Read Online Wartorn: Resurrection by Robert Asprin, Eric Del Carlo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Asprin, Eric Del Carlo
Tags: Fiction, General, Grief, sf_fantasy, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Epic, Fantasy Fiction; American, Revenge, War stories, Magicians, Weapons, Adventure fiction, Warlords, Imaginary empires
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asked me to see if you would give him his nose back."
"I dropped it in there. There's a hole in the floor, and it doesn't smell good down there."
"Well, Noseless Solly isn't such a bad moniker."
"Are we going to fight, fuck, or are you going to show me that face, you've been hiding and explain what you want from me?"
She smiled, that same disquieting expression.
He raised his hands, rolled the cowl off his face, and returned the smile. His was quite disarming. His face was what women would call rugged, not handsome. They stared a moment.
The moment lingered.
THE RUGGEDNESS OF his features, which offered soft bewitching blue eyes among hard planes and heavy bones, extended to his body as well. A solid physique, lean but wiry. Snaky muscles that coiled. Dueler's scars on the upper arms. Roughened hands.
Radstac liked how those rough hands handled her. She liked that Deo—so he gave her for his name—enjoyed being handled back. Males who imagined they were the unquestioned orchestrators of sex were the most tedious of partners ... unless they changed their attitudes under her not especially gentle ministrations.
Deo had brought her to this opulent room. Carpeted floors, frivolous and costly looking art on the walls. A monstrously big bed. They had made use of its entire surface.
He wasn't, evidently, a postcoital cuddler. She was glad of that. Being nuzzled and having useless declarations murmured at her once the event had... uncorked—so the
expression went—was irritating enough sometimes to cancel out the pleasure of the whole incident.
Neither, though, was Deo one of those that fled the scene immediately afterward—or, in this case, one that would evict her without delay. Instead, he climbed from the bed, stretched his naked body, pulling taut muscles even tighter, and padded over pale carpeting to a circular stone table where several colored bottles stood.
"What would make you happy?" His fingers lifted a varnished wood cup.
"Water."
He didn't give her a look, poured it, poured something dark purple for himself, and returned to the bed.
She took the cup and swallowed. She guessed him to be about her age, just at the start of his fourth tenwinter. His years hadn't been pampered; so his body attested. This room pointed to wealth, but he wasn't swollen and lazy. Wasn't like those wretched merchants in the pub, too afraid to even consider the possibility that their comfortable positions might be in jeopardy.
Deo had spoken against that one merchant, the one with the face hair. Well, maybe hadn't spoken
against;
more, he had acknowledged the legitimacy of the war news from the north. She had learned in that pub that Petgrad's military, despite the threat of the Felk, hadn't even been mobilized. Apparently this whole city was under a spell of obliviousness. It was infuriating, not the least because it was going to make it hard for her to find work here. She might have to push on farther north.
"Do you object to the word
mercenary
... or should I find another?" Deo asked.
"It's a perfectly fine word. I can never get
sell-sword
past my lips without lisping it."
He drank. She could smell it. Something alcoholic, but it didn't reek; an undertone of berries to it.
"You've seen more than one campaign."
"And you've outlived a duel or two."
He looked at her scars; some were more dramatic than others. She looked at his, tiny white stripes across his sleek, hard arms. She never minded anyone looking. Some got terribly aroused by the sight of her mistreated flesh. Once one of this particular ilk had turned dangerous. He would never be so again.
Her clothes—everything, armor, boots, her leather glove and its hooks—were scattered from the doorway to the foot of the bed, along with Deo's cowl and underclothing. No weapons in reach. This didn't bother her.
Staying here in the city would be the safe thing to do. That was an article of her personal code, the rules she had devised, the rules that her particular
"I dropped it in there. There's a hole in the floor, and it doesn't smell good down there."
"Well, Noseless Solly isn't such a bad moniker."
"Are we going to fight, fuck, or are you going to show me that face, you've been hiding and explain what you want from me?"
She smiled, that same disquieting expression.
He raised his hands, rolled the cowl off his face, and returned the smile. His was quite disarming. His face was what women would call rugged, not handsome. They stared a moment.
The moment lingered.
THE RUGGEDNESS OF his features, which offered soft bewitching blue eyes among hard planes and heavy bones, extended to his body as well. A solid physique, lean but wiry. Snaky muscles that coiled. Dueler's scars on the upper arms. Roughened hands.
Radstac liked how those rough hands handled her. She liked that Deo—so he gave her for his name—enjoyed being handled back. Males who imagined they were the unquestioned orchestrators of sex were the most tedious of partners ... unless they changed their attitudes under her not especially gentle ministrations.
Deo had brought her to this opulent room. Carpeted floors, frivolous and costly looking art on the walls. A monstrously big bed. They had made use of its entire surface.
He wasn't, evidently, a postcoital cuddler. She was glad of that. Being nuzzled and having useless declarations murmured at her once the event had... uncorked—so the
expression went—was irritating enough sometimes to cancel out the pleasure of the whole incident.
Neither, though, was Deo one of those that fled the scene immediately afterward—or, in this case, one that would evict her without delay. Instead, he climbed from the bed, stretched his naked body, pulling taut muscles even tighter, and padded over pale carpeting to a circular stone table where several colored bottles stood.
"What would make you happy?" His fingers lifted a varnished wood cup.
"Water."
He didn't give her a look, poured it, poured something dark purple for himself, and returned to the bed.
She took the cup and swallowed. She guessed him to be about her age, just at the start of his fourth tenwinter. His years hadn't been pampered; so his body attested. This room pointed to wealth, but he wasn't swollen and lazy. Wasn't like those wretched merchants in the pub, too afraid to even consider the possibility that their comfortable positions might be in jeopardy.
Deo had spoken against that one merchant, the one with the face hair. Well, maybe hadn't spoken
against;
more, he had acknowledged the legitimacy of the war news from the north. She had learned in that pub that Petgrad's military, despite the threat of the Felk, hadn't even been mobilized. Apparently this whole city was under a spell of obliviousness. It was infuriating, not the least because it was going to make it hard for her to find work here. She might have to push on farther north.
"Do you object to the word
mercenary
... or should I find another?" Deo asked.
"It's a perfectly fine word. I can never get
sell-sword
past my lips without lisping it."
He drank. She could smell it. Something alcoholic, but it didn't reek; an undertone of berries to it.
"You've seen more than one campaign."
"And you've outlived a duel or two."
He looked at her scars; some were more dramatic than others. She looked at his, tiny white stripes across his sleek, hard arms. She never minded anyone looking. Some got terribly aroused by the sight of her mistreated flesh. Once one of this particular ilk had turned dangerous. He would never be so again.
Her clothes—everything, armor, boots, her leather glove and its hooks—were scattered from the doorway to the foot of the bed, along with Deo's cowl and underclothing. No weapons in reach. This didn't bother her.
Staying here in the city would be the safe thing to do. That was an article of her personal code, the rules she had devised, the rules that her particular
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