he slung over her body as she faced away from him on her side. And even when his warm hand sought her soft breast she didn't try too hard to dissuade him. He was strong enough to be lusty again and that was only good news.

*

She awoke at dawn the next morning to the sound of Harrow moving quickly around the bedroom, pulling on clothes and rummaging through the oak cupboards. He was in a hurry and his face wore an expression of concern, though not fear.

"Horses," he said, too focused to even glance her direction. "Lots of them, heading this way."

She went cold and felt her heart quicken in her chest. The Hound.

"Harrow, we need to invoke the Bond," she said in a quiet voice. She cursed the terrible timing. By arriving right at dawn, The Hound hadn't left her any time to prepare. Probably that's what he'd intended -- he was an experienced witch-hunter after all.

"No time. They're two hundred yards away, coming on fast."

She paused and could hear faint hoof beats, growing steadily louder.

"Let's retreat to the woods -- that will give us time to-"

"Could be they're lost, or maybe just a routine patrol. Could be some old friends stopping by for a visit, for that matter." He started slipping diamond-shaped steel blades under his belt at the small of his back. They looked vaguely like knife blades, but with no handles.

"Then why are you arming yourself?"

"Old habit."

"Harrow," she said, then summoned up her courage. Time to face his wrath. "It's The Hound. He likely sensed the weather effects we created a few days ago."

He paused, then met her eyes. He knew -- she could read it in his even gaze. He understood now what she'd done. How she'd betrayed him.

Finally he gave her a brief nod. "Make for the woods, and try to stay out of sight. Maybe I can talk my way out of this."

"Did you hear me? It's The Hound! He's not interested in anything you have to say. Our best option is to invoke the Bond and try to use magic to-"

"Go! Run...hide. I wish you well," he said, then hurried from the room. Gwen thought to follow him, then realized she was naked and took a few moments to dress. By the time she made it to the kitchen he was outside. She peeked through the kitchen window, trying to remain unseen as she took in the scene out front of the house.

Harrow stood empty-handed, facing seven mounted fighters. Six wore the red and black chain mail of the Guardsmen. They carried spears, and short swords hung from their belts. Two had crossbows dangling from their saddles, loaded and within easy reach. The beefy men looked mean, menacing and deadly. Gwen had experienced their cruelty first-hand not so many days ago.

The seventh man wore a gold and black singlet over his armor bearing the silhouette of an evil-looking mastiff, fangs bared. Tall and powerfully built, The Hound held a magnificent longsword -- the silver blade seemed to sparkle in the early dawn sunlight. His expression conveyed a cool confidence doubtless built through years of experience and success. He pointed the tip of the blade at Harrow, and spoke in a booming cadence.

"You are charged with harboring a witch. You'll be tried by The Order and put to death if your guilt is proven. Take him!"

Two Guardsmen set their spears aside, dismounted, drew their swords, then advanced on Harrow. His foolish plan to talk his way out had failed. He'd surely be overcome, or killed if he resisted!

Gwen turned away from the window, desperate for a plan. If she ran, The Hound would sniff her out in no time -- she wouldn't get far on foot wearing only ill-fitting sandals and an over-sized tunic. There was no place to hide. And without the Bond, her magic was so weak as to be non-existent.

So she'd have to fight. She'd lose -- quickly, no doubt -- but every moment she delayed the Guardsmen was another moment Ana could use to escape. And who knows? Maybe the gods would favour her and she'd take one or two of the bastards down with her. Fewer for her daughter to deal with.

Gwen grabbed the iron poker next to the wood stove and hefted it, testing its weight. She took a steadying breath, uttered a quiet prayer, then charged out the front door, determined to go down fighting.

But the scene had changed.

Harrow stood, holding a short sword in his left hand, facing five mounted fighters. Two Guardsmen lay crumpled on the ground at his feet.

For a few moments, nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

"Name yourself," snarled The Hound.

"Harrow."

The Guardsmen glanced at one another, and it was easy to read the anxiety on their faces. The horses, perhaps sensing the nervousness, snorted and shifted restlessly. Even The Hound's eyes went wide, eyebrows raised, before quickly narrowing again.

"Not Harrow...of The Riders?" he said.

"Formerly." Harrow's voice was far too calm for the situation.

The Hound dismounted, his lips curling into a mocking smile as he faced them. He held the sword in his right hand as he took a step forward. Behind him, two Guardsmen readied their crossbows. This would get ugly.

"I never imagined I'd meet the infamous Rider Harrow. The Bane of Brighton. The Reaper of Comstock. The Scourge of the North Steppes."

Harrow didn't reply, didn't budge as The Hound took another step forward.

"It makes sense the witch would be in the company of a mercenary. Doubtless you were holding her here, keeping her safe until the bounty for her head went higher. A risky strategy. In the end, it was she who led us here." The Hound's voice was loud; his gloating words were meant to be heard by all.

Harrow remained still and silent.

The Hound came to a stop a dozen paces from Harrow, eyes locked on his adversary.

"In view of your long and distinguished service to the crown I will make you this one offer: surrender the witch, collect the bounty, and we will be on our way without further unpleasantness. I'll even overlook the assault of two Guardsmen, provided they aren't seriously hurt."

There was a long silence as Harrow considered.

"I propose this," he said at last, in an even tone. "You take the witch. You keep the gold. In return, you swear an oath on behalf of The Order to let her daughter go free. The girl is no threat to anyone, why not leave her be?"

His words turned Gwen cold. He was prepared to give her up in exchange for Ana's life? But...hadn't she done the same to Harrow -- given him up to The Hound to save her daughter? Regardless of the circumstances, she'd happily trade her own life for her baby's safety. In the end, the deal Harrow proposed was one she'd gladly accept...if The Order would agree.

The Hound spat on the ground between him and Harrow. "She murdered a slave boy in cold blood! In any case, to suffer even one witch to live is blasphemy. I find your offer repugnant and offensive."

Harrow tightened his grip on the sword and took a step forward, then another, steadily closing the distance between him and The Hound.

"I thought as much. I suppose I'll keep the witch. I'll take your gold. And I'll see to it you're no threat to the girl." His voice was scary -- calm, emotionless and certain. This was not the Harrow she knew.

"Better than you have tried," The Hound said, raising his splendid sword with his right hand while waving off the crossbows with his left. It was to be a duel, then.

A short one, as it turned out.

The Hound's first thrust was impossibly fast -- the blade of his sword glowed a pure, magical white light as it lunged toward Harrow's unprotected chest. Its aim was true, the speed of it more rapid than the eye could see.

But somehow it didn't connect. Instead, Harrow's short sword was buried in The Hound's chest down to the hilt.

Shielded by the upright body of the now-dead Hound, Harrow flicked a diamond-shaped knife-blade at one of the crossbow-men. The man cried out and toppled sideways from the saddle, landing in a heap on the ground.

It was only then that the other Guardsmen realized that the duel hadn't gone as expected and exchanged an uncertain glance.

And then the second crossbow-man dropped his weapon and slumped forward in the saddle, lifeless.

The final two Guardsmen spun their mounts around and spurred them into a full retreat. Harrow cast The Hound's body aside, scooped up a fallen crossbow and put a bolt between the shoulder blades of one of the fleeing men, dropping him. By the time the mercenary grabbed the second crossbow, the final Guardsman was out of range.