NIGHT HAWKS

“No,” said Ricken, stroking his brown beard thoughtfully. “I’m not interested at all.”

“Oh, please!” the girl pleaded. “I need the money so desperately, before I starve to death. No food has passed my lips for two days.”

Ricken glared down at her, his eyes full of pity. He sympathized with her plight, but as far as he could tell she had wilfully chosen her fate. She stank of beer and cheap liquor.

“Drink less, and eat more,” he advised, trying to walk around her so that he could continue his journey. But she placed her skinny body in his path and forced him to halt again.

“You’re a bounty hunter, Master Ricken,” she said. “Why won’t you accept this offer of mine? I assure you that I am a well-known bandit in these wild forsaken lands.”

Ricken sighed, glancing along the lonely road ahead and wondering if he would ever be rid of the girl. She had sprung up from some boulders at the roadside, the only living creature he had seen in five hours of lonely trekking. A ragged, bony thing, she had waylaid him as he journeyed through the wilderness, her shrill voice begging for money and food. He travelled light and had no desire to share his meager provisions with a drunken vagabond.

“What age are you, wench?” he demanded gruffly.

“Eighteen,” came the reply. “Or maybe nineteen. I cannot remember my birthday.”

Ricken smiled, looking down at her pale face with its baleful blue eyes and downcast mouth. Her hair was a tangled mane of black curls and needed a thorough washing, as did her ragged brown dress. No shoes adorned her bare feet, which were scratched and filthy. To Ricken it seemed that she might one day blossom into a woman of beauty, but only if she dragged herself away from a life of vagrancy.

“My name is Kitty,” she announced, as though answering a question. “I am a renowned tracker with a gang of brigands who call themselves the Redstone Clan. Have you heard of us during your travels?”

Ricken laughed heartily. “Indeed I have. But the whole clan was hanged at Castle Grom last summer, and no females were found at their camp, so perhaps you are mistaken.”

Kitty’s face became even more mournful and a faint blush of embarrassment flickered on her pale cheeks.

“I’m not a skilful liar,” she whispered. “But surely you could pretend that I’m a famous bandit? Is it not true that you specialize in bringing highway robbers to justice?”

“It’s true,” Ricken confirmed. “The townsfolk pay me to track down and capture or slay the criminals who plague these roads, and I receive payment for every villain whose career I terminate. For every severed head I bring back to the town I receive a bounty of ten silver shillings. The reward is higher if the robber is especially notorious. If I capture a famous criminal alive I receive a double bounty.”

Kitty nodded eagerly. “It is rumored that you were paid for killing Marigalla last year, though you had no evidence to prove the deed. No blood-soaked head to advertise her death. No evidence at all, except her underwear. Is that rumor true?”

Ricken nodded. “Yes, it is true. But Marigalla was a fearsome bandit and fought ferociously when I cornered her beside the Great River. I overpowered her after a grim swordfight and bound her with ropes, intending to bring her back to the city to face justice. She had knives hidden beneath every garment, so I stripped her naked and searched every inch of her body for concealed blades. For a brief moment I turned my back, and then she was gone, leaping away and plunging to her doom in the swift-flowing waters. The only evidence of her demise were her trousers, shirt, boots and underwear. The clothes were hardly distinctive, but the undergarment was a black thong with Marigalla’s emblem embroidered on the front: a yellow skull with red eyes. When I presented the thong to the judges they knew Marigalla was slain and gave me my bounty. Fifty shillings seemed a fair exchange for a dead woman’s underwear!”

“Fifty shillings!” Kitty exclaimed, whistling in astonishment. “They paid so much for one bandit?”

“Marigalla was very famous,” Ricken explained. “I later learned that her embroidered thong had been bought for five times that price by a wealthy trader who collects such gruesome items for his private pleasure.”

Kitty sighed despondently. “For two shillings I’ll sell you my undergarment, which you can pass off as the personal attire of a bandit girl. Beneath this dirty old dress I’m wearing a pretty thong of red cotton and white lace, bearing at the front a distinctive badge: a white star with seven points. Is there no gang of brigands who use such an emblem?”

Ricken grinned, putting his burly arm around her scrawny shoulders and leading her to some rocks at the side of the highway. He sat heavily on a large boulder and stretched his legs, flicking mosquitoes from the sleeve of his fringed buckskin tunic.

“Stand in front, where I can take a good look at you,” he ordered. “We might be able to help each other after all.” He paused, pursing his whiskered mouth while staring intently at Kitty.

“There is a small clan of robbers in the eastern hills,” he said eventually. “They call themselves the Night Hawks and their emblem is a seven-pointed star, which the men tattoo on their hands. They have three or four ferocious women in their gang, and it is indeed customary for such wenches to weave their clan's badge into their underwear. The orcs began the strange tradition, of course, and the museum at Castle Grom has a collection of embroidered thongs torn from the bodies of female orc warriors, most of whom were crucified naked on the castle walls.” He paused again, smiling grimly at Kitty’s eager face. “With your undergarment I could perhaps pretend to claim the bounty for a Night Hawk woman, and receive the appropriate payment. Let me see it!”

Without shame or hesitation, Kitty hoisted up the hem of her brown dress and clasped it above her waist, straightening her spine and inhaling deeply. Ricken leaned forward, reaching out to touch her thong, his forefinger caressing the lace waistband and tracing the sewn edge of the white star. His fingertip trailed lazily across the red cotton, tracing the outline of her vagina and feeling the shape of her pubic hair.

“Touching my underwear so intimately will cost you an extra shilling, Master Ricken,” she warned, stepping away from his groping hand.

“Turn around!” he commanded brusquely.

“Why?” she queried. “The rear of the thong has no distinctive emblem.”

Ricken placed his strong hands on her slim hips and spun her around, pulling her closer while his eyes feasted on the sight of her pert buttocks. A thin band of white lace encircled her hips before plunging into the tight cleft between her pale ass-cheeks. Chuckling quietly, the bounty hunter tugged the band and grinned when he heard a squeal of protest.

“Hoy, you big dog!” Kitty yelled, spinning around to face him with an angry gleam in her blue eyes. “Stop molesting me, or I’ll tell everyone you’re a lecherous old pig.”

Ricken smiled, pressing his finger against her pink mouth to curb her rage. “Hush! Hush! There is nothing to fear, I promise. But I cannot resist teasing a pretty wench.”

“So, will you give me two shillings for my undergarment?” she asked impatiently.

Ricken shrugged. “One shilling is the most I’ll pay, I reckon.”

“But you’ll get ten times the price if the judges at the town think you’ve slain a Night Hawk bandit-girl.”

“Maybe,” said Ricken. “Or maybe not. But take the shilling, or keep your underwear where it rightly belongs.”

Kitty held out her hand, biting her lower lip anxiously. But the bounty hunter placed no trust in such an urchin, and refused to pay until the goods were in his possession. So, with much huffing and muttering, Kitty pulled down her thong and handed it over, receiving a silver coin in exchange. Ricken peered uneasily at the dishevelled red-and-white object, dangling it close to his face. His nostrils flared at the pungent aroma and his large nose wrinkled, but he stowed the undergarment in his backpack nonetheless.

“Is that the only underwear you own?” he inquired, standing up to adjust his belt and shoulder straps.

Kitty nodded. “I’m glad to be rid of it. A thong is too sweaty at this time of year.”

“Not if they get washed every few days,” he replied, frowning down at her and shaking his head. “Is there no stream or pool that you could have used?”

For the first time, Kitty’s face blushed with real embarrassment. Her eyes blazed indignantly as she glared up at the smirking bounty hunter.

“Is my undergarment too unclean for your scruffy backpack?” she inquired facetiously.

“Your thong truly stinks, little lady,” Ricken replied. “But I guess it’s still worth a shilling of silver.”

He offered a coin, which she snatched greedily, clutching it in her scrawny right hand as though it was a precious jewel. “This will buy me a big jug of beer in the crossroads tavern,” she announced.

“What will you do when the jug is empty?” Ricken asked. “Do you have anything else to sell?”

Kitty chuckled, her eyes glinting mischievously. “My lips and tongue usually fetch a worthy price. I’ll suck the innkeeper’s cock and allow his sons to squeeze my breasts.”

Ricken nodded, his hands fumbling with the buttons at the front of his trousers. “Why wait until you reach the inn? Perform the deed here, and I’ll give you another shilling.”

Kitty gave him a sidelong glance and a sneer of disdain. “I knew it! You’re a slavering old swine, just like all the other men whom I meet. But be warned, Master Ricken: it will cost you two shillings if you spurt inside my mouth.”

“A bargain indeed!” he retorted, shoving his trousers down to his ankles. His heavy hanging cock sprang into life as soon as Kitty dropped to her knees in front of him.

“You’re very well-endowed,” she observed, grasping his manhood and rubbing the foreskin slowly back and forth until the shaft stiffened in her hand. The shiny purple tip swelled towards her face, her soft pink lips parting to receive it.

Ricken straightened his spine, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes as he savored the delicious sensations. Kitty’s mouth felt warm and wet when it closed around his erection, her tongue a dancing snake that swirled around the edge of his foreskin until his whole shaft tingled. When she began to suck, he marvelled at her expertise and realised that it was the source of her livelihood. Like many female vagabonds who roamed the lonely roads she was a whore, though she was younger and prettier than most. But she plied her trade not to keep food in her belly but to keep her throat slaked with beer. That desire, he figured, would send her swiftly to an untimely grave.

So skilful was her cocksucking technique that Ricken ejaculated quickly and eagerly, his orgasm coursing through his veins and making him yell in delight. He did not withdraw his pulsing erection from Kitty’s mouth, choosing instead to pay the extra shilling for the privilege of squirting his semen down her throat. Dutifully, she swallowed every drop, pulling her mouth away only when his cock became flaccid and shrunken.

Ricken stood gasping and panting while he pulled up his trousers, grinning with satisfaction as his trembling fingers re-fastened the buttons. But Kitty sprang to her feet and held out her left hand.

“My two shillings, please,” she demanded, wiping her other hand across her mouth.

Ricken gave her the money and thanked her for performing the deed, expressing his admiration for her obvious mastery of the craft.

“If we meet on the road again, I hope we repeat the experience,” he said, hoisting his backpack high on his shoulders. “Or maybe I’ll ask for a fuck next time.”

“Three shillings for a fuck,” she explained. “Four shillings if I take off my dress and five if you put your cock in my ass.”

Ricken shook his head and laughed. “Those prices seem too high for a whore who doesn’t keep herself clean. Your underwear reeks so bad I would fear to venture too close to your cunt. Take a hot bath before we meet again.”

“You rotten old bastard!” she rasped, kicking a stone at his legs. “I don’t need your custom, nor your foul insults.”

Ricken gave her a wink and a wry smile, before turning his back and heading off along the road. He hummed a tune as he walked, blocking his ears to her yelled obscenities as she stood in the highway screaming a torrent of abuse.

*******

“Good work, my friend,” said Judge Pindar, reaching for his money box and counting ten silver coins onto the table. One of the coins rolled on its edge to fall against the white lace waistband of Kitty’s underwear, which lay flattened and spread out on the tabletop. The judge retrieved the coin cautiously, grimacing when his fingers accidentally touched the red cotton at the edge of the thong.

“Did you discover the bandit’s name before you slew her?” he asked solemnly.

Ricken leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “No, I’m afraid not. It all happened too quickly. The bitch and her henchmen ambushed me on the highway, informing me that I was now a prisoner of the Night Hawks gang. I retaliated swiftly, slaying one man and wounding two others, who fled into the hills. The woman begged for mercy, for her leg was broken by my sword, but I told her that I would cut off her head and take it to the judges. You will get no bounty for me, she sneered, for nobody knows my face, nor my name. Guessing that she spoke the truth, I slew her anyway and looked for some evidence of her brigandage, finding no better proof than the Night Hawk emblem woven into her undergarment.”

Judge Pindar sighed wearily. “The seven-pointed star seems to prove your tale, Master Ricken. I will send it to the archives at Castle Grom, though usually they prefer a head that they can mount on a spike above the gate.”

He counted the coins into Ricken’s hand while glancing distastefully at the underwear, taking care to keep his elbows away from it as he leaned across the table.

“Why do so many young women choose to wear these strange things beneath their dresses?” he inquired, sitting back and staring at the bounty hunter. “Surely the traditional short underskirt, as worn by our mothers and grandmothers, is more practical, if only to cushion the tender female buttocks against a cold seat?”

“I suspect fashion, rather than warmth, is the main concern in these strange times,” Ricken suggested. “And a lot of men enjoy seeing a woman wearing one of these undergarments. I must confess to sharing that same preference.”

The judge raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Well, I do not share it. And nor does my wife, thankfully. She says thongs are unhygienic, and the stench of this particular example bears out her words.”

“The Night Hawk woman was a dirty little slut,” Ricken explained. “I guess she washed her underclothes too infrequently, if at all. These bandit wenches are little better than animals. They fight like wildcats and they stink like dogs.”

The judge smiled. “I pity you, Ricken, that you spend so much time among such savages during your travels. But maybe the stench of a robber is like a whiff of distant gold to your senses? Only by getting close to these criminals are you able to slay or capture them, and so earn your bounty from the grateful townspeople.”

“I enjoy my work,” Ricken replied. “And not all the folk I meet are of evil sort.”

“But it must be a lonely career,” said the judge. “Do you not yearn for the company of a good woman?”

“I manage,” said Ricken.