Brenhya
by Heck
Like all the best fantasy, she's on a quest


Like everyone else who subscribes to Diana's Website, I am a devotee of FBB's 
and, in particular, female strength. Unfortunately, here in the UK, there doesn't 
seem to be that much of it about [with a few obvious exceptions]. Therefore, I 
guess, we have to fantasize even more over here than you guys do in the US.
This is my first attempt at writing this kind of fantasy fiction. Or any kind of 
fiction, for that matter. My heroine, Brenhya, is [natch] an exceptionally strong, 
muscular woman and, like all the best fantasy, she's on a quest. That will become 
clear as the story develops, although I'm afraid it's not very original. I hope you 
like it and, if you do, perhaps you would kindly e-mail me at heck@euphony.net . 
If response is favourable, I'll try to keep it going.
Here is the first chapter.


BRENHYA                                                                                                              
by "HECK"                                                                                                                            

CHAPTER ONE.

  "I'm sorry, m'lord. Goulin died before I could get any more off of 'im"
  Magister Boulic sighed. At least the sergeant had the good grace to look 
embarrassed. Under hooded lids, he regarded the body, stretched out on the table. 
It was a mystery. And Boulic didn't like mysteries. It had taken him nineteen 
years of wheedling, double-dealing and plotting, not to mention his more heinous 
crimes, to reach his current exalted position, second only and advisor to the 
Emperor Callias [a debauched lecher led by his penis who had little or no idea of 
what went on in his country], and he didn't get there by allowing mysteries.
  Goulin had been an impressive warrior and assassin; an unprincipled mercenary, 
but one that had always done whatever had been asked of him quickly and 
efficiently, if often messily. A big, heavy-muscled man, his prowess with his 
chosen weapon the morningstar, a vicious spiked ball swung at the end of a chain, 
was almost legendary and his hand-to-hand skills were fearsome.
  And yet, here he lay. Eight broken ribs, both arms fractured, and his face all but 
unrecognisable from the beating it had taken. All of which were survivable, of 
course. What had done for him was his larynx, broken and crushed almost flat as 
if from some inexorable pressure. It had taken him the best part of a day to die, 
and not a single weapon mark on him.
  "I called a surgeon", the sergeant said. "Took one look, 'e did, an' said it was all 
up for 'im. Filled 'im full o' laudanum, o' course, so 'e didn't die in much pain. 
Must of bin a terrible death, though. Suffocatin' slowly like that".
  "Indeed", mused the Magister. He was a very tall, cadaverous figure, who 
carried himself very slightly hunched with his neck held forward. "And, remind 
me, Sergeant Harfon. What was it he said, again?"
  "Brenna, sir. Or sunnick like it. Three or four times. The patrol what brung 'im 
in said 'e'd bin sayin' it when they found 'im, an' all."
  Boulic began pacing the length of the room, his long, richly embroidered cloak 
swirling about his legs.  "Brenna. Brenna. Sounds like a name, don't you think, 
Sergeant?"
  "Yessir. But, beggin' yer pardon, sir, but I knew Goulin quite well, sir. It'd take 
more than one man to do this to 'im. More'n a dozen, I'd reckon".
  "Not necessarily". The Magister's lean body straightened and he stroked his long 
moustaches as a memory stirred in him. "Not necessarily at all. And not 
necessarily a man, either". He sank into a chair by the window.
  "Sergeant, have you heard the rumours about Brenhya?"
  "The warrior woman what's bin terrorizin' the outlyin' squadrons? O' course I 
'ave, m'lord. 'Oo 'asn't? But that's all talk, ain't it?"
  "Perhaps. Perhaps. I thought so, too. We've lost six squadrons without survivors 
in the last few months. I had put it down to slightly better organisation in the 
resistance groups, doing rather better than their usual pathetic efforts. I've already 
given orders to escalate our endeavours to root them out. I could be mistaken".
  " 'Ardly likely, sir". Harfon's sarcasm was totally lost on his employer.
  "Quite. And usually, that would be the case. However, in this instance, I may 
have made a slight error of judgment".

.  "Surely not, sir", said Harfon, emboldened by his earlier success. The Magister 
fixed him with a glare.
  "Have a care, Harfon. I'm not so preoccupied that I will not have you flogged. 
Now, what do you know of these rumours?"
  Harfon's already ruddy face turned a deeper shade of crimson, right to the top of 
his bald head. He coughed to hide his discomfiture, polished his already gleaming 
helmet with the cuff of his tunic, and brought his stocky, muscular frame smartly 
to attention.
  " 'Ard to say what's likely an' what ain't, m'lord. Some say 'as 'ow she's a 
demon come to 'aunt us. Others say she's the very devil 'imself, taken on the form 
of a 'uman woman. Mostly, though, they say she just comes in the night an' kills 
'em all. They say 'as 'ow she's eight feet tall an' 'as the strength o' twenty men, 
an' no blade can 'arm 'er. Load o' nonsense, if you ask me, yer worship. I don't 
care 'ow big she is, or 'ow strong. If I stick 'er with me pike, she'll stay stuck, 
stand on me".
  "Thank you for your reassurance, Sergeant. I'll take it under advisement. In the 
meantime, and assuming it is she, the problem seems to have come home to roost, 
as it were. The lost squadrons were many leagues away, but in a direct line with 
here. Goulin was killed within a day's march of the city. The question is, why 
Goulin? And, more to the point, why is she coming here? And for goodness' sake, 
relax, man".
  Harfon stood stiffly at ease. "The first one's easy, sir. Goulin always was one for 
the ladies, sir, an' none to gentle, either, if you get my drift. Always up for a fight, 
an' all, no matter 'oo the opposition. So, if 'e met 'er somewhere, 'e'd either try to 
fight 'er or fuck 'er. Sir. If you take my meanin'. Sir. Ahem".
  "Indeed I do, Sergeant". Harfon's embarrassment amused Boulic so much, he 
almost smiled. "And the second .........?"
  "Sir?"
  The Magister's patrician eyebrows rose. "Gods preserve us! Keep up! Why is 
she coming here?"
 "Sorry, m'lord. Erm. Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it ...... I mean ...... 
The thing is, sir ...."
  "Get on with it, Harfon, before I get angry!"
  "Yessir. Well, you know 'ow you formed an army, an' sent 'em out to bring 
peace an' civilisation to the land? An' all the lands about?"
  "Of course I do. One of my more noble ideas, if I do say so myself".
  "Yessir. Cert'nly, sir. And you know you gave the lads their 'eads to enforce it, 
an' to gather the taxes what're necessary for admin an' that?"
  "Mm".
  "Well, me an' the lads ain't among 'em, sir, but there are those as say that we've 
committed rape, lootin', an' murder. An' the taxes is goin' to line yer own 
pockets".
  "Good Gods. Do they really?"
  "Yessir. An' they say you is a murderin', robbin' bastard. Yer worship".
  "Thank you, Sergeant. I really needed to hear that".
  "Sorry, sir. Only sayin' what folks're sayin' ".
  Boulic got up and leaned both hands on the table beside the body, his vulturine 
head thrust forward in thought. "I know, Sergeant, I know". He sighed heavily. 
"However, I was unaware that the people thought that way".
   "But it's true, sir. Ain't it, sir?"
  "Of course it's true! I know it's true! You know it's true! Half the damn' army 
knows it's true! How else would you be the best paid public servants in the 
realm?"
  "If we're the best paid. I'd hate to see the worst", the sergeant muttered under his 
breath.
  "What was that?"
  "Nothing, m'lord"
  "Oh. Right. What was I saying? Oh yes. We all know it, but I had hoped that the 
people did not. Not that it matters, of course. I say. You don't suppose the 
Emperor knows?" 
  "Not a chance, m'lord".
  "No. Didn't think so. Damn' fool's so caught up in his own libido, he wouldn't 
notice if the palace burned down around his ears. No. I think we can forget about 
that little oik. But what has all this to do with Brenhya?"
  "Dunno, sir. But p'raps she's a mercenary 'erself, sir. P'raps she's bin 'ired to do 
you in, sir"
  "An assassin, you mean? No, no, I hardly think so. I make it my business to 
know about these things, and I believe that the price on my head is somewhere in 
the region of two million. Who would have that kind of money?"
  " 'Specially with the kind 'o taxes you bin levyin' ". Again, the sarcasm was 
lost.
  "Exactly. No. I think it far more likely that she is an aggrieved villager looking 
for revenge. And I tend not to believe all these ridiculous stories about her. 
Warrior she may be, but no woman is the match of our finest soldiers. So she is 
not working alone. She has a band of cutthroats, and that is how she has managed 
to destroy six squadrons and", he indicated the corpse, "our friend here".
  "If you say so, sir".
  "I do say so, Sergeant, I do. But, nonetheless, she is on her way here, if not here 
already, and it behooves us to prepare for her arrival".
  He moved to the door and opened it. "Sergeant, present my compliments to 
Captain Jarris, and have him meet me in my office in one hour".
  Harfon snapped to attention. "Very good, sir", he said and, when the door was 
safely shut, added, "You arrogant twat".

  Brenhya rode through the forest, the big, black plough horse moving at an easy 
canter between her legs. She rode bareback, save for a leather saddlecloth, relying 
on the power of her thighs to keep her seat, and guided the animal with reins and 
halter fashioned from plaited twine. It was a fine, still day, but the wind of her 
passage blew her long, tawny hair out in a plume behind her as she rode.
  If she had been present in the room and had heard Sergeant Harfon's description 
of her, she would have laughed aloud. She was nowhere near eight feet tall. Gods, 
she was not even six feet tall [although, only by a hair's breadth]. And as for 
having the strength of twenty men, that was just ludicrous. She had, perhaps, the 
strength of five or, on a good day and if she was lucky, six men. Nor was she 
unable to be harmed by a blade. She was no more invulnerable than anyone else. 
She was just blessed with lightning fast reflexes and had been so well trained  
that, so far, no blade had been able to touch her; thus her body was unmarked by 
scar or blemish.
  Although she was undeniably immensely strong, she was not grossly muscled. 
She was muscular, but in a lithe, flexible way that did not encumber her with 
excessive bulk. Her muscles were well-defined, hard, and full-bellied. Wide 
shoulders tapered to a narrow waist where the ridges of the abdominal muscles 
were noticeable even when relaxed, and flared out again into long, powerful legs.
  Large, sinewy hands lightly held the reins, and the strap-like muscles of her 
forearms played beneath her golden skin as she rode.
   Clad in brief, hardened leather armour that protected her shoulders and full, 
magnificent breasts, but left her arms and legs bare, and a short leather skirt, she 
presented an impressive figure of womanhood. Her feet were shod with sturdy 
leather sandals, with thongs that entwined her rounded calves. Wide brass 
bracelets encased her strong wrists, and a brass circlet kept the hair out of her 
eyes.
   With the exception of a small, stiletto-bladed knife that was as much used for 
cutting food as for anything else and nestled snugly inside the left bracelet, she 
carried no weapons.
  Her body was her weapon.
  She had been given the horse by a grateful farmer some months ago, after she 
had run off a band of thieves from his land. She had been pleased with herself, 
because she had managed to do it without hurting any of them badly, but had been 
even more pleased with the gift of the horse. He was a huge, gelded, black 
workhorse, with a white blaze and white feathering on his massive legs. He was 
full of strength and stamina, just like his mistress, and could travel all day with 
little sign of fatigue, so had taken several weeks off her journey. His temperament 
was so placid that he would never make any kind of a battle charger, but he so 
obviously loved her that Brenhya could not bear to be parted from him.
  By an accident of birth, or maybe because of a slight irregularity in the growth of 
horn in the hoof wall, one of his front feet turned ever so slightly inwards. 
Naturally enough, Brenhya named him Bentoe.
   Today, they had been riding around the countryside close [but not too close] to 
the city, getting a feel for the lay of the land. They had been travelling cross-
country, keeping away from the roads and cart tracks, hoping to avoid unwanted 
attention. It had worked well, too, until two days ago, when they had come across 
that big, ugly warrior type. That was a strange encounter, to say the least.

  It had been a warm, balmy evening, and Brenhya had turned Bentoe loose to 
forage for himself, as was her custom. She was sitting on a tussock in a small 
clearing in the twilight, trying to light a fire. Fires were normally no problem for 
her but tonight, although she struck her flint repeatedly, the dry tinder just refused 
catch and she cursed under her breath. 
  The sound of dry sticks breaking under foot and foliage being pushed aside 
brought her instantly alert. She sprang to her feet and readied herself in a fighter's 
stance, eyes scanning the tree line for any unwanted company. She whirled at the 
sound of a deep male voice.
  "Hello, in the clearing! Don't be afraid. I mean you no harm".
   Brenhya's voice was a rich contralto. "Step forward and show yourself, then.
  The man that came forward was not the biggest man she had ever seen, but very 
big, nonetheless. He was a good six inches taller than her, and judging by the 
breadth of shoulder, depth of chest, and thickness of the exposed forearms, was a 
very powerful man. His dull metal breastplate was sculpted in the shape of a 
muscular male torso. A broadsword hung by his side, but what captured 
Brenhya's imagination was the nasty-looking morningstar that he held casually 
over one shoulder, the massive, spiked ball at the end of the two-foot chain at least 
as large as her head.
   A brace of pigeons hung from his belt.
  "I mean you no harm", the stranger repeated. "I was just hunting for a bit of 
supper, when I heard your horse grazing. I followed his trail until I heard you 
striking your flint. Don't worry. I'm perfectly harmless".
  "If you're harmless, lay down your weapons before you come any closer".
  He spread his arms, shrugged hugely, and smiled at her. "No problem", he said, 
and placed the morningstar in the grass before unbuckling his sword belt and 
letting it fall. "Better?"
  "Much", agreed Brenhya. "Now, what do you want?"
  "Nothing. Nothing at all. Only to share your company and your fire". He 
indicated the birds. "I'll willing share these with you".
  Brenhya was not convinced, but it had been some days since she had eaten 
anything except the roots and vegetables she had found on the way. The prospect 
of a plump, juicy pigeon was very tempting. 
  "OK", she said. "But you keep that side of the fire, and I'll keep this".
   He grinned at her. "What fire?" He asked.
  "Just give me a minute, all right", she replied, and returned to her task.
   "Fair enough", said the man. "My name's Goulin, by the way. Perhaps you've 
heard of me?"
  "No, never". Much of her concentration was being spent on lighting the fire, so 
she did not notice the satisfied leer he gave her.
  "Well, you have, now". He hunkered down opposite her and began to pluck and 
dress the pigeons. "So, who're you?" 
  Brenhya did not look up. "None of your business", she muttered, and blew on 
the sparks as the fire, at last, began to take hold.
  "OK. Only trying to be friendly. Got anything to drink?"
  "There's water in that", she answered, indicating a brassbound leather canteen  
lying on the ground next to her cloak.
  "Oh, I think we can do better than that", smiled Goulin, and produced a wineskin 
from somewhere behind him. He took a long pull, and proffered it to Brenhya.
  "No thanks. Don't use it".
   Goulin shrugged. "Suit yourself. You don't know what you're missing, though". 
He took another draught. "This wine comes from the finest grapes in all 
Pallandry"
  It was Brenhya's turn to smile. "I'll just have to take your word for that", she 
said. "I'll stick to the water. How're those birds coming along?"
  "Nearly there. Just this one to gut, and we're all set".
  Now the fire was burning well. Brenhya stood and walked across the clearing to 
where some deadfall had accumulated. She sorted through the pile, looking for 
three suitable branches with which to fashion a crude spit. Her attention 
momentarily elsewhere, she never heard Goulin's shuddering sigh or saw the 
lascivious look in his eyes, treated to the exquisite sight of Brenhya's steely thighs 
and taut buttocks as she bent over. He admired her sleek muscularity, and yearned 
to feel her body squirm in his grasp. Had she known the thoughts that were 
burning through his mind at that moment, she would have sent him on his way 
immediately.
  She selected three sticks and carried them back to the fire. Two of them, forked 
at one end, she rammed into the ground at each side of the hearth. The other, she 
handed to Goulin. He skewered the pigeons, and set them to roast above the 
flames. Both of them sat back to wait.
  The evening was growing darker now and, on the far side of the fire, Goulin was 
a dark silhouette. Brenhya could not see his expression or the burning lust in his 
eyes as he spoke calmly about his exploits as a 'soldier of fortune', as he called 
himself.
  Now, Brenhya was an enormously strong woman and formidable fighter, as has 
been said. As such, she was always on her guard and ready for action but, if she 
had a fault it was this - she was completely unaware of her own loveliness. She 
did not realise the effect that her fabulous body and achingly beautiful face had 
upon men. The huge, piercing grey eyes, high cheekbones and full, pouting lips. 
The sensuous curves of the muscles of her arms and legs, the perfect flat belly, the 
narrow waist. The feline grace of her movements. All meaningless to her.
   So she was totally unprepared for what happened next.
  The pigeons had been finished with relish. The conversation had been all one 
sided, and consisted almost entirely of stories of Goulin's prowess in battle. 
Brenhya had been unimpressed, but did not deign to say so. The fire was 
beginning to burn down as Goulin stretched and yawned mightily.
  "Time to turn in", he said as he rose to his feet. "Goodnight".
  "G'night", said Brenhya. She was beginning to feel a little sleepy herself.
  Goulin turned away from the remains of the fire, as if to find somewhere to lie 
down. Brenhya, still sitting on her tussock, drew her knees up and rested her arms 
across them. She let her head fall forward.
  Goulin turned back with an animal snarl and threw himself across the embers 
toward her. The sudden speed and force of his attack took Brenhya by surprise, 
and she rolled backwards off the tussock and landed on her back with a thud with 
the lusty warrior atop her.
  "Gods, woman, but you're gorgeous!" He cried. "I've been watching you all 
night. I've got to have you, and I'm gonna have you now!"
  He straddled her belly and leaned his hands on her biceps, hoping to pin her. 
Brenhya tensed, and his eyes started from his head as he felt the feminine softness 
under his big hands swell and fill his grip with steel-hard roundness. He almost 
cried out as his fingers were trapped and squeezed between her biceps and 
forearms.
   Brenhya raised her knees and planted her feet under her for better purchase.
  "Get off me, you pig", she hissed between clenched teeth. She arched her back 
convulsively, and Goulin sailed over her head to land heavily on his back.
  She was on her feet in an instant, and whirled to face him. Goulin was only 
fractionally slower. A huge grin split his coarse features.
  "Oho!" He laughed, delightedly. "So the girlie wants to play! All the better! The 
two things I like most in this world are fighting and fucking. The more they want 
to fight, the more I want to fuck! Get ready, Girlie. Here I come!"
  He launched himself at her, but was met with a piston-like kick to the chest that 
felt like a blow from a battering ram. From the force of it, he flew backwards 
across the clearing to land some fifteen feet away. He had never been kicked so 
hard in his life, and could still feel pressure at the site of the it. He looked down, 
and was astounded to see that the tough iron of his breastplate was indented where 
her foot had connected.
  He shook his head to clear it. He was not slow on the uptake, Goulin, and he was 
starting to realise that this girl was going to be more of a handful than he first 
thought. He seriously doubted he could take her in hand-to-hand combat.
  As he clambered to his feet, he noticed that she had made no move to press home 
her advantage, but stood lightly on the balls of her feet, ready. 
  He wondered about that as he cast about him for a weapon. He had landed not far 
from where he had dropped his weaponry earlier. He ran the few steps to where 
his morningstar lay, and as his fingers closed about the handle he heard her speak 
to him.
  "Give it up, Goulin", she said. I don't want to hurt you".
  "Ha! Don't you worry about that, Girlie. It's me who's going to be doing the 
hurting. You'll be fucked before this night is out. In fact, you'll fuck more easily, 
with your head caved in!"
  "All right, Soldier. Have it your own way".
  With that remark, Brenhya had no more to say. She began to circle slowly to her 
left. Goulin circled to his left, and started the morningstar spinning. 
  She made no move to attack, but seemed content to play a waiting game. Her 
assailant gradually circled closer, narrowing the gap between them, the deadly ball 
and chain splitting the air with the sound of it's spin.
  When no more than eight feet separated them, Goulin lunged forward, extending 
his arm so that the whirling globe sped straight toward the side of Brenhya's head. 
If it connected, it would mean instant death.
  With the speed of a striking cobra, Brenhya stepped low inside the whirling arc 
and blocked his wrist with her left hand. The sudden stop caused the lethal ball to 
snap around in the length of it's own chain and miss it's target entirely. She 
brought her right forearm down in an axing blow, just below Goulin's elbow. 
Goulin let out a howl of pain as the bones snapped like dry twigs. The weapon fell 
from his lifeless fingers. Her elbow slammed backwards into his face, smashing 
his nose and cheekbones in a gout of blood. 
  Still holding tight to the big man's wrist. She thrust her hip into his belly, and 
threw him forward over her shoulder. He landed heavily, the breath driven from 
his body with a 'whoosh!'
  Still, the tall warrior woman did not press her advantage. It seemed to Goulin 
that she was just waiting for him to give up and go away. Well, he'd see about 
that!
  Although his right arm was now useless, Goulin had the fortune to be 
ambidextrous, an ability that had taken many enemies by surprise in the past. So 
now, as he heaved himself to his feet, his left hand found it's way behind him, to 
the flat-bladed throwing knife he secreted there. As he rose, the hand shot forward 
in an underarm throw, and the knife flew at her throat, swift and true as an arrow 
bringing certain death. 
  Gods! The bloody woman caught it! Picked it clean out of the air, mere inches 
from her throat! And now she tossed it casually behind her, as if it didn't matter at 
all. What sort of woman was this?
  Brenhya realised that she had to disable this man to prevent any further tricks, so 
now she attacked. She took one step forward and swung out a long, powerful leg 
that connected his left arm a few inches below the shoulder. There was an audible 
crack as the thick bone broke, and Goulin dropped to his knees with the pain.
  She stepped up to him and pushed him over with one hand. She lay down beside 
him, encircled his torso with her long, strong legs, and began to squeeze.
  Through the haze of pain, Goulin wondered what she was up to. He was wearing 
iron breast and back plates, so was in no danger. He watched as the great muscles 
of her thighs flexed and stood out in ridges of  sheer, steel-hard power. Then his 
eyes grew wide as he heard a metallic groan, and the strong metal of his armour 
began to crumple and buckle. With a sick feeling, he finally and inevitably 
realised that she was much, much stronger than he was.
  Now he could feel the mighty pressure on his chest, the air being forced from his 
lungs. He wheezed as he struggled for air, and gasped in pain as he felt his ribs 
begin to give under her unstoppable constriction.
  Light dawned.
  "Brenhya!" He used the last of his breath to croak the words. "You're Brenhya! 
I've heard about you, but never believed it".
  Brenhya sighed and looked downcast. She relaxed the pressure of her legs and 
pushed him from her. Despite the pain of his broken ribs, he gulped the air 
hungrily.
  She stood up.
  "Yes", she said, sorrowfully. "I am. And, because you know that, you have to die 
now".
  She reached behind his neck and gripped his collar with one large, strong hand. 
She hauled him to his feet as he shook his head and noiselessly mouthed his 
protests. With a sad look in her grey eyes, she used her other hand to grip his 
throat, her thumb against his Adam's apple.
  "Sorry", she whispered. The muscles of her arm stood out like bands of steel, 
and she closed her fingers. The tissue and cartilage of his windpipe crushed and 
collapsed almost immediately, yielding to the inexorable pressure of her thumb, 
cutting off his air supply forever. Only a few seconds, now.
  A noise claimed her attention. Hoofbeats. The jangle of harness. Voices. She 
must not be discovered. Not this close to her goal.
  Goulin was not quite dead. Brenhya hated to leave him to suffer, but she could 
not let anybody find her yet. After what she had done to the mercenary, it would 
be obvious who she was.
  As much from her sense of compassion as to avoid any noise, she gently lowered 
the broken man to the ground. She doubted he'd be able to say anything. She 
quickly looked round to make sure there was no sign of her presence, and melted 
swiftly into the trees. She found Bentoe in seconds, and led him quietly away.
  Behind her, in the clearing, she could hear a man's voice calling, "Here! Come 
here! Look at this. Gods, what a mess!"

  That had been two days ago.
  She had not wanted to kill the man; had wanted even less to leave him to suffer 
like that. She had never wanted to kill anyone. Not one of the scores of lives she 
had ended during her journey had given her any pleasure in the ending of them. It 
had been, she knew, necessary. But she did not have to like it.
  Only one life would she enjoy taking.
  Only one.
  Now, she was very close to her objective.

  Bentoe came to a halt under the branches of an ancient oak. The tree stood on a 
hill overlooking the city, and Brenhya thought it would be an ideal vantage point 
from which to observe the comings and goings. In particular, she wanted to work 
out the rotation of the guards and their routine. She wanted to watch their routes 
on and around the city walls, to discover where the weak points were, and to 
formulate a plan for covert entry.
  She dismounted and went to the horse's head. She put her arms about his 
massive neck, and he nuzzled her with his velvety muzzle.
  "This is it, old friend", she whispered. A tear glistened in her eye. "Your part in 
all this is over. I couldn't have come this far without you, but it's time for you to 
go off and enjoy yourself. Go find some greener grass. Go roll in a meadow. Do 
horsey things".
  She hugged his neck hard, and patted his great shoulder. Then she stepped 
behind him and slapped him on the rump. The big, placid giant of a horse ambled 
off, making straight towards the nearest fields.
  Once, he looked back. 
 "Go on, you big lump. I'll come and find you afterwards".
  If there is an afterwards, she thought, a big lump in her throat, watching the 
horse go.
  Brenhya shook herself out of her gloom, and looked up at the tree. Above her, 
about eight or nine feet from the ground, a sturdy branch grew nearly horizontally 
from the trunk. She bunched her long, powerful legs under her, and sprang 
straight up to grasp the branch with both hands.
  Effortlessly, she pulled herself up to the branch, the muscles of her upper arms 
flexing big, hard and round as she did so. She threw a leg over the branch, and 
levered herself into the tree.
  Climbing up, she found a large, comfortable crotch in which she could sit. It was 
the perfect spot. She could see everything she needed to, while at the same time 
being hidden by the foliage.     She settled down to watch.
  And as she watched, she allowed that part of her mind that was not occupied 
with the watching to drift back.
  Back to the beginning of all this madness ............

	10