The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (12 page)

Miro remembered one of the few pieces of advice Brandon had given him, "The smaller the glass, the stronger the drink."

He sceptically took the glass from the bigger man. Tuok clinked his glass against Miro’s and yelled "To your health!" into Miro’s ear.

"To yours!" Miro yelled back, following Tuok’s lead by tipping the glass into the back of his throat.

It was like fire, burning acid that tore at Miro’s throat as it wended its way painfully into his chest.

"Ahh," Tuok’s mouth moved in obvious satisfaction, as if sipping at a cold stream after ten days in the desert.

Miro began to choke but kept from obviously spluttering. He kept his face carefully calm as sweat beaded at his forehead.

"Very nice!" he shouted at Tuok.

"Well done, young lord." Tuok grinned back.

Tuok leaned in to speak into Miro’s ear. "How much money do you have?"

Miro felt into the pocket inside his jerkin. He carefully recounted. "Three deens and fifty-two cendeens."

"Good! Your round — ask for two large measures of Whitehaven."

Beginning to feel the effects of the drink, Miro grinned and turned to the bar, pleased to have an opportunity to look at the serving girl.

~

T
HE
first few drinks passed pleasurably. Tuok and Miro withdrew further into the back of the bar where they could speak more easily. It took some time but they were eventually able to beg two stools and seat themselves up against the wall where there was a thin shelf.

Miro asked Tuok when it came to his companion’s round to get him a mug of cherl. Tuok laughed and came back with a huge pitcher of a dark, almost black, beer, with a crest of white foam. Tuok bought himself the same.

"Try it! It’s called Rootslinger."

It looked and smelled awful.

Miro cautiously took a sip. It actually wasn’t bad. The white foam tasted creamy, almost milky, and the dark liquid was surprisingly sweet.

"Not bad!" Miro said.

"Get caught drinking cherl around these parts and you’ll be called a woodskin or worse!"

Miro laughed. He had no idea what it meant to be a woodskin but his head was buzzing and he felt warm.

The next drink was another beer, much lighter in colour and with a bitter, slightly sour taste. It was served with a rough chunk of lemon in the tankard.

They then drank a thin fluted glass of honeywine, sparkling like the foam churned up by the crystal clear waters of the Sarsen.

Three big men who obviously worked at the Gilded Remedy cleared a patch of floor raised slightly higher than the rest. Presently two sober-faced men arrived, bowed from the waist in the eastern manner, and sat down on two squat stools facing the crowd. One of the men carried an immensely long flute that rested its base on the ground, while the other carried an instrument with a single string. He lengthened and shortened the string using a series of clamps and levers, causing it to emit a high-pitched warble.

The crowd seemed to know many of the tunes, almost everyone making some kind of effort to tap along to the beat, whether it was stamping their feet on the ground, clapping their hands together, or thumping their tankards on the bar.

Miro smiled and clapped along with the rest, often missing the beat but laughing his way through the songs. He particularly enjoyed the trills and low notes of the flute, so different from the chiming music of Altura.

He noticed Tuok chatting amicably to a Tingaran, the man’s broad face and shaved head giving away his identity. Tuok seemed to be telling a story, both men pausing occasionally to laugh uproariously.

Then Miro’s attention was completely refocused when a weight landed on his lap. It was the brown-haired barmaid, undeniably pretty, with a twinkle in her green eyes. Miro fought valiantly to keep his gaze away from the cleavage displayed under his very eyes.

"Oh, my pardon, young sir."

"Quite all right," Miro said, with an attempt to sound gallant.

"I seem to have slipped. Hmm, it is comfortable here though, am I bothering you?"

Miro fought to keep his voice casual. "No, not at all."

She snuggled further into his lap, her round bottom resting close to his body. "Perhaps a drink then?"

"Ah, of course. A glass of honeywine would be nice."

She laughed — a soft, girlish, tinkling sound. Miro had never been happier. "No, silly. A drink for me?"

"Oh, I’m sorry."

She laughed again, leaning in to speak close to his ear, her sweet breath tickling him. "How much money do you have?"

He felt around in the inner pocket of his jerkin. "Umm. At least two deens."

"Good." She smiled. "My name’s Esmara."

"Esmara," said Miro. It was the loveliest name he had ever heard.

She waved at someone, Miro didn’t see who. Presently a thin man arrived, with white hair and a hooked nose. He looked Miro up and down, before handing Esmara two glasses of honeywine.

"Mmm," she said, taking a sip. "Aren’t you drinking yours?"

He hadn’t realised he was holding a glass. "Oh, of course." He took a sip, hardly tasting the drink. It felt warm in the bar, almost too warm. He felt like he needed fresh air; the smoke was irritating his eyes, but he didn’t want to move. Not with this wonderful creature so close.

"It’s good, isn’t it?" she said, smiling up at him. She leaned back into him as she watched the musicians. Cautiously Miro lifted his arm and awkwardly placed it over her lap. She smiled and firmly grabbed his arm, putting it around her waist. He could feel the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin beneath the thin material. Her bodice rose and fell with every breath. Miro’s heart raced, his breath growing short.

"You are not from around here?" Esmara said.

"Umm, no," said Miro. "I am of Raj Altura."

"An enchanter! How exciting!"

"No, no — nothing like that. I’m a soldier, here for the Chorum."

"Such a strong soldier too," she murmured, running her hand idly over his bicep. He blushed.

"I hope to become a bladesinger one day," Miro said. "I’m actually very good with a sword."

"I’m sure you are." She looked up at him, her lips parted. They were as red as rubies, glistening with moisture. He badly wanted to kiss her. What if he was a bad kisser?

"Ooh, tell me," she said. "Have you ever seen a zenblade? I hear they’re deadly."

"I’ve seen one, yes," he said. "I’ve never held one though."

"Oh, that’s a shame."

Esmara took his hand and surreptitiously slid it onto the skin of her stomach, under the material. Miro thought every person at the bar must be able to see what his hand was doing. He waited a moment, and then began to softly caress her bare skin. It was the smoothest thing he had ever felt. Esmara continued chatting pleasantly as if nothing was happening. Miro wondered how she could keep her composure.

"Our people think very favourably of Altura," she said.

He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than what his hand was doing.

"Really?"

"Of course, what would we do without nightlamps and heatplates? Prices are always high though. I hope whatever is happening at the Chorum makes prices go down. The Emperor said he was going to try to stop the
raja
from charging so much."

"Mmm," said Miro. His hand started to work its way higher. He could feel the underside of her breast, round and soft.

Suddenly Esmara sat up and Miro’s hand left the confines of her bodice. He tried not to show his disappointment.

Esmara turned so that she sat astride him, facing him now. She raised herself and leaned in to him, presenting her neck. Miro took the offer, kissing her gently on the neck. She smelled like flowers. Her hair cascaded over his own neck as he moved in close to her. She raised his face up, gently pressing her fingers under his chin.

Ever so slowly Esmara moved in close, her lips parted, hungry. Miro could wait no longer and moved forward to close the distance, his lips finally touching hers.

The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Esmara made a soft mewling sound, only perceptible to his hearing because he was so close to her. Her chest was pressed up against his, her breasts so close he could feel their firmness. Their lips parted, and then touched again. This time her mouth opened and he felt her tongue probing gently, trying to enter his mouth.

Esmara’s soft thighs were on either side of his waist. His mind lost in the pleasure of her taste, Miro started when he felt her hand grasp his, guiding it down, slipping it under her skirt.

As Esmara’s tongue moved inside his mouth, meeting his, Miro moved his hand along the inside of the bare skin of her thigh, tracing it upwards, ever further.

The sounds of the raucous music, the drink, the crowd, the smell of the girl, all combined headily. Miro felt dizzy, intoxicated.

He waited for her to tell him to stop, to make him remove his hand; she did nothing. He reached the apex of her thigh, feeling a soft flimsy material covering her. He broke the kiss, looking into her eyes, seeing if she would let him continue his approach.

With a soft moan she pushed her body closer into him, kissing him hungrily.

Miro began to gently rub her outside the material. He hoped the motion of his hand under her short skirt wouldn’t be visible, that their bodies pressed together would hide it. She felt heavenly, hot. He could swear he could feel moisture building up on the silky cloth. She kissed him with abandon. Miro forgot where they were, forgot everything.

With final daring he slid his hand slowly inside her underwear, pulling it to the side to give his hand access. His breath was running ragged, his heart beating like he was in a fight to the death. Miro’s tongue twirled against hers; she tasted sweet like honey, her mouth moist. His hand moving ever so gradually, he first felt silky hair, the softest hair he had ever touched. She moaned against him, bucking slightly, daring his hand to go further.

He slid one finger further, and suddenly felt an incredible wetness, hot and soft. The folds of her innermost being sucked at his finger; it slid in all the way. Her breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Miro slid in a second finger. He started to move them both back and forth.

Esmara broke their kissing, leaning in to whisper in Miro’s ear.

"We need to go upstairs, I have a room."

"Yes," he croaked.

She gathered herself, and then slid off his lap. He quickly sat up, not willing to glance around the crowded room for fear someone would meet his gaze. Esmara took Miro’s hand and led him to the very back of the room, where a small set of stairs led upwards.

He watched the swing of her skirt, the curve of her round bottom as she walked up the stairs, thanking the Lord of the Sky, or the Eternal, or whoever would listen for his luck.

Esmara turned when she was at the top of the stairs and offered him a wicked grin, taking his hand and holding it tightly. He boldly wrapped his other arm around her waist, giving her a kiss on the neck. She squealed with pleasure.

"It’s this room here," she said.

He followed her into a sparse room, furnished only with a nightlamp on a small stand and a large bed.

No sooner had he entered the room when she closed the door behind him and pushed him, hard. Miro fell onto the bed, laughing and turning over. His laughter stopped dead when she began to untie the cords holding her bodice tied at the front. She loosed the strings one by one, and then untied the cords at the back.

Miro watched, transfixed. In one move Esmara slipped the garment up and over her head and was standing in front of him, wearing only a skirt. Her breasts were young and firm, smaller than he had thought because of the way the bodice had pressed them together. Her long brown hair curled down to spill over her rosy nipples. She cupped her hands under her breasts, smiling suggestively.

"Do you like them?" she said.

"Yes," Miro croaked. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Very much."

"I like it that you like them."

Esmara began to sway her hips to unheard music. Miro watched, mesmerized by the way the movement of her body emphasised the femaleness of her figure, her curves.

Esmara’s skirt fastened at the side, and Miro’s breath caught as she undid the buttons. She was obviously enjoying displaying her body, seeing his reaction.

The skirt fell to the floor. Esmara was left standing in nothing but her underwear, a flimsy piece of pink material. Miro’s eyes ran up her legs, above her knees, to the soft white thighs, the round curve of her hips, her flat stomach.

"You are the most beautiful girl in the world," he said.

Esmara simply smiled. She sat down next to him on the bed and quickly undressed him. Miro felt awkward and ungainly in her presence. He couldn’t hide his arousal.

"Sorry," he said, with a light chuckle.

"It’s a compliment," Esmara said.

Miro laid her down on her back and once more looked over her body, not leaving a single detail. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. At times she seemed so young, so fresh, and so fragile. Other times she seemed to be much wiser than him.

Miro slowly pulled down her silken undergarment. Esmara raised her hips, and finally she was completely naked. She blushed when she saw how intently he was looking at her.

"You’re just so beautiful," was his only response.

Miro ran his fingers over the infinitely soft hair under her belly, then down, over the mound and into her cleft. Her legs parted as he once more began to stroke her, this time watching as his fingers moved over and inside her.

Suddenly Miro could stand no more. She cried out as he lifted her knees and thrust himself into her. The moment stretched out, the pleasure absolute.

10

Do you have a permit for that tree? I’m sorry, but you can’t move it there without a permit.

— Veznan official, 476 Y.E.

M
IRO
frowned when Tuok started clapping. He couldn’t blame the man; he must look a sight — still in the last night’s clothing, arriving back to the market house after noon.