Haskers: A generalization.




An object lesson: Regard the lowly honey bee. A tiny beast weighing but a
fraction of a gram. Armed, to be sure, but with a one-shot weapon which (with
rare exceptions) is at best negligible in it’s life-threatening effect. Now
further: Regard the modern automobile. An inanimate object of tremendous
latent power, weighing, in some cases, more than two tons. A very useful
device when intelligently controlled by a human operator.

Next: Introduce into the sealed environment of the interior of the automobile
the honey bee, in close proximity to the driver’s head... buzzing maliciously
near ears, eye’s, nose, and mouth. The normalcy of the situation at once
deteriorates to a panic scene with the human shooing, sweeping, swatting, and
dodging desperately. The vaguest thought of vehicular control vanishes.

The machine veers and swerves wildly, eventually "T-boning" a transit bus at
an unspeakable rate of knots. In the ensuing fireball more than a few human
souls take an unexpected Ride to Valhalla, or somewhere perhaps not quite so
pleasant. Even more are treated to protracted holidays in hospital.

What of the bee? Who knows, or for that matter cares. What then, is the point?
Just this: The efforts of but one seemingly insignificant being can, through
judicious application of intelligently planned influence, completely remake
the destiny of a disproportionate number of the Great and Powerful.

Such was the ordained purpose of the Hasker (or "Worker" in Neuspak, [New
Speak] the prevalent language of the time). History does not record the number
of great houses; Royal, Financial, or Military created, shored up, or brought
down by the Worker Bees of Din Haske. (Literally: The Work, or The Task.)

What became of the Honey Bees and their Hive? (The HaskeGuilde) As were so
many Medieval Secret Organizations, they have been swallowed up by the dusts
of time. No hard evidence remains of the Guild nor it’s members. Just another
fading page torn from the Diary of The Great Celestial Movement.

Haskers: The Legend

Some time in the early part of the Ninth century in an obscure fiefdom in
Middle Europe, the womanservent of a rather unremarkable Lady of an equally
forgettable Lord happened to hear a soft sound emanating from a broken packing
case at the edge of what is now euphemistically labeled "the landfill". The
Town Dump. Further investigation evidenced a tiny, filthy, scrawny, mewling
animal sheltered by a tattered oxhide, wrapped in a moldering badger pelt,
it’s head warmed by a crudely-stitched rabbit skin. Disguise aside, the
pitiful little thing was unmistakably a human infant.

When the servant reached out a comforting hand, she was rewarded with a
screech, a hiss, and a very painful bite. The woman, apparently not your
average hireling, persevered and eventually had the little thing subdued,
securely wrapped in the ox hide and on it’s way to what was known, perhaps a
little grandiosely, in those parts as "The Castle."

With the help of the kitchen staff, what turned out to be a female child, was
cleansed and wrapped in an almost-white towel. With some trepidation, the
infant was presented to the Lady of the House.

For some unfathomable reason both Mistress and waif felt an instant bond. Why
an upper-class Medieval woman would be interested in a child discarded (a not
uncommon happenstance at the time) by who knew whom, for whatever unknown
reason is impossible to divine. We only know some sort of interest was
stirred.

To make a long story not so, The child grew and flourished. In point of fact
it was well before her tenth year when her intellect and guile easily
surpassed that of her guardians. Soon it was she who manipulated the household
fortunes. As it’s value grew so also her influence. She eventually fell heir
to a sizable fortune of gold as well as real estate. At the time of her
passing there were innumerable lives and fortunes greatly in her debt, and
hundreds, if not thousands in her employ both overtly and covertly.

The day she was sent beyond, the throng in witness was surprised to see a
simple fir box, and not the ornate casket of rare woods they had expected.
They would have been even more amazed had they been able to see inside as the
flames licked round the pyre. There she lay, as serene as a slumbering
innocent, wrapped in an ancient badger skin, sheltered by a worn ox hide, her
head capped in rabbit. A final symbolic salute to her humble origin.

Humble, may be, but for many years after her passing she was known and prayed
to as The First Mother, or more simply The First.

She left not one heir, and the Vultures who swooped to pick clean the bones of
her estate fell back unsatiated. There was NOTHING! Her actual legacy was the
almost mythical entity known collectively as Din Haske (Literally, The Work,
or The Task. The Hasker’s Guilde). The tendrils of influence of this almost
unknown organisation are still being felt to this day. Not a beggarly bequest
for a filthy discarded brat from before King Arthur’s time. Here follows a few
things yet known of the Haskers (best translation: the Workers, for so the
Agents were known).

First and most notable, particularly for the time: They were all Female.
What’s more they were all Foundlings as well. Foundling Females, not by
chance. Then, as now the fact made them all but invisible and untraceable.

Second, and very important, each babe was permanently attached to a single
Mother-figure within the organisation. They were nurtured body, mind, and soul
as naturally as possible.

Third. The equipment issued to every operative included Three items. A heavy
oil-tanned waterproof ox hide. Known logically enough as The Ox. The second
item was a generous badger pelt, soft tanned with the fur left on called, with
profound simplicity, Badger. The last was a large rabbit skin to be used at
the Haskers discretion. It was Hare, and most fashioned it into a purse for
small personal items.

There was a myriad of other devices, customs, and symbology calculated to draw
the individual closer to The First and the Hasker "family". The Hasker
BELONGED and felt loved from Foundlings Day, when their "Mothers" chose them,
till life’s final thought.

Rather than bore the reader further, most other facets of Hasker life will be
revealed in the story of:

VARA, HASKER DU

(Vara! You [are a] Hasker)

The Invocation of a third, and highest, ranked Hasker.

A TreKron (Three Crown) Hasker.

After a soft exchange of safe-words, an unseen hand threw multiple bolts,
slipped heavy dead-men, and the thick, ironbound oaken door grated aside with
a metallic groan of protest. Vara was forced to bend near double as she
entered the looming gray basaltic mass of the Castle-Royale. Not with fanfare
of horns, and scattered petals as befitted her rank, but with stealth and
obscurity as demanded by her calling. 'Tis not often a person of rank or
notability cares to make known a TreKron Hasker is on hand.

As she straightened in the narrow, rough-hewn stone passageway her nose
wrinkled in disgust as the hinges moaned again. She fought down her natural
instinct to reprimand the dark-cowled figure beckoning wordlessly. What in the
First's name good was a secret bolthole if you wakened Holgar Danske (The
legendary giant sleeping Norse warrior, who wakes to fight whenever the
Kingdom of Denmark is in peril) by using it at a time when stealth counted
most? Damned poor attention to detail in an uncertain world filled to
overflowing with just such details waiting to kill you. Oh, well. No skin
off... you know.

Ill maintained bedamned. It was obviously designed by a tactical genius. The
opening was only waist high outside, but on the interior the floor fell away
almost half a span. {Span: The distance of someone’s reach, fingertip to
fingertip}. Anyone entering was bent double, exposing the back of the neck,
whereas those exiting were merely leaning forward slightly, looking up.
Meeting... whatever... poised to charge. She noticed a sturdy wooden bench to
one side easily repositioned to facilitate such a rush.

To the trained mind, the possibilities were endless. The door, having been
forced... no small feat in itself, would have to be entered at a distinct
disadvantage. The first attacker, unsure of the precipitous drop off, would
pause, trying to pierce the gloom and SNICK! One swing of a keen blade, and to
the horror of his fellows he lay twitching and headless partially blocking the
choke point. Contrawise, if someone leaving found a gang of the enemy crowding
'round, the nearest would be laid hold of by his ankles, and dragged screaming
into the Black Hole, there to be butchered as painfully and noisily as
possible and tossed out piece by piece as each part was separated, into the
midst of his fellow armsmen. These stalwarts would by then be drawing back in
horror and disgust. If the first victim would not suffice, surely the second
would clear a beachhead adequate for a small, determined band to take flight.
If only it could be opened silently. Still... designed by someone of not
inconsiderable military talent. She smiled inwardly and toasted the Unknown.
SKAAL! (Quite literally SKULL! A toast from the days when the Norse would
celebrate a victory by drinking from the actual skulls of the vanquished. A
drinking salute in use in Scandinavia to this day).

They padded along noiselessly. She by long habit allowing the balls of her
feet to first contact the floor followed by the rest of the sole one area at a
time. A Stealth Walk learned long before she could remember, now so ingrained
it had become her normal gait. The rustle of the porter's robe made far more
noise than she... even had she been running at full speed.

She refocused her thoughts. Why the numerous twists and turns? To confuse her?
If so, 'twas a futile effort. She almost intuitively counted the strides and
directions at each turning point. She could retrace her steps blindfolded if
need be.

Occasionally there were glimpses of Grand Salons, and Great Halls, brightly
lit, oozing wisps of conversation. The realm of the people who "lived".
'worked', or otherwise functioned inside the walls. Soft laughter, some
billowing cloud-like, and sincere... some false, brittle... shattering as a
nervously dropped looking glass. Often when ghosting around the fringes of
these places, she puzzled over how so many could enjoy the grand trappings of
privilege and wealth yet remain, perhaps even choose to remain completely
oblivious to the true cost in terms of countless sweaty, dreary, hopeless
hours expended by a myriad of small unknown unremarkable drudges who TRULY
make the world go 'round. Grinding away toward infinity, futilely striving
towards the perpetually receding "Light At The End Of The Tunnel." Her TRUE
Mother had doubtless been just such, else she would not likely have been
offered up that long ago Foundlings Day. The thought perhaps illuminated the
reason Vara so loved her work. She shook her head, clearing the idea.
Rectifying the conditions of the downtrodden was most certainly NOT in her job
description.

ABSOLUTELY not. She had been dispatched by the HaskeGuilde to meet with a
potential client, to listen to the person's specific problem, divine the
complexity of the solution, strike a bargain with the complainant in the name
of the Haske Kontroldt, (Haske Controllers... the Board of Directors) receive
one half the agreed-upon payment...Usually one third to one half the person's
earthly wealth, be it splendid or mean...and bring her not inconsiderable
talents of persuasion (peaceful, if possible), martial (and other) arts and
iron will to bear upon the situation, bringing to it a rectification
satisfactory the client. Once those needs were fulfilled, it was the Hasker's
duty to collect the remainder of the fee and depart as inconspicuously as she
had arrived. Of the commission, the HaskeGuilde (more commonly called simply
The Haske or The Guilde) claimed 90% to repay the cost of training and
nurturing her mind, spirit and body since her first year. The rest was hers.
Rather generous, really. Clients were almost invariably the mighty of the land
that happily paid dearly for having their wishes fulfilled. Especially whilst
having no traceable tie to any funny business that might be involved.

The indenturement was not as onerous as one might think. The Guilde was a
nurturing sort of place and a competent Hasker could buy her contract in less
than five years. The Haske was bounden to offer continuous support for a
lifetime. The INcompetent Hasker generally did not last that long. The
Kontrolt knew from long experience which contracts would require expendables
and applied a time's ten adjustment, thus winnowing out the chaff not to
mention swelling the treasury at a remarkable rate. The saying was "Years many
or few, Haske gets its due."

Beyond battle age there were generous stipends. Vara smiled grimly. Most were
forcibly retired to Valhalla by cold steel long before. She stopped in mid
pace. Her guide had stepped aside and was holding back a heavy drape of
tapestry, bowing conspicuously and making an "after you" gesture. She leaned
half-a-head through the aperture and rapidly scanned the room as only the
trained person does. One does not lean in, and expose oneself to who knew what
whilst looking all about. Best to pop in and IMMEDIATELY back out. Then allow
the mind to reveal the details recorded by the eye.

It really works. Try it sometime. Do NOT make scanning a potentially deadly
situation your first try. The technique requires training. A useful method of
practice is your automobile instruments whilst driving the motorway. A
lighting flick of the eyes downward and after they are again safely upon the
roadway, all will be revealed. A Hasker trick that works for we ordinary
people. Someday I'll tell you who taught me. Suffice it to say it was an
internationally recognised Rallye driver of some note and no small talent. A
woman, perhaps not so incidentally.

But we digress. Seeing the room empty, she quickly stepped one half stride in
and to the left of the opening. The heavy drape whispered closed.
Inconspicuously stretching an arm to the rear, she ascertained the wall
hanging hid no secrets beyond her peripheral vision. As she did so, she noted
two unique features of the tapestry. Where she had entered, the unicorn had a
soft blue eye, directly opposite it was faintly lavender. The remainders were
a muted gold. Aha, another portal, she thought. Pressing against the area
where she had entered evidenced the way still open. The only furnishings in
the ten-stride cubicle was a not quite one span cube of polished gray granite,
overhung by a large iron chandelier. The floor was highly polished black
basalt. Poor footing Here. Should she remove her boots?

Before she came to a decision, the "violet" unicorn leapt aside... she was
right!... and a tall figure strode into the space. Clad in an all-encompassing
dark burgundy (almost black) robe. It moved to the stone and made a small head
motion. Almost instantly a lackey struggled in with a heavy bale and heaved it
atop the table... workbench? Altar?

After the servant had departed, the dark cowl fell away to reveal a face of
almost breathtaking beauty. An elongated oval constructed of a multiplicity of
finely wrought planes, it bore almost imperceptibly slanted eyes... slate gray
with flecks of gold. Very striking. Vara found herself straining to take in
every detail.

The women regarded one another narrowly. Unashamedly assaying strengths and
weaknesses. Vara summed up with: Moves well... sinewy grace... probably
deceptively strong under the robe. Beautiful, if you cared for the angular
type. As for her part, she preferred the more zaftig sort, both female and
male. The better to keep away the cold 'pon long frosty Norse winter nights.
She thought fondly, though briefly of her own Bjern with his softly covered
muscles. Like a bear. Her Isbamsa. (Polar Bear). For an eyeblink she wished
she were home, but managed to wrench herself back to the case at hand.

The other woman was thinking disparagingly, and with some irritation: So much
for the Haske reputation. I specified a seasoned warrior. They have sent me a
waif. Indeed, Vara's wide-eyed innocent first impression was but one of many
weapons in her arsenal, as we shall see.

The cold though animated eyes fixed hard upon the Hasker. "Jig ir Byrgge,
Droddig d’af d’alt Rhumblan. De vil d’bas ny’d hannemannader".

Vara was caught completely off guard by the short statement. Thought the voice
was well pitched and modulated, the dramatic entrance, and exotic beauty of
the woman was almost entirely undone by the nearly incomprehensible
Rhumblander dockside dialect. She laboriously translated word by word. "I am
Byrgge. Queen of all Rhumbland. You will bow down now, commonperson." She was
about to make reply, but the short pause was apparently too much for her
opposite.

"JIG IR VATIG! " (I am waiting!)

Vara did as ordered without protest, bowing deeply and murmuring "Your
Majesty." in what she hoped was properly subservient tones. It was not her
choice. She was simply bowing to Din Haskevij. (The Haske Way... The Haske
Laws.) Not the least of which decreed that all propositions be discussed
seriously, and any potential client be treated with proper deference and
circumspection, Saint, sinner, commoner, or Royal alike. Oh well. Business was
business, and no law demanded one actually admire a client. A show of respect
was adequate. Her jaw ached as she broadened her pleasant-appearing smile...
deep dimples imploding, as she knew they would.

The robed figure, sensing a possible advantage, flowed 'round the table to
sweep Vara up... Mother! She was tall. Easily exceeding Vara's nine hands and
six. (A hand: the distance of one’s outspread hand from thumb to fifth finger,
about eight inches. And six: Six finger’s breadth. One finger equaled about
one inch. Hence... well, you do the math... a woman of about number one size.)
Unexpectedly she found her head tilted back, and was abruptly kissed full on
the mouth... hard, and DEEP! The Queen's tongue was thick and hard, and thrust
and explored snake-like. The woman gripped her aggressively with her thighs.
Muscles hard-coiled upon her bones. Jungle Pythons climbing tree trunks. No
matter. Vara, though surprised and more than a little aroused, was not
intimidated. She slackened her chest a measure, slipped down a hand or two,
grasped the Queen's narrow waist, and with no seeming effort lifted the Royal
Personage high off the floor. The roving tongue was retracted immediately as
the woman gasped in surprise. Vara placed her gently back upon her feet, and
the two broke apart with deliberate casualness, but were very careful to end
their movement with the great stone block between.

Neither sensed the other's evaluation of the event: "This one is deceptively
strong, and not easily intimidated. Take great care!" Byrgge was flushed of
face and breathing heavily. Anger, or arousal? Vara herself had to admit she
still tingled from the rough encounter. This was a very irritating person. Did
she want to make love to her, or kill her? She felt her loins swell with a
fresh rush of overheated blood. Anticipation of sex, or violence... or both?
Would both be possible at the SAME TIME??? She once again shook the thoughts
away, blond ringlets tumbling. Damned adolescent daydreams! She thought
angrily.

The Queen inclined her head slightly. "Attend carefully" Vara found herself
slipping more easily into the gutturals of the patois. "We loath repeating
ourselves." A precisely manicured thumb and forefinger grasped the tag end of
the pack binding, bursting it open with a small tug.. Vara eyed the exposed
oddiments curiously. A blanket, a strangely shaped hammer, three 2-span discs,
and four fist-sized metallic looking stones. The Hasker looked up quizzically.
Byrgge elucidated: "The cloak of invisibility." She hooked the "blanket" with
a long thumb, and with one graceful, feline motion threw it 'round her
shoulders. Vara stared in disbelief. As the cloak was snugged tight, the
woman's form wavered, blurred, and disappeared! Her disembodied head floated
ten hands above the floor! After a moment, the wrap was loosed and fell to her
feet.

"How does it work? Troll Majik?"

"All in good time, impatient one." In response to some unseen signal, four
struggling pages near did one another harm fetching an immense iron shield.
Dull, and flecked with rust, it none-the-less seemed imminently serviceable.
Stood on edge before of Vara, it was fully as tall as she. At the Queens
motion she examined the huge metal slab. Mother! It was near thick as her
hand, and without a doubt heavier than her own well-muscled self. She would
most definitely not wish to run afoul of the owner.

Her Highness picked up the hammer, if indeed it WAS a hammer. It looked far
too delicate to be of much use either in battle or workshop. The Queen held
the device by the 'head', and a soft keening could be heard at almost the
upper reach of the human ear. Vara heard quite clearly, and found it very
annoying. The shield was turned edge-on to her, and after ascertaining the
Hasker was watching, the Queen placed the 'handle' end of the tool against the
outer surface of the shield. There was a sound akin to an angry cat spitting
and a funnel of white-hot sparks fully 5 strides long blew from the rear
surface. There was a heartbeat of total silence, followed by a sharp "PING,
ping, ping." As a smooth disc fell to the floor. Vara watched, mesmerized, as
it rolled to a stop against the toe of her boot. She bent to pick it up.

"NA! NA! NA!" Cried the queen in alarm.

Vara froze, and a small pair of pincers whisked the object out of her field of
vision. She straightened to see it being dropped into a finger basin, which
had appeared, on the table. There was a hiss as it fell to the bottom. It was
hot!

Just as quickly, the disc was removed, dried, and offered to her. She eyed it
cautiously before accepting. About the diameter of her thumb, it was still
quite warm. It bore no burrs, tooling, nor flame marks. It was as clean and
unblemished as a newly minted coin. The shield was turned to face her. True
enough, there was the hole that mothered the glyph. She put her eye to the
opening. ABSOLUTELY clean, and trying the plug: Perfect fit! Drilled with
infinitely more precision than any auger or punch in any Smithy's din of
sparks... or anywhere in the mortal world, she was sure. Powerful majik,
indeed. She carefully placed the object on the cube. An unquiting thought had
come upon her. When the blow was struck, the shield had not so much as
quivered. The "hammer" had obviously punched through, encountering about the
same resistance as a hot sword flensing a snowdrift. She shuddered, and
quickly washed her fingers, feeling an unreasoning need to be cleansed. In her
mind played a battle scenario wherein the ham... THING was placed against a
helmet, the fingers holding it moved, just so, and... she swayed and shuddered
as if swept by a winter wind. She had a sudden urge to vomit. The thing was
not right. There was no honest defense. It was monstrous, unnatural,
disgusting, OBSCENE! She swallowed hard a half dozen times fighting down her
bile, and turned to face a smiling Queen.

"Interesting. Don't you think that?" Vara managed to nod, all the while
thinking: Oh yes, about as interesting as a baby kitten must find it to be
cuddled in the supposed warm safety of a thick sack when the cold waters of
the millpond close over its head. Only the iron will of Haske training held
her winning smile. Iniquitous peril was amongst the few things that could
raise her deepest fury. Try waking in the predawn darkness, still thick with
revelry, to find your dearest and most trusted lover arched as a adder, poised
to plunge your own dagger. The fading white seam along her left ribcage still
burned whenever she thought of her narrow escape. It was strange. She could
not now even remember the traitor's gender, only the genius of fingers and
tongue..., and the terror of unexpectedly facing steel. She still occasionally
wondered if it were not some sort of Haske rite of passage, just as the
preceding orgy. Well, never mind. The present scene was Haske business beyond
doubt. Besides, the would-be assassin's neck had made a most satisfactory
SNAP, affording her one final drenching, delirious, and yes... admit it...
ethereally supreme spasm.

She came back; surprised to find she was perspiring and breathing heavily.
Again! She was forced to admit that at the time, in one gloomy black moment,
she had been brought to terrible, glorious fruition. Hate, love, fear, joy,
dread... everything brought to fulfillment in one stupendous eclectic orgasm.
It had been weeks before she felt even vaguely normal again. Now, here was
this incalculable icy-hot persona of Queen Byrgge rekindling, in a small way,
some of the same dim near-forgotten sensations. Why? She MUST stop her
attention from wandering. She was a Tre-Kron Hasker, and it ill-behooved her
to be acting as if she were a suckling in the presence of the client. AKTUN,
(Attention) Vara! She stood straight, and refocused upon the other woman
intently.

That one had dropped one of the disks to the floor. "Lift it," she commanded.
Vara bent to do so. It was too heavy! Nonsense! The queen had carelessly
handled it with but two fingers. Couldn't be! She crouched over the device,
and grasping the handle with an overlapping longsword power grip, gave a
mighty, joint-straining heave. Though, with some effort, she had lifted
millstones at the last festival, the insignificant-looking little device moved
not at all. Her only reward was feeling sinews stretch, and hearing a knee
joint emit a muffled pop.

The Queen almost smiled. "Try again, and this time put some muscle into it. Or
are all those vulgar lumps just for show?" She touched the object with a
narrow toe.

Now thoroughly heated by the insult, Vara circled the offending device warily,
then with fluid feline grace pounced upon it, and gave the handle a Thorzian
death wrench. The unspeakable...insert here a Luruxanian word meaning roughly:
by product of digestion of a (unprintable) foul, evil, dung-consuming,
slime-dwelling, carrion-mating...oh, never mind. The unspeakable THING parted
from the floor with no resistance whatsoever. The momentum of the lunge caused
her to fling the accursed piece of deviltry against the well-draped wall a
full two spans from the floor with a loud THUNK, and herself to fetch up,
mostly upon the back of her head, against the very solid stone at the Queen's
feet. That worthy, having abandoned all pretense of behaving regally, was
braying like a Halkebuk (a forest elk), tears streaming down her flushed
cheeks.

Vara sprang (well, sort of sprang) to her feet. The Queen paced easily to the
opposite side. To her credit, the Hasker suppressed the almost irresistible
urge to lunge across, and turn the mocking face to view the Royal Backside...
Permanently! Instead, she only smiled and nodded girlishly, causing cascades
of platinum ringlets to again explode provocatively.

The Great Lady returned the smile. 'Twas like watching Polar Sea Ice
fracturing. She clearly hadn't an inkling of the near thing just passed. Vara
was beginning to find her most annoying. Not at all a healthy thing, annoying
a Hasker. "Ah, my sweet innocent. You must learn strength is not the final
solution to every problem. There is logic, guile... and SCIENCE." The woman
actually grinned... an expression totally inappropriate upon her visage.

Vara stiffened as anger grew once more. Byrgge had continually used the
intimate pronoun "Du". She would have much preferred the formal "De" during
business negotiations. Even the casual "Da" struck a sour note when coming
from such as confronted her. Though far from being a Haske snob, she felt
business should be businessLIKE. She purposely drew up stiffly, crossing her
arms.

Regally ignoring the body language, the tall woman lectured on. "Two, or three
presses upon this", she demonstrated upon the tabletop, "and the device cannot
be removed from a polished surface by even the strongest of MEN." The heavily
accentuated inference raised Vara's heat even more. "Yet a touch of THIS, and
it may be removed easily." It was lifted with her fifth finger alone. "As I am
given to understand, one control unleashes an entity which grips the surface
offered with the tenacity of a limpet, though much more powerfully. The other
goads it into hiding once again. Though the being is obviously there, it
remains unseen, even if viewed through finest glass. 'Tis indeed a
wonderment." Pointing to the gray stones, she continued. "These we will not
demonstrate. Far too dangerous within the confines of this space." Vara lifted
one... hefted it. Hmmm. Deceptively weighty. Ah, 'twas not a stone at all.
Crafted, it was, not formed in the bosom of Fragg, (the Earth Sister} Builder
of Mountains. She tossed the lump from hand-to-hand... once, twice. The Queen
made a strangled shriek, and snatched the thing away. Eyes bulging in terror,
she gibbered in a high-pitched raven's voice. "YOU IDIOT. YOU ACCURSED
MUSCLE-BRAINED HASKE FOOL! You will be the destruction of us BOTH!" She
clutched the artifact in both hands as far away from Vara as she could manage.

Even the Hasker's steel reserve very nearly snapped. "But, my Queen, if I am
to u..." She was cut short.

"Very WELL! If we must, so be it. COME!" Vara was dragged to stand behind the
agitated woman. "Crouch directly behind me. Do NOT move unless told. The blond
head nodded in emphatic agreement. Byrgge pulled away bit of the object and
another larger piece flipped away. tinkling across the floor. In frantic
haste, the main body was rolled lumpily past the stone to thump heavily
against the far wall. In desperate speed, the dark woman pressed against the
reassuring mass of granite. Vara, though knowing not what to fear, yet not
being entirely a fool, pressed in hard behind her. The room was almost
instantly filled with a blinding yellow flash and a brain-numbing roar. Ears
popping from the concussion and half blinded by the intensity of the sun-like
strobe, the women rose to stare goggle-eyed at one another. The Queen's mouth
was working in obvious rage, but not a sound could be heard, only the repeated
tolling of monstrous bells. At last she could make out the tiny, tinny,
rage-contorted voice. It was repeating endlessly. "LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!
LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!" Vara's eyes followed the trembling finger's
direction.

Oh, My MOTHER! On the floor, next to the wall, was a gritty gray stain about
the size of an ox hide. Above it, in an area greater than she could span with
her arms, the tapestry had simply vanished! Beyond that, frayed tatters
smoldered greasily. Vara's mouth fell open and stayed as if frozen. What! That
ball... stone ...uh egg. Egg! KRAKKAN’S AEGGE!!! (Dragon’s Egg), Both women
exclaimed in unison. One a question, the other a statement. After a pause,
they looked about for the remaining eggs. They, and everything on the table
had been swept away by the violence of the piping. Vara almost laughed at the
dichotomy. Now THAT was a pipping.

While the Queen was over-directing a pair of servants in clearing up the
wreckage, a small thought winked in the younger woman's consciousness. What
had become of the hatchling? She cast round about. Aha! There high above the
chandelier, the tapestry had been ripped loose. A celestory window gaped a
jagged grin. Aha again. The ideal bolthole for dragon-whelp. There was evil
loose upon the land.

The servants withdrew, leaving a heap of artifacts at Byrgge's feet. Vara gave
a start when next the Lady emitted a piercing whistle, such as those used by
Alongshore workers as signals. There instantly appeared the most beautiful
boy... no, young man she had ever seen. Almost as tall as she, but much finer.
So slight and willowy as to be near feminine. He was almost too graceful and
pretty. Extremely blond over his entire body, he was unclothed save for a
minuscule breechcloth so nearly the color of his skin as to be invisible to
the casual observer. Moving with the unstudied grace of a Temple Maiden, he
bowed horizontally before the imperious figure .

Vara stared openly. On the nape of the beautiful neck was a flap of pinched-up
flesh about half the area and thickness of her palm, looking all for the world
like a large earlobe. Into this appendage was let a smallest-finger-sized
perfectly circular, completely healed opening. Therein hung loosely a heavy
forged bronze ring. A permanent tether! The boy/man carefully recited "I live
to serve my Queen", in a crystalline soprano . Castistrata! Was Vara's
immediate thought. She had heard tales of how they, and other eunuchs were,
due to the removal, in a permanent state of... she eyed the young man
narrowly... ah no. If this creature were to be in such a condition his
loincloth would readily reveal. An old wives tale, beyond doubt.

The contrast between the boy and the Queen was unbelievable. He looked almost
bleached, though not of the pink-eyed tribe. 'Twas a curiosity.

Byrgge snapped her fingers loudly. The boy rose, making a questioning gesture
The Royal fingers moved almost unnoticed, and the willow wand at the Queen's
waist whispered it's myriad of splints softly against the floor. The man/boy
gave a soft mewing sound as he desperately sought to divine his master's
meaning and desire. A pointed toe touched the assortment on the floor.
"Table!" With relief filling his eyes, the task was speedily concluded. The
only interruption came when he tried to leave a shard of eggshell upon the
block. The chorus of tiny willow tongues whispered once more. The object was
instantly returned to the floor. Not dropped, mind you... placed there with
the care usually reserved for precious relics. Even Vara was impressed. After
he had once more abased himself, he was ordered to remove himself as well as
the leavings. Too much to carry in his hands, he ended by filing his mouth.
Finally he was told to polish the dust from the gleaming floor. He looked
askance. No dust clothe. The order was repeated, and he was forced to use the
only tool at hand. The loincloth.

Vara observed intently, but alas, he was kneeling sidelong revealing nothing.
Unfortunate, she thought. As the slight figure sidled out, the Queen laughed
hugely. The boy, with averted eyes, murmuring, "Thank you, my Queen." through
the junk in his mouth, disappeared. Did Vara perceive danger in the soft
words?

The Grand Lady shook her head. "I really have no idea why I keep him. He's so
utterly useless... except, of course, as a fool." She once more fixed her eyes
upon Vara. "Now to our business. Dispite appearances, our grip upon this land
is far from secure. Not only is there turmoil in the streets, in the mountains
there are rebels. Here to fore they have been but an annoyance, but of late
there has come a leader. A surpassing charismatic leader who has drawn all
their feuding factions into one cohesive organization. One who seems to ken my
every move as soon as I. There is a spy, a mole, within these walls, leaking
my every secret, my every plan. Betraying me! A scorpion in my bed! I have
done everything to ferret out this swine to no avail. I have become convinced
that the only way to counter this threat is to infiltrate the rebel stronghold
and bring their accursed leader here, to me, alive or dead... I care NOT! Will
the Haske... Will YOU accept this charge. I must know NOW!

Vara thought for a moment. "What is known of the Rebel Stronghold?" "Little of
nothing. And that is highly suspect. We know only in general its very location
The few rebels we have captured have been 'strordinarily loyal. No amount of
torture has loosed a single tongue. We have even let a few 'escape', but they
never return to the mountains nor speak to anyone interesting. They simply
wander through the forest living off the land. It seems that once captured, a
Rebel simply ceases to be one. Thus far, it makes for unbreakable security."

Vara thought long and hard. Here was an enigma of the first magnitude as well
as an eminently deadly assignment. If she accepted, what were the odds? The
left side of her brain almost automatically ground through the familiar, yet
arcane Haske Probability Equation. Possibilities v. Degree of Difficulty to
Information Reliability over Haske Temporal Constant relative to
Accessibility, less Local Currency Conversion times Gold Equivalency cubed.
Great Mother! The resultant went completely off the Haske Standard Scale!
Never hesitating, she pricked a thumb with her stylus and with her own blood
inscribed an amount, converted to weight of fine Gold, upon a small rectangle
of sharkskin. A melodramatic move, but one which never failed to impress the
eager prospective client. The chit was presented to the Queen. "One half now.
The remainder after you are satisfied with the conclusion of the task."

The cool gray eyes never flickered. "Gold?" Quoth she. "And pack animals?"
Vara nodded. A slight move of the Royal Hand and the man/boy reappeared
bearing a small tray with stylus and sepia. Disdaining the fluid, Byrgge drew
blood with a small, beautifully crafted obsidian blade carried on a fine gold
neck chain, and appended her mark upon the document. Regaining the patch, Vara
delaminated it with a sharpened left thumbnail creating two ORIGINAL copies.
One she tucked into her hare (a small rabbit-skin pouch} the other was
tendered to the Queen.

Her Highness regarded the invoice loftily. "It will be made so. Now I expect
you will wish to inspect the pack train and inventory the packs ere it
departs?"

"That will not be necessary. The Royal Word is Bond." She neglected mentioning
that in the event she were not notified, by raven, within a fortnight of the
safe arrival and enumeration of the payment at Guildehalle, all action would
be turned against the Client. Haskevij.

"Now, my Child. Do you have a pack suitable for the tools I have obtained for
your task?" She gestured toward the table. Vara looked distastefully. "Your
Majesty. Must I use these Troll things?" She in some measure felt it less than
honorable. A weaklings way.

Instead of a direct reply, there came: "It is NOT Trollcraft. They are
something MUCH more powerful. They are the prized artifacts of Futureman!
Examples of their majik (Her voice lowered respectfully) or 'Technology' as
they are wont to call such things. These devices have been brought to me at
unimaginable expense by a means beyond even my ken, for the sole purpose of
assuring your success. Do not be ungrateful... it is RUDE!.

Well, put that way... but FUTUREMAN? What could that mean? The armed woman
nodded slowly and silently. "But how...'"

"It is not for you to know. Out and to the left of where you entered this
chamber, you will find a small boudoir. There is adequate hot water and other
things. You may 'fresh yourself afore your departure."

Vara's mouth opened to refuse, then she thought of who could know how many
gritty days on the treck, and instead out came "Your Majesty is most
considerate.": The Queen, raising her cowl, said simply "GO!" and disappeared
behind the wine-eyed unicorn. A basket pack was tossed into the room, and the
youngish-looking agent soon had packed and shouldered her burden with an easy
swing born of long practice. OW! The packframe was a poor fit. Ah well,
adjustments could be made later at her leisure. Vara went. Holding the 'blue'
panel aside, she paused eyes drawn by the besmirched evidence of the Dragon
hatch. She glanced briefly upward. Amazing. But she hadn't the time to ponder.
She stepped through, and turned left. Sure enough, The small room was just as
described, embracing a steaming barrel staved tunn, a stand close at hand with
a generous collection of small ewers, a mountain of fluffy white towels, and
an inviting chaise. She quickly lost her clothing, and was soon wriggling in
perfumed water like a happy otter. It was delicious! However time pressed and
she had Guilde business. Rising like Venus, but looking more perhaps like
Athena, she put the towels to vigorous work.

'HOY! WHAT WAS THAT? A mouse-like scuff to be sure, but ALWAYS check FIRST.
THEN laugh at how silly you've been. She turned. FIRST MOTHER and ALL HER
SISTERS!!! Between she and the door stood a burly young red-haired rascal clad
only in a soft green jerkin. He grinned wolfishly as he took a purposeful step
toward her, casting the shirt aside. She was cool enough to note his muscular
form worthy of merit as a shaft of sunlight from the high, narrow window
haloed his copious coppery body hair. His huge vieniated member was already
rising as he lunged forward, attempting to throw his arms 'round her. She
swept one away with a bone-numbing side slash, and ducked under. Before he
could react to more than the shooting pain, she turned behind his back,
snapped an arm 'round his neck, and settled his chin just above the Vee inside
her elbow. The movement was a blur, but the would-be rapist was strong and
struggled briefly as he felt Vara's biceps swell and his feet leave the floor.
The vise-like grip left him unable even to make an outcry. Within seconds his
vision tunneled to cool black velvet as his carotids were squeezed shut. His
fingers, which had been clawing futilely at the thing garroting him turned to
water and slid uselessly to his sides. Black grew yet blacker.

Vara raised her eyes and was surprised to find herself staring directly into
her own wide pupils in the polished brass reflector next to the fireplace.
They widened with sudden recognition. The moment was frozen in time. She was
as mesmerized as a bird by a snake. A feeling of sudden euphoria swept over
her. Impending fulfillment? No. A battle rush? Not right either. A lovers
peak? Still not quite. The hold? She, in her career, had used the hold well
nigh a thousand times, but had never before seen it in its entirety. Her
victims had always been faceless. Her only view the back of the head. Then she
saw... felt the wholeness. The consummation. It was SEXUAL! She was at an
erotic peak. She stared into the golden scene. She saw two bodies closely
entwined... muscles tense... thrusting and lunging... breaths coming in gasps.
She felt the intense, sweaty male between her thighs heaving and plunging. Red
lips gashing open, flashing ivory teeth. Then one last epic convulsion before
total helpless relaxation. She was breathing sonorously...felt moisture heavy
upon both sets of lips. Was THIS the ultimate orgasm? Could it be replicated
abed? What would your partner do? What COULD your partner do? She was as
quickly aghast at the thought of using a battle tool upon a dear one. She
snapped back to the steamy scene in the little room.

Dropping her victim, she dressed at lightening speed. Outside the door, she
found a robed porter who stepped off at an almost run.

Back at the struggle scene, as soon as she departed, the tapestry near the
chaise parted to reveal the shadowy silhouette of the Queen. She watched as
the naked man began to stir groggily, flung a handful of coins in his
direction, nodded , and with a cold smile ghosted away whence she had come.

Vara, meanwhile paced steadily behind her guide. At the fourth intersection,
she skidded to an abrupt halt. HOLD! This was not the way she had come. She
looked at the rapidly disappearing back and with hardly a hesitation turned
left... the way she KNEW to be correct. Breaking into a swinging lope she knew
from long experience to be exactly double her normal stride she began to cover
distance counting by twos. ...12, 14, 16, LEFT! 2, 4, 6... She smiled. The
noiseless rhythm pleasured her, as always. In less than three minutes she
stood before the escape hatch with a hand upon the first deadman. Hark!
Someone approaches. Around the nearest corner came a robed lackey. Her guide?

He was two strides from her when he slid to a clumsy stop. "YOU! How...?"

"Haskers always know the quickest way. Let me out of this tomb... NOW!" She
was rewarded with a shrug and a willing hand on the bolts. The door swung open
soundlessly. It seemed someone had gotten the message about noisy machinery.
Peering out cautiously, and perceiving nothing obviously amiss in the late
afternoon sun, she sprang up lithely and reached back for the pack. Swinging
up her burden, she galloped zigzag from brush to hedge until reaching the
silver birches of the forest perimeter. She ceased dodging but continued
moving rapidly until she reached the dense firs where a person could not be as
easily silhouetted. She faded into the dark thicket as effectively as if she
had been wearing the Cloak of Invisibility.

A short hike later she cautiously approached her low-profile bivouac under the
protective brow of a stone massif, looking about for sign of her Jernpeer.
(Direct translation: Iron Girl, or Maiden. Closely akin to a Knight’s Squire).
Depositing the pack, she crouched easily, back braced against the reassuring
vertical granite wall. She pressed a palm to the soft green sod calling
softly, "Tove. Tove. You may come from behind the hjembarri (homeberry... Wild
blackberry... cultivated by many in their kitchen gardens. Hence: Home Berry).
I ken you there. Your breath disturbs the leaves."

A lovely girl... almost a woman of near nineteen frosts, stepped into view,
balancing a large natural shingle of stone, a coil of rolled cloth protecting
her head. Her eyes were downcast. "Oh, Vara. You knew, AGAIN."

Vara smiled indulgently. "'Tis true, but only I, or another Tre Kron Hasker
could have guessed. I could not hear you, you were well hidden, I could only
faintly smell you. You are well scrubbed with yew and lichen. Further, the
fire was VERY small and smokeless... hardly more than coals. You took the
hearthstone with you when you sensed my approach and quit the camp, taking
care to scatter the support stones damp side down. The sod below the place of
the hearth is not in the least warm." Tove smiled with pride and resituated
the hearthstone. "I have only two further queries. First, where are our
packs?"

Tove's smile broadened as she walked a few paces to one side of the great gray
boulder, then instead of continuing into the woods, she whirled and ran full
speed directly at the near vertical rock face. About two strides before
collision she vaulted upward, her momentum gluing her to the rough
perpendicular surface. In three strides she had gained the top. Bending out of
sight, she straightened holding the gear. Vara laughed aloud. She couldn't
help it. She was that pleased. After tossing down the packs, the girl leapt
outward as sure as a squirrel. Catching the bole of a wrist-sized yew she
swooped lightly to the ground not a half a stride from her Hasker.

Vara wondered how much of Tove's day was spent practicing... no matter. Every
task was done, and the technique could have a very practical life-saving use
someday. "And now my clever cub. The most important question of all. Where is
my horn?"

Tove's eyes widened, she mouthed a silent "Oh, no!" and scurried to the
hearthstone. Pulling aside a windbreak of damp moss, she produced a gray rams
horn in miniature. Held with a buckskin pad it was presented and accepted by a
grateful Vara with gauntleted hand. The rustic piece had been fashioned by
Vara herself. Of course she could afford a shiny artifact in alabaster or
silver from the finest Guilde, but she preferred this momento from her
childhood when she could spend her time creating things, rather than the
opposite. Snapping back to the here/now, she sniffed appreciatively. The heady
effluvia of honey and yeast filling her nostrils before she quaffed greedily.
Ahhhh she felt the foul taste of insincere words being sluiced from her mouth
and head. Tove looked expectant. Well, all right. A boon never did harm.

"AHHHH. Tove, my jewel. Beyond a doubt the finest draught ever to pass my
lips." A flowery statement, but not without merit. The girl brewed a top peg
cup. "Oh yes. One other small matter. I took careful note of your woodship
this day." The girl fidgeted from one foot to the other. "In the name of the
First I declare you fit for independent forest service."

The young woman positively glowed and sank cat-like into the ready curve
inside Vara's heavy biceps. The older woman felt her body warm and soften. A
light rain set in. Vara placed her helm over the coals, which had been well
bedded by Tove. The two sank as one upon the Haskers woolly Badger, leaned
against the still sun-warm overhanging granite wall, and drew the heavy
oil-tanned waterproof Ox over them. . In their abode, they were as protected
as in any snug crofter's cottage. Tove's sleep-drugged face pressed into her
right breast. Ah yes. This is why all those thick porridge-faced farm wives
can go from day to endless day with such beatific smiles and infinite
patience. Tove's pursed lips moved silently, as if to suckle, and the Hasker,
terror of the unseen garrote, fiend of the silent blade, yet again loved...
wholly, completely, and without reservation, need of coercion, strategic
advantage, nor thought of sex. It was, as ever, a singularly fulfilling
sensation. She sighed with contentment and was instantly totally relaxed
though her senses remained on standby alert.

Darkness was waning. Vara, having not really slept, brought herself fully
alert and took careful assessment of the surroundings before cracking her
eyes. She inventoried her senses one by one. All seemed to be normal within
her ken, which was extended far beyond the immediate area by her intimate
knowledge of animal habits. This morn, the tiny forest folk were about their
normal business. All was well. Stomach gnawing from no real food the previous
day, she retrieved a strip of halkebuk jerky pressed with bilberi (a
blueberry-like fruit) from her kit. As she opened her mouth, she looked down
and smiled. Tove was looking up in silent adoration. She offered the food. The
girl shook her raven hair, and slid out into the morning damp. Her exit left
far more than a physically less warm space at Vara's side. Oh, my Mother, she
thought as the sleek well-muscled young form moved in and out of the lingering
tendrils of morning mist. Has she a straight line anywhere? A flood of warmth,
and a gathering in her feminine zones reminded her 'twas not only food for
which she hungered.

For her part, Tove seemed totally oblivious to all but housekeeping. Moving
the helm from the hearth, she uncovered the last weary glow of the fire. This
she fed part of a small cache of shredded birchbark, dry from her hare, worn
(as did many) as a small pouch suspended by a fire cured wolf gut loop
(emergency garrote) between her breasts. (Marvelous breasts added Vara
mentally). In less than thirty heartbeats, a small hot fire blazed
smokelessly, nourished by dry inner chips from a nearby deadfall. Shortly Vara
was tendered a hot damp cloth smelling very slightly of juniper followed
directly by two steaming earthen mugs brimming with maple sweetened oatmeal
and black chicory tea. Her Tove... what a wonder. The tea warmed her hands and
soul, the oatmeal her belly, whilst the girl warmed her psyche with another
adoring smile. Trite but true. Life was GOOD.

Morning ablutions and break-fast complete, camp was broken, great care being
taken to leave the site looking, at least to the untrained eye, virginal. Next
on the agenda was, simply enough, where do we go from here. The nearest Vara
could come to an idea bearing even a nodding acquaintance with what might be
called a plan was: Toward the mountains.

They made the foothills in three weary days. Traveling game trails in the
distance consuming lope used by all Haskers on forced march. A loose-limbed
ten- leagues-to-the-hour swinging gait that could be maintained all day.
Eating high energy snacks, and drinking on the run, neither camps nor fires
were set. They dined cold and slept embracing for warmth beneath the
reassuring weight of the Ox. Well... nothing is ALL bad.

On the morn of the fourth day, after following a major stream rushing it's way
downhill, they came upon the first signs of cultivated fields. Vara made a
small hand movement and they melted back into the forest. Upon a convenient
log, she opened a small compartmented box whilst Tove fetched a helmet full of
water. Using this as a looking glass, she set at once to work upon her face. A
sweep or two from the kit and peach cheeks became a five day grizzled stubble.
Another sank her eyes, and so on. Until, instead of a strong young woman,
there stared back at her the visage of an ancient weary pilgrim. She gave Tove
a lascivious wink, who rewarded her with a fit of giggles. An archaic voice
croaked. "Be still, boy. You simper like a silly girl. One would suspect your
manhood." BOY? Tove turned beet red smothering her mirth.

Next went the tunic and tights. Vara looked appreciatively downward. Yes, her
swelling, sharply defined thighs and melon-shaped calves would do if she were
careful. She drew on rough dun colored trews and bulky boots, hating the
confinement of her lower limbs. A threadbare jacket, worn cloak and disheveled
hunter's cap completed her ensambe'. Her large, strong hands needed but a coat
of grime and black-rimmed nails. Her pack was turned inside for out to reveal
another, much abused, burden. Her new persona was very nearly done. The new
basket pack, now appropriated by Tove was dirtied in the stream backwaters
after being "worn" against the rocks. Several rivets were driven out to be
replaced by seemingly carelessly tied thongs. Sap from a jimsen weed turned
the remaining hardware from shiny copper to mottled black and green. The girl
was ordered to tumble in the dust under a spreading oak, but to take care to
not OVER sully herself. With her shirt worn outside her trews, her young
breasts were not noticeable, and her full dark pageboy hair was in keeping
with style in some parts. Her fine clear alto voice was easily that of a boy
who had not yet 'dropped'. She would do. Rubbing dark brown snuff-like spores
from a large tree fungus aged Vara's staff very nicely. Stooping one shoulder,
she stepped out with a pronounced gimp. "Here, boy. I need your arm", grated a
dry rattling voice. Tove-the-Boy stifled an overwhelming urge to laugh and
simply said, "Yea, Master."

Later, as they trod upon a lane approaching the high road, Vara paused to
insert what appeared to be fish scales into her eyes. A Haske invention.
Minuscule lines engraved into wafers of highly polished glass, they displayed
the milky orbs of the blind to the outside world whilst allowing the wearer to
see passably well. They all hated the things. They irritated beyond bearing,
but she supposed the discharge from rheumy red eyes made the illusion even
more convincing. "Come boy", the hoarse voice quavered, and they stepped upon
the fine gravel surface of the Great Road, turning to the right toward the
smudge of smoke seeping over the next hill betraying the hearthfires of a
sizable town beyond.

True enough. Not far past the break in the ridge, next to a sturdily crafted
bridge, was a well-made sign proudly proclaiming Lillebro {Little Bridge)
Since several people were hanging about the tollbooth Vara leaned to within a
hands-on distance and squinted at the carved letters from several angles.
"WELL, BOY! WHAT BE SCRIBED HERE? BE YE STRUCK DUMB?"

"B-b-b-but Master. Ye ken I know naught of letters. ONO! PLEASE Good Master.
Please, PLEASE do not beat me... again. Ononononoooo" She mewled, falling to
the small greensward, tucking into a fetal ball and rolling about dangerously
near the stream bank.

TOVE! thought Vara. NOW is not the time to become creative. But there was
naught she could do save follow the lead. "DO NOT START WI' ME, YE YOUNG
RAPSCALLION. I'LL..." She waved the staff menacingly.

A large coarse woman rushed to Tove's side, catching the pole on its
downswing. "NA, NA. NA!" she bellowed, red eyes bulging alarmingly. She
wrapped a protective arm 'round the boy's shoulder cooing, "There, there
young'un. He can na harm'ee nu. Ye be fine nu.." And then to Vara/The Master.
"Ye ol' FOOL! Ha' can'ee treat a sweet young lad such? Mind yer manners afore
I break that twig pon yer crook't back. COME! We rest ourse'ves." With that
she set off with Tove still in her tow. Vara followed in a hippity-hop gait,
The Bridgeman thundering along arear, arms windmilling bellowing "Mist'ess,
MIST'ISS. That be Tre Cuperin... (three New Coppers)... STOP! HOY, STOP! WHY
YE OL"... That is, until he noticed half a score or more individuals seizing
the opportunity of his absence to make gratis crossings. Never mind. His
red-faced efforts were having no effect on the woman whatsoever, so he quickly
turned back. She boiled right along with the bit in her teeth leaving Vara
farther and farther behind whining that she/he was lame and couldn't keep the
pace.

Before long they stopped before a small, but substantial looking cottage. Well
kept it was, with a clean swept front garden and beds of color near the door.
The woman sized them up for the twentieth time. "I do vum 'eeve not a copper
tween 'ee." She asked dourly.

At a signal from Vara, Tove ducked her ebon head repeatedly. "Oh, Mist'ess,
Mist'ss. Na, na, na. We do have. S'truth, s'truth." She scrounged in the
depths of her purse and emerged with three grimy green tarnished coins, which
she proudly offered the woman in trembling palm.

That one studied with grand disdain, finally choosing the least obnoxious from
its nest of pocket lint and other... less identifiable things. "Well, t'will
have to do." and they all trooped into the house. The interior was as neat as
the outside. Vara's salient thought was, Ah Tove, you do me proud. My
instincts served me well. The Jernpeer looked her Haskers way, eyes sparkling,
and pointedly tugged her right earlobe.

The 'boys' 'Master' returned the salute. Once inside, the woman, "Jus' call me
'Drulla", served a passable blackthorn tea and very fine barley cakes, but
still had to "'Pologise fer th' pore fixins. M'mans away t'th' Mountains this
whole summer."

"Aint he feared o' bandits? I be". Offered Tove.

'Drulla laughed. "Lor luvvya, honey. Not where he be, he ain’t."

"Pro'by bandit zone-se'f", growled Vara in an aside.

"Watch y'mout", snarled Drulla in a low, ice-cold voice. "He be honorable man,
on honorable quest".

"Eh?" Grated Vara.

'Drulla leaned close. "He ta he'p take land from Black-Heart Queen... WITCH!"
She quickly closed her 'mout' with a sharp click. "Well now. Ye know I don't
mean nuttin' by nunna that. Jus' a li'l backwoods humor". She looked around,
laughing nervously.

Hey there! Vara was instantly on her highest alert. She casually looked Tove's
direction. Good! The girl was looking carelessly out the garden window whilst
surreptitiously easing nearer the careless old crone. Vara was broadcasting
pointed thoughts in her junior's direction as red flags of danger fluttered
madly in her head. TOO EASY! She thought. The first person they fall over
wants to talk about the rebels. What were the odds? She looked again at Tove
who was in eminent danger of separating her left ear from her head in the
Hasker caution signal. Good. She was aware.

Once again, her choice of the 'Ugly Duckling' from 'mongst the squirming,
mewling pink mass of unwanted female yearlings offered to the Guilde on that
long ago Foundling Day was completely vindicated. One child alone stood
upright, lanky as a foal, critically observing the adults oooo-ing and
aaawww-ing. She carefully and silently moved away from the gushier of the
young Haskers making driveling fools of themselves over the clot of cherubic
female people larvae. Vara simply squatted, caught the toddler's eye, extended
her hand, and said, "Hello. My name is Vara. Come with me and we'll get away
from all this." She was rewarded with a serious, large eyed, dimpled smile and
a very comprehensible "eth peeth." They had not looked back since. Tove's
urgent signals that something was amiss was just one more affirmation she had
made a choice that could only have been guided by the First Mother herself. To
add frosting to the cake, the girl was evolving into a woman of substantial
intellect, startling physical strength, heart-stopping beauty, and almost
mystical intuitively. A wise choice, indeed.

Her fugue state was broken by their hostess asking with admirable, if foolish
candor, "Hi! Ye don't be patrollers. Be ye?"

Vara-as-old-man cackled like field stones falling from a cart, ending with a
dry prolonged hacking cough. "Hay! Hay! Haaaaaay!" She gasped. "Wot think ye,
boy? M'lady bethinks us armed men! Heeee! Heeee! Heh. Heh! Na, Goodwife. We be
not Paterollers (giving the word its Outland pronunciation.). Bards, we be..
Be traveling to give joy to armed men in lonely parts. Safer by far (she
indicated Tove) than nubile Dance-Girl. (and almost inaudibly) Altogedder earn
not half so much, too."

The woman eyed them in a calculating fashion and parked her fists upon ample
hips. "Be bards, hey? Den entertain."

Tove's surprise-rounded eyes sought Vara's over the woman's head. The old bard
winked a right eye slowly and rummaged in his kit, at last surfacing with a
small object wrapped in a semi-clean silken cloth. A ceremonious unveiling
exposed a craftily wrought thumb piano. The chimes were struck, and a minor
chord of remarkable clarity filled the small space. "Bards ny work for
nothing." A quick hand muted the lingering tones.

"Drulla spun the recently acquired corroded ver d'gris cuperin the air. "I
will 'ave un coppers'urth", she demanded.

Tove deftly caught the coin in mid-flight, then made an exaggerated show of
biting it in much the same manner of someone assaying the worth a GeldKron.
(Gold Crown). The "boy's" hand jerked to his jaw as if in extreme pain. The
piece was offered to the master, who in turn refused it. Breaking into a
fool's grin, he then made a big show of depositing his treasure in a small
furry bag on a thong 'round his neck. He patted the pouch with finality, then
with look of one perceiving a miracle, reached carefully and produced another
gleaming bright copper from behind 'Drulla's ear. This was presented to the
amazed woman whilst cavorting happily. They all laughed. It was a good mime
and a clever trick.

Vara motioned to the center of the floor. A place assumed by a very nervous
looking Tove. The Master thumbed his instrument and the chords of a well-known
ballad of unrequited love filled the room. The sweet transparent voice it
accompanied would stop your heart.

"Alas my love, ye be untrue. Ye cast me out most wantonly.

Though I bear arms protecting you and homeland from calamity

Long past our flights of youth

Long past our games uncouth

Long past our songs of truth.

I despair the day of our trothing."

And so on, through dozens of tiresome maudlin verses. In spite of all, Tove's
sweet voice made it seem almost interesting. Finally the Kalimba began to sing
with the beat of a lively schottische, and the boy broke into an animated
dance from the grasslands beyond the eastern mountains. Their hostess was
beaming broadly and clapping hands.

At last, exhausted, the performance slowed to a stop. 'Drulla, staring at the
boy fixedly, began to advance with arms outstretched and fingers clutching.
"NA, NA! Be nunna that. Cost extry. One Crown GOLD!" The woman froze in her
tracks, her shoulders slumping, she turned back to her kitchen hearth.

"Could’st yer man an' his fellers use a little cheer. Mayhap they hoard a bit
of loose jingly."

The woman was livid. "KAGOR WANT NA PART YER BOY. GOOD MAN. NOT THAT WAY!"

It was not easy not laughing. "Be at ease. I only suggest we sing and dance."

"Ach... so ye say. Do'ee so weal? Swear oath?'

"We will... do so swear , 'pon our Mother's Mother's Mother. Now! Will ‘ee
take us?"

"Na, na. Will ne'er take. Will draw picher... chart." She set to with stylus
and berry ink. The product, on a scrap of stained sheepskin, was surprisingly
competent. Perusing the parchment minutely brought forth an interesting fact.
Beating the diagram against her own admittedly sketchy knowledge of the locale
seemed to indicate 'Drulla had 'straight-lined' a very circuitous route to a
site which appeared to be only about a two day march up a nearby fjord. The
old harpy was not so foolish as she appeared. Had they been expected, or was
this the usual procedure with anyone evidencing curiosity about the rebels?
Proceed with extra caution.

Shortly thereafter she and Tove departed the suspicious woman's abode and
spent the night in a comfortable encampment several leagues in a straight line
and some ninety degrees from the course suggested by the chart. They washed
one another in the crystalline waters of a gravel bottomed trout pool. Before
they quit their bath, Tove deftly hand-caught a lively silver behind the gills
and skillfully bit it through the axe-shaped head to preclude a long, noisy,
flesh-bruising death struggle. Besides, it was more humane by her way of
thinking. Death swift and sure. Not long slow suffocation. Mother; let mine be
such, she prayed. After a brisk rubdown with tender yew boughs, the women
sun-dried upon a small slate slab just above nature's basin. Their rustic gear
was left to dry upon dead Hollyhock branches. 'Twas good to be back in
casuals. Vara restuffed the packs as Tove found a hearthstone, started a fire
with her sparkstone, then chancing a person being near enough to smell,
prepared trout-on-tree with pungent bay branches. That, with a cool sassafras
tea, dent-de-Leon green salad with morals, bear-root baked in the coals, and
sweet high-bush blueberries was their menu- complet. Ah, the deep woods. The
poor person's Gourmet Shop. Afterwards, as they were licking fingers, it was
agreed to be worth the trouble. They rolled into the luxury of separate
shakedowns that night, but sleep came slowly. For some reason, the night
seemed to be colder than usual. The Wolf was chasing the Boar in the
Sky-Pictures ere the Schlafprinz (Sleep Prince... sandman) arrow pierced Vara
that night.

The second day's journey brought them to a sizable outpost of the Queen's
military. After much ado with an overweening, over officious, over dressed,
overSTUFFED guardian of the Queen's rules, they were finally allowed to pass
into the sanctum. Vara suspected it to do more with their professional display
of arms than the official-looking documents they waved. The ignoramus was
probably illiterate anyway. Once inside, Vara became acutely aware of just how
many layers of trail dust coated her tongue and readily followed the sounds of
laughter and thumping tankards to the Sign of the Flowing Barrel. There, they
were blocked by a rude fellow who kept yammering, in an impossible dialect,
about guardsMEN and pointing a truncated finger ‘crost the public green, which
was not very. The Haskers reluctantly turned away. Why go to all the bother of
killing the uncouth wart over a draught? He was only trying to do his job. Off
they went following the finger, and lo! There, proudly on display, was another
flowing barrel . Tove began to laugh, and after a moment Vara could not help
but join in. On the previous establishment the barrel was tapped, with foamy
brew gushing from the spigot. Over the door of this public room, the keg was
instead BROACHED, and the sudsy liquid poured from the narrow V-shaped cleft.
Vara couldn't decide whether she was amused or insulted. Maybe both.

They entered the portal without being accosted, and paused to allow their eyes
to become accustomed to the light and their ears to the din. Vara smiled. The
female side of the guards Taverna was, if anything, rowdier and smelt more of
Kiff (North African hemp... Hashish.) than it's counterpoint across the
square. She chose a table in a corner facing the door and awaited service.
Smiling more broadly, she thought of how the upper echelons were likely
laboring under the misapprehension that they were avoiding off-duty problems
by separating the genders. She wondered just how many of the "sweet
defenseless" individuals peopling the place the brass had actually seen. She
laughed aloud and mentioned her observation to Tove, who shrugged and favored
with a nod and shy smile the strikingly beautiful and blatantly butch
individual in bronze breastplate who had been eyeing her with lynx-like
anticipation from the bar.

"TOVE! You little bar-slut. Don't be a fool."

"Oh, Vara. Don't be so parochial. I think she's cute. Just like my big ol'
bear-hound. So huge she scares everyone to death, but is REALLY lovable and
just dying to cuddle."

"Sooner cuddle bear... prob'ly safer by far."

Tove crossed her eyes, and stuck out her long pointed tongue to its (very
startling) limit.

The schooners on the backbar chattered as the warrior-woman stood, and gently
rapped the bartop with one knuckle of a ham-sized fist. The barkeep was
instantly attentive. (smart man) His patron jabbed three extended fingers
their way and started in toward them. A trio of dart players were flattened
against the wall like so many squirrels as the Bergfrau (Mountain [of a]
woman) Ducked under the hand-hewn mainbeam almost obscured in the oily-sweet
smoke. Mother's, Mother's, GRANDmother thought Vara in wonder. She devoutly
hoped the natives were friendly. As the figure loomed over them, The Hasker
casually caressed the unlatched hilt of the short blade by her side. Blikker
(Lightning) she called it, at the same time idly rested the other upon her
chest, fingers forming the Hasker 'H'. This is similar to the Romish Figote
(anti evil-eye sign) but with the fingers extended, and thumb barely visible.
Before relaxing her hand she briefly tongued, then kissed the tip of her
thumb. A thing not found in any Haske Guildebook, it is non-the-less used by
many Haskers to demonstrate their Sisterhood. If the symbology escapes you,
try it with your own hand. Now do you understand?

The giantess made a small, but courteous bow. "Ah, now. Be Haskers. Might well
have guessed. Two ladies as lovely as ye'se'ves," she looked around critically
and shook her head, "in such sty . 'Twas fair a puzzle when'ee be not afear."
She laughed like a bass drum with easy good cheer. "Will th' Haske gi' th'
boon a sharin' a cup wi' or'nary sojur?" She put out a hand the size of a
saddle pack. "I be Honi."

Vara was dumbfounded. The voice, though low-pitched, was as sweet, friendly,
and full of good cheer as that of any fair milkmaid. She and Tove shook the
huge paw as wonder filled her. Never had her hand looked so dainty. With her
foot, she pushed out a chair. Honi first tested the furniture by applying her
weight to one backpost with only the diagonally opposing front leg on the
floor. When the piece only groaned and creaked a little, she nodded, threw a
long leg over and sat facing them over the back.

Instantly a very small, very black man materialized at her elbow bearing three
heroic tankards. "Be yuh Potah, m'ladysheb," he intoned in a very deep voice
and outrageous accent

Honi laughed. "I be 'ladyship' when'ee be Emperor of Kathay, ye alt troll."

The man smiled loftily and returned, "Mayhab aye'm. Can'ee proof beyon
argeemen aye'm NOD? An' hah! Aye ding be NOD troll. Can'ee proof beyon
argeemen ayE'M? An' if firs prob'sition be troo, be secon exclude? An' secon'
be troo if firs be opposite?

Honi gave her brow an exaggerated furrow, squinting her eyes as if in great
effort. Touching one finger to her temple, she gave the impression of sudden
understanding. "AHA! It come to me. Na, yea, yea, na. And, yea, na, na, yea.
OR.. yea, yea, na, na. That cover all. Anow, me fine scholar, kin'ly proof
beyon' doubt we all actual HERE?" She and her tiny friend collapsed in
laughter over what was obviously a very clever joke, the logic of which was
completely lost upon the reality-oriented Haskers, who looked on blankly.

Honi suddenly looked chagrinned. "Fogimme, fogimme! Vara, Tove, dis purse-size
philosopher be D'ar. Be he nod mos' 'muse' man ever?". Neither had the
foggiest, but managed to grin and nod enthusiastically whilst signaling one
another "I haven't the slightest notion, either."

As D'ar turned , Honi called "Hold! We mus' have three mo' flagon." She
flourished a gold piece. The man's eyes lit up, and he started back to the
table. But wait... he was actually drawing away...or??? He was walking toward
them, taking long strides but was inexplicably being drawn back. His eyes
widened with surprise... he redoubled his efforts, but was helpless. Fear
began to show in the whites of his eyes as he grasped at the furniture, the
post holding the mainbeam, the patrons, but to no avail. He was being drawn
relentlessly into the awful blackness of The Back Room. One last disparate
lunge at the door frame. He held momentarily, then the claw-like fingers were
one by one stripped mercilessly away as the unseen demonic force dragged him
back. Agonizingly the last twisted digit slipped from sight. There was a
piteous wail followed by a horrendous crash. Then... ghostly silence.

Everyone in the room was staring at the Haskers as if they, being strangers,
must somehow be responsible Tove had risen, hand on weapon, waiting for Vara's
signal. Vara, simply stunned, could only stare at the murky portal with
bulging eyes. They both looked at Honi, who was in the throes of some sort of
horrendous fit. Her face was beet-red, lips drawn back showing large square
teeth. Tears coursed down tight cheeks from squinted eyes. She was emitting
strange struggling sounds: "HUNH! UNGH! HUH! HUNH! Whilst lurching to and fro.
She was in the steely grip of... then dawn broke. Laughter. LAUGHTER!? First a
helpless person is swallowed up by some sort of evil spell, then his best
friend LAUGHS? Mayhap her spell? Be she WITCH?

Honi was motioning to them. They drew close. These might be her last words.
She was choking. They beat her upon the back and raised her arms above her
head. They began to understand words. They leaned closer yet. "B-b-be....
He... t-t- t-talent'd... o-o-r no?'

(In unison) "WHAAAAT?"

At that moment, d'Ar appeared with fresh tankards and a tray of smallfoods
which he served with grandiose elan. "Comblimens o de Hus m'ladeez."

The Haskers simply stared in disbelief whilst Honi was able to resuscitate
herself enough to comment, "Styrkindt (Stellar) performance, my fren'. Allow
me this small token." She held up a gold FymKron (Five Crown coin) and pressed
it into the man's palm.

He regarded it momentarily and in a supercilious voice announced: "d'Ar does
not 'cep gra'tootees fa entatain frens frens." He held the coin up between
thumb and first finger and with a grand flourish placed it in the middle of
the table with a sharp 'Klack', leaving the women to stare at the spot which
now held... NOTHING! Tove actually touched her fingers to the point. Bethought
she the coin invisible? The three stared at one another in wonder. Be he a
Merlin? The little man at last spoke. "Allow me." With a picket-fence grin, he
held up the yellow disk... AHA! He had it all along... and reproduced the
flowery motion very slowly. As the hand holding the Kron passed before the
other, the coin was transferred. The same hand smoothly continued on its path
to the center of the table and touched decisively. At the same moment the
other hand snapped the coin down noisily...KLAK... and swept it unnoticed into
the large pocket of the barman's leather apron. Even seeing how the trick was
performed left them looking at the center of the table. Laughing anew, d'Ar
held the coin to Honi, who shook her head. "Put it towards th t'ousnens aye
awreddy ow'ee" The man smiled, spun the bright yellow object in the air,
himself twirling around so adroitly that the disk arced to drop once more into
the gaping pocket. He stepped off at the same moment to assume his station
behind the bar to the accompaniment of a chorus of "Gud'uns", "Wellplayeds"
and drink orders. He wore an expression of complete ennui as if it were only
the usual day's work.

"Amazin' lit'le Pip. Ain't he?" Observed Honi. The other two could only nod.
"Ya oughtta seen dis udder thin' we done wi' one anudder." Vara arched an
eyebrow. "Y'see, we go inta dis mock racket wheres I calls 'iz brew PIGSWILL
wot tastes like it'uz aged inna GOATS BLADDER. Now y'unnerstan 'iz brew be 'iz
PRIDE'N'JOY! Ee be VER' 'ticular uv ever'thin' bouten it. So 'e call me
Musclehead Ignoramus wot usual drink goat pee anyhow. We trades insults fo'
awhile alla time getting' louder an' LOUDER. Den I slaps m'arm." She
demonstrated, making a sound very like a crofter wedging a wind-twisted elm.
"Den say 'You tink you such big kega ale... you got anyting like DAT?' He
admit not. So I punch m'belly an he say same ting. An' so on. Do leg, neck an
all. Final' I axe 'im, 'Hey, Halfdraught, you got ANYTING biggern me?' He tink
an look like 'e study real hard. Den he reach inside 'e trews an' start to
rummage 'roun like sometin' been mislaid. Y'coulda heard a pin drop inna
taproom. Ever hen inna place strainin' ta see wot nex'. 'E stop huntin', get
big wicked grin on face an say 'Bet you ain't got no 3-han'...ever'body suck
in breath when he whip IT out... stickin oughtta da placket of 'e trews... all
brown an' gnarled... DIS long, an DIS big round...'e finish talk at same
time... 'BAR RAG'! 'e say. Ladies, dey all scream an fall ovah wen 'e jerk da
ting out. Den wen dey tumble to de fak dey been HAD, all scream wid laughs an
fight ovah da silly ting... tear to shreads so’s all can have liddle bit to
keep. SO funny. Me an. d'Ar laugh fit to POP. Could na walk for LONG time. MOS
amusin... for a man."

She rooted about in her purse, surfacing with a tattered scrap of ill-used tan
duck fabric. "See ye here? Frum de VERY rag." The giantess smiled smugly. Vara
laughed heartily. True or no, t'was a notable story, well-told and worth
remembering.

Honi stood. A thing which caused a momentary quiet. "We go now." The Haskers
regarded one another, then arose. Well, why not? They departed to d'Ar's
outragously lascivious wink, mimed broken heart and flowery blown kisses.

Arriving at Honi's dwelling... more barn than house...t'was built to her
scale, they were met by Bakka, her man. A smallish, well-made, eager sort of
person with large expressive eyes. A Spaniel to his mistresses Mastiff. They
sat comfortably with pipes and Porto watching the fire die when once more the
lady of the house announced "We go now.", and they trooped down a short
passage to behold the largest, highest, deepest feather bed in captivity.

They disrobed by unspoken common consent. Vara swallowed hard. Honi was not
the thick country commoner she had appeared to be. She was a Titan. Huge, to
be sure. Immense, but with finely-chiseled unyielding muscles forming
flamboyant Reubinesque curves. A whole mountain range waiting to be explored.
Her man was a wonder unto himself. A doll. A perfect miniature. EXCEPT... when
his trews fell! His organ could only be described as... well... Heroic! Wrist
thick, it fell to near his knees. Smooth and powerful, it evidenced only the
barest vieniation. The size of his Herculean member was accentuated by the
silky blush of, fine, sand-colored pubic hair. Tove, who had been spectating
avidly at once began to subtly draw away.

Honi put a Mother's arm 'round her shoulders. "Be not 'feared, liddle one. 'E
can'st... IT can'st... nod since 'e be liddle lad, and were struck by sojur's
lance." She leaned close and whispered. "Only Honi big enuf an' got pleasure
muscle strong enuf to care for Bakka's need. Bakka bound to Honi forEVER." She
giggled like a little girl.

Tove looked as though she felt it a genuine loss, and was instantly
solicitous, going to the man, hugging him, and cooing over him as one would an
injured puppy. Bakka looked not at all disappointed as the girl pulled him
beneath the covers and they disappeared from sight, swallowed alive by the
goose-down of the deep feather bed.

Honi was altogether another draught of ale. powerful... threatening...
INTIMIDATING. However, Vara had nothing to fear. It was the gentlest, most
love- filled Vara had ever experienced. T'was overflowing with warm caresses
and gentle kisses. She had never known what warm breath gently blown upon the
proper places could do. They locked lips and exchanged life's breath 'till
ears roared and eyes beheld shooting stars. Honi's huge hand and long fingers
came upon tiptoe to fill her. Soon came a probing from behind. Not insistent,
but rather a warm tentative touching. Asking permission. Vara smiled warmly as
she melted in happy response. It was wondrous. Her partner's hand was so
large, it could fill and pleasure her both portals. She need not respond. Her
body was in full control and writhed otter-like in answer to Honi's erotic
dexterity. She was only sad she could not reciprocate. Then her partner's
intimate grip tightened and she was lifted closer to the comforting breasts.
She had a sudden almost painful surge of overwhelming de-javue. FIRST ONE!
What was it? It passed as quickly as it had come. Was it a deeply-buried
baby's subconscious memory of Mother? The thought made her dizzy, and there
was pleasure to be had. The huge nipple neared. At last she could participate.
She kissed the aureole gently and began suckling like a babe. And later, even
more avidly.

The peak, when it came, was like nothing she had before experienced. No
crashing wave, nor thunder roll. It was as a rising tide. Gentle, but
irresistible. Flooding in. Flowing insistently into every crevice. Filling
mind, body, and soul. Then lingering at neap. In stasis. Longer, longer,
longer yet, until it could longer not be borne. One more heartbeat would bring
madness. Then as beautifully as it had risen, it receded, leaving satiation,
fulfillment, and a renewed, cleansed spirit. She released a long-pent breath,
was captured by a watery relaxation, and slept embracing/embraced and secure.

Vara often tried to explain, but it was a thing not entirely of the physical
world. A manifestation to be experienced only... indescribable. The nearest
she was able to encompass it with words was: Imagine being in a lea of a
peaceful forest, surrounded by immense towering firs. In the air is the faint
aroma of lavender. Far overhead, white popcorn clouds drift smoothly across
the fringed patch of transparent blue afforded by the small isolated clearing.
A soft breeze sighs almost inaudibly in feathery treetops. The airborne nectar
becomes steadily stronger until you are joyously, orgasmicly drunk.
Intoxicated by the lavender's subtle aphrodisiac. Eyes slowly droop and soon
your world becomes irresistible warm burgundy velvet. Millennia later, light
returns to a divan of soft pale green moss and the filtered warmth of a rich
spring sun. The faint essence of lavender yet clinging, as a gentle kiss, upon
smooth soft skin. It was not only singular, but also she felt truly enriched
by the experience. Not a thing often said of such encounters. She held the
tendrils of sleep at bay to longer bask in the afterglow, but was forced at
last to cede the field.

Before completely fading, she thought of Tove. A quick peek over an alpine
hipbone showed her younger half with eyes tight-closed, chin pointed directly
at the ceiling, breath coming in tight spasms through pursed lips. Between her
updrawn thighs a prostrate Bakka tongued silent, worshipful, adoration upon
the altar of her womanhood. Vara slept.

Next morn, after hot lentil porridge had revived them and they lingered over
steamy mugs of blackthorn tea, Honi drew Vara aside. Glancing about
conspiratorially she offered in a hushed voice: "Had but me M'or (Bless Her)
mayhab look doon dif'ernt trail Honi be Hasker herse'f nu. Aylee... 'tis pas'
dat time nu, but ha' sma' t'ing I invent by my own. T'would be VER' he'pful to
Hasker. Come... I show." Vara, who had heard all this many times before,
started to shake her head. Honi looked annoyed, but held her tongue. She
lifted the corner of Vara's heavy Ox from where it lay upon the windowseat.
Her other hand disappeared behind. "Warch'ee careful" she admonished. There
was a muffled 'klik' and a shiny needle lanced through the tough leather to
fall into a waiting palm. Honi held the thick hide aloft and carefully
reinserted the needle where it had popped through. ALTHAGGE! (old hag...
witch)The Hasker gasped. It HAD to be a trick. Vara had seen a top quality Ox,
such as hers, turn away the point of a well-honed dirk.

Honi smiled and produced a palm-sized box. Removing the cover she displayed a
tiny recurved bow fastened therein. "made frum mout'-bone uv whale-fish." She
announced proudly.

Vara had seen such animals, of course, but never at such a distance as to
afford a view of said bones. "Thank The First" She muttered inaudibly whilst
making The Sign.

Honi continued. "Be not a weapon fo da fiel', up real close... hol' near ear,
and 'klik'...All done. 'Mos' no blood... mayhab tiny drop in ear. Target jus'
lie down." She then made a big show of turning the box over and opening a
cover with an intricate ivory inlay. "Frum mout' uv toot'-wa'ker seal." Vara
HAD seen those tusks. With a flourish Honi offered "Wouldst care fo' sweet?"
The compartment was about half-filled with Maple-Gum lozenges. Vara chose one
and chewed reflectively. Honi was right. She simply MUST have one of the
fiendish little weapons.

Honi smiled more broadly. "Ye like? 'Tis yours." The finely wrought mechanism
was passed to Vara's ready palm. "An' fo' de fin' YOUNG warrior." A plainer
version was presented to Tove, who squealed her thanks. "Nu, can'ee gift a
boon to ol’ sojur?.. fellah arms bearer."

"Be it in my power."

"W'enee name de liddle toy... mind of Honi, vaer saa" (if [it] so [pleases
you]).

"It would be my very greatest pleasure, my good friend."

She was embraced with enthusiasm, feet swinging several hands from the floor.
A soft "Will missee" was breathed almost inaudibly into her ear. She touched
down again and her friend walked quickly to stare, as if fascinated, through
the wavy panes at the kitchen garden. "Go way... QUICK." It was a small,
pinched voice.

The Haskers did go, as quickly as possible. Their last glimpse was of Bakka,
standing upon the window seat, stroking Honi's great shock of wheaten hair...
consoling his giant mate. Later they both had a good laugh when Tove remarked
she hoped he hadn't drowned in the flood of tears cascading upon his head.
Later, after Guilde testing, copies of the murderous little box were dubbed
Honibox' (usually called just plain Honi) Most thought for the camouflage of
sweets. Vara never corrected this notion, feeling proud to hold the secret to
herself.

The next two days passed uneventfully. They traveled at Standard Pace due to
the trickiness in extrapolating the straight-lined chart into tangents of an
arc, interpolating the result into true straight lines and finally translating
into curvilinear lines of best march. Even more difficult to do than to say,
BUT t'would never do to go astray at that stage of the game.

In forenoon of the third day, they looked down upon the Rebel fortress,
admittedly a little surprised the find it where advertised. A large pentagon
about one hundred strides on the side, it was solidly roofed with some sort of
metalled material, Flat as millpond ice. No possible entry there. From just
inside the forest, the two ferreted the entire perimeter. Only three openings
could be seen. First, the drawbridge. Updrawn and secure, it seemed to be clad
in the same material as the roof, and fit into the stone wall proper with only
the narrowest of gaps. Not much hope there either. Of more interest were the
portals which allowed a good-sized rill to pass beneath the stronghold. These
seemed to be secured by wrist-thick woven iron bars. They must be conned more
closely under cover of darkness. In short this was a far throw from the rude
encampment she had expected. Staring at the upstream portal gave Vara
inspiration. At her signal, they faded into the dark firs.

As Tove set up camp, Vara began unloading her pack. At the cloak of
invisibility, she paused. After a few moments indecision, she wrapped in it.
Tove dropped the recently-found hearthstone upon her toes with a ripe
Triple-Mother oath. She was holding her breath, owl-eyed. Vara looked down to
espy several dark blotches in the fabric. The majik had obviously been damaged
by the violence of the dragon hatch. Holding the coarse cloth up to the fading
sun, it was her turn to catch her breath. She could actually devine how the
thing was crafted. Yes... CRAFTED, a MADE thing not majik. If one looked VERY
closely, one could discern that that the bulky material was actually WOVEN of
scores and scores... too many to count... of tiny hair-thin PIPES. Through
which, when looked upon, flowed a persons vision power allowing a view of the
scene beyond. HOLD! Did that mean if not looked upon, NO scene flowed through?
BUT... how did it know when a person... and how about two people... a HUNDRED?
ACK! It made her head hurt. What craftsperson could... what TOOLS? Futureman,
indeed! That made her head hurt even more exquisitely. "Tove. Willow bark
tea...QUICKLY." The Jernpeers jaw snapped shut with an audible click as she
sprang to comply. After quaffing the bitter draught and pretending her head
had stopped pounding, she returned to her Field Kit. Two Dragon's Eggs, two
Limpets, and carefully, The Hammer. A small flagon of dark honey water, one of
strong mead. and four generous flags of halkebuk jerky completed her outfit.
She glanced once more at the setting sun. Two fingers above local horizon.
Just time for an oatcake and a few sips of water before setting off.

At the forest gate, in almost total darkness, she adjusted her hood and they
suddenly embraced, fully aware they might not see one another again until they
had taken The Ride. Vara near collapsed when Tove, taking full charge, kissed
her on the mouth... full and deep. "Care... Miss'ee." Whispered the girl.
"Care" replied the Hasker, only adding a soft "Miss'ee too." after she had
diagonaled down the brushy slope a full dozen strides.

Arriving at the upstream grating in complete darkness some fifteen minutes
later, apparently unseen, Vara was pleased to find what she had assumed from
her long-distance reconnoiter. The grille was set back from the facade almost
two full strides. She would be able to work unseen there in the sunken
streambed unless someone were to look directly, at close range, into the
gloomy portal. Plunging into the icy waist-deep water, she went directly to
the grillwork and gave a mighty heave. She squandered her time. Not even the
slightest movement. The bars were set firmly into the very substantial
foundation. So she had expected and had come prepared. Gingerly lifting the
Hammer from its nest, she pressed the business end against an horizontal bar
one vertical from the stonework. Averting her eyes, she moved her finger as
she had been taught. The angry cat spat, she felt heat upon her knuckles, saw
a brief flash through even tightly closed eyelids, and heard the sibilant hiss
of sparks hitting water not quite muffled by the run of the stream. An
examination of the bar evidenced a hair-thin gap completely through. The
exercise was repeated seven more times, resulting in a gate hinged by two
solid horizontal bars next to the masonry on the right.

Restowing the tool, she hyperventilated till she swayed as if drunken. Bracing
her feet against the lowest bar, she grasped the solid vertical next to her
"hinge" with her right hand and fastened lethally with her left upon the
vertical near the fresh-cut horizontals. HuuuunnnNH!!! Her left triceps,
pectorals, and right biceps bulged explosively. Vara bore down mightily... in
her mind forming the crystal clear vision of the bars bending as warm taffy.
She envisioned the tiny metallic particles flowing lava-like. Face neck and
arms veniated like roadmaps. Rivulets coursed her cruelly-cut involutions to
cascade noiselessly into the fast-running brook. Heavy iron, though seemingly
immovable, betrayed it's weakness by shedding a blizzard of brown flakes,
groaning softly, and slowly... slooowly surrendering before the onslaught of
superbly trained Hasker muscle. When the gap was adequate, she wriggled
through and leaned, gasping, against the cold, smooth wall. Breath rasped as
stars swam before her eyes.

As soon as she had regained her wind, and vision had cleared, she regarded her
entryway. In the near complete darkness, it was not at all obvious. She would
let it be. Might be needed later. From her belt she withdrew a large diameter
marsh reed. Removal of a plug of moss resulted in the escape of a dim blue
light. Pixie Light, or Fox Fire in the words of the superstitious and
ignorant. All Haskers knew 'twas but a manifestation of tiny beings feeding
upon a lump of decaying matter from the bog. If the glow should dim, feed the
organisms with like matter and give them a small drink from a fetid pool, and
the light would be renewed. Even the Gods simplest creatures deserve reward
for labor well done. Feeble though it might be, the glow was more than
adequate for eyes grown accustomed to almost total blackness. She was soon
able to set about exploring the tunnel. There appeared to be a round opening
of a shaft at the center of the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Just out of reach with
no handhold nor ladder in sight. Without hesitation she produced the
Limpets... how best to use. Then it struck her. Leaping upward, she pressed
the hold-tight to the wall of the vertical shaft. She was able to give the
lever three quick flicks just as her momentum was spent. Aha. She was left
adangle. It held fast. Levering upward, she affixed her second disc. The first
was removed and placed yet higher. And so it went 'till she fetched up against
another iron grate. Not near so formidable this time. She listened
carefully... breath abate. Not a sound. The covering was pressed gently
upward. It LIFTED! It was not secured. IDIOTS! She moved the grille aside,
passed through, brought up her limpets, and replaced the heavy lid in total
silence. For no particular reason she chose the center of the three available
openings to egress the small featureless room. In twenty two strides she
emerged into a narrow passageway, and recapped her Foxfire in favor of dim
flambeau affixed much too far apart along the high walls.

She set out. Even though penetrated. the place was still an enigma. What she
found as she traveled, up and down ramps, 'round many corners, was just that.
No doorways, no rooms, no large halls, NOTHING. Nothing save endless corridors
so narrow she could near touch the sides with her elbows. The ceilings were so
high they faded to blackness in the inadequate torchlight. Every fifteen
strides, more or less, was an intersection with identical corridors stretching
away into darkness in either direction. Hmmm... even counting paces and turns
could get a person lost in this rabbit warren. At first she found the very
corners somehow unsettling. Not quite right. Not one was at a proper right
angle. The she got a message from the logical side of her brain... "Child! you
are within a PENTAGON. The inside is to match the shell." Well, that explained
THAT, but she still liked it not.

HOLD! Someone approaches. She was caught halfway between intersections.
Quickly placing her butt against one wall, she braced her feet against the
other and ascended the passage much as a rock climber negotiates a narrow
chimney. Reaching the ceiling far above the torches, she locked her knees,
assuming a position that can be maintained by a person in reasonable condition
for well near an hour. For a Tre-Kron Hasker in her prime? Who knows. Vara
watched the scene below with professional interest. First pairs of runners
came pounding up to remove flambeaus. Close behind came others bearing
brilliant mantle lamps. These were a affixed to the wall by slipping a peg on
the body of the lamp into a bore in the wall some two spans above the floor
using what appeared to be purpose-made pole mounted grasping devices. The dim
lights were hustled 'round the corner at the next intersection. As that corner
was reached, the torches were forwarded to the next corner, and so on, out of
sight. What in Mother's name.

No one had yet spied her. Actually, the reflectors on the fixtures directed
the bright light downward, making it near impossible to pierce the gloom at
the ceiling. That, and the very human habit of never looking above eye level
when conducting everyday business made her hiding place quite secure. 'Twas
one of the first lessons in Guilde training: Hide in plain sight. Do you have
papers, money, or other valuables you wish to secure yet have at instant
ready? Put your treasures in an envelope, and pin it to the wall ABOVE and
INSIDE the door of a dark closet. Your goods will be there, safely awaiting
you, even should you return to find your abode thoroughly ransacked. Actually,
that is what most Hasker "Majik" is based upon... taking advantage of the
frailties of human nature.

The scene below was changing. An armed column was jangling into view following
the route of the "lamplighters". Single file, the passage being too narrow to
allow otherwise, all were clad in short gray-green tunics, tan leggings, and
soft brown boots. They seemed to be about equally divided, male and female, if
Vara were any judge of well-made legs (and she most assuredly WAS). About mid
way in the column came another color. A teal-clothed woman. But WHAT a woman.
Not a large person, but a commanding presence non-the-less. Pulled-back honey
hair parting on a high forehead like a longship bow wave. Wide-spaced
Arctic-blue eyes set beneath owls-feather brows. Ever so slightly prominent
cheekbones, finely arched lips and narrowly sculpted nose with flaring
nostrils. Though obviously less of a muscular physique than Vara, she moved
with a cougar's grace and economy of motion which betrayed more than ordinary
strength in the flaring torso beneath her pleated blue-green jabot.

Directly below Vara's perch,, the entire column halted as one. The Woman's
piercing orbs tilted upward, her head turning from one angle to the next, much
as a Peregrine cons. My MOTHER! Thought Vara. She's looking straight at me,
but the lamps have her blinded. No matter, she senses my presence. She KNOWS I
am here... SOMEHOW. A dangerous person, this one. A woman of power in every
sense of the word. There was no longer any doubt about the identity of the
rebel commander,

After what seemed like hours (but was actually less than a minute) the van
once more stepped off, and shortly thereafter, the lamp/flambeau routine was
reversed. As soon as the hubbub had faded Vara descended and trotted silently
after, soon overtaking a clump of runners milling about an intersection
totally immersed in something around the corner. Picking a person of about her
size, she glided up behind and a deadly left arm snapped 'round a neck. DAMME,
she thought. I've picked myself a MALE! Oh well, serves him right for having
such pretty legs. His chin was settled into the Vee inside her elbow, her arm
scissored closed. His feet left the floor effectively choking off any outcry
and ending the possibility of noisy feet scuffling the floor. The Hasker
smiled tightly. Deikoo! (the Two Qs... Quick and Quiet). After backing 'round
the corner, the limp form was lowered to a sitting position, his head was bent
forward to the chest and turned far left. Vara placed her thumbs one just
above and one just below the small prominence in the spine formed close below
the skull. She pushed sharply in a scissoring motion, and was rewarded by a
well-dampened POP. She laid him down and performed a quick assessment as he
was stripped. He still breathed, and the tiny drum still beat in the side of
his neck... ta-dum, ta-dum. Lastly she peeled back an eyelid... the small
black soul-pool shrank. Good. The eye would live to see another dawn... IF she
were there to undo her handiwork. Otherwise? Well, just pray he had a good and
attentive wife. Drawing on his clothing a familiar thought struck her. Let
this be a lesson to all men. Treat your mate well, and never EVER rise her
bile. You never know when you might DESPERATELY need her love and dedication.
Pulling her sash tight she once again looked down. Damme again... he really
does have lovely legs. She returned to the crowd 'round the corner.

There was a subtle movement at her elbow. A sideways glance revealed nothing.
She automatically turned and went to ready. Still no one. Then a slight
shimmering the air and Tove coalesced into view. TOVE... wearing the cloak of
invisibility! Even with the dark patches, in the dim light it served very
well. Tove... What in Blue Flames was she doing here?

Without a word, the Jernpeer spread the cloak and rolled the still-as-death
form in it. Pushed against the wall, he simply disappeared.

A squealing sound began to approach from the left and Tove, Mindful of their
precarious position began to search for avenues of escape. Vara demonstrated
the climbing trick and pointed upward. With a nod the girl was on her way. By
the time a group of chambermaids and janitors arrived pushing a hellishly
squeaky-wheeled cart, Tove had disappeared above and Vara was spectating with
rest of the mob. One of the gray-clad group even tripped over the body, but
only looked down, cursed and continued on.

Eureka! And Bingo! Chars, janitors and there ilk are usually more invisible
than the cloak around any major endeavor, and the basket would hold a platoon
of potential victims. She snapped her fingers softly, pointed DOWN, and
trotted after the cleanup crew one hundred percent confidant that her Jernpeer
was in hot pursuit. True enough, in less than ten paces she felt a small tug
on the hair of the back of her head. They overtook their object seconds later.

She and the girl dispatched the three women and the smaller of the two men in
less than a second with a head blow apiece. The last man was of about number
one size, well-muscled and alert. When he spun and beheld two women, one in
black and the other wearing a decidedly ill-fitting uniform, he immediately
crouched and assumed the ready position. Vara feinted with a left hand thrust.
He countered with a viscous kick that caught her squarely in the armpit, near
numbing her to the fingertips.. He finished his move on balance and ready. His
concentration completely focused. Hmmm... Alertness, strength, and initiative.
This was not your average flunky. They danced momentarily, then inexplicably
his eyes drifted to a point beyond Vara's left shoulder. Seizing the
opportunity, she drove a steely flat hand, palm up, into the man's midriff
just below his ribcage. In spite of his skills and speed, he was not in the
best of condition. She felt muscles give way and his xiphoid crumple inward.
Driving deeper she curled her fingers upward and held his living, beating
heart between her hand and his ribs. It pounded furiously. She squeezed with
all her strength. His face sheened and drained to a greenish white pallor,
mouth and eyes forming perfect circles. The heart cranked on a few dozen
spasmodic beats before vibrating uncontrollably and ceasing altogether. It
only took a few seconds. Vara rolled him into the basket before sparing the
time to see what had been his fatal distraction.

MOTHER! Tove! She would have lost concentration as well. The young woman was
standing, still as a statue, her clothing in a heap, as bare as the day she
was whelped. ELDEST!, how she was maturing. Beautiful young breasts, not in
the least pendulous. Small waist, gently flaring hips. Well-muscled also. Vara
noted the smooth bulge of biceps, nicely molded abdomen, her tris, quads, and
(as Tove bent to retrieve her garments) her glutes. Ah, yes. Must NOT forget
those glutes. She shook her head... VARA! We have work to do! Pay attention!
They completed loading the cart, changed into workers grays, and followed a
small rattle of applause around the corner.

All eyes were directed upward. There, near the ceiling standing upon a small
balcony was the Teal-Blue Woman accepting the ovation, apparently having just
completed some sort of speech. As they watched, the balcony slowly retracted
into the wall, and the crowd began to drift away. Soon none were left save the
Haskers and two guards.

As the men looked upward expectantly, they were rewarded by the balcony oozing
from the wall and beginning a slow slide downward. So THAT'S why Vara could
find no doors! They were all at the TOP of the passages, with the rooms
defined by the passages themselves. Was the place designed in such a way... or
did it just grow with need? Queen Byrgge, in spite of her denial, MUST have
known. Small wonder she was loath to storm the place. Even were the wall
breached, there could be no real battle. The narrow passageways reduced
everything to an infinite series of hand to hand, one on one street brawls.
The passages were entirely too narrow to allow the engines necessary to batter
down the interior walls. It would take years to storm the place... if indeed
storm was the word. Skaal to another military genius. Hmmm... same as designed
the castle bolt-hole? Vara would most assuredly like to meet the person.

She crooked a finger and they began to push the cart toward the guards.
Stopping hard by, Vara, looking very agitated, pointed a shaking finger at
their burden and quavered. "P-P-please, g-g-good sss-sirs. W-w-ouldst c-c-come
a-and sss-see?" The men craned over the high edge of the cart. There followed
two gasps, two dampened pops, and the cart gained two passengers. Vara
examined the newcomers. One had ceased breathing, and his eye's soulpools were
large and unchanging. Beyond resurrection. Vara had thought Tove overly
enthusiastic, but she held her tongue. It is not wise to admonish youngsters
in the steepest part of their learning curve. It discourages them.

After some consideration they resumed field dress, and divined the lift
controls. At the top, a few more trials and they slid through a quickly opened
and shut portal to be decanted into a small foyer-cum-reception room. The
massive oaken door opposite the lift was guarded by a striking raven-haired
receptionist clad in a swooping black gown displaying a precipitous amount of
cleavage. Smiling blindngly, she rose, stepped from behind a vast semicircular
desk and met them in the center of the room, arms flung wide. "VELKOMMEN!!!".

Vara near goggled. This was not just a woman, she was an Opus of Womanhood!
Tall... Sturdily-built... Forceful... exuding power. Vara felt her sensitive
spot pulse. Oh YES, she thought, come to ME. The effusive woman completely
enveloped Vara in a huge embrace, encompassing arms and all. The cooing voice
of welcome became a nasty rasp as she was swept up, out of control. "Ye
bet'inks ye infiltrate de Leader, hey!"

It was a MAN, and one as strong or stronger than she. His arms were so long he
was able to encircle her and grasp her wrists, folding them painfully beyond
the limits of their natural bend. She struggled, but she could scarcely breath
much less slip the hold. She was caught. Trapped by her glands like a common
man. It was not only dangerous, it was EMBARRASSING. The pressure of the rib
cracking hug increased. Mother-the-First! He was strong as a Russbjern. (Red
Bear... an archaic variety of Russian steppe bear).

Suddenly her attacker said "Hunnh?" and crashed full length to the floor. Tove
softly gave the olden time lumberjack's call "Fall", as she closed her razor-
sharp hawks-bill clasp knife. Vara looked back to the twitching form on the
floor. Her... His dress was rucked up exposing one leg to the waist. The thigh
hid the exact source of the crimson rivulet pulsing warmly from the groin
area. As she again faced Tove, the girl simply smiled broadly and gestured:
hands near the shoulders, palms up, fingers spreading outward. The universally
recognized symbol of a self deprecation "It was really nothing." The ersatz
female was paralyzed, just in case, his dead weight maneuvered into the
knee-hole of the desk and the chair pushed in as far as it would go. After
carefully checking for stray blood, they addressed themselves to the heavy
door.

As one they blinked and refocused. They were peering down a gracefully curved
grand staircase into a huge high ceilinged room. It was dark, save for an
intimate oasis in the far right-hand corner. Centered in this pool of
brightness cast by low-hanging, well-shaded lamps was a large circular table
covered with maps. The Teal-clothed woman and four companions seemed to be
immersed in a strategy session. The lesser members of the group, three large
men, and one tiny woman, seemed to be arguing heatedly amongst themselves.

As the Haskers pondered upon a method of unseen approach, The Blue woman
looked up staring straight at them. "Please join us. I have been expecting
you."

The Haskers stood as if rooted. Expecting them? Vara nodded...Down!... and
they descended abreast hands hovering near shortswords.

Upon reaching the bottom step, the woman came to meet them. "Greetings. I am
Omphala. Welcome to my Citadel." Well, at least she came equipped with
passable Neuspak. They gingerly grasped the proffered hands, remembering all
to vividly the reception above. "Come... meet my inner circle." Vara hung
back. The more they knew, the more expendable they became. "And now, my fine
Haskers, that is Bearta, Kjell, Eugen, and Gerd. And you are..." Vara held her
tongue, but the woman continued. "... Haske Tre’K’Vara, (formal title of a
Three Crown Hasker. Tre means3, K, for Kron [crown]), but your lovely young
Jernpeer is unknown to us."

Vara was stunned by the woman's knowledge, then was mindful of her source
within the walls of Castle-Royall. Meeting Tove's inquiring eyes, she blinked
twice in rapid succession. "I am grateful to be Jernpeer a’trede k'Vara" her
junior recited formally. (There is no modern translation for a’trede. It means
something like ‘in service to and learning a trade from but an equal to’. Like
an apprentice but on a more equal standing. If I knew a little more
Neuspak...)

"The Jernpeer honors me." completed Vara, true to the rubric.

The group bowed slightly and traced a crown at the base of their throats
reciting: "Haske. Det Tader Byrggest Morkke." (the answer [is the] shining [in
the] darkness). Honor bound, the two returned the salute. How could this woman
know? Worst of all was hearing the sacred Guilde words spoken by a MALE. The
hair of her back along each side of her spine rose from crown to cleavage like
that of a threatened feral cat. She couldn't help herself. Tove's hand
hardened upon the haft of her shortsword. She was staring at her leader,
trembling like a hound at point... begging for the word of release. The
disappointment was clearly visible when Vara slowly closed and opened her left
eye... a Hold signal. Ah, youth.

"Come Kjell, let us take refreshments." The man opened his mouth. "Tea and
cakes will do. We shall save the stout for later." Hearing that special tone
in her voice, the rough-looking fellow went, and returned to serve with
surprising delicacy. Omphala went on conversationally. "You must excuse the
fare, but we are not particularly well endowed here. I suppose you noticed the
ritual with the lights. Of course you did. One need not be of the Haske...
they think I am not aware, and I never divulge. Why spoil their efforts to
make me feel good. Now about your presence here." Vara leaned forward...
weight on the balls of her feet, muscles tensing for a sudden leap. "No, no,
my friend. Calm yourself. You are sent here to murder or disable as many of my
faithful as possible, then deliver me to be at the pleasure of Byrgge, the
Usurper Queen. True enough?" She waited not for a sign. "I am happy to say I
shall do everything in my power to make your mission a success."

Usurper Queen! The Lady Byrgge used those exact words to describe the person
Vara now confronted. And HELP. WHY?

"Come. Let us speak further." The woman appeared composed, but Vara sensed a
momentous air. The breathless calm afore a violent summer squall? She looked
significantly at Tove whose face was a cipher. Overcome by curiosity she
nodded assent. "This way then. I'm sure the others will excuse us." As they
exited through a small side door Vara wasn't so sure Bearta was quite as
acquiescent. Her pixie's face was twisted by displeasure and her tiny hands
clenched to fists under the table. She would bear watching.

Vara almost halted as they passed through. The contrast was that great. From
the huge hall they had entered an intimate withdrawing room hardly three
strides on a side. Walls heavily draped with a fawn material, there were but
four chairs of identical size covered with burgundy suede. Omphala made a
careless motion and they sat as they pleased. The lady resumed her narrative.
"First, kindly do NOT call me Omphala. I DISPISE it, though it is my proper
name. I can assure you it was chosen long before I had a say in such things.
Are you aware of what it’s meaning is in the Ancient Tongue? It means 'Little
Hole'! (it actually DOES...auth) I am the youngest child and only daughter
after an army of sons. I most emphatically do NOT feel complimented. I much
prefer ‘Fala and would appreciate you extending me that courtesy. My brothers?
All grist for the bloody mill of the Great Uprising. Not so incidentally the
doing of your Lady Byrgge's father. Only I and an elder half brother remain.

"So much for the niceties. I am well aware you doubt me seriously, but I have
something to show you, and I would ask a boon that you abridge your quest
until after you've seen and evaluated. Let us not forget you are deep within
my seat of power and would be very unlikely to escape no matter how many you
maim and kill with your Hasker skills. I, on the other hand wish to preserve
lives.

Vara turned inward, weighing the possibilities. The thought of a major kill
made her breath come faster. Even in death, the picture of a graven bronze
spike in the Great Swirl sunken in the floor before the Grand Lectern... well
now... THAT deserved consideration. But, what of Tove? In the world of the
Hasker, each must cast the die deciding her own fate no matter her rank. Also
upon the table: Could this person be relied upon to be true to her word? "Will
you swear a solemn oath to honor your word?

The Rebel leader fell to her knees and taking Vara's right hand kissed the
knuckles and held them to her forehead. "I will help you with your quest. I do
so swear." It was an amazing gesture of abasement and the woman appeared to be
sincere, yet one could never tell. The Haskers, of course had their
unimpeachable Guilde Vows, But, another person's word? Only time could tell.

Fala rose and turning to the wall opened a hidden panel. Withdrawing a small
leather pouch, She produced a large signet ring with seal fully the width of
two thumbnails. It was held out to Vara for inspection. "Recognize the
device?"

The Hasker studied closely. She did indeed know the crest. "Yes. It is the
Royal Shield of the House Russheld, but I fear the mere possession means very
little. Anyone could have such an artifact reproduced by even a moderately
accomplished craftsperson, or for that matter, steal it."

"True enough, but this be genuine... Min GrussFatters (My Grandfather’s). Pon
my word." She kissed the graven symbol. "'Pon his grave."

"Interesting, but still not proof. Not proof enough. Not irrefutable proof."

Fala did not even frown. "Of that I am well aware. Allow me to amplify."
Instead of speaking further, she worked the silver clasp at her throat the
azure robe fell away. The armed women were immobilized... turned to stone as
surely as had they viewed a Medusa. Oh my Sweet Mother, was Vara's only
thought. She was constructed as a Panther. A fact made abundantly clear by the
fact the only garment she had been wearing now lay in a heap upon the floor.
Vara was finding breathing difficult. Her face... that of a sweet young
damsel, completely belied THIS. She was not bulkily muscled, nor had she the
sinewy litheness of a dispatch runner. She was very feminine, with every
enticing curve the sharply delineated outline of underlying muscle. As she
approached, not even her perfectly hemispherical breasts swayed. There was not
a single part of her anywhere that was not under complete control. A symphony
of motion. It was as though she had been machined from a solid amorphous block
of extraordinarily firm, but totally compliant... something. Her loins were
covered by an extravagant silken jungle. Vara LOVED it. She heard Tove trying
to catch her breath. She had never seen anything like... Tove be damned!
Neither had Vara!

Fala was speaking. "Study the ring carefully." With some difficulty, the
Haskers complied. "Behold!" She pirouetted gracefully and indicated her right
buttock. Oh I DO say, thought Vara. Truly an orb to go to battle for. However,
as delicious as it was, the entrancing shape was far from the point.
Emblazoned upon the soft peach... ahhh 'peach' mused Vara. The wondrous
demi-globe was not only the proper shape and hue, it was actually coated by
exquisitely fine... ah... peach down. As much as she was pleasantly
distracted, the was a more important attribute. Covering an area easily the
size of the palm of her hand was a cruel but quite mature scar. Something from
early childhood, beyond a doubt. Then the dawn broke. Again she studied the
ring, holding it next to the bodymark. She unconsciously traced the outline of
the scar with a square-clipped fingernail. 'Fala flinched, her glute quivering
prettily at the ticklish stimulation. Finally she stepped away. "Enough. One
more heartbeat and I shall be forced to fling you to the floor and have you on
the spot."

First Mother! Thought Vara, invoking the Holy Founder for the nth time that
day. Was she drooling? Licking her lips she decided not from visible lips at
any rate. But (sadly) back to business. "Do you wish to tell me more?"

"Certainly. It is the Royal Cartouche. Every newborn of the Royal line is thus
branded with that very ring ere it is out of the sight of the Royal Physician
on its birthing day. Did you notice the symbol XI beneath the crest? Had I
younger siblings they would have been marked XII, XIII, and so on. If your
so-called 'Queen' cannot produce such a mark, then it is she who is the
Usurper I know her to be." She jabbed a stiff finger sharply to the center of
her breastbone. "I propose that we confront this consummate evil in her lair.
To have done with her foul charade at once and for all time, and the sooner,
the wiser."

Vara stared at the ancient ring before placing it upon it's wrapping on the
table. Well now, this was a fine draught of ale. She was honor bound to serve
her client, yet forbidden by Haskevij to aid pretenders. But who was the
pretender? In her mind there formed the distinct impression that she , and the
Haske, had become but convenient pawns in a long-standing power-struggle. She
looked at 'Fala, who was now facing away, forming the Sign o' the Heart by
bending sharply at the waist to retrieve her gown. The posture also resembled
a question sign. An amusing thought struck her. Why not have BOTH claimants
between the sheets, and the better would be Queen? She almost giggledaloud.
You might call the contest a ‘sack race’, she thought with evil humor.Having
regained her clothing, 'Fala announced, "Shall we rejoin the others?" It was
not quite a question, and she purposefully left the room as if knowing in
advance what the answer would be. Vara shrugged and followed, with an
acquiescent Tove bringing up the rear. For that totally illogical reason we
have all experienced at one time or another Vara felt a stab of unwarranted
jealousy when the petite Bearta ran to Fala and was swept up into an avid
embrace and they kissed torridly. As they walked to the table, the smaller
woman clung to Fala's longer arm like a vine to a tree. For some reason Vara
found the display offensive. Then she felt Tove's soft caress on the back of
her neck, and she, like 'Fala felt it too. Whatever IT might be.

Once more gathered 'round the table, 'twas Kjell who broke the silence.
"Well?" No more was needed. They all knew of what he spoke.

Vara was truly torn and, at least for the moment, decided not to decide. "I
shall not make a decision of such import so quickly. I must sleep with it."
Gerd, a young man consisting, beseems, mostly of muscle, hair, and simmering
hormones, sniggered openly; to be cut short by an ice-hot glare from his
Mistress. He was suddenly unctuous to the extreme. "I crave pardon, M’lady. I
was unsurpassing rude. My fate is in your hands." All the while glancing
nervously at 'Fala. Vara thought fondly of long strips of skin, wooly black
hair still attached, being peeled from a prostrate back. Then of pendulous
body parts and rusty knives. In the end she settled for a slight inclining of
her head and a backward sweeping motion of the fingers of the left hand.
Obvious meaning: 'You are far too trivial to fret over. Incident forgotten. I
carelessly brush it away.' He looked as he might smile, then stabbed a worried
look at Fala., who closed her eyes resignedly and gave a small nod of her
head. Gerd was very quiet the rest of the night, mostly studying his boots.
Hmmmm, thought Vara. They fear and respect her. Score one for the Rebel Queen.

Fala's voice sounded over-loud in the strained silence. "Would'st care to sup
with us?". Now there was an invitation fraught with peril. In spite of the
thought, Vara allowed they would be honored. Tove was especially pleased. With
her rapidly developing mind and body, she found trail fare somewhat short of
adequate. The meal, while not a banquet was good hearty 'country vittles' with
a preamble on potato and wild mushroom soup. Vara eyed the potage dubiously.
Hmmmm... could be loaded with something wot'd burn a hole through your
gizzard. At the last possible moment, just as everyone’s spoon had just
touched lips, she swiftly swapped bowls with Fala, who laughed heartily and
plunged right in with undisguised gusto. The Hasker duo followed directly.

After the last dish had been cleared, and pipes had been brought, their
hostess spoke good humoredly. "You have no idea how tempted I was to say 'I
knew you would do that' when you exchanged bowls. Only the thought of the
carnage it might precipitate held my tongue."

At that confession Tove sat bolt upright, gasped, coughed loudly and looked
'round wildly, tears flooding her surprise-widened eyes. Her fit due, no
doubt, to her first strong pipe with 'grownups'. Everyone laughed, cautiously
at first then with increasing brio.

The Tobak was accompanied by a passable Porto and Vara watched with amusement
as Tove’s head tilted forward 'till her chin made contact with her breast
bone. Gerd seized the opportunity to lean close to Vara's ear and hiss,
"Beseems your fool lacks common genteel sensibilities."

Vara replied in the same soft tones. "My abject apologies m'lord. She will be
delt with appropriately. I thank you for bringing the niceties of polite
company to the note of we rough folk." She gave him her number one glare of
pure glacial ice, and happily moved him to the top of her fun to seduce,
entrap, torture, maim, and murder list. As she smiled with feigned
embarrassment, his over-warm over-damp hand descended upon her thigh. 'THAT,
my gonad-brained friend has earned several VERY special hours with me.' She
mused. As her eyes met his, her smile deepened and she trembled with
anticipation. His breath quickened as he followed her reaction and his tremor
answered hers. She was sure she could wager her commission that the object of
his anticipation was in polar opposition to hers. She came back to reality. He
was in fact too right in one way. Tove would have to be severely reprimanded.
In another circumstance her lapse could be fatal.

She stole a glance at Fala. What had she noticed between Gerd and herself?
Luckily, she seemed to be totally immersed in Tove's predicament. Vara had a
sudden flash of how to handle that situation. She slid down in her chair,
stretched out her foot, hooked Tove's ankle, and began to tug, slowly and
gently. The girl oozed down without stirring. The rest of he company was
having a painful time surpressing audible laughter. Soon her downward progress
was interrupted when her nose was intercepted by the tabletop. Two large round
eyes snapped open and rolled wildly in every direction, freezing upon the
tabletop only a fingersbreadth away. Popping up like a Jack from his box, she
was bathed in raucous laughter. She immediately turned a deep, rosy red and
tears welled in her eyes. Punishment fitting and plenty, thought Vara.

After a small eternity of boring pleasantries. Fala announced the time had
come to retire. "Come Vara, Tove. I will show you to your chamber." The
Haskers agreed unwillingly, dreading the thought of a night passed within
windowless walls. Vara always felt as though there was not quite enough air to
breathe. After making good nights to their hostess, they did after all find
the accommodations passably comfortable. The bed was large, firm, and free
from lumps, but best of all was the huge oval tub in a curtained alcove. Brim
full of inviting hot water, it exuded billows of white steam and the sweet
fragrance of primrose. Vara inhaled appreciatively. A Hasker and primrose? Oh
come now. She was not only all Hasker, but indeed all woman, and enjoyed
feeling feminine as well as, if not more than, any other. They lost their
clothes on the spot. Neck deep in penetrating warmth, the tensions left their
bodies with the trail dust... that is until Tove flung a sopping sponge full
into Vara's face. That one promptly avenged herself by laying hold of her
attacker's ankle and dragging her sputtering the length of the tub. For
several minutes they cavorted like hippos in heat, then near collapsed with
mirth over the amount of water slopped upon the floor. After watching the
flood ooze down drains, they exited and dried one another reveling in the
luxury of more than just barely adequate towels. From the nearby shelf of jars
of sweet ointments, they both chose balsam. A small reminder of the forest
they loved so much.

Ablutions complete, they lingered before a full-length reflector. Vara was
intrigued... not surprised of course, by her own powerful figure. She was
pleasured by how little the years had marked her, still possessing breasts and
glutes to be proud of. Only two of the many advantages of her life-long love
affair with the huge bronze bells in the Guild Gymnasium. She pointed her toe
and rolled her leg inward at the hip. Quads bunched like cargo bales. She
smiled happily. Though she was not exactly in love with herself, per se, she
was justifiably proud of her unusual height and extraordinary brawn... taller
and stronger by far than most ordinary men. The idea still pleased her. The
novelty never wore off... seducing a man with her femininity, and once abed,
taking him by force. She bethought men a bit strange. Although they are not
supposed to enjoy being forced into submission by a female... She'd had many
struggle angrily and more than a few cry for mercy... there had been never
even a one who wilted in the slightest. Indeed most seemed to grow even more
avid. She was still young and feisty enough to thrill at the thought of a
virile young man writhing helplessly between her thighs.

Then there was Tove. Tove! It had been long since she had seen the two of them
together. The girl was near as tall as she! Not her breadth, of course, but
just you wait. In not many years, 'twould be she assisting Tove. Though the
thought was formed lightly, she felt a small, deeply-held icy tremor grasp her
heart as she was forced to admit the truth of it. The dark mood was instantly
shattered when the object of her musings playfully stretched out a long finger
and with her nail drew a slow line from Vara's chin to deep within the thick
palomino pelt surrounding her cleft.

"That DOES it, me pretty slut!" She effortlessly scooped up the smaller woman
and flung her a full three strides into the deep feathers of the waiting bed
and tumbled greedily in after. She exhalted in the show of power. Mother! Now
that was what muscles were for. Their bodies slid together as only those of
long time lovers do... as spoons in a drawer. There followed the warm kissing
and tonguing that usually leads to... well to explain it graphically: ;) ;).
Unfortunately, even the strongest of Haskers have days when they are simply
overused, and that night the result was more like: |) |).

Vara's eyes stayed closed. But she was on instant full alert. She felt Tove's
gentle, surreptitious prodding upon her arm. (1,1...2,2. 1,1...2,2) Danger!..
Intruder!.. Danger!.. Intruder! She replied. 1,1...2,2 followed by a 2
heartbeat pinch. This message received. A clandestine squint toward the door,
and she was at once disgusted and elated. She finger signaled her Jernpeer.
Kit... Leaves... Hearth... Stay... Near. She barely felt Tove's pinch as her
companion silently complied. The room was very nearly coal mine black, but
using the Hasker trick of looking slightly below the object being observed (it
really works, y'know) she could clearly discern the bulky form of a man. A man
with whom she was familiar.

A heavy hand clamped roughly over her mouth and nose, and Gerd's thick voice
grated upon her ear. "Make one sound and you will watch lovely Tove die a
horrible death 'fore I slaughter you. FORSTANZEE??" (Do you understand?)She
nodded. Actually, the man's breath could have easily done the job. She heard
the soft rasp of a sparkbox and the muted glow of a low lamp filled the room.
"And now proud Hasker... OFF WITH YOUR CLOTHES!" He whipped aside the covers
and gasped. There had been nothing save her fine self beneath. His eyes
flashed in the lamplight, red as a feral dog’s. He was literally drooling.

Vara laughed deep in the back of her throat, and arched, thrusting her pelvis
upward. "Are you tempted? Have you enough man within you? Dare you wager your
ego against my strength that you are male enough to bring your lust to
fruition? What holds you. Does the little boy in you fear plumbing the Haskers
power as well as her body? Be you Stallion or gelding?" She laughed deep and
full, shaking her head, honey ringlets lashing and coiling as Medusa's coif.
He tore his clothing preparing himself.

Vara placed a large pillow beneath her hips and with both hands trailed her
fingers up to cup her breasts. She twisted her nipples with sudden cruel
roughness. They sprang up like forest mushrooms... proud... pulsing with life.
She groaned, grinding her hips. His breath was coming in chuffing spasms. With
grace uncanny for a man of his bulk he vaulted to the bed. Roughly forcing her
legs apart, he paused as if the ravish her with his eyes. His grossly
vieniated member pumped with every heartbeat. Crystal clear droplets began to
ooze from it's tiny mouth to splash hotly upon her belly. Each impact caused
her to writhe and moan. She thrust her arms up to him. "Please?" She whimpered
plaintively "Please?"

He fell upon her as a wolf upon a slaughter lamb, eyes glittering... impaling
her greedily... violently. On his first crushing thrust he froze... eyes
bulging from their sockets... mouth open impossibly wide... tongue protruding
like a gargoyles. His face was pure deathly white. Vara stuffed a large rolled
bandage deep between the gaping jaws and deftly tied the ends behind his head.
The man still had not moved. It was if he had truly seen a Medusa and turned
to stone. She rolled him to the side and motioned Tove to raise the lamp wick.

"Leaves" was the Haskers only comment.

Gerd was turned upon his back. His eyes were still bulging and he emitted
strange urgent mewing sounds as he poured torrents of sweat. From his crotch
blood flowed in a steady, sticky stream to become a thick pink sauce as it
blended with the ejeculata pulsing from his tightly constricted, still
spasming gonads. "Leaves." She repeated quietly. Tove tore her eyes away from
the grisly scene to retrieve the half finger thick cauterizing leaves from the
firecoals. Vara eyed the man's wound critically. His penis was split cleanly
from it's tip to just before where it suspends the sac. She carefully applied
the red hot cauterizers, first to the left, then to the right of Gerd's
bifurcated member. The smell of grilled meat filled the air. The man made no
sign of the additional insult to his private parts. A generous layer of a
healing cream was applied, and the inert body was allowed to slump forward.
Finding the proper site Vara popped the vertebrae. Examining his life pools
proved them reactive. Almost a pity, she thought.

They propped him in the corner and sat on the edge of the bed regarding their
handiwork. Vara commencing laughing. "Look'ee. There's at least ONE the
maidens need fear no longer."

To which Tove quipped: "Oh, yea. Methinks this monkey has TWO tails." They
both dissolved.

Reaching between her legs Vara groped uncertainly before withdrawing a tubular
device, the outside of which was obviously molded to fit her vagina perfectly.
It was crafted from the sap of a tree which grew in a far off land... or so
she had been told. The bore of the device was soft, smooth, and open from end
to end, save for razor-keen blade bisecting the interior about half a finger's
breadth from the outer opening. She squinted through to the lamps flame. Good.
Seemed to be undamaged by Gerd's furious lunge. She tossed the weapon to Tove.
" would you cleanse this, saa vinlig ([if you would be] so kind]? Take great
care. 'Tis more than passing sharp, as you may have noticed." The young woman
disengaged her fixed stare at the ruined form of what used to be a man slumped
in the corner and carefully and silently complied. While she was about it, the
crimson stained sheets were tossed into the tub. Vara lay upon the divan and
immediately slept the sleep of the untroubled for her customary five hours.
Tove, on the chaise, was awake somewhat longer.

Their eyes were hardly open when there came a tentative rap upon the door.
Vara opened a small slit to observe a small gray woman bearing a large tray.

"Wouldst care to break the fast, M'lady?"

Vara nodded and ordered "You may place the tray there." She indicated a small
table outside the door, "and do not disturb us again this morn. Forstanzee?"
The woman backed away nodding wordlessly.

When the servant had gone, Tove fetched the tray, saying: "That will arouse
suspicion. She will surely report to someone, and how will we explain THAT?"
She nodded in the direction of the corner of the room.

"She will report nothing."

"And what's to prevent her?"

Vara bit her tongue, trying not to rise to the insubordinate attitude. "The
nature of humans. I was rude to her. People never expect one to be rude when
obfuscating. One is expected to curry favor. Upon the subject of what to do, I
do not wish my surroundings cluttered with that garbage. Attend me." Two
chairs were fetched and Gerd's body was lifted up and rolled upon the wooden
teaster above the bed. Pushed to the center, it was invisible from floor
level. With that done they set about annihilating the food tray.

There came another, more authoritarian rap upon the door. Vara made a signal
for Tove to stand against the wall to one side. She stood a moment with her
hand on the latch. Tove slipped the keeper on her shortsword and held it half
unsheathed. In the middle of the second knock, Vara slammed the door fully
open with a resounding crash. There, looking rather shocked, stood Bearta.

"Omphala will see you. IMMEDIATELY."

The Senior Hasker bridled and wondered if 'immediately' were an original part
of the original message. She held herself. Saying only "We will go now, Tove."
That one, muttering, slammed her weapon back into the scabbard angrily. Vara
gave her a warning look, rewarded by eyes being cast sulkily skyward and a
latchthong being replaced upon a shortsword hilt. Oh, well. She had been
sorely tempted herself. Oh Mother! They still had to do something about the
great oaf lagered over the bed. As much as the thought appealed to her, they
couldn't just casually march away leaving him to die in his own filth. Ah
well... there would be time. At her signal the armed women walked in easy
fashion behind Fala's Emissary.

The Rebel leader (Vara had ceased thinking of her in any other way) was in
rare form and ready for action. Before the had fair taken a bite, they were
bombarded with: "Well? What is your decision? Let us have your answer."

Vara truly HAD given Fala's proposal serious thought, and had decided that
once the Queen and Fala faced one another, matters would resolve themselves.
"I am ready to travel when you are", was her direct answer.

"Excellent. Our horses and pack train await us at the drawbridge. Your gear
will be ready at the horses. By the way. What have you done with Gerd? Yes, I
noticed the sparks you rubbed from one another last night. I am also fully
cognizant of your bloodthirsty nature. Produce him."

"Alas, I cannot. Ere we see him, I will inform him you seek him."

"Tis best that you do." Fala glanced upward for at least the tenth time. Each
time, Vara had followed her, but had seen naught. This time something new
jumped into focus. The side walls of the great room did not quite reach the
ceiling. What had appeared to be a wooden moulding revealed itself to be a
caprail a span shy of the overhead. 'Twas obvious now, for at three stride
intervals at the rail stood a yeoman with broad arrow nocked and longbow
pulled. Fala, seeing Vara’s interest, merely commented, "Rebels reach graying
in such ways. Now... we are OFF." She turned and marched purposefully away.

MOR!!! (personal case Mother.) GERD! The Haskers returned to their chamber at
the scramble. The place had been stripped. Their belongings, such as they were
had obviously been removed. Tove wondered what the stuppeer (Chambermaid) had
thought of the wet, pink sheets. What of Gerd! Luck of the First. The cleanup
had not been THAT thorough. The man was safely retrieved and his paralysis
reverted. At first he stood unsteadily then tried to run. Vara clamped down on
the scruff of his neck with the force of a smithy's tongs, and spun him to
face her. "If you try to run, or in any way divulge the slightest hint of what
has befallen you, I promise your head will resemble your manhood.
"FORSTANZEE?" The man's eyes went wild. Vara fastened a smothering hand over
his mouth and nose. "LITTLE HALF-A-MAN, DO YOU DOUBT MY ABILITY TO DO JUST
THAT?" He stood defiantly for perhaps five heartbeats, then sagged.
"GUD"(good). He was released and fell to the bed sobbing. "For the next
fortnight, we will be never more than a few strides from you. Remember well."
The women turned and strode from the room, leaving the door gaping. The beaten
man dragged slowly to his feet and followed.

The Haskers arrived at the portcullis at about the same time as Fala who
evidenced no surprise at the fact. She mounted and with a blinding smile
motioned forward and announced "Shall we go?" Vara thought the low-key order
sounded ludicrous, especially in the face of the import of the journey.

As they were leaving the surroundings of the stronghold Fala turned to Vara
and spoke in a very conversational tone, "Oh yes. Gerd reappeared a short time
ago. He was walking very strangely, indeed. I have lectured him more than once
about attempting to lay yeast to every fertile loaf he comes upon. He has
sprained his manhood more than once before, but never like this.. I would pray
he has finally learned his lesson." No one noticed that Tove had reined her
mount and was riding some distance off. She was shaking mightily as if she
were having some difficulty breathing properly.

Vara herself was in a fugue-state, thinking of the trail and the many
opportunities for mischief it offered. How might she best use the
unanticipated? What if that Great Oaf, Gerd, babbled in his cups. How best to
approach the Castle Royal with such a band, all armed? Such is the flow of a
TreKron Haskers everyday thoughts. She must have a private conference with
Tove at as soon as possible. Their actions must be in predetermined concert.
She caught the girl's ever vigilant eye and made a discrete finger motion on
cheek near eye. Tove started her way, but not directly.

The day was cold and dreary under the loom of Castle Royale. The steady light
rain, which had not slacked since before the previous sunrise
transubstantiated the gray basalt walls into black glass. A typical fine
winter day upon the Rhumblan coastal lowlands. Out of the dank tendrils of the
day-long mist shambled a forlorn column of drooping gray horses. Tethered
tail-to-bridle. Each was mounted by a pair of equally dejected riders, bound
back-to-back, weapons lashed between and through crooked elbows. Bringing up
the rear was a dun-colored company of dispirited non-entities bearing litters.

As the van pulled up, the drawbridge rumbled down with a roar of chain and a
generous splash of odiferous opaque water. Vara calmed her shying mount and
spurred noisily across the span into the keep beyond, there to do an unseemly
gape. The Proud Queen was there, in person, to meet them, brain-numbing rain
or no. Her broad smile fell just short of bringing warmth to the scene. Vara
dismounted, and sparing Royalty not a glance, awaited Tove who was bringing up
the rear, urging stragglers along. The rain took this as a signal to play
heavier music upon her helm. She squinted upward. Yea, thought she, ‘Tis a
FINE day for destinies to change.

Walking to the lead horse, she pulled down the riders. The man was stoic, but
the woman hissed and spit like a Puma. The Mountain Cat en captur but ever
defiant. Unfortunately, most of her impact was lost as she futilely tried to
spit out the errant strands of sodden hair that insisted upon crawling into
the corners of her mouth. She became just another bedraggled hausfrau (house
wife) caught in the rain. Eventually her screeches took on a more intelligible
note. "YOU BITCH!" She snarled. "YOU SLUT! YOU HASKER WHORE! I offered you my
FRIENDSHIP... my HOSPITALITY... my FOOD... my HOME... MY... MY... MY BED!!!
YOU COCKSUCKING, GOATFUCKING, TRAITOROUS PIECE OF FILTH... YOU...YOU... The
woman's jaw snapped shut with the crack of a broken longbow as Vara
carelessly, dispassionately but with terrible force slapped her twice,
criss-cross. Palm... backhand... forehand... knuckles.
CRACK!...CRACK!...CRACK...CRACK!

Omphala stepped back, trembling, white, and wide-eyed. A small trickle of
blood crept from her left nare as Vara stated with exaggerated calmness. "No
man could call me thus and live. Count yourself very lucky. In the Great
Cosmic Crapshoot, your bones happened to roll up 'To be born Female.' It just
as easily could have been the other way. In which case you would at this very
moment be taking The Ride." She reached out and in spite of her victim's
flinch, squeegeed away the blood with a broad thumb. Yes, very lucky indeed,
she mused.

"YOU MADE LOVE with her?" came an incredulous voice. The Queen, apparently
drawn by the violence had descended the wide stairway.

"Twas but a figurement, M’lady." Replied Vara. At the same time filing away
the acute interest. Twas for naught. The Royal One's attention had been drawn
elsewhere.

She was nose to nose with Fala's riding partner. "YOU! I REMEMBER YOU! I was
only a CHILD. In my eleventh summer. One summer's e’en... you trapped me in a
haymow. You tore off my CLOTHING...you TIED me... my ELEVENTH summer. DON'T
shake your filthy head. You TOOK me. RAPIST! DEBOUCHER! LOOK at ME! I shall
never forget that evil face. GUARD! Take this one to my apartments at ONCE.
Lock him in my SPECIAL room. TIE him, SPREAD-EAGLED to the bed. Never mind his
clothing. This one is MINE!" A trembling Gerd was led away moving very like a
man attempting to walk with a barrel between his legs.

Vara smiled inwardly. She would almost give up her commission to be invisibly
present when the Queen exposed her handiwork.

There was a clatter as Kjell and Eugen were brought up, still lashed backsides
to. There was no sign of Bearta (Small loss: Vara).

"To the Throne Room", ordered Byrgge, turning away.

The Haskers lingered slightly observing with professional interest how the
guards were handling the captives. The whole crew was being herded more or
less according to class. The armed men and officers were in an orderly phalanx
to one side of the keep. The workers, servants, hangers-on, and other such
rabble were herded amid much ado to the opposite side. How incredibly stupid!
Even Tove was enough of a warrior to be shaking her head in wonder. With the
officers and men in one place, if even one saw an opportunity to make good a
break his/her compatriots would organise instantly for cohesive action without
a clumsy herd of civilians to muck up the works. Vara stared in disbelief. She
could not help herself.

In the Throne Room, The Lady Byrgge was presiding in Regal Splendor, reveling
in her final success. In obvious counterpoint, the bedraggled visitors
straggled in, trailing dank rivulets and sodden spoor. It had been two days of
THAT sort of rain. Even Vara's trusty Ox had failed her in some measure. No
fault of the well-made garment... only a wax-sealed amphora could have kept
the wet out.

The Purple One regarded them in sour triumph. "COLONEL" A large sagging man of
advanced years, clad in an impossibly ornate uniform, jangled into their
presence.

"How might I serve, O Great One." He croaked, creaking into what he must have
thought to have been a flowery bow.

The Great Lady diffidently sorted them out with a long black fingernail.
"Those to the visitors quarters, and THOSE to the Donjon." There was not
another word. The old gent straightened with some help of a blue-veined hand
on a knee and presently led the whole group away.

As soon as they had departed, the Queen flung herself back into the Throne,
hugged herself with long angular arms and murmured with undisguised glee, "It
is DONE!" Her mouth opened wide, exposing long teeth full to the gums and she
laughed unrestrainedly.

The Colonel's appointed flunky deposited the Haskers unceremoniously before a
closed door, pointed vaguely, favored them with a disapproving grunt and
departed. Upon opening the portal, Tove squinted in the murky,
one-small-lamp-lit chamber, and first thing exclaimed "No tub", in a decidedly
disappointed voice. Indeed, there was none, however there soon appeared a
woman bearing upon a porter’s yoke two large streaming crocks and an adequacy
of reasonably white towels, closely followed by a faceless... uh, person with
their gear. Wonder of wonders, it appeared to be unplundered. Oh well, the
towels were DRY if not snowy, and the water hot. They were too worn to bicker.
After cleansing themselves and donning their only semi-dry clothing; Soft
Halkebuk skin boots and bleached Chamois jerkins which had been stored, rolled
in a well-cured, tightly-folded bullock bladder, at the very bottoms of their
packs. They were now reasonably well dressed and only the slightest bit damp
as they anticipated, with stomachs snarling, a call to dine.

To pass the time (and to help ignore the gnawings of their inner wolves) they
did the breathing and stretching mantras that are part of every Hasker's
training, completing the entire sequence of ninety and nine with still no call
to sup. They had begun searching the packs in the forlorn hope of finding a
dry morsel when the bell outside the door jangled. Vara opened (with Tove in
her usual defensive position to her left) and at first saw nothing, and then a
large covered tray at her feet. It was whisked inside without delay. Never
mind the table, they and the tray hit the bed together and off with the dome.
AHHH! Who cared about the insult of the lack of an invitation to dine. They
attacked the food relentlessly. The lamb and barley was hot and hearty, and
the vint ordin was as the finest appellation to ready tongues. After they were
satisfied, the ravaged tray was simply pushed aside to crash upon the floor.
Er SAA. (So WHAT) She was a HASKER, not a hausfrau.

The counterpane was ripped down and sleep felled them near before they had
time to gratefully recite the First Mother's Tritism... even then an
abridgment... almost the battlefield version. Vara had the rare experience of
feeling her entire body physically fall asleep a bit at a time before her
consciousness slipped away. Delicious!

Their eyes came slowly open. Minds alert, evaluating, but bodies still not
astir. Someone was scratching, catlike, upon the door. They moved silently to
take their usual positions, and Vara suddenly slammed the great oak slab
completely back against the wall. It was the blond man/boy... the Queen's
Chamberman. Not bad for such a weakling, he flinched not at all from the
sudden opening nor the heavy crash the followed.

"My respects and a good morrow, M'ladies. Her Majesty wishes you in the Throne
Room instanter." His pale blue eyes never left the person of Tove. It was as
if Vara did not exist.

"We will come presently", quoth the Hasker, completely in control.

"That will not do. M'lady expects you IMMEDIATELY, and I am charged with
escorting you without delay."

Vara could feel the skin behind her ears redden. "We have not completed our
toilette." Her rancor was not completely controlled, just as she had intended.

"That is of no consequence. The Queen will see you no matter your condition."

"We WILL complete our morning ablution FIRST. It is a matter of our faith."

"In that case, I will wait." He installed himself in the large ornately carved
chair near the still-open door, openly ogling Tove, and smirking with the
knowledge that the power of the throne was behind his insolence.

That DID it! Vara argued no further. She rushed him. His eyes opened wide with
surprise and fear as he scrambled to stand. Too late! He, chair and all, was
hoisted, and ejected through the door, a full five strides to smash against
the stone wall a good two spans above the floor. Tove's brays of laughter
echoed in every direction. "VARA... Vara... he... heee... he was still on the
RISE... not sporting" She made a zooming motion with her hand.

"We have a Royal audience. Tis rude to be tardy," A statement in lieu of
reply. Vara whipped off her night tunic in full view of any passers-by in the
hall, and doused the cold remainder of the previous night's water over her
head. She signaled Tove to follow suit. After roughly drying they resumed the
boots and jerkins. With shortswords as their only overt weapons, they paced
into the passageway where the boy was still making a complete fool of himself
trying to disentangle from the wreckage.

Vara kicked the remains of the furniture away and hauled the insignificant
creature to his tip-toes. "Well? Are going, or no?" He made no reply, but led
them away displaying a very satisfactory gimp and visibly crooked back. Vara
smiled. Well, it was going to be a fine morning after all. They entered the
throne room to find it empty, as she had expected it to be. Royals most
emphatically do NOT await commoners, no matter their station. Might as well be
patient. Soon she would have the remainder of the HaskeGeld (Haske Gold. The
contract payment.) and be on her way. A pleasant thought, indeed.

The chain of thought was interrupted by a commotion outside the entry arch. In
was herded a body of Rebel Officers. Still bound back-to-back and still soused
to the skin. Mother! They had obviously been in the open keep all night.
Shortly, with no ado, came Bjorn and Eugen, bound, but separate. Bringing up
the rear, stiffly erect, and as much in control as the night before, marched
Fala. The only sound was the steady drip-drip of the prisoners. Vara's brain
was on automatic, sizing up the environment. Room: X-strides long, Y wide, Z
strides to the outer door. A glance at Tove seemed to show her likewise
occupied. The girl caught her eye, and formed a letter "O" with her lips.
Seeming nervous she stroked her chin with two fingers. One, two, three. Four
strokes, whilst looking disinterestedly out another portal. ("O" for, This way
Out... the casual gaze: This direction, twenty(two fingers) four (four
strokes) paces.) Vara lowered her right eyelid... I understand. My Mother, she
thought. That one is going to make one damn fine Hasker before long. She
congratulated herself for the Nth time.

"Congratulations, Hasker. You have done well." They all jerked around. Byrgge
had made another unannounced entrance. The woman was smiling as though she
actually enjoyed it. She rang a small silver bell suspended from a
decoratively knotted cord 'round her waist, and eight large armed guards
tramped noisily into the room. Overkill, thought Vara. "It is done. I have my
prisoners, and you your precious Geld. You may now be on your way. And good
riddance" she muttered in closing.

(WHAT???) "HOLD! I beg to differ with your Highness. MY prisoners... for so
they shall remain until the remainder of the payment is tendered."

The woman’s eyes narrowed. Her temples pulsed visibly. "Your WHAT? You
received your tawdry scraps of metal ere you departed this place under my
orders."

"Again I must take humble exception to Your Royal Highness (My Royal Pain In
The Ass, thought Vara), but the agreement, signed in BOTH our hands, was for
one half the payment before the Vik, and one half AFTER you were satisfied,
which as you have already indicated you are. That time be NOW... in FINE
GELD." She held up a gleaming yellow Kron. She felt a momentary surge of pride
in keeping her voice level and well modulated. Thanks be for the uncounted
time spent with Haske trainers.

Byrgge, in some heat, went on: "NEVER! There was NO such agreement. NOTHING is
of such value. Particularly this insignificant wench you dare parade before
me. What proof do We have you did not offer a handful of silver for the first
tavern slut who crossed your path? As for your Kron, Haskers are well known to
carry many such for bribery... most not genuine, beyond doubt."

Vara seethed, trembling visibly at the undisguised insult. "My Queen, my Geld
and my word are my Bond. If that is inadequate we have the original billet
marked by both our hands. Indeed, what proof have I that you are who YOU claim
to be?" Holding the coin before the woman's eyes, she easily folded it double
between her thumb and first two fingers. Flinging it carelessly between her
adversary’s feet she spoke in a voice as ice rimed as Greenland's distant
frigid shore. "Assay THAT. Be genuine?"

The woman's visage matched her robe. "WE NEED NO PROOF! We sit upon the throne
of Rhumblan EVEN AS WE SPEAK! Her eyes bulged frighteningly.

Vara said no more. She turned and snatched Fala to stand at the forefront.
Dropping to one knee she wrenched the Rebel Leader over her extended thigh.
Reaching into her kit, she produced the Royal Ring. "Can'st produce THIS?"

Byrgge triumphantly held up a fist, knuckles outward, displaying the signet.
"Yes, I have the accursed ring, as is meet and proper."

Fala's skirts were flung above her head baring her buttocks to reveal the
telltale scar. "And THIS?" queried Vara sharply.

"SEIZE THEM! SEIZE THEM! EXECUTE THEM!!! EXECUTE THEM IMMEDIATELY!!! I will
NOT display the Royal Person before COMMONERS like the ARSE OF A POX-RIDDEN
DOCKSIDE WHORE!!! I WILL HAVE MY PRISONERS INSTANTLY!!!" Byrgge's body shook
violently as with some terrible augue, her face contorting into a grotesque
death's head. The woman had at last truly lost control.

Vara did not wait for the startled guards to react. At her signal Tove slipped
behind Bjorn and Eugen. The Jernpeer’s sharpest dirk bit easily through the
bonds. Eugen, snatching her reversed blade, freed the nearest pair of armed
men and passed the weapon on. The whole action was accomplished with such
lightning swiftness the guards were slowed by surprise and their reaction
lagged action by that crucial half step that so often separates the quick from
the dead in battle. The nearest pair fell like mown wheat, the next sat down
hard, and vainly tried to return his chitterlings through the hip to hip
opening from whence they had issued. He looked not in pain, rather more
puzzled. His mate's head fell, severed cleanly, rolling to a stop at the toe
of Tove’s boot. She reflexively kicked, soccer-style, and the grisly object
flew (only perhaps by accident) straight at Byrgge's face. She defended like a
pro goalkeeper with only a few dollops of bright red finding her face. The
remaining guards flung their arms into a far corner and sat upon the floor,
fingers laced behind their heads.

Byrgge was almost immediately unintelligible. She began to foam. Fala took the
steps of the throne dais three at a time to snatch an ancient broadsword from
a mount upon the wall above the Royal Chair. This she presented to the wild
woman. Falling upon one knee before her, she flung her arms wide crying "KILL
ME! I am YOURS... KILL ME! KILL ME... unless you lack the mettle."

The Queen snatched the blade and attempted to draw it. It would not leave the
sheath.

"KILL ME!!!" Screamed Fala.

The Queen grew ever more crazed. She strained every sinew. Sweat streamed. Her
face blackened. Sticky threads of saliva spun weblike from her chin.

"KILL ME, KILL ME! KILLMEKILLMEKILLME!!!" chanted Fala in increasingly more
mocking tones.

The Queen was unrecognisable as a thing of this world. The blade would not be
drawn.

In final desperation, the frustrated woman raised the weapon, scabbard and
all, to smash it down upon the younger person kneeling before her. That one
stepped deftly aside, ripped the antique away and presented it to Vara
commanding "DRAW IT! "The Hasker accepted the long arm and tried. Nothing.
Archaic blade. Rusted in place. She shook the sheath. No... it rattled. Must
be some secret known only to its master. Shrugging, she held it out for Fala's
ready hand. Fala in turn looked all 'round with a quizzical expression. Who
else? All heads shook negatively.

A hand thrust at Vara. "Ring!" She complied. The young Leader held the ring
high and brought the butt of the sword up to meet it. The bold engraving mated
precisely with the image carved into the ring. Turning the ring ninety degrees
seemed to lock it into place. There was a soft click and the scabbard
zzzzzzinnnnged off the blade from it's own weight and clattered noisily upon
the highly polished floor. Everyone in the room stared at it, fixated. Fala,
in some sort of fit of overdramitization, thrust her sword point skyward,
shrieked as an eagle, and cried out: "MY PEOPLE... I AM HOME!" Unbelievably,
and unnoticed, the day had turned from merely drear to stormy, and at the
precise melodramatic moment a dazzling light split the dark sky followed by a
Thorzian crash of thunder. Had it happened in a bard's balled or upon a stage,
you would have laughed at how witlessly contrived. In actuality, the affect
was so dramatic many of the guards rose to their knees, making religious signs
upon their chests.

In Vara's mind a switch clicked. She turned her eyes upward. There, in a
pasture-sized painting of pure self aggrandisement, stood Ancient Rumbish King
someone-or-another in the throes of gory battle with a hoard of nameless
who-evers. In his right hand he was brandishing the easily recognizable sword.
The device embellishing the haft was a GOLDEN RING! Byrgge... That foolish
woman. The clue was there, in plain sight, for... How many years?

Tove and Vara had been standing facing Fala, 3/4 turned from the soon-to-be-ex
Queen. There was a sudden blood-freezing Berzerker's wail as Byrgge, using a
kneeling guards shoulder as a launching pad, sprang through the air like a
panther. The fingers of her right hand were contorted into talons, in her left
she clutched an ornate obsidian dagger. A blade of the Ancient Ones. The
trained eyes of the Hasker-women, perhaps without even using the
reflex-slowing passages of the brain, sent an uncut message of pure
battle-action straight to hair-springed arm muscles. Two stiff hands slashed
out, leading edges hard as slate. They simultaneously met the mark nested as
lovers. There came a soft moist crunch, much as if someone had trod upon a raw
egg, overlaid by the sound of a snapping branch, as a larynx was crushed and a
spine snapped in the same moment. In spite of the power of the blow, the body
continued on it's trajectory, the glassy blade slipping from lifeless fingers
to shatter into a thousand twinkling stars upon a heaven of black stone.

The entire company rushed to the spasmodically twitching burgundy form, now
looking more like a pile of rags than the most feared despot in the realm.
Fala pressed the tip of her weapon against the orb of one fixed up-staring eye
until the surface visibly dented inward. The funnel-shaped hollow grew as more
of the blade’s weight was allowed press downward. There was a surprisingly
loud pop and the orb collapsed, sticky droplets spattering. At the edge of the
crowd someone retched, and ran from the room. Even Vara, veteran of many a
gory scene, felt squeamish. Fala drew the blade away. "We had to be certain."
was her simple statement. Tove drew her battle weapon and using the tip as
delicately as a surgeon's knife raised the hem of the garment at their feet to
above the waist of the corpse to reveal ivory buttocks. They were as unsullied
as those of a newborns. The gathered throng exhaled gustily. Fala said it
best: "Well... that’s done." A veritable masterpiece of understatement.

In the faraway crags a lone wolf howled and ere long came faint jubilant
cheers. "All Hail The Rightful Queen" They KNEW! The people KNEW. But HOW...
No one could tell. No one could EVER tell, but the people ALWAYS know. A
leader can lie, cheat, steal and intimidate, but in the end, the truth will
out. No matter how absolute the despot, in the final analysis, 'tis the people
who rule. Rulers come and pass, but the people have the true power. They are
forever. That fact alone, in uncertain times in an even more uncertain world
cheered Vara. Sensing Tove, she reached out. Their hands registered perfectly,
and they walked in silence to sit upon a stone bench outside the chaotic
Throne Room.

Several hundred years later, Fala... uh Queen (?) Fala beckoned to them.
Unwillingly they stood and followed. They navigated the corridors for several
hundred paces to a narrow door which magically opened just prior to Fala's
crashing into it at full stride. The hallway was immediately filled with
billowing cumuli of aromatic steam. A small olive hued woman appeared to lead
them as Fala vanished. They were conducted to hot baths and then to a sauna so
large, the walls and ceiling disappeared each time a firkin of scented water
was dashed upon glowing stones. Aaaaaahhhhh! Civilization at last. After an
icy plunge, Vara was lifted rag doll-like and committed to the rough/gentle
hand of a gargantuan masseuse whose entire vocabulary seemed to consist of but
three words... "Relax... Move... Turn." Not a gifted conversationalist but she
was pure genius with her hands. Soon she was completely relaxed. A blob of
jelly. The powerful fingers seemed to ply her to the bone.

Laying upon her belly, head turned to the right, eyes closed, she slowly
became aware of a distinctive aroma. A musk. The unmistakable clean-animal
fragrance of a woman in her prime. It was not Tove. That was familiar to her
from the first bloom of childhood’s end. No. This was something else
altogether. She forced her eyes to open. There, not four hands away was a
luxuriant jungle of cooper-platinum curls, half-obscured by a strong feminine
hand. Moving only her eyes, she looked upward. 'Twas Fala, smiling happily and
looking singularly delicious.

"Well now, Hasker. Feeling better? Oh, don't bestir your gray matter. I can
see."

Vara grunted, and let her gaze fall once more to the wondrous pelt. As she
gazed, the obscuring hand was withdrawn and out tumbled a... what? WHAT!
WHAAAAT!!! Oh, my Mother's STEP-mother... she.. he...IT was an
HERMAPHRODITE!!! Fala possessed a penis longer than her middle finger and
wondrously thicker.

"Surprised you, didn't I?" She sounded almighty pleased at having shocked the
unshockable. "It's not what you think. In spite of it's appearance, it's not a
man's weapon, it's the same as yours... well sort of anyway. It's the other
sign of royal blood... the females that is. The males are marked by Gaia (The
Earth-Mother) in other ways. You're wondering how such an appendage is hidden.
Let it suffice to say that I find riding VERY interesting." She touched the
masseuses arm whispering "Now!"

The Woman's attention was diverted from her shoulder to the small of her back.
'UFF!' Felt that. And THAT. The fingers were going VERY deep, hitting nerve
with every rhymic thrust. Strangely, after two probes, it didn't feel so bad.
In fact it felt almost good. Actually, rather pleasant. MORE than pleasant...
VERY pleasant. Titillating... VERY titillating... uh no... it felt great...
GREAT! Like her first draught of strong Honey Mead, it almost made her head
buzz. Better than great, this was exciting... AROUSING... OH DEER DUNG! She
was getting HORNIER than HELL! And Fala, that exhibitionist, wasn't helping in
the least, waving her cunt... er... cock... uh... OH DAMME! Her... WHATEVER
THE HELL less than a hand from her nose.

The woman had the boldness to laugh full and bye at Vara's consternation,
which seemed to have the effect of causing her appendage to grow both in size
and erectness. "O how I LOVE it when Bunda does that. I wager that right now,
if you could, you would joyfully bed me were I a Wart-Hog. Yes?" Vara could
but nod her buzzing head. "You should see what she can do for... TO a man.
What would you think of the most experienced whoremaster's sex act, from
beginning to climax, being one gentle flick of my fingernail? They spew like
geysers, all the while heroically trying to hold back. All plead... some even
cry." She laughed anew. "I can't help myself. Sometimes I really do think
there is evil in me. Then, and best of all, I use my 'Special Part' to mount
an attack from the rear. Nothing will turn a snorting boar into a squealing
piglet more quickly. You should see what it does to ME. The thought and the
act makes me absolutely ANIMALISTIC. I cannot help but sink my teeth into the
back of his neck and bury my claws into his ribs, and ride him like a tomcat.
More often than not I sound like one." Her eyes were unnaturally bright and
she was breathing rapidly. "BUT, that is not for us. I MUST watch your face...
lovely face. I love your face."

As she stepped away, she carelessly raked her nails along Vara's back from the
nape of neck to right heel. Her left leg tingled in anticipation, but no
stroke came. She felt almost wounded. Fala looked back. "The other side will
have to wait until later." 'My Old Spinster Aunt!'. Thought Vara, 'she is
playing me like a well-tempered lyre.' Fala went on. "I must say, I've wanted
you from our first moment. You fascinate me. Woman, beyond question, but
stronger, more muscular ... and yes, more dangerous even than any male who's
pleasured me. Fascinating... yesssss." She turned quickly and rapidly
disappeared.

'Mothermine, a very good thing', thought Vara. She was a bit appalled at how
easily she was beginning to accept the notion of rape. Her senses hummed long
after Bunda slapped a buttcheek, flipped her over, pronounced "DONE", and
marched through the door, shoulders almost touching the generous frame.

Vara smiled. An amusing fantasy galloped through her mind. Her smile
broadened. That it was so deviated pleasured her almost more than the scene
itself.

Just suppose: She treated the most swinish male she knew to a massage.

And suppose: Bunda did her "Special Treatment" on him.

And suppose: She turned up his heat as much as she had Vara's.

And suppose: After he became too overheated to help himself, the giant

Woman just flipped him over and took him.

And suppose: The rape was totally repugnant to him.

And suppose: Bunda wouldn't let him stop until he was milked completely

dry.

And finally suppose: Vara could leap from her hiding place to laugh brazenly
making the humiliation complete.

She had a long list of VERY deserving candidates. She almost laughed aloud at
her adolescent contrivance, but what of it... even Haskers, even Tre-Kron
Haskers occasionally enjoy childish, witless humor. Still though... "STOP IT,
VARA!!!"... then she realized she had given herself the order aloud. Quickly
looking 'round there was, thankfully, no one to hear. 'Been in the field
overlong', she mused.

Her revere was broken by Tove and one of the attendants. The Haskers were
bundled into fluffy white robes and led to their chambers. A waiting
motherly-looking woman in servant’s grays curtsied nicely and produced folded
clothing and sandals, as well as a message. "Lady Omphala's compliments.
Would'st care to sup with her at setting of sun"?

"Our kindest regards to your generous lady. The Haskers would be honored to
attend her table. Would’st be escort at the proper hour?" The woman nodded,
bowed, and smiled her way out closing the door as she went.

"Vara?" She turned to face Tove who held up two white gowns. She fingered one
delicately. Wonder! It was like touching a cloud. Almost weightless, but wooly
and cozy feeling. This dinner obviously required more than the usual
preparations, and indeed the materials were there, displayed upon a large
table with two reflectors at ready. Nard for the body, selections of
fragrances for the hair, even kol and lupis to add mystery to the eyes. They
bathed with extra care, brushed and tied one another’s hair, and carefully
donned the amazing garments. It was magical. The material closely outlined
their bodies, but did not cling. It was not sticky. Muscles moved smoothly and
suppley within much as a cat inside it’s skin. In two words, INCREDIBLY sexy.
(Not the word they would have used of course, but my meager knowledge of
Neuspak fails me.) They drew on silver sandals... the lightest they had ever
seen, criss-crossing the thongs to tie just below the knees. Vara was
appreciative of someone’s thoughtfulness for supplying ties long enough to
encompass even her generous calves with enough left to form an acceptably
decorative bow. She hesitated, then slipped her smallest, thinnest kris
through the knot. So small and lavishly wrought, it appeared to be a
decorative clasp. ‘Twas deadly, non-the-less. Vara happily called it Schwansti
(Scorpion). Most appropriate, A light touch on an inconspicuous stud and tiny
drop of Puff Adder venom was forced through a miniscule passage to the needle
pointed tip. An almost unfelt scratch brought within seconds a surprised gasp,
and a dangerous enemy became just one more piece of baggage for the Valkyries.
Vara inspected Tove... Wunderkind! (WonderChild)The bedazzling young beauty
had just finished adjusting her small garrote which was masquerading as a
fine-stranded bracelet.

"M’ladies" called the door. It was the woman who was apparently their assigned
stupeer. "Ska vi gaa?" (Shall we go?) quoth she in very distinct Neuspak.
Hmmm... A little too "mittle" (middle class) sounding for your average manual
labor house servant, observed Vara. Be ‘ware. They departed, automatically
counting the strides and turns to the Royal Banquet Hall.

Outside the salon, Vara was taken aback, though nothing showed in her
demeanor. Awaiting them was the beautiful boy/man she had seen twice before.
So... he was NOT part of Byrgge’s retinue. Or was he?

He bowed, not so deeply this time, looking much more dignified, saying in his
unusual high pitched sing-song voice, "M’ladies, it is my very great honor to
escort you." He offered his arms. At least he was dressed this time, clad in a
short sleeved tunic of peach-colored material the same as their gowns. Each
lady (by this time they certainly felt as such,)... each lady laid a hand on
the proffered arm... arms wonderfully warm and covered by almost invisible
baby-like hair. He was so graceful! Vara felt old, coarse, and almost
lumbering alongside. Not a pleasant sensation, especially when the comparison
is with a man. Oh well, she compensated. He’s not REALLY a man. Then she
guiltily cast the unproven thought into Maarkke falle. (The Black [forever]
Fall [in] The Bottomless Pit).

Just then they turned into, not a grand banquet hall, but a rather ordinary
sized room furnished with substantial pieces crafted from native fir burnished
to that wonderful golden glow that only years of intimate human contact can
bestow. The ladies felt instantly comfortable. The space was effused with the
kind of rich inviting warmth we all wish our own homes to exude. The only
other occupant of the room was ‘Fala who was smiling a warm welcome.

The meal, good substantial local fare, was already served, country style, in
large bowls on the imposing table. There was a mighty beef loin, trenchers of
onions and white beans, a surfeit of tiny boiled cabbages, not to mention a
fortress of WHITE bread (such luxury!), all floated away with generous flagons
of sweet blossom wine.

The groaning table was not the only surprise. Tove arched an eyebrow when the
man/boy(?) servant/, servant/chamberman(?) joined them at the table. The
Haskers looked at ‘Fala who gave not the slightest note. Though the
conversation was animated, the boy/man added nothing, but was obviously
listening very attentively. Ah, perhaps he is a memorizer, but at the same
table as Mistress and Guests? Egad! and ‘Pon my word. How egalitarian!

Tove noticed virtually none of this. She was busy embarrassing Vara to tears
by charging her trencher like an Alongshore-man. In fact more akin to TWO
Alongshore-men. Ah, lea. She was still feeding a substantial growing body and
intellect which take fuel aplenty. Vara supposed she could probably be
forgiven to some extent.

After a pleasant dessert of bainberry tarts flavored with barleymead, followed
by long clay pipes and a warm fortified wine, ‘Fala yawned and pronounced "Let
us to bed", and led everyone to a chamber just off the salon. The woman was
smiling comfortably. "These were my chambers when I was a child. This is much
like returning to my Mother’s womb."

Vara involuntarily stiffened. The last thing she expected to hear was The
Sacred Name and Blessed Function uttered in such a careless fashion. In the
same breath as it were. She caught her emotions before she demanded an
immediate obeisance. After all, the woman had spent her life on the fringes of
civilization, and even to many much more worldly folk the niceties of Hasker
beliefs were more than passing arcane. Without treading on too many toes
(remember what I said about annoying Haskers) I can say they revolve around
their ancient founder (The First Mother, or more simply put, The First) from
whose womb all th... HOLD HASKERS! I spoke in only the MOST respectful of
voices and have cleansed myself under free-falling water which had never,
since it’s creation by Gaia touched animal before I stood beneath it’s
purifying strands. I see... I see. May I say ‘Person’ then. Thank you. From
whose Person all good things both visible and invisible do flow. This is the
Spiritual side of Haske. The Corporal half was called The Twins. More formally
and correctly The Grand Dichotomy. A duality necessary for a balanced life.
Suckling and Weaning. Comforting and Disciplining. Nurturing and Ignoring.
Encouraging and Discouraging. There are half-a-hundred more. However NOTHING
matches the inviolate sanctity of The First. It is not disrespectful to
mention Her, nor to use any word having to do with her manifest functions.
Indeed, many Blue Ear-Scorching Hasker oaths are invoked in the Name of The
First. BUT to juxtapose PERSONA and FUNCTION in the same sentence, or even the
same paragraph, is guaranteed to change a seemingly calm and peaceful Hasker
into an instant frothing howling Berserker. In fact, rumor was that certain
unscrupulous Haskers would show false enemy propaganda joining the two
concepts in order to enrage the lower ranks before battle. Many of the younger
Guilde members were gullible enough to be taken in. How many were felled by
careless rage? Vara examined the young woman’s face yet again and became
convinced she was indeed no more than ignorant. She breathed deeply and forced
herself to relax.

At a nod from Fala the boy/man snuffed the lamps save one, and with gentle
insistence began to disrobe Tove whilst Fala commenced upon Vara. The
bedcovers were laid back and the Haskers allowed themselves to be tucked in.
Fala was eyeing the boy intently, he blushed prettily in recognition of her
signal. After some length she urged "Now,"

He hesitantly moved to obey, shedding the few garments comprising his
wardrobe. At his innerbreeches he stopped. "Now." Was repeated. The cloth
fell.

Vara caught her breath. He was facing full toward her. Between his straight,
smooth thighs he carried... NOTHING! Nothing... no male organs, no female
cleft, not even the smallest hair. NOTHING! Just a smoothly curved expanse of
unmarked skin.

Next to her Fala prompted, "Let us finish it now... once and for all."

The youth(?) bowed sharply at the waist, reached far back between his legs and
manipulated... something. When again straightened there swung into view a
PENIS. Long and thin, it was completely smooth. There was no noticeable
vieniation, nor visible pubic hair. It’s only mark was circumcision. Vara
studied the appendage critically, coming to a startling realization. O, My
Very Own MO... the poor unfortunate had been living with at least half the
length of his manhood forced into his rectum! Imagine the pain! She could also
see he really did have a scrotum. It had slowly descended from his pelvic
cavity where it had been forced when the boy’s member was bent down and back,
It must have been living hell.

He walked gingerly to lave himself at the basin near the flickering fire.
Standing for several heartbeats he seemed to be regarding his parts with some
interest, as if seeing some new-found wonder.

Fala motioned for him to come. She took his bare member in her hand, holding
it gently. It could be seen his testes were only partly descended, and
noticeably unconvoluted. Smooth, hairless and not at all pendulous. It was,
with the exception of the length of the penis, the pubic area of perhaps the
average boy of eleven Winters. "As I said, the Royal males are marked in a
very peculiar way. They are all frozen at about twelve Springs. Vara, Tove,
allow me to introduce my older half-brother Haagen. He is the only one left
after The Uprising. Haggi... turn your back." Revealed to them was The Mark,
though not so bold as his Sister’s.

And so the secret of the informer within the old queen’s inner circle was
broken.

Then came a greater surprise. "Tove? Bethinks you he is pretty? Would’st gerne
(emotionally want) him? Gud! Then he is yours for as long as you are beneath
my roof. Do with him as you wish. He is your property. Go to her Haggi... GO.
In spite of her robust body and young rowdiness, she will not harm you. At
least not badly nor permanently."

Haagen started tentatively ‘round the massive oaken posts of the bed. His
apprehension vanished like an early autumn frost when Tove held the covers
aside invitingly and he beheld once again the voluptuous strength of her young
body. He fair fell in and was instantly enveloped by an enthusiastic woman
already nickering with coltish glee.

"Now as for you, me iron-framed beauty..." Fala fell upon Vara avidly, her
tongue exploring in ever increasing circles from her nave. Now it was the
Hasker’s turn to giggle. An unaccustomed sound to be sure. She knew it was
supposed to be sensual, but it also TICKLED. Distantly she heard Tove moan.
She had scant opportunity to investigate. Her mouth was invaded by a tongue
not to be denied. As it began playing a steaming game of hide the sheep with
hers, her partners fingers were driving her mad as they explored every ridge
and crease of her body. A sharp fingernail traced every line. Vara felt as
though divinely-honed chisels were sculpting her into primal existence from a
virgin slab of finely-grained marble. After aeons of having her body and
libido carved by her partners talented fingers, and feasting upon her perfect
mouth, their twining reached a point with Vara upon her back, and Fala ‘tween
her spread thighs. They rested there, the seated woman’s long tousled locks
tumbling unfettered down the cascade of her shoulders. The mingling rich
feminine aroma was raising the heat by the heartbeat.

Fala slowly leaned forward. Nipple caressed nipple and lips met lips. Vara
melted into the contact. Abruptly something stirred between her legs, and
before she could properly evaluate, she was overcome by the most singular
experience in her long and varied campaign between the four posts. Vara was
being entered by a WOMAN! Though tense and suspicious, so skilled was her
partner she soon coalesced into the moment. It was indescribable. There was
the fuzzy oneness that another woman alone can offer, yet there was the
satiating fullness offered only by a man. Fala was a Merlin. There was an
eerie FEMALENESS storming her portal, bringing her to a level of ecstasy none
but another woman could comprehend, yet there was the swelling force
emphatically spelling MAN.

She could feel it coming, deep in her throat... NO! she was NOT going to
scream nor cry out! Then IT was rushing at her. So quickly had it come? HUNNH!
That’s IT. (Almost aloud.) THAT’S the spot. O Dear Mother... she was being
torn in TWO! She gripped Fala’s exquisite posterior orbs and heaved hungrily.
Deeper, her body called. DEEPER her mind echoed. DEEEEEPER! Her libido
screamed. Her lover, understanding her need completely, augered her deeper
yet... to the limit. In one tiny corner of her mind, where a vestigial atom of
volition still feebly flickered, she knew were this a man she would have been
shredding his back, screaming gutter vulgarities. "POUND ME! SKEWER ME! SCREW
ME! FUCK ME!FUCKME FUCKME!!! FUCKFUCAFUUUUUUAAAAA!!! And on and on. But not
this coupling. This Glorious Conjunction. FAR too crude, too gross, too MALE.
Instead she purred, she moaned. She moaned long, softly, pleadingly, HAPPILY.
In perfect delirious chorus with her fellow traveler it became unbearable, and
she felt herself flung over the precipice to soar slowly downward in great
swooping arcs to alight, soft and warm, upon the welcoming sands of
fulfillment. As her lover gently folded downward with a prolonged sigh, Vara
felt her whole being split open as a carelessly dropped melon, to tumble out
it’s precious cargo... tender, juicy, sparkling pink, and sweet.

"Where have you been?" Whispering softly into her companion’s ear.

"Waiting for you." Was the simple answer.

The breath forming the words spilling close into her ear sent wonderful
gooseflesh cascading over her body like wavelets upon a shallow beach. They
turned upon their sides, facing, and Vara lost herself in a soft dance of
fingertips tracing from the nape of her neck to the small of her and back
again. Strokings she rewarded with soft kisses on eyelids, ears, nose, throat,
all places she could reach without cooling the afterglow. She drifted away.

Vara was on her back, immersed in the bright watery cocoon of a suede-black
pool. Not far above in a diamond-bright halo upon the wavelet-shingled surface
a single perfect frost-gilt maple leaf gently swirled. She slowly surfaced
into fresh forest-scented air. So acute were her senses she could catalog the
individual aromas. Honeysuckle... beesbonnet... dogwood... wild rose...
lavender... ahh there were just too many. Lying, arms outstretched, head
buoyed by the warm water, she drifted around to espy Fala reclining upon a
leafy pallet of white wildflowers.

The lovely woman whispered, but was easily understood. "That was truly
lovely."

Vara refocused. In reality, they were still in the bedchamber. She smiled and
nodded. For indeed, it had been.

Then she noticed. While she was "gone" someone had fetched a large basin heavy
with fragrant steaming water. She had a momentary stab of guilt. A serious
breach of security that, to be so completely oblivious. Ah, well. Even a
TreKron Hasker must have release... a little fun. LITTLE? Like the Great Sea
is a pond, the Great Eastern Forest a splinter.

What? She started, then thrilled as Fala began cleansing her with a large warm
sponge... a task not taking nearly long enough. She compared with having been
with a man. Actually, she was just not quite fresh. Very like after a good
run, and not covered with the flagons of the gelatinous sticky stuff men seem
to take such delight in leaving everywhere. Yes, she knew without it the world
would be a barren place, but that did not mean she had to enjoy dealing with
the unused part. There always seemed a prodigious amount left over. AND when
was the last time a man fetched a basin to cleanse HER? When Fala was done,
she commandeered the sponge and returned the favor with greatest pleasure.

Then, for the first time they gave thought to their bedfellows. Those two
seemed to be sleeping... Tove carelessly lying atop Haggi, holding his wrists,
pinning his hands to the pillows above his head. Both wore beatific smiles of
ultimate fulfillment. Curiosity overcoming her, Vara lifted the coverlet. Tove
still restrained one leg in the Twining Grip. Lifting the sheets yet higher,
the women nearly laughed aloud. The couple was still exactly that... coupled.
They ogled like a pair of decadent old men. Tove’s vagina was pulsing
rhythmically. She was milking him... in her sleep, and he was in no way
retreating. There was obviously an advantage to being gifted with a long
supple wand. The two voyeurs soon retreated, fell into one another’s arms, and
were quickly embraced by the Schlafprinz himself.

Next morn they broke the fast with a powerful meal of toasted malted barely
and fresh raadfrught met flaather, (redfruit[raspberries] and clotted cream).
Whilst lingering over smoky tea, Fala broached the subject of a permanent post
for the Haskers. Vara was sorely tempted, and Tove after a meaningful look at
Haggi looked imminently interested. BUT, what of Haskevij? Vara had already
gone MUCH too far with a... weeell, Fala was not EXACTLY a client, but she was
tasked to bear all possible assistance to the Queen, so it was a technicality.
What would it be like to be tied to one place year after year? Not to mention
her own dear sweet Bjern, her own Isbamsa... and Magga. Magga, who would be
the next Jernpeer to Hasker Tove. Sadly she declined, and then felt an
unreasoning stab of grief when the woman seemed to understand and did not
pressure her.

In the forenoon there was a hugely ceremonial funeral for the dead "queen".
Not because she was deserving, but to make the transfer of power more
understandable to the people. Her flag-swaddled corpse was paraded through the
streets upon a heavy battleshield, to be lifted to the foredeck of a black and
red draped LangtSkib (LongShip a single masted square rigged with oars Viking
style vessel).

Did the shield have a VERY clean, thumb-sized hole? Wondered Vara.

The pyre had the worldly possessions of the deceased arraigned close ‘round.
Six husky oarsmen in black dress bent their staves, and shortly the eye of the
wind near the middle of the Fjord was reached. The Stursmann (Direct
translation: Steering Man. The person handling the steering oar), a gaunt
fellow of slow movement, set canvas. The crimson and black squares’l bellied.
The somber seven quit the Death Ship for a small pulling boat which paused but
a few strides away. A torch flicked through the air. The bilges, awash with
pitch spewed dragons breath. The rigging creaked as the sail drew in earnest.
As the vessel made way there were two bright flashes and two accompanying
thunderclaps. On the quay there were cries of astonishment and fear. Vara
alone knew the secret of the explosions. Dragons eggs. Had the fire consumed
the hatchling cubs? She was mindful of the remaining artifacts well-nested in
her pack. What would the Haske Diviners, midst their noxious effluvia and
flagons of evil slop make of them.

The LongShip settled evenly into the wavelet-frosted water, billows of pitch
smoke wreathing the pyre on its final voyage. Soon the thole pins were awash,
followed by the stern post. At the stem, the fierce KrakkenKunst (Dragon Art.
The ornately carved dragons that adorn the bows of Norse ships) glowered
angrily as it too was swallowed up. The mast top burgee of red and black, the
woman’s own colors, stirred briefly as if in defiance, and was gone.

The gathering cheered as twelve ebon yeomen loosed longbows and a dozen
flaming arrows drew golden traces into the heavens, to burn out on the ascent
so the shadowy downward trace and almost silent disappearance as they stabbed
beneath the cold waters would not be noticed. Such is life thought Vara. Only
the golden upward arc is remarked. The shadowy downward plunge goes unnoticed
until it ends, not with a blast of horn as celebrated the thang of the bow,
but with a soft sibilant ssshhhh which passes in an instant.

She was pulled from her revere by the bangs and hoots of what apparently
passed for a town band in these parts. Fala grasped her hand and they marched
the streets of the town on the way to the castle above. Somehow it no longer
looked quite so forbidding. As they walked, gaggles of townsfolk of all ages
cavorted alongside. From somewhere Fala produced a large shoulder bag and from
it was tossing favors to the crowd. Sweets, toys, copper coins, bagatelles...
all completely valueless, of course, except as a momento of having been at the
Great Funeral. Never the less, the populace...and Fala, loved it.

The rest of the day was spent on business. Fala's no doubt upon affairs of
state whilst the Haskers toiled over returning their equipment to Guilde
standards. Late in the afternoon they broke. "I'm for a walkabout." Announced
Tove. Vara replied by standing, donning casual dress and ordinary weapons. The
girl, with an anticipatory smile and happy her suggestion had merit, followed
in kind.

They strolled the corridors without aim. At the entrance to a darkened room,
they had not quite passed the portal when they ran spangon into an exiting
party of gray-clad maintenance workers. The leadman, a short, wide,
bear-wrestler sort of person showed instant recognition. "YOU!" He shouted.
"You. Dunnit! Causa you the Queen lie in deep cold." He charged, brandishing a
long sharp scraper like a short sword. His crew, here to fore about equally
divided between fight and flight, betook this as a signal. After all, it was
aught but two women against the seven of them. Very poor judgement. Steely
hands swept like scythes and the whole contingent lay neatly down like a
newly-mown corn row to bubble out the last few seconds of life through crushed
windpipes. The Haskers moved the whole futilely gasping mess into the dark
room and closed the door upon the grim evidence.

Tove looked troubled. Vara merely commented "There may be many more who still
feel allegiance to the old regime. We must be aware."

Tove smiled mirthlessly. "And if you have no love for Wares, you may choose to
be a Lert." She showed a toothy grin, at last having an actual opportunity to
use the tired old first-year-of-training pun. Vara felt unreasonably annoyed,
but said nothing.

They had no sooner progressed to the next crossing when Vara, for no
explicable reason, threw her arm before Tove and took a short step. As they
broke stride, clearing the corner wall out of rhythm, a gleaming blade swept
murderously not one-half span before their noses. Had she not heard nor
listened to The Voices they would have been riven from crown to crotch. As
choreographed a thousand times they moved in absolute synchronization, drew
steel, and whirled to face the threat. Four very large, very eager, very
aggressive, young armed men were about to fall upon them. Tove flung her cap
down the corridor in the direction they had been traveling. Vara was fading
before the first attacker who whirled his long sword in a circular blur,
screeching like a wetted Blue Troll about his foully murdered Queen. She
ignored the other three altogether. Instead of meeting heavy steel, she ripped
off her cloak, spun it once and whipped it 'round her opponent’s ankles.
Entangled, his hands instinctively flew out to break his fall. Vara ducked
under and adroitly aimed her shortsword... Blikken, in a blinding fast upward
thrust. Her eye was true. It plunged into the small gap between the man's
naveplate and chest armor. All her considerable musculature from bulging
calves to broad shoulders were behind the stroke. She threw herself upward
like the sudden release of the loops of a tightly-bound coil spring. She could
almost feel his final heartbeat as steel met its mark. As she withdrew, she
met his eyes. She found no pain, no anger, no fear, only surprise and wonder
as he sat down in this world and looked upon The Other Side.

Vara straightened to find Tove hewing away at the second warrior. The other
two gaped. Momentarily startled at having to bear sudden unexpected witness to
their leader's passing, at the hands of a woman no less, armed or not. She
raised her hand, stretching to the limit, and snapped her fingers with a loud
crack. The men automatically raised their eyes, Lightening struck exposed
apple, and another victim fell upon his mate. At that moment Tove changed her
grip and attacked with a fencer’s overhand thrust. A bold move, leaving her
torso unprotected. Her youth was her ally. Her lightning reflexes easily
defied her foe’s attack, and her narrow blade slipped cleanly through the
eyehole of her foe's helm. There was a steely "pink" and a small inverted
dimple appeared in the back of the dead man’s cask. He uttered not a sound,
but fell beside his brothers like a woodsman’s axed tree. The remaining
warrior lost his mettle and whirled to escape. In doing so he inadvertently
threw up his arm directly against the recently honed edge of Vara's sword. The
hapless fellows sword and arm to above the elbow clattered to the floor. He
screamed like a schoolgirl and fled the abattoir-like scene, the stump of his
arm scrawling crimson ocean waves upon the dark gray wall. His wails faded
long before he was out of earshot.

The Haskers cleaned their weapons on their victims clothing and looking about
espied Tove's cap. Brilliant move, and what pleased Vara most was it was the
girl's own invention. One of the greatest dangers of close combat, especially
where landmarks are scarce, is losing one's way. More than a few have
blundered directly into an enemy camp after a hot skirmish. Tove had
recognised and solved the problem. It would later be writ into The Book as
Tove's Ploy. She would be famous forever. As the girl retrieved her headgear,
Vara looked back and nodded to her partner... she gave a start. Yes, she had
actually thought the word partner, not Jernpeer. MOTHER! She punched her
partner, not the actual word, but the meaning. She would have probably said
something like Freu’sen. (A shortened form of Freund met Essen... Friend with
Steel... Armed Friend). She punched her partner roughly on the shoulder.
"Well. Not a bad aftens work, eh?" She began laughing and scratching herself
lewdly in the manner men so often do after successfully completing some sort
of daring deed. Tove’s rewarding fits of laughter caused her to become even
more grotesque in her mime.

They returned to their rooms to find a messenger waiting. "The Lady Omphala
awaits your pleasure." Vara made a "lead on" gesture.

They were conducted to a long low-ceilinged room with a row of divans along
either side. Several cots were occupied by inert forms. Obviously a place of
healers. Fala appeared and spoke in neutral tones. "Can'st undo what hast
done? If so... please, NOW."

MOTHER! Vara had all but forgotten. She went quickly from victim to victim
repairing the Hasker spine dis-alignment. To Fala she reported that all were
in good health, but it might be some time before they recovered enough even
for speech. Fala looked dubious, but before long the Hospitaleers were having
trouble getting their wards to shut up. Fala faded away and the Haskers headed
back to their rooms.

Several turns before their hallway they were confronted by a tiny, highly
animated form. Baerte! She hadn't been seen since the departure from the
stronghold. She began motioning avidly for them to follow. As they stepped
off, the tiny woman halted and looked pointedly at Tove. Vara jutted her chin
down the corridor and whilst seemingly playing with her amulet carelessly
flicked her finger toward her fellow. (You go ahead) Tove casually strolled
past with a small wave. "Have fun." She smiled.

Following Fala's consort, Vara was soon let into a small chamber almost
entirely filled with a giant bed. Baerte spoke not at all, but came
immediately to the point. Her clothing was in a heap before Vara closed the
door. Though a bit surprised, Haskers are well known for quick wits. Speak not
of size, the woman was, in one word, magnificent. Sumptuously formed. A
voluptuary of tight curves with large firm globular breasts and matching
buttocks. In point of fact, thought Vara, she would look almost the same
upside down as right side up. The ridiculous thought pleased her immensely.

Baerte was holding her hand... leading her. She was taken to sit upon the bed
and the Lilliputian joyfully hopped into her lap like an eight year old and
began snuggling. Burrowing into her breasts, she playfully picked at the tunic
clasp pretending she could not open it. Vara, fascinated, worked the fastener.
And so the game progressed. A kind if slow-motion striptease, (NO! I do NOT
know the Neuspak word for striptease.) with Baerte sucking in her breath with
wonder as each of Vara's mighty parts was revealed. In no time she was as
natural as her playmate, standing with Baerte happily hugging her rock-solid
thigh. A thigh obviously larger than the tiny torso pressing against it. Vara
looked in wonder. She had never seen anyone so small yet so superbly formed. A
miniscule forefinger was placed against her breastbone and she allowed herself
to be levered over the edge of the bed to fall heavily on her back on the
thick mattress. Baerte swarmed up after her and within heartbeats tiny hands
were busy with every sensitive part of her body. It was incredible... like
being nibbled to death by butterflies.

The larger woman at last groped in her day kit, hanging from long habit on the
nearby bedpost. Her gleaming body erupted in a split second move to straddle
Baerte, crushing the small frame deep into the feathers of the generous
mattress. She held up what she had retrieved from her kit. A large
sausage-shaped device, bulbous and grossly vieniated on one (Baerte's) end.
"F" shaped on the other (Her) end. Vara called it simply MinToj (my toy). What
we now call a dildo. (No, neither can I translate dildo). But WHAT a dildo.
The whole machine, almost two hands in length, was fitted with a sturdy
leather strap and heavy bronze buckle to secure it when the action grew hot
and heavy. It was crafted especially for her in far away Romaglia from some
unknown stuff (she had heard it was some sort of tree sap) that was both hard
and flexible at the same time. For reasons known only to the crafters, it was
molded in a ridiculous bright pink. The myriad of ridges inside the "F" shaped
portion touched BOTH her sensitive areas such as could no man, however willing
and diligent. No. She did not feel men were in any way mean nor cruel nor
useless. They were simply improperly crafted by The Maker to be completely
adequate. Make no mistake, she found men very fine indeed, particularly when
feeling especially rowdy and randy. Still... they just did not have enough
fitting parts. Men per se were not at fault. They tried VERY hard... since
they usually wished to remain unbroken. (never, NEVER disappoint a Hasker) but
again... just not quite enough. Too SINGULAR.

Vara looked down yet again at Baerte, pinned as helpless as a butterfly on a
collector's board. She felt a momentary pang of sympathy. Small as a child was
she. She mewed like a kitten, soft and warm. The powerful woman reached down
to turn the Toy into exactly the proper position. Even that slight movement
caused her body to thrill. Suddenly she realized how much the scene was
arousing her. She was as hot as a rutting halkebuk. Vara could hold no longer.
She pressed home the attack. Baerte squirmed, moaned and thrust her pelvis to
meet the surging muscular mass hard upon her. Her mouth split open, teeth
gnashing. A transported mask of ultimate pleasure/pain distorted her usually
serene features. Vara was totally engulfed by the scenario. She was physically
stimulated beyond all reason, and watching her victim metamorph from a
well-controlled young woman to a heaving bucking helpless THING added spice to
her already heady draught. Far sooner than she wanted she felt Baerte being
flung violently over The Edge, and her own Wave was curling high, towering,
smashing down upon her. It spun and tumbled her with splendid power, then
ebbed away, leaving her crushed, and helplessly atrickle with light airy foam.

With difficulty she refocused on Baerte. The little bird lay still as a
corpse, mouth agape, eyes open wide, breath abate. Vara could easily foretell
an incipient earth shattering scream. Releasing one thin wrist Vara clamped a
stifling palm over the wide-stretched lips. The outcry was choked to a muffled
keening, followed by another, and another, and another, ad infinitum.

Thanks to a Haskers appreciation of peripheral action and finely-honed powers
of observation, a red alert began clanging insistently inside Vara's head.
Baerte's free hand had opened a compartment in the headboard and withdrawn a
spherical glass container. The results were reflexive and instantaneous. Vara
rolled to the right and went from horizontal to vertical in a neatly executed
"kip" (the acrobat's move). Baerte, only partially anticipating, arced her arm
over to smash the crystalline globe at the very spot on the mattress so
briefly occupied by Vara's head less than a heartbeat before. The bed
instantly burst into choking billows of noxious orange smoke. RED FUMING ACID!
The little bitch had tried to kill her... to burn her skull hollow with her
witches brew!

Baerte's mouth formed a silent "Oh NO!". Eyes wide, she was frozen for less
than 1/4 heartbeat. It turned out to be the most important moment of her life.
Vara struck like a Fer-de-Lance, grasping the woman's crossed left wrist. Like
a rag doll the murderous little wench flew through the air in response to the
Hasker's powerful left arm. Before she could recoil or cry out her windpipe
disintegrated. It was all too brief to be called a struggle. She felt
monstrous fingers grasp her head with the strength of a cart-ox. The huge paw
snapped sharply to the right. For a split second there seemed to be an
excruciating explosion of pain at the base of her skull. Then there was
nothing... not even the consciousness of nothing.

Vara threw the rag-bag remains back onto the bed, straightened the coverlet
and tried to arrange it on it's side as she had seen it sleep. Without the
support of the neck, it's stupid head kept sliding off the pillow. She was
forced to settle for it being on its back. Twould have to do.

A secondary wave of pleasure washed her as she removed the Toy. Not too bad,
she thought. She cleansed herself and dressed. Not bad at all. At the door she
looked back and flipped a jaunty salute, "Thankee, Little Scorpion. Twas fun",
she was smiling as she closed the door. She was not an untruther. It WAS
fun... ALL exciting... fun from beginning to end. She chuckled audibly.

Striding down the passageway, Vara was in her favorite state. Still
hyper-alert, but satiated. She took joy from her every part as it moved. She
intentionally walked with exaggerated purpose causing each muscle to swell and
shrink extravagantly. It was an awesome sight. She chanted the Power Mantra
quietly and rhythmically as she marched. "Strong as an Ox, Quick as a Cat...
Strong as an Ox, Quick as a Cat... Strong...", all the while thinking of
another trophy on her totem in the GrusHalle (Great Hall). In her mind’s eye
she judged it critically. Hmmmm... needed two more male tokens on the left to
be esthetically balanced. It pleased her that the goal just might be reachable
on this Vik (Venture, Adventure, Quest... no real modern equivalent.)

She gained their quarters to be greeted by an enthusiastic Tove who embraced
her eagerly, then stepped back to regard her with practiced eye. The girls
demeanor heightened visibly. "You’re fresh from the kill", she cried. "You
are, aren’t you? There’s the smell of death about you. You’ve killed. You
cannot fool ME. I can smell it." She threw herself upon her Mentor and bored
her mouth with wanton intensity.

Vara disengaged her. "Slowly, my pet. Slowly." How could she be made to
understand? A Hasker must become fond friends with Death. It facilitated many
tasks, but to have an overweening fascination for the Grim Spirit, or an
eagerness to become its lover twists a person’s judgement. The MorkkeAgger’s
(Black Farmer) blade is keenly honed on BOTH edges. She gripped the girl’s
shoulders and holding her at arms length shook her sharply. "Wouldst be so
avid were it I lying cold? Wouldst one day slay me for orgiastic pleasure?"

Tove stiffened, white-faced, and with a stricken expression wrenched away to
stagger back, sitting hard upon the bench at the chimney corner. She wept
openly. "I-I-I a-a-am Sh-shamed".

"TOVE! FIRST LAW!"

"I know. I know".

"TOVE! FIRST LAW! SAY IT!"

"I will never hesitate to take or spare a life..."

"THE REST!"

"...be it or not my own."

"AND!"

"The First finds every life of some value."

"YES?"

"A Hasker must never elevate hers at the expense of another."

"FINISH!"

"By the First Mother’s Grace."

"Well?’

"I pray of thee, Hasker, guide me."

"It is MY honor to so to do."

"Form me, Hasker. I am clay."

"You will study the Seven Prime Haske Laws and explain what they mean to YOU
on the morrow before we sup. Forstann Mig? (Understand me?)" She added the
formality as well as the ritual to impress upon the girl the import of the
moment.

The Jernpeer bowed low, arms outstretched, palms upward. "Ja-Ja. Jeg forstann
dig". (Yes-yes I understand you.) Her voice was contrite. Her demeanor one of
mortification.

Good. Thought Vara. Let that be the end of it. "Come let us explore further."
Tove smiled tentatively, happy to have the inquisition behind her. Again the
walked without plan, soon coming to an area Vara recognised. Rounding a bend,
they came upon the caulked door which had been Vara’s original entrance, this
time tended by two competent-looking stalwarts in business-like light battle
dress. Well now. A change in management means much. The guards stood
carelessly each facing one woman. To the untrained eye it all looked very
casual. To the Haskers, the readiness was obvious. The loose hands resting
upon unlatched sword hilts, the unthinking flick of a cape away from a shield,
the full engagement of the eyes... no honor flunkies these. Make no mistake,
these were fighting men, battle ready; poised for action.

The elder spoke. "Compliments of the aften M’ladies. May we be of assistance?"
Gentle tone or no, these men were not the sort to be trifled with.

Vara smiled a genuine-looking smile. "Ah Thankee no, Gud Styres (Good Stars
[secondary meaning: Sirs, though not necessarily Knighted]), we but stroll."
The men seemed pleased to be so addressed by a Hasker, but the only outward
sign was a barely perceptible widening of their eye’s black soulpool. A clue
easily discerned by the knowing eye. Even Tove, though not yet with extensive
experience, saw the reaction. Good men, thought Vara. Highly self controlled.
The transformation in security in only a few days was astonishing.

As they departed, after the obligatory "Gud aftens." The guards proudly gave
them the courtesy of a sharp cross-chested salute of the professional under
arms. The women correctly returned the honor with equal pride, enjoying a
seldom experienced feeling of camaraderie.

Vara carefully counted her way back to the cubicle were she had first accepted
the operation. MOR! Was it still the SAME operation? Careful examination
divulged no sign of the dragon hatch. She carefully raised the violet-eyed
unicorn to find a small chamber with but one exit. Entering stealthily they
stood for some few heartbeats before realizing Fala and Haggi could distinctly
be heard from the room beyond. Vara motioned to Tove. Exercising extreme care
her Jernpeer lay upon the floor and tilting her head to vertical peeked one
eye beyond the corner at floor level. Sliding back and standing she whispered
almost soundlessly close in Vara’s ear. "Fal... Hag... no... sit... win...
talk... na... ‘ware." Fala and Haggi were seated by the window talking. There
was no one else in the room. They were not aware of the Haskers presence. It
was a concise and descriptive message consuming but eight whispered one
syllable words. It was Feldspak (Field speech.). It was for communication, NOT
conversation. The two in the next room were also obviously laboring under the
misapprehension that they could not be approached clandestinely. The Haskers
stayed discretely out of view.

Haggi: "But Fal, can you really justify having such a mercenary within these
walls? She may'st be as taken with you as you with her, but she is a HASKER,
and could THAT easily bring her every weapon to bear against YOU." He snapped
his fingers with an echoing POP!

Fala: (Laughing) "MY weapon is what the proud Hasker craves. So long as it is
ready to fight the Battle of Counterpane, she will be mine. She may be as
strong as a warhorse, but I am mistress of my special short arm."

He: "Just because you have a centur of foolish court maidens panting for your
attention does NOT mean the Hasker will fall. The woman is DANGEROUS."

She: "Sooner or later they all fall. I offer the collection of favors in my
chambers as proof. You are a typical male. You fret overmuch. What fear you. I
did not notice your bedchamber task to be (heh-heh) INSURMOUNTABLE."

He: (In heat) "Please do not make light of the evening! Mistress Tove is a
kind and wonderful person. A lovely lady."

She: "Your Lovely Lady possesses a thigh girthing near as much as your whole
body. She could snap you like a twig."

He: "Quite so, but she did NOT. Besides, she is so surpassing BEAUTIFUL,"

She: "You silly little boy. You speak as though you are in love with her."

He: Silence... Loooong silence.

She: "you ARE! You ARE! You cannot deny it. YOU are in love with a HASKER!"
She began laughing helplessly.

Tove, eyes flashed at the scornful words, and with set jaw took a purposeful
step toward the next room. Vara threw up a flattened palm within one finger’s
breadth of her nose, shaking her head in slow deliberation. The girl
unwillingly relaxed and followed her to the unicorn room.

The last thing they heard was Fala. "Very well, I shall break your puppy-love
infatuation. Tonight you will brave the appetites of the Kron-ed Hasker whilst
I devine what makes your Tove so wonderful." She mimicked her brother’s
fluting tones perfectly.

Oh thou vainglorious little wart, thought Vara with malicious glee. How dare
he make designs upon her Tove. Tonight the power of her thighs would welcome
him. Even now could she hear his shriek, muffled by stifling palm, as his
spindly shanks splintered and pelvis crumbled. Milting little hinny. He would
pay for his carnal phantasies. She would wager the commission he would swoon.
She KNEW he would. When she snapped his twiggish fingers one by one, he would
faint dead away at each and every crack. ‘Tis well known men be cowards about
pain. Were it men who lost maidenheads and bore the babes, the world would be
ruled by trouts. She almost laughed aloud. Mother, she was fair overcome by
anticipation. Calm yourself, Vara, she thought sternly. It be not seemly to
celebrate the moment ere it comes. At that, they entered their rooms.

Tove peered at her. "Vara, thou ails?’

"Tis naught."

"Oh, Vara, I know you only too well. You MUST promise he will come to no
harm."

The Hasker shook her head. "Tis a vow I might well break. Methinks he may
attack me."

Her partner, sitting on the bed tailor fashion, fell over in a fit of mirth
which rang not altogether untrue. She was glad Vara did not query what weapon
might be used in such an attack.

The rest of the aften was passed in endless games of draughts. Not so boring
as one might think. Amongst the many permutations was the loss of a piece of
clothing with the loss of each playing piece, and a three heartbeat time limit
between moves. An interesting variation. As the dread of loss increased also
did one’s pulse and the less time one had to plan strategy.

As they sat immersed, Tove clad in only her briefest most intimate innerwear,
and Vara in not appreciably more, there came a rap upon the door. "Abende!"
(You[may] open) she called without real thought.

There appeared a youngish chamberlain clad smartly in dove gray jerkin and
tights. "M’ladies..." it was as far as he got. He turned beet red and his eyes
widened dangerously as popped back into the darkened hall like a hare down
it’s hole. "Oh, I beg the ladies pardon, I saw naught... I mean to say what my
indelicate eyes... nooo... that is to say, thou hast... I was... Oooooh", he
wailed before he started over like a schoolboy when interrupted in the midst
of a difficult recitation.
"M’LadiesLadyOmphala’scomplimentsandwouldtheladiesdeigntodnewithherdirectlyaft
erMatens?" He finished in an impossible rush all in one breath, and waited. He
could be heard shifting from one foot to the other.

Vara, with a Haskers total lack of affectations, replied. "Compliments to your
most gracious Lady, and the Haskers would be honored to sup at her pleasure."

"M’lady Omphala’s thanks." Came a relieved sounding voice, and soft footsteps
could be heard receeding at the run.

Tove burst into hysterical laughter. Vara looked puzzled, then saw themselves
from a different angle. A liveried emissary from the de facto ruler of the
land, in chambers, exchanging ritualized court pleasantries with two naked
women. She smiled broadly. Then she thought of the boy’s report to his
mistress, and laughed till she thought it would dispatch her.

A short time later there was a timid tap. Opening evidenced a small woman
bearing a black bundle and two pairs of sandals. Vara shooed her out. Having
someone actually dress her made her feel uncomfortable. The black was gowns
similar to the previous night, but more smooth. The sandals... oh yes. They
stood back and eyed them from every angle, they were that strange. Flat under
the toes, but swooping up over half a hand to the heel with nothing save a
precipitously spindly shaft for insubstantial support. They tried them,
eventually tying on them one another. MOTHER! TRY to walk. One risked an ankle
at every step. Unfortunately their Hostess seemed to expect the footwear, so
they practiced. By evening, they could manage fairly well. The calves would
pay on the morrow, thought Vara. Quite correctly as it turned out. NIGHTFALL!
They would be late! They accomplished their toilette with lightening speed and
tied the ridiculous shoes just as their escort arrived. I will not attempt to
describe the walk to the dining chamber.

Once again the table in Fala’s old apartment was set family style. There was
cock pheasant, white bread stuffing with currants, and a sweet yellow tuber
unrecognized by Vara. Fala proclaimed them "Yams". Tove declared them
"Delicious".

Afterwards whilst having pipes and brandy, Fala asked if her guests would mind
walking to the hearth. A puzzling request, but they complied without question.
"Turn slowly, please." They did so. "Pray face away... now back. Please walk
toward us, slowly.’ The Warrior Women actually made it without falling or
spraining anything vital, but Mother-mine they agreed they exhibited a most
peculiar gait. Backward leaning, buttocks tucked under, pelvis thrust forward,
hips rowing like galley sculls, shoulders see-sawing in opposition. It felt
awkward and ridiculous, but Fala and Haggi seemed to appreciate it... a LOT.
When asked, Fala explained. "It shows your every muscle and part. Especially
your fundament and most wondrous legs. Twould make one of those Saints to
rut." Both Haskers looked down, but from their vantage point could see nothing
unusual.

Hagi made a significant motion. There was a polished brass reflector near the
fire. Tove fairly scampered to it, uncaring of her bones. Weeel, mused Vara,
just one quick peek might not be unseemly. They regarded themselves with
critical eyes. Wonder! There WAS a difference. Their thigh muscles were
stretched tautly, The ogee from just beside the knee to the top if the toes
was elongated and accentuated far more than just the height of the small heel
platform. Even the buttocks were lifted and tightened. AMAZING! And the walk!
Vara had to admit it was all very intriguing, but to actually use such foot
gear... Ridiculous! It would cripple a person. After they again sat, she
regarded her right foot. Extremely high arch, almost a perfect isosceles
triangle, the hypotenuse slightly bowed. "Provocative" some (both male and
female) called it. Usually those who never had the misfortune to intercept it
in mid-arc with a nose, Adam’s apple, or other, shall we say more sensitive
and pendulous, body part. Those unfortunates were more likely to append the
label "murderous". She waggled the appendage at it’s ankle hinge then quickly
tucked her feet beneath her chair when she noticed the rest of the company was
admiring the beautiful construction just as raptly as she. She was in no way
ashamed of her body. Quite the contrary, but everyone’s sudden focus of one
particular feature made her feel... well... a bit odd.

When questioned about the origin of the filmy gowns and unusual sandals, Fala
would but make a dismissing gesture and proclaim with grand finality, "From
Majik Place beyond eastern mountains. And that, quite obviously was that.

As "To bed" was announced and they lolled away to the nearby bedchamber, the
Haske pair still feeling almighty self conscious. Tove whispered, "I feel as
though every part of me is moving separately"

Leaning back Vara commented, "From every evidence that be true, my Little
Tantalizer." Raising her gaze she found four other eyes were also feasting .
Fala had the modesty and good taste to blush very prettily.

In the room, the strangeness escalated. Vara sat on the edge of the bed
intending to at last remove the painful footwear. Before she could lift her
foot, Haggi was there. He had fallen to his knees and firmly brushing aside
any interference began caressing her feet along the sandal straps. The right
bow was slowly, even lovingly manipulated, and the straps were tenderly
unwound from her calf, her ankle, her foot. The shoe was slipped away in such
a manner even THAT was a caress. It was put aside only after the straps were
coiled almost reverently, then the whole ritual was repeated on the left foot.
Vara looked ‘round. Who else beheld? No one. The boy/man gazed at her lovingly
as he began to massage her feet... every part of her feet. It felt very
pleasant. She sat bolt upright! The massage was changing. He was rubbing his
downy cheeks against her feet, the arch, the instep, her ankles... he was
KISSING THEM! Her impulse was to recoil. Wouldst be deemed an insult? What to
do? He was kissing every part of her feet. He was kissing her toes. His tongue
began to side BETWEEN her toes. All the while he crooned as if to a babe. He
was SUCKING her toes! Without warning it came to Vara that she was ENJOYING
it. He was so worshipful. She closed her eyes. It felt far more than ordinary
wonderful. EXCITING!

Then again she was not quite sure. ‘Twas all so very strange. She placed her
free foot on the middle of his breastbone and pushed gently. Haggi collapsed
backward with no resistance, still holding her foot to his lips. He kissed
softly and groaned quietly. "Oh yes, Mistress. Oh yessss. Please? Oh,
pleeeeese?"

Somehow his behavior made her not disgusted, but rather wildly euphoric. She
pressed down harder. He kissed and licked even more avidly, as if to nourish
himself. Why was she so aroused? Why was he so intense? She could stand it no
longer. Reaching down, she grasped his collar and wrenched him upright. Mama,
he was light as a feather. She near tossed him over the bed. He swayed as if
drunken. She stood and held him upright as she ripped down the coverlet. His
tunic and jerkin tore as she carelessly whipped them over his head as one. No
such niceties were wasted upon his tights. They were simply shredded and flung
aside. Strap bows loosed, her filmy gown puddled at her feet. His breath
whooshed out as she crushed him to her. He moaned, panted and trembled. There
had been naught but powerful sensual female muscle and smoldering fire beneath
the gauzy material. He involuntarily cried out as he flew through the air to
be buried in the feathery mattress with Vara firmly astride.

She regarded him with predatory interest, growling deep in the back of her
throat. Hold! he might quail away. Instead he drew only slightly back and
rolled his hips within her vise-like grip. His long, narrow man-thing popped
neatly into its lair. Oh YES. She pinned his wrists above his head and his
ankles beneath the forward curve of her own in the twining hold. He started to
speak, but she smothered his mouth with her own. He struggled violently but
briefly as she sucked the breath from his lungs. At the proper moment, just
before blackness, she fed him a small breath from which her body had already
wrung most of the sustenance. Just enough to keep him aware. She was in total
control. He belonged to her body and mind. The thought caused her carnal power
over him to explode into wanton carelessness. She wanted IT! And she would
have it NOW!

Dimly she heard Tove exclaim and give a low purrrr, then it was her turn to
exclaim. The shaft within her was growing. Well, not exactly. The head was
growing. swelling to the size of her balled fist, mayhap larger. Yes,
definitely larger. It pulsed strongly. There was, some peculiar...
something... on the upper surface that touched THE spot as it throbbed causing
her love muscles to pull against it. A see-saw of eroticism. It... he touched
exactly that certain spot most men never do... or can. Oh Mother! Men just
hadn’t the slightest clue. Her pelvis was a millstone, grinding from him the
grist of ecstasy. Her body arched as a longbow. Tighter, ever tighter, till
the bowstring snapped home and she soared gloriously to her apex. Not with a
mighty clash of thunder, but with a prolonged soul-rattling roll which seemed
to go on forever, subsiding into dozens of small, blue-speckled pleasure-eggs
which hatched one-by-one into quiet precious bundles of fulfillment. The earth
tremor subsided as she drifted downward. Haggi was kissing her still erect
nipples. Her eyelids, the pit of her throat, her ears.

"Oh my Lady, my Goddess, oh yea, did your servant pleasure you? OOOh...
Wouldst but I could be inside thee...become part of thee. Come closer, closer,
crush me, CONSUME me. OOOooo."

Vara heard little of his paean. She breathed slowly and deeply, drifted...
vaguely aware her love-path had become separate from her. Another being.
Something hungrily gripping and tugging at his manhood as if eager to continue
it’s feast. She mounted the wave of passion thrice more. Each smaller and less
wrenching by far, but in no way less valued. A brief ray of yellow sun
piercing the black clouds after a refreshing summer squall. A small brave
Crocus breaking through the early spring snowcrust. A fair wind in sight of
the cliffs of home after a stormy Vik. Yes all glorious in their own way. She
never felt sleep, as if another lover, wrap her in it’s arms and steal her
away. Her last awareness was of two love-beings, divinely connected, majikly
pulsing in perfect harmony.

Vara roused herself, finding to her surprise she and Haggi were still one. She
chided herself for lying so long abed. The soft dawning was ere now invading
their chamber. Her lover was already with open eyes, looking up at her through
a mask of abject adoration. She smiled self-consciously, released his wrists
and felt him wilt within her. She sat and regarded his slim physique, deciding
he was indeed very pretty but beyond that was at a loss. He rose and walked to
the bathing alcove. His nether globes swayed as delectably as those of any
tender maiden. Oh my Dearest Mother’s Mother he was a sweet package; as
toothsome as a sugar plum. She had a brief, vulgar phantasy about her Toy and
how it would feel to be bumping her belly against those sweet little
jellyrolls. Delightful was her assessment. Ahhh could they but tarry one day
longer. He entered the bathing area and carefully drew the curtain, which Vara
found almost laughable. To make love all night, then be overcome with modesty
whilst at his bath.. Ho! She almost said "toilette". He was that graceful. Her
attention was drawn to the bed. There was the telltale imprint. His wispy
outline was deeply embossed into the soft feather mattress with her outline
haloing it... at least one hand larger on it’s entire perimeter. Once again
she felt old, gross, and clumsy.

Vara stood and walked to the bath, for some reason avoiding Haggis eyes as
they met. Contrary to her usual custom she felt an urgent need to draw the
privacy curtain. She was shortly joined by a serious-looking Tove, who looked
her in the eye, made a biting motion with her hand and flicked three quick
fingers in Vara’s direction. ("I must talk to you. Third level of
importance.") Vara nodded once and jutted her jaw toward the door. ("I agree,
but away from here.") Tove nodded in return.

They swept the draperies aside to see Fala and Haggi in rapt conversation,
heads almost touching. They looked up smartly, both smiling. Fala spoke.
"Morn. Pleasant night erenow?"

Vara answered they most assuredly had, but sad to say the time for parting had
come. They had already overstayed their expected time and must depart that
day... noon at latest. A simultaneous "OH, NO!" Burst from both brother and
sister who seemed to be equally arrow-pierced.

"We will speak of it later. " Proclaimed Fala loftily. The siblings swept from
the room, Haggi looking back making plaintive, hungry, gestures in Tove's
direction.

Vara eyed the younger woman narrowly. "Tove. What hast thou done to poor
Haggi. I have never seen one so distraught, and thou hast left a many a
crushed male on the path."

The girl tucked her chin and looked upward at Vara like a naughty child. "I...
uh... well... choked him."

"You WHAT?"

"Weeelll, not EXACTLY. When I felt him nigh finishing, I pressed upon the
places where the life drums beat on either side of his neck, just as we do
with the sleeping hold in combat. I thought to stop him... to prolong our
pleasure. When I felt his peak coming, I would put him to sleep. I did so more
than a dozen times. Beseems it frustrated him. If not for my stifling palm he
would have howled like a starving wolf. Inevitably there came a time when I
did not anticipate correctly. He spurted about one half time before sleep took
him. When he awakened, he was as a wild thing, a bedroom berserker...
thrashing, fighting, pumping and spurting everywhere. I was hard pressed to
contain him until he calmed. Restraining him while he struggled, controlling
his peak, was so... so... I... I must have studied upon this every free
moment. " Her eyes were bright, her brow damp. "I can say this: I CRAVE it. I
crave it more than all the rest. If I cannot have that, then I want NOTHING.
It is far passing the most exciting thing of all. I am fair overcome. Just the
thinking of it makes me ‘stroidnarily ready." Her face was flushed, she was
licking her lips.

O by all the Mothers, how to tell her? "Tove?" (very quietly) "The sleeping
hold, and everything like it, is the sister to the Black Farmer. A very CLOSE
sister. Only ONE heartbeat separates The Sleep from The Ride. In the throes of
passion how can you hope to keep count? It is NOT to be used save in combat.
Not ever. NEVER!"

Tove looked disappointed, then petulant, replying in cold, overly polite tones
in the highest degree of formality. "Tre k’Vara... is the TreKron Hasker
imposing an order upon the Jernpeer Tove k’Vara? If it be true, will the
Hasker hew to Guilde Law and frame the order in words direct, or is the
Jernpeer free to make of the Parable as she wishes?"

Oh, The First take her, lest I fall upon her and dice her into rat food. "The
Hasker leaves the solution of the problem to the best judgement of the
Jernpeer. The Hasker and the Jernpeer will speak of it no further." And so, my
insolent child, the sword is now in your hand.

Tove sat as if expecting more. If so she waited in vain. The silence lasted
five hundred heartbeats, then twice five hundred. The silence was malignant.
You could hear a mouse change its mind. Finally the girl turned to face the
wall for a long-term sulk. Vara thought about how satisfying it would be to
simply skewer her on the largest two handed brute of a sword she could find.
Her humor partially returned when she thought of the two hand stack of reports
she would have to submit as a result. She was sure they served no useful
purpose save dissuading Haskers from mincing each other into very small pieces
over trivialities. It then occurred to her that the girl was not being
careless with life. She was still experimenting. She thought guiltily of some
identical thoughts while with the old queen’s rapist. Let Tove stew in her own
juices for a while, then a bit of affectionate guidance would do the trick.

"Tove?" After a long while Vara spoke the name very gently.

The Younger woman near broke her neck whirling to answer. "Yes, Vara, yes?"

"Tove, what do you expect of this? Wouldst thou stay? Wouldst he leave? Or are
you satisfied to depart this noon letting the future be at it’s own devices?
What of vows taken in the sacred name of The First Mother? What of ethics?"

The reply carried the assurance of the very young. "He will follow me."

Vara spoke with the sadness of experience larding her voice. "He is the
Queen’s brother. The Prince Royal. Dost thou truly believe he will abandon his
position after waiting yea, these many years?"

"He will come." Stated Tove positively. At the same time her head was turning
slowly and repeatedly from left to right, and a single... TWO large tears
dropped from her chin.

Vara’s voice though moderate was but a thin veneer over the snap of an order.
"Ready yourself. Travel gear... standard arms". She turned to the details of
her own kit, while from the corner of her eye she noted her ward slowly
packing.

Break-fast was strained. Fala kept suggesting how well it would be if the
Haskers would stay. Telling Her-Soon-to-be-Majesty that it was not possible
without angering her was a tightrope walk. It was Vara’s suggestion that she
should examine the pack mules for proper rig that got the day in motion. Fala
looked shocked. Haggi seemed about to burst into tears. Tove looked
superficially calm, but Vara could read her.

"Surely couldst find a moment to attend the...MY coronation", wheedled Fala.

"My Queen..." Vara hoped crowning her early would soften the sting, "We have
already bided far longer than Haske Law permits. Even now I will have to
undergo an almighty inquisition by those old Krakkens of the Kontroldt. I may
even be fined. ‘Tis only my abiding love for thee..." She hesitated, "and
Tove’s for Haggi that has kept us so long from the road. My most abject
apologies."

The "Queen" was going into a fair snit. She did everything but stamp her foot.
In the end all that happened was: "Oh very well. We tire from speaking
incessantly on such a dull subject. Go now. Your evil-smelling mules and
precious Gelt await you." The woman sounded more than just a bit annoyed. Yes,
it was a good day to be on the road. There were other reasons to expedite
departure. There lay a full dozen corpses within the castle walls including
Baerte, a supposed member of Fala’s inner circle. Thus far no mention had been
made, but Vara wanted away before the subject arose.

They did indeed find the animals ready, in the keep. The cargo seemed to be in
order, and the rigger had done a masterful job. Of the surroundings, many
changes had been made. The drawbridge was down and missing its lift chains.
The portcullis was up and held in place by man-thick timbers. The message was
plain. "The People are welcome here" and the populace was availing itself of
the privilege. Though the coronation was not till the aften’s half sun, the
celebration was already well underway. Long trestles beneath the bunting
draped parapets groaned under the load of hearty victuals. Fala, apparently
having at last realized the futility of her attempt to retain the Haskers, had
been kind enough to have two additional beasts burdened with a plenteous load
from the repast. Vara motioned to Tove and they mounted up. Another luxury
courtesy of the new Queen. Haskers ordinarily travel afoot, making for a
smaller disturbance upon nature as well as human memories.

As they settled in, Vara noticed, with some amusement that Fala ascended
several steps so their eyes remained at the same relative levels. It must be
inborn. Royal Eyes are NEVER cast UPward to to anyone, especially a commoner.

The Queen made her last desperate try...offering a princely, or perhaps a
Queenly sum. Vara had the insistent notion the Lady wanted, very badly,
something more than a tactician and military advisor. Her infallible intuition
alone would have been enough to keep her from accepting, even if it were
possible to break her recently-renewed Guilde Vows. She was certain it would
be impossible for Fala to evaluate her performance in the cabinet chamber
separately from the bed chamber. Either situation alone could be tempting, but
she knew it was not to be. She rose in the stirrups and kissed Fala’s hand in
a genuine show of emotion rarely experienced. She scanned the face above and
though there was no change of expression, one huge crystalline droplet tracked
a golden cheek. She felt her own scrawling an identical path. She flicked hers
away with a fingernail, then rose to stand in the saddle (fine stallion...
didn’t even quiver) and looking directly into the Royal eyes kissed the saline
orb away. Drooping again to her seat, she looked quickly away. Tove! Had her
protégé’ seen her unseemly performance?

Vara need not have been concerned. The young woman was totally
self-involved... tears streaming down her face, she was looking down at the
Queen’s brother. Haggi was on his knees in the dust sobbing, and worse he was
pressing his tear streaked face again and again against the beautifully turned
arch of Tove’s foot.

Without further delay Vara reined her mount toward the open portal whistling
the order for departure disguised as the first six notes of the song of a
local warbler. She spared not a glance behind, confident that Tove and the
train were taking up the march. Her assumption was rewarded by a strangled cry
from Haggi and the jingle/creak of pack animals in motion.

Neither woman felt moved to speak during the four hours it took to reach the
ridge overlooking the town and the blue/black slash of the fjord. The clatter
of iron-shod mule hooves the only counterpoint to birdsong. Still wordless
they reined in as if by command. From the high vantage point they studied the
scene for the last time. There were bonfires alight at the tops of towers, and
due to a quirk of the wind they could hear bells tolling and the faint cheers
of the multitude.

"Rhumblan has a new Queen this day." Observed Tove. "I wonder... is she Her
Majesty Fala, or Her Majesty OMphala."

Vara smiled, nodding soundlessly. She had more immediate cares as she watched
her second sympathetically. It was the girl’s first experience with the
wrenching happiness/unhappiness of adult love. She wondered how her young
friend would weather the storm. She herself had not only Tove for comfort, but
Bjern and little Magga. Oh yes, Magga who would be the next Jernpeer to Tove,
the Hasker, but Tove had aught but Vara. She knew from long experience that a
woman, unless exclusively of the persuasion of Fre'nEsk (WomanLove... Lesbian)
needed a male in her life, even if secondary to a principal female. Typical of
a Hasker, Vara’s omnisexual appetites dictated that one should avail oneself
whenever, wherever, by whomever and even whatever offered pleasure at the
moment. The Gods alone knew when, or even IF, the next the next moment might
come. Consequently, she felt in no way judgmental of various needs and
enjoyments being proper or the opposite. It was simply the nature of the human
animal, and she wore not the Magisters dread gray. She was but a Hasker, with
a Hasker’s simple thoughts.

By common unspoken readiness, they wheeled and rode on, abandoning the High
Road for an unmarked forest track which was to be the first leg of the journey
homeward. That night, they could not bring themselves to the thought of
sleeping apart. Under the warmth of the heavy Ox they found the peace of
intimate friendship and filial love. Vara relaxed in the starry night, full of
wonder for the hundredth time over how much light is cast by stars alone when
one is in a truly uninhabited place. Her satisfaction was heightened by the
presence of the very special young person so comfortably warm by her side. Ah,
the good Tove would have no trouble finding her way in her own time.

"We pray Thee watch over us, Good Mother"... darkness.

The days following were much the same till at last they arrived at the shore
of din Hjlemfjord. (The Home Fjord). "No ship". Tove stated the obvious with a
trace of annoyance.

Vara said nothing. Did the girl expect a ship to do nothing but wait endlessly
for a pair of unknown Haskers. Never the less, for some illogical reason it
rankled her too, at the time.

After setting camp well back in the dark firs, under darker cliffs, they
brought their tackle to the rocky beach to angle for the evening meal. With
life’s usual perfect timing, they had no sooner landed a fine brace of pinks
than Tove looked seaward and very conversationally said "Sail", then went back
to her line. Young people were very strange by Vara’s way of thinking. They
will go to market, and laugh, cavort and generally make fools of themselves
over a trinket not worth a grain of barley, yet espy the vehicle of their
homecoming, greatly enriched, from a long and dangerous Vik and not so much as
bat an eyelash. She was overweening pleased it was not such in HER days of
youth.

Luckily the fish were not yet still and swam to unexpected freedom readily. No
use taking them boardship. Sailor are notorious abstainers from food of their
element. A superstition? Someday she must ask.

It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually the ship’s stem grated upon the
dark beach shingle. The women admired the craftily carved dragons head looming
above them. They saluted with clenched fist, forearms crossing chests smartly.
The Kapitan did them singular honor. The fragile KrakkenKunst was usually
shipped unless entering a major port. The Kapitan and Stursmann looked down
upon their van critically. The Kapitan’s eyes clouded. VODDER EST? Bestern!
Paa MIG skib EGGE! (What’s this? Animals! On MY ship, NEVER.) His face was a
caricature of the mascot rearing above. Vara did not waste words with a wild
man, but pointed out the mats lashed atop each pack. He calmed and shrugged.
"Mats on FIRST", he ordered. It was made so, and ere long the wild-eyed mules
were hoisted aboard without incident.

The two day sail was uneventful save for a humorous happening the first night
out. Soon after the Haskers had spread their pallets near the mule packs,
several other shakedowns sprang majikly, like forest toadstools, hard by their
own, obviously having been moved during the evening meal. Soon a loutish
looking fellow appeared, leaning upon his shield advertising his warrior
status by ostentatiously displaying its many battle scars. Tove batted her
eyes in the approved manner and clucked over each and every nick and gouge,
and was properly aghast at how they were acquired. He, being much encouraged,
offered her the armor. She tried to lift it. It did not move a hair’s breadth.

"You’re holding it", she simpered.

Grinning wolfishly he held his hands far to the sides.

The girl strained mightily. "UUUnnngh!"

The man snickered, and rolled his eyes.

At last, screwing her face into a grotesque mask, veins in her forehead
distending, grossly, she gave a final, groaning heave. The shield rose some
four hands. There it stopped.

The obnoxious bucko put his fists on his hips. "F-f-four hands. A-hark...hark.
Four hands at BEST. ARK! A-HARK! ARK! ARK!", his laughter brayed, affrighting
the mules. He stood teary-eyed, smirking at Tove.

His expression froze as the top edge of the shield smoothly rose to eye level.
It hung there as ten long heartbeats were etched into time. Suddenly the heavy
slab shot downward with a satisfying and final crunch upon the arch of the
oaf’s right foot. His mouth and eyes flew wide open. It obviously hurt so
badly he couldn’t even curse. He swung his head toward Vara, but she was
studying the dark and distant shore as if totally unaware. The man howled like
a Troll caught in a millrace. He spun and hopped to the Kapitan pointing and
screaming pure gibberish, "I... She... It... Tha..."

The ship’s master looked down with calm disdain. His words were like a firkin
of ice water dashed upon hot coals. "They be Haskers." The wavelets kissing
the hull became the loudest sound. Tove and Vara were completely immersed in
their study of the Guide Star as it caressed the northern cliffs.

When they turned inboard, theirs was the only bedding within ten strides of
the packs. It was difficult corking their mirth. Later, they made love as
noisily and grossly as possible. Sounds from other parts of the vessel, made
it plain they had inspired some of the seamen to not let the penultimate night
of the voyage go awasting. Vara silently thanked Hasker training and Tove's
quick thinking. Common seamen returning from a lengthy voyage to unknown
parts... who could know WHAT plagues they bore. She looked upon the
well-formed frame sleeping, flawless, by her side. Mother! Why would anyone
crave anything so gross as a ma... then a vision of her dearest Bjern swam
before her and she was shamed. "Unskar, Min diglig...Jig elskat DU alang, min
Stor Isbamsa" ([I'm] sorry my beautiful [one]. I [woman-to-man case] love only
[intimate case] you, my Great Icebear [Polar Bear].) She mouthed the words
silently, knowing the wind would carry them to the intended ear. Such are the
niceties of Neuspak. In everyday patter it is much is like shorthand, with
unnecessary words dropped as understood, and words of import having VERY
precise meaning. "O, my sweetest Bjern. We shall lie together on the morrow."
The thought felt comfortable in her mind.

Between Bjern and the demi-woman beside her, what person needed more? The
three of them were forever bound, just as she and HER Hasker, and her Hasker's
Giftamann (nearest meaning: husband/father.) from the generation past. How
time escapes one. Brave, strong Herda. The gentle, quiet strength of Preban.
By custom, he had been her first after her EnJern Vik. (First Iron Adventure.
Her first Vik as a Jernpeer.) It was Herda’s report of her performance to the
GuildeKontroldt that earned Vara her First Iron Shield. She fondly remembered
and cherished every detail. It was worth remembering. Herda had taught her
well, and Preban... The Hasker had done well by him also. Vara's walls were
never breached. To the contrary, it was a welcoming gate. A gate which she
herself unlocked with her own silver key when or if she was ready. Never
pressed, it was something enjoyed over many days, even weeks. She came away
with the memory of a thing pure and enjoyable. How different from what she
heard from ordinary girls who spoke of coupling as an unwelcome duty, not an
expression of love, intimacy, enjoyment and yes, even recreation. How must the
ordinary woman live? Vara did not like to think upon it.

Tove's own first was likewise by careful Guilde custom, and with Vara's as
well as the Jernpeer's full assent and consent. It could not have been
otherwise. Haskevij. No member of the Trune (the basic Hasker family unit,
actually taken to mean roughly the equivalent of what we call marriage), could
be forced into an unwilling act by the other two. In other words, each member
of the trio had the same power as the others together. Ergo everything was per
force by unanimous assent. Even young girls destined to become Jernpeers, but
not yet ready (no set age... the Hasker was expected to know.) had a minor,
but respected voice. It was the Haskervij, and at least in their society it
worked admirably. Even the Hasker herself, the Apex of the unit could only
lead, never command. The result was the strongest structure known to humans...
the Triangle, with each corner solidly anchored by Hasker, Jernpeer or
Giftamann with no component weaker than those adjacent. If through misfortune
an anchor was lost, the other two were well equipped to interview and welcome
a new member. Should the unthinkable happen and a child or Jernpeer be left
alone, then she would choose a new Giftamann and the two would search out an
unattached Hasker. A Giftamann left alone? It had never happened, but the
process would have been much the same. The Mother's wisdom passeth all
understanding. It WORKED. It was a system of unmatched freedom and unequalled
security. Vara was inordinately pleased at the thought of it.

Next day, the sun was almost brushing the escarpment when the Longship
KrakkenFest (Dragon's Feast} entered ViksHab’n (Adventure Harbor). Looping
tightly back on its track, the Stursmann handled the barn door steering blade
with the delicacy of a boneing knife. The port side gently kissed the jute
fenders of the stone quay with nary a dip of the ready but still shipped oars.
Interestingly, the terminology is still found aboard marine craft to this day.
The left side was tied to the landing... the PORT, in order to protect the
fragile steering oar... the steer board... STARBOARD... the right side.

The ego-building landing was just the stuff for which Stursmann Oerstor was
famed. Kapitan Fraelik smiled. The man was well worth his Geld. He always went
well out of his way to make a ship's master look good. The masterful job meant
an extra FemKrone in the man's purse. The great man smiled benignly down upon
the gawking shore folk. Too bad they were just not knowledgeable enough to
appreciate how near impossible was the maneuver.

The women packed and readied the mules, then made sure of their own equipment.
One could never be altogether certain what Guilde representatives would be
meeting a ship, particularly one packing such a rich trove, Vara licked the
corner of Tove's kerchief to obliterate a smudge from a cheek and received an
extended tongue for thanks. It seemed as though her young friend was surviving
the trauma of Haggi very nicely.

Vara scanned the usual crowd of drones that gather whenever REAL working folk
are to be spectated. She was looking for Guilde Folk. Ah yes. In back, against
the wall, standing a full head taller than the masses, were five dusty-blue
figures. One by one, in no particular order, a finger drew a curving line from
mouth corner to eye then flicked casually in the traveler's direction.
"Pleased to see you." It said. Vara and Tove closed their eyes twice,
slowly... a respectful bow. The two felt warmed by the attention of so many of
the Kontroldt outside the GuildeHalle.

As each animal was led ashore upon a telescoping gangway, and handed over to a
Guilde Countingperson, Vara received in return a centerpunched disk upon which
was scribed the rough count of the geld. She carefully countersigned each. The
task done, she looped the rawhide thong holding the tokens over her neck and
ceremoniously pressed cheeks with the serious demeanored accounts woman,

Only then was she free to seek out her people. Where? THERE!!! There was her
great Isbamsa, her Bjern, and riding upon his shoulders (not so) little Magga.
She and Tove barged carelessly through the milling mob. Those who did not make
way for Haskers, as was customary, were simply muscled aside. They were
HASKERS just returned from a perilous... AND profitable VIK. Ordinary beings
WILL make room. And suddenly the loved ones were face to face. As usual
everyone talked too loudly and rapidly and at the same time, so that no one
knew anyone's news. No matter, there was time aplenty. Whooping with joy, Vara
hoisted Bjern, Magga and all and spun in a mad dance. Magga squealed with
glee, but Bjern, ever the cautious fellow repeated his usual
"careful...careful". As soon as Vara had released them, Tove repeated the
whirl. Magga squealed with delight at "her Jernie's" trick, but Bjern's eyes
looked very like those of a captured wild horse. He was being tossed about by
the same person he had flung to the ceiling not so very long before. He seemed
much relieved to be returned to earth. They joined arms and marched through
the harbor gates singing Vikinger Alla (Vikings all) in at least two different
keys. The Zollermann (Customs Man) made a move as though to stop them, but
being a sensible chap wisely reconsidered.

The neat little house was, as usual, as clean as a newly-shelled bean, and the
wonderful aroma of a roasting joint and mulled cider rolled out to greet them.
Little Magga went from Hyper to Hypo kinetic ere the meat was carved. She had
hardly finished a bite of her meal and a swallow of her goats milk before
three doting parents were forced to carry her off to her bed. The trenchers
were scoured, pipes were lit and Best Brandy lolled in lax hands. Bjern, of
course, wanted to have a recounting of the whole story, but it was just too
damned convoluted for mouth to tell or brain to comprehend. Vara tried but she
stumbled, tongue thick with fatigue and good warm schnapps.

Tove was no better. "I do believe I shall quote our last client," She
announced with exaggerated formality. "In fact one of her favorite sayings. TO
BED".

The women rose, heading for the bedchamber with Bjern lumbering along behind,
exuding a rather expectant air. They undressed, rather sloppily, and rolled
into the giant four-poster au natural, (night clothes being far too much
bother) in the customary order. First the Jernpee...oh I beg your pardon. The
Haskermeenor (Hasker Minor...Provisional Hasker... for it would be, formally,
on the morrow.) the Giftamann, and then the Senior Hasker. 'Twas one of those
rituals that make one feel just that much more secure.

For the first time in many days, they crossed arms, clasped hands and recited.
"Mother we humbly thank thee for a safe return and the many other gifts and
protection. Grant us thy eyes as we sleep. We cleave to your breast and are
nurtured. Bless your children O First One." Somehow it seemed fitting to evoke
the entire Matrology especially when returning home from such a rich venture.

Soon Bjern's fingers were weaving a deft dance beneath the covers. Soft kisses
were blossoming on sensitive parts, as if a warm sensual moth were playing.
Vara felt her pathway moisten, her muscles swell. In two more heartbeats she
would... what? She could feel her body racing ahead like a runaway horse, but
her brain was in a fog. What good was carnal pleasure if one didn't know it
was happening? Tove bestirred herself enough to sleepily mumble, "Not tonight
dear..."

In almost the same heartbeat Vara completed "...I have a headache." Both
quoting a line from a bawdy skit in a traveling minstrel show.

They laughed themselves to sleep leaving their man to wonder what in...?
before he himself drifted away.

They slept secure and complete, for the first time in many weeks.

-FIN-

The foregoing is a LIBERALLY embellished version of a tale told me by my
German Grandmother and Danish Great Aunt. Sitting before a warm friendly fire
in a small stone cottage in the mountains of northern Georgia (USA), we
listened to a storm raging in the blackness outside. The sheets of rain were
stabbed by fabled pitchforks of lightning whilst God’s own bowling balls of
thunder rolled. It was a scene made to order for the line "Twas a dark and
stormy night." The wind moaned ‘round the slab-laid walls. Not a contrivance.
The wind really DOES moan ‘round rough-laid stone walls. Well, I’m sure you
get the picture. In such a setting a small imaginative boy listening to two
accomplished storytellers finds nothing at all strange about wizened Trolls,
Grand Quests and all. Besides, children love to shiver, especially when they
know in reality they are perfectly safe.

-PROLOG-

Retrospectively, as an adult, after reading about the difficulty experienced
by law enforcement, counter terrorists and other organizations have
experienced in tracking female fugitives and agents, it occurred to me that
the Hasker concept was not outrageous by any means. Even in this day of
so-called equal opportunity, women are very difficult to track. They,
Political Correctness or not, are the invisible people of this and every
preceding era. In addition, if something is perpetrated by a man, there is a
flavor of Double-Oh-Seven or "Duke" Wayne about it. You know... guns blazing
and fists flying. On the other hand, a woman drifts in, accomplishes her
assignment and fades away again. When witnesses are questioned, chances are
the only one that will remember a woman is the security camera. If for some
reason I need a hitma... uh PERSON, I would never hire a square-jawed Dirty
Harry lookalike. No! Much smarter to make a deal with someone who looks like
your Aunt Millie. Invisible, right?

That set me really thinking. Did Haskers... DO Haskers actually exist? That of
course beggers the question: If so, where do you find one? Not the sort of
thing one would find in the Yellow Pages. In fact WHO would they be? Actually,
the answer is easy. Think it over. You at this very moment are on the ’Net in
instant contact with millions. THAT’s the answer. They would be EVERYWHERE.
Maybe your co-worker, your neighbor, your secretary, your girlfriend, your
WIFE... perhaps even YOU.

I live and work in what is commonly known as Silicon Valley, with its myriad
of highly-mobile professional women. If there is a nest of modern Haskers,
what better place.

Interesting, but I hadn’t a clue of how to pursue the notion further than the
thought.

That is, until one evening as I was "parking" my way home on the sadly
misnomered expressway, surrounded by my fellow Commuter Crazies. My eyes idly
alit upon a "Vanity Plate" attached to a dark blue 3-Series BMW two cars ahead
and one lane to the left. California: "HASKER 3" it fairly screamed. I damned
near rolled into the car ahead. As we crept forward, her blinker came on. I
(unlike so many... uh... Drivers do not take this to mean "Close the gap
quickly to less than the thickness of a Zig-Zag paper lest you lose one car
length in The Big Game") made space and motioned her in. She signaled thanks
by wiggling her fingers as so many females do. The tired old Ad Flacks call it
perky. I call it silly and affectatious, especially if her number plate was
advertising what I thought.

As she moved ahead I saw she had a companion. A young girl? I couldn’t really
tell. At the next exit, her flasher once again came to life and she left the
freeway with me a bit back. Yes, I KNOW they have stalking laws in California,
but I wasn’t stalking. I was... well curious. I let her get a couple of cars
ahead, then my luck abandoned me. She made a left turn on the tail end of a
green arrow into one of those "Engineered Developments" which allow the homes
to be constructed so cheek-by-jowl they are Row (attached) Houses except for a
technicality. One COULD perhaps insert a playing card edge-on between the
buildings. I turned in on the next light. Perhaps the car was not yet in the
garage. I drove every street. No such luck. What was I going to do, anyway?
Just walk up to her and ask straight out, "Hey lady. You a Hasker?" Hell, I
dunno.

The next AM, I parked outside the place and sure enough she came buzzing by
without a second look. After two days of playing James Bond, I had found that
she worked at one of those High Tech Government places with a yard full of
satellite bird baths. I hadn’t an inkling of what to do next.

Then one night a short time thereafter, quite by accident (so help me) I
caught the Bimmer turning into a local watering hole favored by the engineers
and scientists hereabouts. Since that qualified me, I turned into the second
entrance and parked my old "finback" Mercedes in the Outer Mongolia area in an
effort to preserve it’s flanks. Hmmm, could have as easily parked at home. As
I made the trek to the entrance, I noticed something very interesting. As I
strolled, I noted Audi HASKER6, and Volvo HASKER9, and Jaguar HASKER7, and
Lincoln HASKER4, and Lexus HASKER8 and finally crouching like an inverted soap
dish next to Hummer HASKER3 was a 356A Porsche Speedster HASKER1. There may
have been more, but I was in no mood to cruise the entire parking lot.

After entering, I was ritually insulted by a smug individual attached to a
plastic tag proclaiming him the be my "Host." After making it plain I was not
to be punished for the unpardonable sin of being alone by having a table three
feet from the kitchen entrance or hard by the bus boys station, I was offered
a seat near a large party of women and girls. I was able to observe their
reflections in a wall mirror, but alas was too far away to hear a word.

Some two hours later, having consumed a greasy game hen, overcooked veggies
and an insubstantial fluffy California style cheesecake (advertised as New
York), I was sipping the only thing worth ordering, a heady cup of strong
Mocha-Java coffee, when a movement caught my eye. The woman I had been tailing
was bent scrabbling beneath the table. She surfaced holding a quarter... a US
twenty five cent piece. Some tipper, I thought.

Finishing their coffee, the group rose and walked casually toward the door. As
they passed my table, there came a soft feminine voice. "I beg your pardon.
You’ll be needing this, I think." Looking up I found myself peering into the
startlingly blue eyes of the object of my interest. She was holding something
between the fingers of her outstretched hand.

I automatically extended my open palm, and the object was dropped in. She
smiled sweetly looking exactly like any of the thousands of young women doing
yeoman (yeoperson?) work in any of the hundreds of firms which pop up like
mushrooms in The Valley. I, ever the ego-driven male, smiled my best smile in
return. "Thank you very much," said I. Though not knowing what I had received.

Her pleasant smile never slipped. "You are quite welcome, I’m sure. Now, don’t
EVER forget the old saying about nosy felines." And with that she was gone,
leaving me basking in her golden afterglow.

How curious I thought as I looked in my palm for the first time. It was the
quarter... folded neatly in half, with a very sharp crease! "Curiosity killed
the cat." My lips whispered unbidden.

...and that’s the ABSOLUTE end.

Though I must add that since the encounter, I have had a very strong
disinclination to search out modern day Haskers. I keep the quarter as a
reminder, though it hardly seems necessary.

hmmm... I wonder... who might YOUR partner be REALLY working for on those
extended business trips???