BRENHYA.
By "HECK".



  Here is the second chapter of the tale of Brenhya. We see her 
as a child, and learn how she came to be so strong. We discover 
the origins of her quest and the forces that drive her.
  Don't worry, guys. The good sex comes later.
  Comments to - heck@euphony.net 

CHAPTER TWO.

  .........when she was a little girl.

  At nine years old, Brenhya was a striking child. She was very 
tall for her age, with sturdy, well-muscled arms and legs. A 
shock of chestnut curls framed her pretty, freckled face, and 
her sparkling grey eyes had yet to lose the look of childish 
innocence. Most days, she wore a plain, sleeveless shift dress 
that left her brown arms and legs bare, and went barefoot 
unless the weather dictated otherwise.
  She lived, with her parents, a short walk from Gyre's End, a 
tiny village that consisted of no more than a dozen or so 
houses, an abattoir, and an inn. Most of the inhabitants worked 
on the surrounding farms, ran small cottage industries from 
home, or subsisted by hunting and gathering. Her father was the 
Village Smithy and farrier, so they were one of the more 
affluent families thereabouts.
  The long days of childhood, when not helping her mother 
around the house, or her father in the forge, were spent in 
playing with the village children. She was a popular child and, 
because of her stature, was often to be found running or 
wrestling with boys and girls four or five years older. She 
easily held her own with these older kids, and often won their 
contests. They admired her strength and endurance - she was 
equal of any at running, and stronger than any in other games - 
and often forgot that she was so much younger than they. 
Therefore, it often took them by surprise when she cried if she 
fell over and grazed her knees, or sulked when things didn't go 
her way.
  Not that she was a crybaby. Far from it. But she was, after 
all, only nine.
  Her father was a big, mighty man, well over six feet, with 
vast limbs developed from years of beating the hot metal in his 
smithy's forge, the heavy hammer a small toy in his huge hand. 
Normally dressed in just a stained leather apron over moleskin 
pants, Harroc was mostly seen as a sweat-glistened silhouette 
in the glow of his forge. When not concentrating on the job in 
hand, his large bearded face was usually split by a great grin 
showing even white teeth, and the deep bellow of his laughter 
was often to be heard.
  Where Harroc was a great mountain of a man, Brenhya's mother, 
Galliane, was  the strong oak that grew on it's flanks. Tall, 
muscular, wide of shoulders, narrow of waist, long of limb, she 
was nearly as strong as her husband. Harroc delighted in her 
strength, and laughed uproariously when his half-joking 
requests, such as 'bring that anvil over here', were met with 
only a raised eyebrow before his wife easily did what was asked 
of her. 
  Galliane, dressed in plain homespun clothing, had her 
daughter's bright grey eyes and chestnut mane. She was open of 
heart and giving of spirit. She was fully contented with her 
lot, and her only regret in life was that Brenhya was her only 
child; she would have loved to have borne several more, but it 
was not to be.
  When helping out in the smithy, Brenhya's chores had 
previously consisted of clearing up after her father and 
holding the reins of horses while they were shod. But, 
realising that he was never likely to have a son, who he could 
train to carry on the business as his own father had trained 
him, Harroc had recently begun to show Brenhya the rudiments of 
the blacksmith/farrier's trade. Obviously, she had a long way 
to go and a lot to learn, but already she had begun to show the 
beginnings of some skill in the handling of hot metal, wielding 
the heavy hammer with control and ease. In addition, and 
especially important for a budding farrier, she showed an 
infinity for horses and was beginning to develop what her 
father called a "horseman's eye".

  The evening was growing late. The last rays of the setting 
sun shafted through the trees, painting the wattle-and-daub 
walls of the forge and the small thatched cottage with a warm 
pink glow. Ethereal, feathery wisps of smoke rose from the 
chimney.  Nearby, an owl silently launched itself from it's 
branch, and the life of some small woodland creature ended with 
a brief squeak.
  Indoors, Galliane and Harroc sat at the scrubbed table, the 
remains of their supper not yet cleared away. Brenhya had been 
sent to bed an hour ago and was, by now, fast asleep in her 
room.  The family were lucky in that the cottage, although 
small, contained two other rooms beside the kitchen in which 
the adults now sat, so Brenhya and her parents were able to 
have separate bedrooms. Many of their neighbours were less 
fortunate, in that whole families had to live, eat, and sleep 
in just one room.
  The business of the day having been discussed, the pair sat 
in companionable silence. Harroc looked at his wife with a 
twinkle in his eye, tapping a foot on the hard-packed earth of 
the floor.
  'Hey, Lady', he leered, playfully. Galliane knew what was 
coming.
  'Hey, Man', she responded with a grin.
  'Wanna  armwrestle?'
  'And what do I get if I win?'
  'You get to have your wicked way with me'.
  'And if you win?'
  'I get to have my wicked way with you'. They both laughed.
  'Sounds like a deal', she nodded, pushing her sleeve up past 
her shoulder. 'Let's go'.
  The two people faced each other across the table, elbows 
resting about four inches apart. The difference in the length 
of their forearms was minimal, so neither had the advantage in 
leverage. This was to be a contest of pure strength.
  Their hands joined and they took up the strain. Muscles 
bunched and sprang into relief on both the masculine and 
feminine arms. Each looked into the eyes of the other. There 
was no animosity there. The prize for winning was as great as 
the forfeit for not, so neither would have minded losing.
  'On your three count', Harroc said.
  'OK. One - two - three!'
  Both contestants instantly threw their power into the fight. 
Galliane's full biceps rose into a hard, fist-sized ball, the 
muscles of her forearm ridged, and Harroc relished the sight. 
He loved the way her muscles moved and coiled under her skin, 
like snakes in oil, and revelled in the intense strength of 
her.
  Having worked as a blacksmith all his adult life, his muscles 
conditioned by the years of sheer hard work, Harroc knew that 
it was unlikely that he would lose to his wife. He knew he was 
the stronger, although not by very much, and in similar 
contests in the past, he had usually emerged as "The Victor", 
although that was by no means always the case. He had only to 
relax for an instant, he knew, or use slightly less than his 
full strength, and she would have him.
  Galliane gritted her teeth, and poured even more power into 
her efforts. The strain showed in her voice.
  'I'm going to have you down this time, Mister', she breathed. 
Harroc's voice showed no lesser effort.
  'Think so, do you. Think again'. He gathered himself, and 
began to push harder and harder.
  He expected her hand to go down but, with a incredible 
display of muscular power, she met his efforts and held him 
motionless.
  For five full minutes, the battle went on, neither gaining or 
giving an inch. Both of their bodies were drenched in sweat, 
and their breathing started to rasp. They grunted and strained, 
but kept eye contact and could see the growing passion in each 
others' gaze. 
  Eventually, Harroc began to gain the upper hand. Slowly, ever 
so slowly, Galliane's hand went down, down to the table. She 
never relaxed for a second, but the forge-hardened strength of 
her husband's arm was winning the day.
  Finally, realising she was not going to beat him, Galliane 
let Harroc force her hand down to the table. As he did, she 
moved forward with  her upper body and her full mouth laid a 
deep, hungry kiss on his. He responded,  and took her face in 
both his hands. Their tongues sought each other greedily, and 
their hands roamed freely about their arms and chests. Harroc 
enjoyed the feel of her hard muscles under the silky soft skin.
  After a long time they separated, and fell back in their 
chairs out of breath. Harroc smiled at his wife.
  'I don't know', he laughed. 'I swear you're getting stronger 
every day'. She smiled back.
  'I'll beat you, one of these days', she said, getting up from 
the table. 'Tea before bed?'
  'Aren't you afraid I'll lose my ardour?' He leaned back in 
his chair and looked up at her. She came around behind him and 
rubbed her hands on his broad pectorals, her fingers rustling 
through his chest hair.
  'Don't worry', she breathed in his ear. 'I'll soon "ardour" 
you up again'.
  Galliane picked up a heavy iron kettle and took it to the 
pump.
  'Speaking of people getting stronger', she said as she filled 
the kettle. 'You'll never guess what happened this morning. 
Brenhya was helping me in the house, and I asked her to sweep 
the floors, and not to forget to do under the furniture. She 
started in our room. I was washing vegetables in here, and 
after a little while  I heard a scraping noise. I went through 
to see what she was up to, and she was sweeping under the bed. 
But she had lifted the end of the bed to do it! With one hand! 
And that's a big, heavy, lump of wood'.
  They shared a laugh.
  'It certainly is', said Harroc. 'But that's nothing. She was 
in the forge this afternoon. You know that young Ardwy lad, 
lives with his mother next to the inn?' His wife nodded.
  'He brought his grey pony in to be shod. Have you seen it? 
Not tall, but a heavy, cobby type? Quiet enough. I thought it 
would be ideal for Brenhya to have her first try at shoeing. I 
did the front feet and the near hind, and told her to have a go 
at the off hind. She picked up the foot like I showed her, and 
I gave her the hoof pick to clean it out. She must've made a 
mistake, though, because she dug the pick into the frog'. 
  Galliane smiled.
  'I thought you were shoeing a pony, not a frog".
  'Ha-ha. The frog, darling wife, is the sensitive part of the 
sole'.
  'I know. Just kidding. Haven't been married to you for ten 
years without knowing that.'
  'Hmph. Yes. Well, anyway. She dug the pick in, and the pony 
flinched. It lost it's footing on the other back foot, and I 
thought it was going to come down on top of her. I rushed to 
help, but I needn't have worried. She had her shoulder under 
it, and just heaved it up again and held it there until it got 
it's foot under it again. Must've supported most of it's weight 
for at least half a minute'.
  'Wow!' Galliane sighed in admiration.
  'I know. But the funniest part was the look on Ardwy's face! 
When he saw Brenhya holding up his pony, his mouth fell open 
and I thought his eyes were going to pop right out of his head! 
Honest, I thought he was going to wet himself!' They both 
laughed heartily.
  'You should've seen it', Harroc went on. 'Brenhya and I 
nearly split our sides. And, of course, the more we laughed, 
the worse it was for him. Poor lad'.
  'Poor lad', agreed Galliane, wiping away tears of laughter. 
The kettle was boiling, and she made the tea. 'Oh, Harroc. 
We've got one strong little girl, there'. 
  She passed him a steaming mug as he nodded agreement.
  'We certainly have. I reckon she's as strong as you, or very 
nearly'.
  'Probably stronger. I doubt if I could have done that'.
  'God's know what she'll be like when she's grown', wondered 
Harroc. 'I bet she'll be even stronger than me'.
  'Mm. That'll be something to see. I'd like to encourage her. 
Unless you'd feel threatened by it?'
  'Not at all. Why should I be? She's only taking after her 
parents, after all'.
  They fell silent as they drank the hot, sweet herb tea, 
looking at each other over the brims of their steaming mugs. It  
was quiet, warm and cosy in the kitchen, with only the 
crackling of the fire in the hearth to disturb the peace.
  Suddenly, there was a frenzied banging at the door.
  'Harroc! Harroc!'
  'Who could that be at this time of night?', the smithy's wife 
wanted to know.
  'I don't know', replied Harroc, climbing from his seat. 'But 
they better have a damn' good reason'.
  He opened the door and, to his great surprise the youth, 
Ardwy, flung himself into the cottage. He leaned, panting, 
against the door jamb. Fear showed in his young face. 
Concerned, Galliane got to her feet
  'Whatever's wrong', she asked.
  'Nothing wrong with your pony?' This from Harroc. In great 
distress, Ardwy gasped out his story.
  'Raiders', he panted. 'In the Village. Burning. Looting. 
Raping. Killing. Everyone's dead.  Coming this way'.
  Harroc immediately barred the door with a stout plank, and 
pushed a heavy dresser across it. Galliane crossed to the door 
of Brenhya's room and went in quietly, so as not to startle the 
child.
  'Brenhya!', she whispered urgently, shaking the sleeping girl 
gently. 'Brenhya! Get up! Quickly, now'.
  The child stirred and rubbed her eyes.
  'Wha'?'
  'Get up. Don't worry. I want you to hide'.
  'What for?'
  'Never mind, now. Get Dressed. Hurry.'
  Brenhya sensed the urgency in her mother's quiet voice, and 
did as she was told. She pulled on the very clothes she had 
shed before going to bed.
  'Hurry, now'. Galliane took her daughter's hand and led her 
to one corner of the room, to where a wooden hatch in the 
ceiling gave access to the small loft space under the thatch. 
She grasped Brenhya with a hand on each chubby hip and 
effortlessly boosted her up until the girl could reach the 
hatch.
  'Up there', Galliane breathed.
  Brenhya pushed open the hatch, and pulled herself up into the 
darkness beyond.
  'Close the hatch', her mother said. 'Keep very, very quiet. 
Don't come out until Daddy or I tell you to. Don't come out for 
anyone else'.
  Brenhya closed the hatch and crouched, terrified, in the 
dark. What was going on? She noticed a tiny chink of light 
where there was a crack in the ceiling, and lay down with her 
eye to it, but she could see little of what was happening in 
the kitchen below.
  Having attended to her daughter's safety as best she could, 
Galliane returned to the kitchen, She found that Ardwy had 
found a pitchfork from somewhere, and Harroc had armed himself 
with a stout poker. She went to a drawer in the dresser that 
stood across the door, and found a heavy butcher's cleaver.
  Hoofbeats were heard outside, followed by urgent banging on 
the door. A man's voice called out.
  'Open up, in the name of the Emperor!'
   In the brief silence that followed, Galliane and Harroc 
looked at each other.
  'I love you', she said.
  'And I love you'.
  The silence was shattered by a heavy thud and the splintering 
of tortured wood. The big dresser rocked alarmingly.  Men's 
voices were raised as if cheering each other on. 
  They were using some kind of battering implement. The people 
in the house knew that the door would not stand up to that kind 
of punishment for long. Harroc motioned them earnestly, and 
they all three moved to the back of the room.
   The ram smashed into the door a second time, and again. On 
the fourth blow, the tough hinges gave in to the inevitable. On 
the fifth, the plank gave way. The dresser was slowly and 
inexorably pushed aside.
  They knew then that they were going to die.
  A horde of helmeted men armed with broadswords and cudgels 
boiled into the room, yelling and cursing. They quickly 
surrounded the three occupants.
  With a high-pitched scream, Ardwy flung himself at the 
nearest soldier. His thrusting pitchfork took the man squarely 
in the throat and he fell to the floor, gurgling as he drowned 
in his own blood.
 Harroc laid about him with the poker and his fists, his mighty 
arms swinging. Several skulls cracked, and their owners dropped 
motionless to the floor.
  Growling like a she-wolf through her bared teeth, Galliane 
swung the hefty cleaver downwards. It met her assailant at the 
angle where shoulder meets neck. Propelled with all the force 
of her powerful arm, it sliced through his clavicle and 
shoulder blade, smashing several ribs and carving through his 
lung, until it burst his heart. The man was dead before he hit 
the ground.
  Effective as this had been, the force of the blow had solidly 
wedged the cleaver in the man's bones, and it was wrenched out 
of her hand as he dropped. She was now weaponless.
  Ardwy accounted for one more attacker with his pitchfork. As 
he whirled to face the next one, a heavy blow from an expertly 
swung broadsword deftly chopped the handle in two, leaving the 
wood with a sharp point. He quickly identified the soldier who 
had destroyed his weapon, and lunged toward him. He dodged the 
swinging sword, and plunged the wickedly pointed handle into 
the man's belly and up under the ribs.
  But Ardwy was not a trained fighter; none of them were. 
  As he bent to pick up the tines and remains of the handle of 
his fork, a vicious slash from an expertly wielded sword came 
down on the back of his neck.
  Twin jets of scarlet sprayed from the stump of his neck. His 
head bounced once as it hit the floor, and rolled a couple of 
feet among the melee,
  Harroc was not doing too well. His poker had smashed in 
several heads, helmets and all, and the floor about him was 
littered with the dead and dying. It had cost him dearly, 
however. A long gash had flayed the skin from his ribs. His 
sides were red, and his pants were soaked in his own blood. 
Many smaller cuts decorated his arms and chest.
  He was weakening, and he knew it. Fatigue and blood loss were 
taking their toll. His enormous strength was giving out at 
last. The supply of attackers seemed to be inexhaustible. And 
now, here was another one, coming at him from the left.
  From somewhere, Harroc found the energy to swerve aside as 
the deadly sword  flashed toward his belly. He took his poker 
in both hands, and drove it straight at the soldier's eye. It 
entered through the eyesocket with a satisfying squelch, 
penetrated the brain, and burst out through the back of the 
skull in a welter of grey matter, blood, and bone fragments. 
  The dead soldier dropped like a stone.
  Harroc turned to face whatever was coming next, but his 
reflexes were slow. He was getting light headed, and the very 
act of turning made him dizzy.
  So he never saw the soldier coming up behind. 
  Never saw the savagely swung cudgel.
  All he was aware of was a brilliant flash of light inside his 
head, before the darkness claimed him.
  At the far side of the room, Galliane stood like a lioness at 
bay. Since losing her cleaver, she had been at a distinct 
disadvantage. Nevertheless, she had given a fine account of 
herself, and several soldiers were bleeding or had been 
incapacitated by the fury of her defence. She had even killed 
one man, using her strong hands to wring his neck like a 
chicken.
  The raiders were astounded by her muscularity and strength, 
as she absorbed blows that would have disabled or even killed 
many a grown man.
  Now she stood at bay, the head of one hapless soldier clamped 
tight under her arm in a choke hold, slowly squeezing the life 
out of him. She watched the men with flashing eyes, waiting for 
the next one to make a move.
  The room fell quiet. Galliane looked about quickly.
  She saw that Harroc was down but not, thank gods, dead. Ardwy 
was not to be seen from where she stood. And those raiders that 
remained standing were gathering about her, regarding her with 
lecherous looks.
  Four men attacked her at once. She took out the first one 
with a roundhouse punch that nearly carried the head from his 
shoulders. She twisted the head of the one under her arm 
viciously, and was rewarded by a satisfying gristly crunch as 
his neck broke. She dropped him like a rag doll. If he 
survived, he would never walk again. She caught the heads of 
two others in her muscular hands, and brought them together 
with a resounding crack.
But it was all over for Galliane, now. The fourth attacker 
grabbed her around the waist and spun her round. He looped an 
arm about her neck and heaved himself up onto her broad back, a 
weight she could handle effortlessly, but which nonetheless 
encumbered her movements.
  'Come on, lads!', yelled her burden. 'Pile in!'
  It suddenly seemed to Galliane that she was drowning in a sea 
of bodies. Two fellows grabbed an arm each; another two seized 
her legs. She resisted as best she could, but her underpinnings 
were pulled from under her and she went down in a thrashing 
heap of bodies. 
  Her arms and legs were pinned by the weight of a man on each, 
and the one who had been on her back now pinned her shoulders. 
The power of each of her legs was such that one man was 
insufficient to hold it, so a further two were called in. She 
was now held securely by seven people.
  A large, swarthy fellow with lieutenant's emblem on his 
tunic, stepped forward.
  'OK, boys. I'm first. Hold her tight, now'.
  He opened the front of his pants and brought out his swollen, 
turgid penis. He knelt between her thighs. Galliane thrashed 
and bucked like a thing possessed, trying desperately to bring 
her knees together, but even her legs could not overcome the 
force of four men holding them apart.
  The lieutenant pushed aside her skirts and ripped off her 
undergarments, exposing the auburn thatch surrounding her sex. 
Her explored her with a meaty finger.
  "Hmm', he mused. 'A bit fucking dry, down here'.
  He reached to his belt and removed a sharp, wicked looking 
dagger. Inserting the point between the lips of her labia, he 
made a small slit in the soft tissue. Galliane screamed as her 
blood flowed.
  'That'll help things along a bit', he explained to his men, 
who laughed without exception. He but the tip of his engorged 
rod against her red-dripping vagina. Lubricated by the free-
flowing blood, her rammed himself home in her to his full, 
impressive length, ripping her bleeding flesh even further.
  Pain racked Galliane's tortured body as she screamed her 
agony. Her back arched powerfully and her legs kicked out with 
all her considerable strength.
  The men holding her legs immobile lost their grip, and she 
seized her chance. She clamped  her legs together, the 
tumescent meat of the lieutenant still deep inside her, and 
began to squeeeeze. She put all the power of her legs into the 
grip, and clamped down hard with her rigid belly muscles. She 
felt the man's testicles mash between her thighs, felt his 
prick twist inside her as the muscles of her vaginal wall 
pulverised it, saw his face contort in a rictus of pain and 
fear. Now it was his turn to scream.
  'Fuck! Getheroff! Getheroff!', he screeched, his voice 
registering several octaves higher. Four men heaved at her 
legs, but her temporary victory lent her strength. They could 
not budge the columns of pure, steely muscle her legs had 
become.
  'Kill her!' The lieutenant screamed. 'Help me! Oh, fuck! Kill 
her now!'
  The soldier pinning her shoulders got to his feet. He held 
his sword high. With a yell, he plunged it downwards, just 
below her left breast. It entered between her ribs and pierced 
her wildly beating heart.
  Galliane gave a convulsive shudder, breathed once, and died.
  The lieutenant, freed at last from his hellish captivity, 
slumped off her inert body, clutching his ruined manhood 
desperately. Spittle, bloodstained from his chewed lips, 
drooled from his mouth as he moaned softly and, as he rolled on 
the floor, he vomited uncontrollably.  

  In the loft, Brenhya was paralysed with fear. The restricted 
view through the crack had spared her much of what had 
transpired below, but the horrific rape and death of her mother 
had occurred right below her. She had seen it all, her eyes dry 
and wide, too horrified to make sound. Her lips moved, silently 
forming the word, "Mommy".
  She heard the sound of booted feet on the earthen floor. A 
tall, thin, cloaked figure came into view. From her 
foreshortened angle of sight, she could not make out the 
features under the wide brim of his hat. The figure indicated 
the lieutenant, still groaning and puking on the floor.
  'What happened to him', came the cultured tenor voice.
  The surviving soldiery explained what had happened. They also 
told him that they had lost twelve good men on this raid, more 
than they had previously altogether. The cloaked figure was 
unmoved.
  'Hmph', he snorted, carelessly kicking the body of Galliane 
with one foot. 'And are these the last?'
  'Yes, Lord Boulic. These are the last of this village.'
  'Very well. Take whatever is worth taking. Then burn it'. He 
turned on his heel. 'Good work, men', he said as he went to 
leave. One of the raiders spoke up.
  'Sir? What about our dead, sir?' Boulic stopped, and appeared 
to consider for a moment.
  'Too many', he said without turning. 'Leave them'.
  'Sir, I ...'
  'Leave them, I said!', he snapped, and strode from the 
building.
  Brenhya could not see much of what happened next, but heard 
the sounds of looting. At one point, she heard one of the men 
say, "Here, this one's still alive", and heard the sound of 
something heavy being dragged out the door.
  After a while, there was silence. Brenhya's body, held tense 
and rigid for so long, began to relax. And as she relaxed, so 
the floodgates opened, and she began to cry. Tears streamed 
down her crumpled face, and great, heaving sobs wracked her 
young body.
  She was not permitted her grief for long, though.
  Three soft noises - thump, thump, thump - as if something was 
hitting the front of the thatched roof from outside, alerted 
her. What was that? Then quiet.
  A movement caught her eye. A tiny wisp of smoke drifted 
across her vision. She looked curiously. More smoke. And still 
more. Before long, the tiny loft space began to fill with 
thick, acrid fumes. She started to cough. A dark spot formed on 
the inside on the planking under the straw.
  Flames! 
  The first flickers of flames began to invade her hiding 
place. The roof was on fire!
  Brenhya began to panic. Crab-like, she scuttled backwards 
until her back came to rest against the opposite side. In 
abject terror, she whirled and began to pull at the planking. 
The nascent muscles of her arms and shoulders flexed as she 
strained. Her already strong fingers, injected with even more 
strength by fear, ripped away the planking until the inside of 
the thatch was revealed. She drove her hands into it, heedless 
of the cuts she was receiving, and began to tear it out in 
great handfuls, coughing and spluttering as she did so.
  Finally, she felt the cool night air on her face. She 
enlarged the hole she had made, and scrambled out onto the roof 
at the rear of the cottage. She slid down to the eaves, and 
dropped the six feet or so to the ground. She landed awkwardly, 
and twisted her ankle, but had no time for the pain just now. 
She sprinted away until she had put a good thirty yards between 
herself and her home, before she could turn and look.
  The cottage was, by now, well alight. Tall flames licked from 
the thatch, crackling and spitting fat sparks high into the 
air. Brenhya tucked herself under a hedge and watched, the 
tears coming in a never-ending flood. Her family was gone. Her 
home was gone.
  And all she could do was watch them burn.

  It was a long night. 
  Brenhya sat under the hedge. She had eventually stopped 
crying, but her face, dirty and sticky from smoke and drying 
tears, was a mask of anguish. She had stared unblinking as the 
roof collapsed, watched as the walls burned and crumbled, and 
the forge, her Daddy's pride, had been reduced to cinders. And 
now, as she sat unmoving, the last tendrils of smoke curled up 
from the dying embers of what had once been a happy family 
home.
  She heard something. It might have been a man, moaning softly 
in pain. 
  She stood up, and gasped as pain from her twisted ankle 
lanced up her leg. Her filthy shift was plastered to her body, 
and innumerable tiny cuts crisscrossed her dirty arms and legs. 
She limped around the remains of the cottage until she came to 
the front.
  It had been a night of horror, but nothing had prepared her 
for what she now saw.
  A tall elm tree stood on the edge of the woods, a little way 
from the house. Five summers ago, her father had rigged up a 
swing-seat from one of the lower branches. It was only a thick 
plank suspended from two strong ropes, but it was big enough 
for all three of them, and the family had often spent the mild 
summer evenings swinging gently in it, talking companionably, 
sometimes with their supper on an old trestle table nearby.
  The swing was now gone, pressed into service as a stretcher 
to carry away the destroyed lieutenant. But, before leaving, 
the raiders had made sure that anyone passing this way would 
take note of the penalty for resistance.
  On the broad trunk of the elm, fixed in an "X" position by 
long iron brads through hands and feet, Harroc hung like so 
much dead meat. Bruised, battered, and dying, unable to cry out 
due to the severity of the beating he had received, he had been 
hung there, forced to watch as his home and, as far as he knew, 
his entire family, were consumed by flames. And now, his head 
lolling forward on his great chest, he was mercifully 
unconscious. Brenhya squealed.
  'Daddy!' 
  She ran to him, the pain in her ankle forgotten, and fell to 
her knees, weeping, at the foot of the tree.
  She had to get him down, had to make him better. What to do? 
Brenhya got to her feet, almost in a daze, and went to the 
remains of the forge. She hunted through the still hot ashes, 
searching, hoping that some of the more robust tools had 
survived. 
  Eventually, she found what she was looking for. A strong pair 
of pincers that Harroc had used to pull the clenches from 
horseshoes prior to removal. They were blackened and charred, 
but had escaped the searing heat sufficiently to prevent them 
becoming welded shut. They were stiff, but a bit of work with 
her hands, repeatedly opening and closing them, soon freed them 
up enough to be useable. 
  Bracing her father against the tree with one hand on his deep 
chest, Brenhya set to work to remove the big nails from his 
hands. First one, then the other came free, and his body, now 
held only by the brads in his feet, began to topple forward.
  Brenhya was ready for this, and manoeuvered her shoulder 
under him so that he draped across her back. Supporting the 
weight of the big man in this way, she began to work on his 
feet.
  The nails here proved more difficult to dislodge, but finally 
they gave in to her efforts. She heaved up with her legs, and 
steadied the limp body of her father with an arm around his 
thighs. Carefully, and a little unsteadily due to her injured 
ankle, she carried him over to where the trestle table still 
stood and gently, ever so gently, laid him on it.
  She went to the well. The bucket was gone, the rope used to 
help strap the lieutenant to the litter. Casting about, she 
found a length of binder twine that might just reach the water. 
She tore a wide strip from the bottom of her dress, leaving 
just sufficient material to cover her thighs, and wadded it 
into a ball. Then, she tied it to the end of the twine and 
lowered it down. It was just long enough, and soaked up some of 
the water. Most of it was lost on the way back up, and she 
carefully carried her makeshift sponge in her cupped hands.
  Cradling Harroc's battered head in one arm, she gently forced 
a few drops of water between his cracked lips and bathed his 
forehead with the wet cloth.
  Harroc moaned and stirred slightly. His eyes flickered open. 
His gaze was glassy at first, but seemed to clear and focus 
after a little while.
  'Brenhya!', he croaked. 'Thought you .......... Thank gods. 
Your mother?' Brenhya gulped.
  'Gone', she choked out. Harroc's face creased up, and he gave 
a shudder.
  'Oh, Galliane!', he sighed. 
  Brenhya covered him as best she could with the charred 
remains of a horse blanket. She squeezed his hand.
  'I have to go find a healer', she announced gently.
  'No. Too late. Don't leave me'.
  'I have to'. She stroked his hair. 'You'll die, if I don't'.
  From somewhere, Harroc found the strength to hold on to her 
hand.
  'Brenhya', he wheezed. 'I want you to be very brave'.
  'Yes, Daddy?'
  'I'm dying'.
  'No ......'
  'Shh. I am. It's true. And you have to listen very 
carefully'.
  'I'm listening, Daddy".
  'When I'm gone, I want you to go away'. Brenhya stuck out her 
bottom lip.
  'No, Daddy. I don't want to'.
  'Shh. There's a good girl. You must. I want you to go north. 
Find the Sisters of Themyra. Tell them what's happened. They'll 
look after you'.
  'I don't want to. I want to stay here, with you'.
  Harroc's voice was growing quieter, rasping with effort.
  'You must. You can't stay here. Promise me you'll go?'
  No reply.
  'Promise?'
  'Oh, Daddy, I .... I promise'.
  'Good girl. Is there anymore of that water?'
  'No, but I can fetch some if you want'.
  'Please'.
  But as Brenhya turned away, Harroc gave a massive shudder. 
His eyes turned up in his head, his last breath escaped his 
lips and, finally at peace, he lay still.
  'Aaaaaaaaaah!' Brenhya's cry of girlish anguish split the 
silence. Wracked by huge sobs, she threw herself on his massive 
chest, pounding with her fists.
  'No! No! Daddy! No! Come back!'
  All the fear, all the anger, all the grief of her terrible 
ordeal, she poured out on his chest, weeping, weeping as if she 
would never stop, bawling her misery, sobbing her hurt.
  After what seemed a long time, the sobs began to fade away, 
subsiding into soft moans and eventually falling silent. She 
just stood quietly, with her head laid on her father's dead 
chest.
  Finally, she gave a great sigh, and stood. It seemed as 
though a great change had come over her. When she raised 
herself from Harroc's body, an expression of calm serenity was 
on her face, the expression of a much older girl. In the few 
hours since her mother had boosted her into the loft, she had 
matured far beyond her years. She had found a new kind of 
strength, one that she had never had before. A deep, 
determined, inner strength; an internal core of new resolution.
  Although she did not know it at the time, she would never cry 
again.
  With a deep sigh, Brenhya returned to what was left of the 
forge. Among the cinders and ashes, she found the remains of a 
spade, it's wooden handle burnt completely away. 
  She went to the house and stood among the ruins. She was able 
to make out the blackened shapes of eight human bodies, but all 
were burnt beyond recognition so she was unable to identify 
either Galliane or Ardwy.
  Resignedly, she turned away. She walked over to the elm tree, 
and found a relatively soft patch of ground near it's base. 
Using the handle-less spade, she toiled for several hours, 
until she had dug a grave as deep, as long, and as wide as she 
could manage.
  She went back to the trestle table. Wordlessly, she slipped 
an arm under the massive corpse's shoulders, and another under 
it's knees. Carefully she lifted it, her biceps flexing roundly 
as she did so, and carried it to the grave. Almost 
reverentially, she laid her father to rest, and covered him 
with the rich, loamy topsoil. For want of a headstone, she 
marked the grave with the spade, ramming its blade almost six 
inches into the ground.
  For a long time, Brenhya stood over the grave in silence. She 
had done a lot of growing up in the last few hours. She made a 
silent promise.
  'Daddy. Mommy. I love you both. Daddy, I'll keep my promise. 
I'll go to find the Sisters of Themyra. But one day, I'll grow 
up. When I'm grown, I'll come back. I'll find the men who did 
this to you. And that Boulic. I'll never forget what they did. 
I'll never forget Mommy's screams. I'll never forget that they 
nailed you to a tree and made you watch them burn your house 
down
  'Boulic is the one. The men - they're guilty. But Boulic is 
the one who made them do it. He's the one who caused all this. 
He's the one who kicked Mommy when she was already dead. And, 
Mommy, Daddy, I promise you this.
  'He'll pay.
  'Oh, he'll pay'.