A TIME FOR THIEVES

Eric Del Carlo

A damned quest was the last thing Keane had expected. A mere two weeks prior, he had sat rotting in the slimy stone hollow of his lord’s most despicable dungeon, where conditions were so appalling the guards didn’t even bother torturing you. Now, one conditional reprieve later, Keane had set out with a band of semi-deranged misfits and hot-tempered killers, all assembled for this most impossible assignment: raid the treasure room of a fellow lord’s neighboring castle.

Britannia was an island of madmen. It would be better to have the damned Romans back, like in Keane’s grandfather’s time.

The lord under whom Keane lived wanted more wealth to add to his already gluttonous riches. So be it, Keane had thought when the offer to join the quest had come. He was a skilled thief, although those talents hadn’t kept him from getting caught on his last job. Actually, it had been his partner who had betrayed him. Keane should have listened to his instincts before that adventure: never trust another thief. For three months in the suffocating horror of the dungeon, he had contemplated his error. And what had come of that? Here he was, again working with criminals.

On this perilous journey, their company had slogged across moors, fought cold and disease, even battled a party of pirates who had tried to board their boat as the group made the crossing of a lake. Keane found it strange how quickly the relief of open sky and the illusion of freedom had given way to the grumbling discomfort of crossing vast stretches of hostile territory. More than once he’d had to stop himself from thinking fondly of his foul little cell, where no one demanded anything of him.

But this freedom was indeed illusion. Neither he nor any of the other temporarily released prisoners assembled for this mission were free. Four members of the king’s elite guard had come along on this mad venture, and it was the duty of these expert soldiers to keep any of the criminals from trying to sneak off. Already they had caught one and had made an example of him, hacking off his head while all were made to watch.

“Get to sleep, you lot,” said the captain of the guard, surveying the little camp they’d erected for the night. “Tomorrow we’ll be in sight of the castle keep; then the fun really begins.” The captain grinned maliciously.

Keane, huddled on his bedroll under the stars, felt his desperation rising. The company was expected to infiltrate that forbidding keep, to use all their talents to bring out as much gold and jewels as they could. A job of thievery. But, very likely, an impossible one. The castle was too secure, the rival lord too cunning, the treasure room too well guarded.

He fought to sleep, which was a losing struggle. It had always been thus for Keane on the night before a job, even when he was a boy. Now he was a man, firm of body, his dark hair tangled and long. He didn’t wish to return to the dungeon, but he doubted he would survive this adventure.

Above, the sky blackened as clouds moved in, robbing the stars themselves. Around him, Keane heard the snores and murmurs of his fellows, evidently finding sleep more easily than he. The guards were not anywhere in sight, though by now the darkness was nearly total.

Sweat pasted his leather shirt to his muscled chest. His blood pounded in his ears. Slowly he rose onto an elbow, looking over the camp. Just enough moonlight bled through the cloud cover to show him the mounds of the sleepers. Their guards were watching this small encampment in the field. There were four of the elite. If only one was assigned as lookout, maybe he would not be paying too close attention. Guards nodded off. It happened, even to experienced soldiers.

Keane let the meager shred of hope overtake him. As if obeying another’s will, he slipped from his bedroll onto a thief’s silent feet. Step by step he moved, crouching, imagining himself a shadow, something that couldn’t even disturb the air. He went soundlessly, without even the tiniest crunch of a muffled footfall. He threaded the scattered sleepers, alerting no one.

Escape. True freedom. He would simply disappear, find some other place to live his life, away from his lord’s influence. Perhaps he would even give up thieving! The thought made him energetic, almost giddy, and for several instants after entertaining it, he almost believed he could do it. Take up some legitimate trade, become respectable—

“Nice night for a stroll.”

It was the finest of whispers, one that somehow cut through the dark, aimed straight for Keane. He froze, well beyond the camp’s edge by now. He realized he had let himself think ahead, past the moment. Hope was dangerous. A thief should know better.

But it had been foolish—ludicrous—to imagine he could get away. Now he had to deal with the consequences. The first, best way to do that was to lie.

Still not seeing the member of the guard who’d spoken in the darkness, Keane said, “Got to take a piss. Don’t want to do it in the camp.”

“You’re far enough,” said the voice, calm, measured— perhaps a little amused? “Go where you’re standing.”

Deception was a staple of the thief’s trade, as Keane well knew. The only problem with lying was getting caught at it. Though his bladder was quite empty, he undid his breeches, hoping he could produce a few errant drops.

Straining, feet splayed and himself in hand, Keane felt fear. He had seen the hopeful escapee executed a few days ago. And there was that damned word again: hope. Still struggling to urinate, he now saw the ghost of movement on his left. A figure was drifting into view from the high grass at the field’s brim. The guard was allowing himself to be seen, Keane knew. How quietly he glided, the long fronds not even whispering against the long, taut legs.

This soldier was not the captain, of course, who wouldn’t give himself the duty of guarding the camp. Rather, the figure was the strangest looking one in the bunch, with wan skin and delicate features. Hair as long as Keane’s own spilled onto tight high shoulders, the color a downy white where Keane’s was consumingly black. Even the man’s eyes were odd, a pink that was unnatural. He had probably been assigned to this detail to keep the paroled prisoners frightened. Some among the company thought him a witch.

“Well, if you’re not going to have that piss,” the guard murmured, the soft trill of amusement now definitely present in that voice, “then what did you plan to do with…that?”

Keane still had himself in hand. But now, it seemed, his cock had begun to thicken. It was due to the presence of this person. Keane realized that from almost this journey’s outset he had been eyeing the faerie-like man, entertaining secret lascivious thoughts. His bizarre appearance intrigued and aroused Keane. Surely a quest was no place for romance, but the mounting tension of this perilous venture had gotten to him and was at last expressing itself as outright lust.

He met the guard’s eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he played his fingers up and down his swelling shaft. The night, though overcast, was warm. He asked, “What would you have me do?”

White teeth appeared between fine lips as the male grinned at him. Keane smiled back. His excitement rose.

“Come here,” came the whisper, which was huskier now.

Keane spared a glance behind, but nothing stirred in the camp. Surely this soldier was the only one on guard duty; the others needed to sleep. Keane crept forward, leaving his breeches unfastened, his still hardening manhood dangling. This was better than feeling afraid, he decided. His flesh tingled in anticipation.

He slipped in among the high grass, the soft blades shushing around his body. The guard waited for him. He wore the royal uniform, now quite stained by travel. His sword belt hung about a narrow waist. The weapon in its sheath had a dark grooved hilt, a lone pale stone set into the pommel.

Keane found his breath coming raggedly. The elfin skin and hair seemed to emit their own soft light. He was so beautiful in his unnaturalness, Keane thought, seeing clearly the planes of his features, the point of his chin, the glimmering pinkness of his eyes.

“What,” Keane asked again, now standing close to the guard, “would you have me do?” With his fist he was pumping his fully erect cock in earnest now. If need be, he would bring himself to climax for this soldier’s amusement. He would, he realized suddenly, do anything that was asked of him. The rising wave of lust was powerful, overwhelming. As desperate as he had been to escape a few moments ago, he was now that bent on pleasing this individual.

The pink eyes were steady, but Keane saw the glint of a deep heat there. The guard said, “Take off those clothes.”

The dark grass stood up about their shoulders. Quickly, Keane dropped his breeches, stepping out of his boots. The air felt good on his sore feet. He wrestled the leather shirt up over his head. A gentle night breeze stirred the field, and expectant gooseflesh stood out all over his body. His cock throbbed now, a dewdrop glistening at its tip. Normally, he didn’t conduct his sexual activities in this manner. But he’d been three months in that dungeon’s fetid bowels, and the stress of this quest had transformed his usual carnal responses out of all proportion.

That or he just really wanted to fuck this lovely white-haired male.

The guard was still grinning. With one hand he loosened a catch on his uniform trousers and reached within. His other hand rested atop his sword’s pommel. Keane understood the gesture; they were about to become lovers, but the lord’s soldier would not trust him. That suited Keane. He didn’t want to be trusted.

“Take this in your mouth,” the soldier said, drawing a pale, stiffening cock into the faint moonglow. But Keane, not needing the prompt, was already kneeling. A great hunger took hold of him. It was better than hope; it was something he could immediately satisfy.

His bare knees sank among the grass and he beheld the glorious cock at eye level. Its creamy length was offset by the rosy blush of the swollen head. Hand shaking slightly, Keane took gentle hold of the base of the cock, feeling the testicles stir against his knuckles. He traced the underside vein with the nail of his thumb, and the member twitched. Keane opened his mouth, let his head slide forward.

His lips enclosed the cockhead, and the familiar masculine flavor spread through his mouth. It was like the shock of hot food after a strenuous day. He felt his whole body snap, naked limbs rustling the fronds, his own cock quivering, dripping another bead of anticipatory fluid.

Somewhere above, a soft grunt of pleasure sounded. The thick fabric of the uniform trousers brushed Keane’s bare skin as he sank the ring of his lips farther along the straining shaft. The guard had surged into full hardness. Keane swallowed him fearlessly, the crown of the cock now slipping into his throat. He sank his cheeks around the intruding staff, his tongue exploring the smaller erratic veins that lined it.

Keane worked his mouth down to the cock’s hilt until his forehead pressed against the taut, flat belly. Anybody could do as the soldier had instructed—take a cock in one’s mouth—but it required someone who genuinely relished the act to devour one so completely. Keane felt the strange frantic urge to prove himself to this male.

His mouth rose and fell now, slowly at first, demonstrating his prowess—showing off. With each plunge, he took the whole of the rigid staff. He shifted his hand to softly cup the guard’s balls now, fondling the pouch.

After a moment, Keane picked up the tempo. The scent and taste of this luscious cock now suffused him, as if its innate masculinity were pouring through every part of his being. He closed his eyes. He let his neck muscles take over. He heard the quiet tight slurps of his mouth. He anticipated the inevitable jetting of this organ and wanted that ultimate flavor more than anything just now.

The guard was shifting his stance, fidgeting about. Fabric rustled. It took Keane another moment before he opened his eyes, looking up through a kind of carnal haze to see that his lover had somehow managed to shed his clothing without breaking contact with Keane’s mouth. Pale flesh glimmered, the body lean and firm. He retained only the sword belt, one hand still caressing the pale stone of the pommel.

With his other hand, he grasped Keane’s dark tangled hair. He started to thrust himself against every downward plummet of Keane’s mouth. Soon, they fell into a productive rhythm. Keane accepted each lunge, his throat already delightfully raw. Somehow, they were managing to stay quiet, their movements and moans no louder than the stray breezes grazing the night.

By now, their congress was as frenzied and focused as the plunges of an oar into the lake. Keane’s mouth rode the guard’s cock, lips sealed around the pulsing shaft. The pale-skinned man thrust at Keane’s face, long fingers clutching his dark mass of hair. Keane felt the balls in his grip tighten, and an instant later the hot salty fluid started to flow.

Eagerly, he swallowed every spurt, the heady taste of male rapture inundating him. As he often had in the past, Keane felt a keen pride at what he had accomplished. This joy belonged to him. He had created it for this other person. His mouth had worked the simple sexual miracle.

The guard’s grip eased and the fingers slid from his hair. The soldier retreated a half step, slipping his slowly wilting cock from Keane’s lips. Keane rocked back on his haunches, his own manhood still painfully hard. He savored the guard’s flavor, catching a stray drip on his fingertip that had found its way from the corner of his mouth. He looked up, smiling.

The pale man was such a beauty. Here he stood, naked but for the sheathed sword and the belt cinching his slim waist, like some mad erotic dream of a warrior. His white flesh still seemed to glow.

Keane continued looking up dreamily at the male he had just fellated. With a suddenness of movement that didn’t even allow time to blink, the soldier swept his sword from its scabbard with barely a rasp of steel. Abruptly, the long blade gleamed in the night. The elf-like male held the weapon with a perfect control. The metal length didn’t waver as he pointed it toward Keane.

He is going to behead me, Keane thought, the realization so immediate and dire that he could attach no emotion to it. But he was wrong. For one, the member of the lord’s elite could have taken off his head in the same motion as the drawing of the sword. For another, the man told him, “You’re going to fuck my ass, boy. But I have to make certain you don’t run away while I’m on hands and knees. Try it, and I’ll swivel round and gut you.”

With that, the guard turned away, kneeling in the high grass. He laid the unsheathed sword on the ground, near his fighting hand, and offered up his sculpted, pale ass.

It was still like something culled from a dream. Keane moved in behind the man. He looked down in dazed wonder at what was being presented to him. His own body streamed with need, his nerves twanging and buzzing. Almost reverently, he laid his hands to the perfect backside, cupping the twin hemispheres. Keane’s cock quivered, ready to perform the ultimate impalement.

But practical matters first. With his tongue still slick with the guard’s semen, he lowered his head and lapped at the pearly hole, spearing inside, wetting the entrance. The soldier, on hands and knees, wriggled a little, already pushing back against the intrusion, driving Keane’s tongue deeper inside.

He spent perhaps a moment longer than necessary slurping at the sweet entryway. Then he rose and fitted the distended head of his cock to the pale ass. The firm but pliant ring took him in, spreading over Keane’s cockhead, swallowing him, drawing him farther inside the waiting canal. He eased in, thrilling at the enclosing heat. He set his hands to the narrow hips, fingers slipping over the bones as neatly as a hand would fit the grooves on the soldier’s sword handle.

Keane was still easing inside when the guard’s white-haired head turned and pink eyes pierced him. Fine lips peeled back from his teeth. “Hurry, boy!” he whispered fiercely. “How much time do you think we’ve got?”

It snapped Keane back to the reality of this incredible situation. They were two males—enemies, essentially—grabbing a fast fuck in the grass while one of them was on duty and the other was supposed to be sleeping. If the other members of the guard happened upon this scene, God, if the captain came along—

But they were all, hopefully, asleep in their own little encampment adjacent to this field. Still, there was no time to waste. Keane set about plunging his cock into his lover’s ass. The grip of the channel was exquisite. He watched his straining length disappear again and again into the willing hole. The belt and empty scabbard still hung about the soldier’s boyishly trim waist. He had turned his head away, his long colorless hair spilling across his high shoulders. His pronounced spine flexed among the flat muscles along his back. His ass shivered as Keane thrust into him.

Again, he increased the tempo. The soft pats of Keane’s balls against the soldier’s backside quickened. Pleasure welled through him, its intensity almost painful. The improbability of this scenario only added to the excitement. Maybe the last thing he’d expected on this quest was the chance to fuck one of the guards—and this one in particular, this lovely male with the thin, pale form.

The guard’s head whipped from side to side, all the muscles of his body clenching. Keane felt that tightness. He realized that the man was jetting a second time on the ground. In that same instant, he felt his own first wrenches of joy. Hot fluid erupted, seeding the soldier’s ass. The bliss clawed across Keane’s bare body, and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep from crying out.

All around, the dim night flared for him, lighting up with a radiant paleness, as though his lover’s strange flesh had, for that moment, become his whole world.

He did not try to escape. The guard, therefore, didn’t need to gut him with his sword. The two men remained still a moment, and then disengaged. They stood and dressed, their movements silent. Nothing stirred from the camp but the snores and mutters of exhausted travelers.

Before he returned to his bedroll, Keane put a hand to the guard’s arm and asked, “What is your name?”

He might not have answered. The sex might have been their only intimacy, and once done, the soldier could have regarded him with contempt, as if the act had been meaningless. But the eyes beheld him, and there was a warmth within the pink depths. “I am Digby,” he said.

Keane kissed him, gently, on the lips. Then he returned to the camp and Digby resumed his watching. Tomorrow, so the captain had said, they would come within sight of the keep of the rival lord. Also within sight would be the end of this crazy quest, which would no doubt mean death for most, if not all, of this criminal company.

Air burning in his lungs, the pain searing his muscular chest, Keane staggered onward. He was a creature of exhausted instinct by now, dripping with sweat and blood. His sight was awash with frantic white motes, and lifting each foot for another forward stride required a titanic effort.

Yet, he still clutched the prize. His hands remained locked about the handle of the treasure box.

They had succeeded. Keane had reached the special chamber at the end of a labyrinth of corridors, all of it tremendously disorienting. He had slain the final guardian, snapping the man’s neck. The rival lord’s soldiers were good ones, but they weren’t prepared, it seemed, for the work of professional thieves. The band of criminals had studied the castle from without for a full day, over the protests of the elite guard’s captain. He had wanted them to have at the place immediately, probably with an eye toward getting this impossible task over with.

Instead of failure, however, they’d achieved success! The giddy thought swirled in Keane’s head as he stumbled on, feet falling on rocky terrain now. He had somehow gotten past the outer wall.

With the weighty chest in his hands, he took another fumbling step, then his nerveless legs simply gave out. He dropped heavily, falling onto his side. He would not let go of the ornate metal box, no matter what, not even if the members of the rival lord’s army—any that were still alive—came in pursuit. There had been more treasure in that secret room, but this was the best of it. He had seen inside the chest, the coins of every size, jewels in a sea of colors.

He was still lying there, gradually growing aware of the sunlight and the sounds of birds, when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the turf. The passageways of the keep had run with blood. His fellow thieves had done their jobs, whether or not any of them had lived. Their reprieve from their penal sentences had always been conditional: they had to succeed at this quest and they had to survive it. Maybe none of them had done that. Maybe only Keane. And now someone was coming.

“Somehow, I knew it would be you.”

Keane’s eyes were open, but he was only now starting to see again.

“Digby…”

The pale man knelt beside him, his sword undrawn. He reached out, but not to take the treasure box; rather, to smooth back the damp hair from Keane’s brow. The soldier offered a tender smile.

“Are you injured?”

“I…” Keane drew several breaths. The burning had eased somewhat. “I don’t know.”

“I think you would know,” Digby said. Strong hands cradled Keane’s shoulders, bringing him up into a sitting position. Keane blinked dazedly. The smoking keep stood some distance away across a swath of stony ground. No one from their company was nearby, nor any of the rival soldiers.

Neither were any others of Keane’s lord’s guard within view. Had they been sent to look for survivors? Would the captain even bother what that, Keane wondered?

“Now we can go,” Digby said. He was holding Keane, rocking him gently. His lips brushed Keane’s dark hair.

“Go?” Keane heard himself ask inanely. Yes, of course. Go back over the lake and across the moors. Take the greedy lord his prize.

“Yes,” said Digby, still embracing him. He had made no move to take the chest. Something was wrong with his uniform, Keane slowly realized. The insignia had been removed. He couldn’t make sense of that. Digby said, “You and I. The captain put me on to preparing the day’s rations for him and the other two. So prepare them I did. They’ll sleep for…oh, quite a while, if the apothecary was even remotely right. Plenty of time for us to get away.”

Keane’s mind could barely begin to grasp what the soldier was saying. He managed to ask, “Go where, Digby?”

The white-fleshed male smiled down at him. “Wherever we like. There are other lands. Two enterprising fellows like us ought to be able to make their way. And we’ll have plenty to spend as we go.” He nodded at the elaborately molded box.

The formerly loyal member of the lord’s guard—now himself a thief, evidently—finally reached to the treasure chest and opened it. Keane had already seen to the lock. Digby grinned at the bright wonders within. Pink eyes aflame, he said, “It is our future. It’s beautiful, Keane. Very beautiful.” The light in his eyes formed into a single tear, which spilled onto Keane’s cheek. Keane smiled up at his lover.

Digby helped him onto his feet, and together they headed off to the south, away from everything they had ever known.