Found and Lost

Stormclouds Gathering


Tarek saw her out of the corner of his eye. It was raining heavily; the drops almost sleet. The cold reminded him how close was winter and how near the prospect of spending another season in Sulston. He grimaced to himself in the shelter of the tavern porch. Through the door, he could hear the shouts and curses of the rowdies as they bet on the latest bout.

The streets were nearly deserted. The combination of the late hour and the weather kept even the whores inside. That was why he noticed her as she slid out of an alley. Nothing else moved. The hobgoblin eased back into the shadows to watch though the slight woman showed no sign of noticing him. She was concentrating on staying upright while she traversed Dog Road to the alley between the pawnshop and the bakery.

Despite the chill, she wore no cloak only a thin gown plastered to her skin by the rain. Her hair was a peculiar shade of deep red that was black in shadow but sparkled ruby in the light from the pawnbroker’s lantern. Tarek stiffened when he saw the gemlike shimmer for he recognised what it meant. She got as far as the mouth of the alley and collapsed behind an empty keg.

He waited for her to move again but was not surprised when the fourth watch bell rang with no sign of the female shifting. The sell-sword finished his ale, set the mug on the windowsill and crossed the road to investigate. Tarek made it look as though he ducked into the alley to answer a call of nature out of habit of discretion. It was not good to be curious in Sulston.

She had tucked herself against the wall, her head resting on the brickwork and her arms wrapped around her knees. Tarek crouched to check the pulse at her neck. She was not dead yet but with her pallor she could pass for a corpse, which was what she would be if he left her there. The cold or a gutter rat’s knife would finish her without doubt. Her fate was in his hands as the poets said.

The mercenary looked her over critically. Her dress was expensive but too large; the bodice gaped at the neck to reveal a yellowing bruise. There were abrasions around her wrists crusted with dried blood. She was clean and smelled faintly of incense, which did not tally with the signs of imprisonment. New blood stained one sleeve though the rain had almost rinsed it clean.

He pushed up the stained sleeve to check for a wound but her forearm was smooth and unmarked. Her neat fingernails on that hand were dirty. Tarek nodded slightly to himself, seeing a picture. She had fought and drawn blood then escaped. Weakened from captivity she could not have travelled far. The sell-sword considered the neighbourhood speculatively.

There were two high-class brothels on the Avenue of Jongleurs, which ran parallel to Dog Road. Only four streets stood between them. Both the establishments bought exotic beauties with which to ply their customers. Not all the girls came willingly. Tarek traced a finger along the line of her ear to the sharply pointed tip. Someone had probably paid a pretty penny for a pure blood elf.

That decided him. The hobgoblin slung her over his shoulder and headed down the alley away from the tavern. Tarek pulled his cloak closed before he emerged into the street. He was broad enough across the shoulders not to look too misshapen with his concealed burden. Though not far from his lodgings, he took the long way to ensure no one followed. People would be looking for her soon if they were not searching already.

The sell-sword rented a room in a boarding house run by a retired pirate. The landlord did not care what his lodgers did so long as there were no bodies left on his premises for the Watch to find. He never latched the back door, which allowed Tarek to slip inside without ceremony. Upstairs to the first room on the right and he was as safe from prying eyes as he could be in Sulston.

His room was not large for he was frugal with his coin. A bed, a sea chest and a curtain in the corner that served as a closet was all he got for two suns a week. The mercenary put his unconscious guest on the bed then hung up his sopping cloak on a hook by the door, which he relocked. This done, Tarek was at leisure to inspect the elf more thoroughly.

Her gown was silk and showed little signs of wear. He hung it up next to his cloak to dry. Underneath, she wore nothing, not even the dainties affected by women of light repute. She was undamaged beyond the abrasions and a few old bruises. There were odd inky smudges like script on her belly, which he could not decipher. Tarek bathed her wrists then tucked her under the blankets.

Now he had her, he was not certain what he wanted to do with her. The mercenary sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. The obvious choice was to enjoy her body while he had the chance. Few males of his occupation or race would hesitate. She owed him for her rescue and if she was on the run, she could hardly go to the Watch and complain afterwards.

It would be easy to take her, doubtless very pleasant and Tarek had not enjoyed a woman for a while. He pulled off his leather tunic then rolled his shoulders. When else would he have the opportunity to mate with an elf? Her people did not often take lovers outside their race and certainly not with hobgoblins, whom they detested. His people would expect him to assert his dominance and bed her as his right.

Tarek tossed his tunic and shirt onto the sea chest and swore feelingly. He had never lain with an unwilling woman. There were many things he regretted and many things he should have regretted but he had never taken a female, any female, by force. The sell-sword looked at the unconscious elf, thinking of her bruises. He was surely not the first to look upon her with lust.

She had fought. The thought returned to him as he studied her delicate face. She was not a sturdy woman like the female mercenaries with whom he had worked. Not all of them had been towering amazons but they had a sense of toughness about them ingrained from their work. Elves traditionally spent their time reading books and toying with magic, neither occupation likely to prepare them for violence.

The hobgoblin grimaced to himself as he pulled off his leggings. Many people had called him a fool and it seemed he proved them right with this dilemma. He tucked himself into bed for it was too cold to sleep on the floor. Tarek knew he would pay for it in the morning whatever he did. However, he had spent his life making his own decisions.

Curling himself around the elf, the sell-sword savoured the sensation of her skin on his. She was icy to the touch but soon warmed with the heat of his body. The analogy was not lost on the hobgoblin. The elf let out a sigh and stirred in his arms. Tarek lay still wondering if she was waking. She snuggled against him apparently at ease with his presence.

Willing to chance his luck, he ran a hand slowly down her body. She was soft and her flesh reacted to his touch. Tarek let himself explore her while he watched her face for a response. How much she was aware of her situation he did not know but she certainly felt his ministrations and they pleased her. The sell-sword was in no hurry. Using all the tricks he had learned from camp followers, he soon had her moaning under his hands.

Tarek entered her slowly trying to savour every moment. The elf writhed beneath him and wrapped her legs around his hips. She murmured in the throes of her dreams, gasping out words in her own language. What she said, he did not understand but she moved in time with him and soon it was he who was moaning as his pleasure built. Her back arched and as she cried out her eyes fluttered open.

The hobgoblin was too far gone to stop even if he wanted to and besides he had her pinned to the bed so she could not wriggle free. Her hands clenched on his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin to draw blood but Tarek could feel nothing beyond the pleasure of her flesh and the sensation of his seed rising. Their gaze met as he emptied himself into her but her eyes were blank.