Bedding Down

A couple day's march carried us clear of the forest and into open country. Along the way, we reclaimed Vesper, my steed, from the farmhouse where we'd deposited him.

His caretaker, a graying man with a handlebar mustache and an unsteady gait, was having trouble getting him out of his stall. Apparently, it only took a few days reprieve from roadwork and drills to convince the stallion he was more suited to a pastoral existence.

"Let me have a word with him," I said, and pushed into the stables.

Hay crunched under-boot as I rounded into Vesper's stall. He'd been well-tended in my absence. A half-emptied bucket of crimson-red apples sat in the stall's corner.

I clicked my tongue, set my hands to my hips, and gave the beast a mock glare, "You think you’re a plow mule now, eh? Fat off apples and straw?"

Quick as a match-strike, his temperament turned. Zephyr's head tossed and his teeth came to bare.

His mouth had buckled a vambrace to my arm and I wasn't about to suffer that again. I cracked a hard elbow across his muzzle and backed him into a corner, "Let's not forget the chain of command."

With that, he let me slip his halter on. I tugged him firmly and he relented with a huff, following me out into the yard.

His coat shone midnight-blue under the sun. I pressed a silver into the caretaker’s palm, thanking him for his efforts, and swung up into the saddle.

Three mornings later the three of us were far from the farm, out in open fields. Vesper’s hooves clopped a steady beat on the dirt road, and Naughty rattled at my side like she always did. We had fallen into a simple rhythm, horse, blade, and knight driving west, a long road behind us and plenty more ahead.

My sword had grown restless, and made another attempt at ending our journey, "Another squire would just muck things up further. We could just forget that damn quest."

Her familiar rasp scratched in the ear like a tavern wench gossiping through a keyhole. She wasn't wrong. I held little fondness for the idea of training a squire, especially one I hadn't hand-picked. I already had a fickle destrier and a cock-addicted blade as my wards and they weren't making my work much easier.

However, there was some upside to the situation. First, I'd get to keep my word, and second, despite Naughty's outward ****, she thrilled at this sort of thing. Granting a foe's dying wish was the sort of dice throw that would get us into all sorts of nonsense. So far, the requests hadn't been this difficult. The last had been a simple call for **** that set us on our two-day manhunt through the woods. I'd likely have run those bandits down anyways, but the angered request of a dying merchant woman added a delicious angle to the chase.

Lastly, succeeding in one of these errands provided an additional boon to our operation. This came in the form of Naughty's elven gift. Each elf came into our world with its own unique trick and compulsion. Her compulsion, the last wishes, fueled the trick.

Naught's hidden talent, true to form, was all about breaking rules. She wasn't a proper sword; in a pinch she might push an extra few inches into a thrust or shorten to cleave right under an opponent's parry. While useful, these were minor tricks compared to what she'd pulled off against other elven armaments.

I placed my palm to her pommel and craned my neck into a satisfying pop. Naughty was being much too obvious, trying to dissuade me from the quest she'd urged me to take up.

"I've a reputation to maintain," I said and let out a yawn, then stretched long enough for my joints to click. The road was growing steep, a thin wind of earth climbing into the hills. I leaned forward and placed a hand on sweat-humid neck to steady myself. "Besides, I might enjoy a lass to keep my front warm in saddle."

Naught popped hard into my hand, a sliver of blade flashing in the sun, "You might ask if you get cold," her words came out hardened with offense.

"You're all cold-steel and sharp edges; I get enough of that from my plate." I prodded back at her as a grin wormed at my mouth's edges. "Besides, you're a quicker draw at my side."

She bucked hard and I pressed her back down into her sheath. She wailed, voice cracking and spurned, "I should drag you off this fucking horse! Gut you and let the crows feast!"

"And yet my cock would still wind up in another's belly, doesn't that defeat the purpose?"

Our bickering made good sport of the long hours, trading insults until the sun dropped and the road blurred into shadow. When the lamps of an inn rounded into view, our cheeks were half-sore from laughter and half from snarling.

The warmth of firelight and the promise of strong drink lured us in. In short order we were pressed into a narrow bed, limbs tangled and tongues exploring.

The tavern-hall on the floor below was still roaring raucous, and that cover was all the permission we needed to tear into each other. Naught kissed with razor-sharp teeth, each nip deep enough to make me gasp. She left a jagged trail of swollen bites down my chest and over the silk skin of my thighs. She lapped at the marks, savored what she was putting me through. "Yauughh-! " I cried, "-cut to the chase!"

A palm rose beneath my sack and cupped me, thumb and forefinger circling tight around its root. I loosed a shaking breath, my thighs tightening as her grip pulled me low. Then came her heat. Hot, wet, flesh closed around my tip and swallowed the first quarter of my shaft. The pillow‑soft walls of her mouth squeezed me from every side in a slick clutch.

I sunk into the sensation, let it become the whole of reality, a world of wet lightning. Then a trio of thunderous bangs shook the walls of our rented room. Naught startled and pressed her tongue into me but didn't release. My eyes shot open to the same flickering candlelight playing off the metallic pink of her rough-strewn hair. The muffled shouts of another Knight of the Round clamored from downstairs, "Where is she? Where's the bitch who dared ride my horse into stable?!"