Conflict of Interest: Part 3
by ZuiderZee.  (zuiderzee@hotmail.com)
Women in power for the wrong reasons

     "With this alone, I've broken my own weight in
skulls!"  Urlim Brehn hefted his favorite weapon,
a ferruled war hammer.  "One day, so will you.  And
owing that you'll never attain my weight, you won't
have to break as many of them."

     Ustreed busily rubbed her sore arm.  It had been
two days since the duel and the injury still nagged
her.  The herzog could easily have broken it, but
he knew that would put an irreparable crimp in his
schedule--a far more pressing matter than someone's
limb.  She flexed and stretched; the effort proved
more detrimental than beneficial and she gave it up,
but she was too restless to sit still and listen to
what Brehn said.

     The herzog had gotten to him.

     She heard Bruellen's words coming from him.  In
just the few hours after being dismissed from the ring,
Brehn had met with him in private and had doubtless 
been told--no, threatened--to take the most severe
actions needed to change her into the image the
herzog fantasized.

     Sickened by the notion, Ustreed endured the 
old giant's encouragements like so many more aches
and pains.

     With the sun high in the sky and the castle
chambers growing hot and stuffy, Ustreed flung open
the shuttered windows and leaned out over the stone-
rimmed edge to feel the breeze on her bruised face.

     There was nothing wrong with her health; she 
hadn't been sick in months.  

     At sixteen years old, she was well built, even
if she had relied solely on nature to sculpt her
form.

     She had not.

     Hearty eating--bordering on gluttony--fueled
her rapid increase in proportions.  Daily exercise
and frequent exertions under Brehn's watchful eyes
had scooped out places where fat had lain since 
her childhood.  Between her thick joints, muscles
had risen and solidified like loaves in an oven.
Riding, climbing and swimming had shaped her back
and rump into symmetrical maps of ruts and ridges.
Clearly no woman in the Palatinate was her equal in
physical form.

     There were stronger women, of course.

     Farmer's wives with bearlike limbs and bodies
who never dreamed of defending castles could outmatch
Ustreed in many feats, mostly involving lifting and
endurance, but none approached her speed and grace.

     Brehn's own mother was one such giantess.
In her colorful folk  costume, she looked at a 
safe distance to be little more than broad and 
manlike, but her thick hands could grip rough
sacks of grain weighing over a hundred pounds and
hold on for what seemed painful durations.  While
she couldn't run, she could stride with great
energy over uneven ground and the rocks of the 
high mountain meadows, often more than ten miles
a day in her chores.  Until her death at 63, she
could tote a yoke laden with water buckets that
weighed two hundred and fifty pounds for a distance
of forty yards--from the well to the trough--without
spilling a drop.

     Such tasks were easy for Brehn and his folk,
they were of a small and diminishing breed in
Crenholtz, the Vytims.  Vytims bred for might and
little else.  Many were mentally slow and had no
gift for the finer arts and sciences, but they were
outgoing, generous and honest.  The herzog had some
Vytim in his blood, it was obvious in his stature
and the blocky configuration of his head and neck.
     
     Ustreed had no Vytim blood in her veins
whatsoever.  Her forebearers had come to Crenholtz
from the lowlands in the East centuries ago, invading
and settling in the hilly country, eventually becoming
dominant.

     Brehn and the rest of his primitive ilk 
represented a crude, barbaric past that was fast
becoming legend and nothing else.  There was a new
brand of strength in Crenholtz, these days.

     Political power.

     Trends from other civilizations had found their
way up the slopes and narrow valleys into Crenholtz
and the concept of the wielded weapon as law was
barely hanging on.

     Brehn didn't think much of written laws,
certificates and badges.  The one who could hit the
hardest, surest and most often was always the leader.

     He doubted the Pfalzgrafin could lift forty
pounds or throw a spear forcefully enough to take
down an onrushing stag.  The whole idea of honoring
a physically weak woman was preposterous.

     But it wasn't the day and age for Vytimic custom.
Their heyday was long gone and the new race of Crenish
with their charters and red carpets were here to stay.

     With no wife or mother, the only woman Brehn
could respect was Ustreed.

     "You trust me, Ustreed.  Strength is a matter
of pure persistence.  Why, when you're strong
enough to wield a hammer like this--"

     "Heavy iron isn't the answer for me, Brehn.  This
hanger the herzog gave me is as heavy a blade as I'd
want to lug around.  The purpose of--oh, none of this
helps!"  Ustreed pushed herself off the window ledge
and back into the chamber.  "None of it!  I might have
known I had a distinct disadvantage!"

     Raising her left hand, she removed the lengthy
mitt and displayed her old wound.

     The middle and ring fingers were gone.

     Not enough of a hand remained to make a strong
fist or a sure grip.  To her credit, she had 
perfected a gouge with her index finger and thumb, and
of course, her ability to strike and push with the
heel of that hand was virtually unaffected.  The arm
behind it was powerful; Ustreed's elbow jabs and 
shoulder smashes had the desired effect every time.

     For as much trouble as the missing digits caused
her, she wished she could have lost an ear instead.

     "Listen, Ustreed.  You were chosen as a candidate
for castellan because of your bravery and your 
stubborn character, not how many bones you've got!
Why, I could break the herzog's back like a dry
branch, but I could never be castellan.  I'm no
diplomat, no visionary.  This argument isn't about
what's on the inside.  The herzog wants you in shape
and he's ordered me to put you there...or die in the
attempt.  I could be given no greater task."

     "How wonderful for you.  What else did he say?"

     "Little more.  His silence was suspicious.
It is not wise to make guesses.  I trust him."

     "Enough?"  Ustreed put her mitt back on, 
pulling the quilted leather over her remaining hand
until it hid her injury.  "As much as we trust him,
there's a black, twisted secret he's keeping.  I 
think he's afraid.  And if this business with us
should turn sour..."

     "It can't turn sour.  It won't.  We won't let
it.  We have conspired to succeed!  We face more than
a loss of prestige.  I am prepared to suffer for this
land of mine.  I need to boast.  While I still live,
I want the rest of the world to look at me and my
country and shudder in awe of our might and reslove!"

     Brehn stomped his huge foot, making the room
shake.

     "I know the risks, Brehn.  I know what's
expected of a Crenish war leader, Vytim or no.  Man
or no.  The trouble is making everyone else believe
that I do...and that I can rightfully serve as a
castellan in peace...or war."

     End of part 3.  To be continued.