BRENHYA 10
By HECK


Comments to heck@euphony.net

CHAPTER TEN

  As a town, Brandwick was finished. Wisps of blue smoke drifted through the 
ruined streets. An occasional glow from the dying embers of gutted buildings 
punctuated the darkness, while the stench of burning filled the air. Skeletal 
outlines of charred timber showed where people had, but a few hours ago, lived, 
loved, and raised their children. 
  Some buildings remained intact; not all had been burnt, but those that still stood 
had been ransacked, their contents looted, their occupants killed. The cobbled 
streets were littered with the dead and dying. Small knots of townsfolk, fortunate 
enough to have escaped the immediate attentions of the Raiders, huddled together 
in the shadows hoping against hope that their luck would hold. 
  A forlorn hope, as parties of Raiders prowled the empty streets and alleyways 
looking for survivors. Those that were lucky were killed immediately. Others, 
women for the most part, were robbed, and tortured or raped before being put to 
the sword.
  A tall figure moved in the night, darting from shadow to shadow, not ready to 
show itself yet. A scabbard containing a heavy broadsword hung at the waist, a 
quiver of heavy arrows across the broad back. A massive recurved bow was held 
lightly in one muscular hand. The figure was almost vibrating with alertness, no 
movement escaping the penetrating grey eyes.
  Brenhya, for it was she, flattened herself against a wall as she rounded the corner 
of a building. A light summer rain had begun to fall, and the cobbles were slick 
with wetness. She was heedless of the drizzle in  her face as she investigated what 
appeared to be a discarded bundle of rags lying in a puddle almost at her feet. She 
nudged it with a toe. A tiny, muffled cry emanated from the bundle. The young 
woman squatted on her haunches and twitched back the topmost rags.
  The round face of a fat, terrified old woman peered back at her, mouth open, 
prepared to scream. Brenhya clamped her strong hand across the old woman's 
mouth, cautioning her to be quiet.
  'Shh!', she hissed urgently. 'What are you doing here?' The old woman relaxed 
a little as she recognised a Warrior from the Hall.
  'I was trying to get away', she explained.
  'Well, you can't stay here. Come on. I'll see you to safety'.
  'No. I can't walk. I've twisted my ankle. That's why I'm lying here'.
  'Then I'm going to have to move you', Brenhya said matter-of-factly. 'Try not to 
cry out'.
  She scooped the fat woman up in her two powerful arms, and bore her easily 
back into the dark alley. A well-aimed kick smashed open a cellar door, and she 
carried her burden down the steps and laid her down in the darkest, furthest 
corner. She whipped off her long crimson cloak and bundled the old woman up in 
it. 
  'At least you'll be dry and warm, in here', Brenhya told her.
  'Thank you, Miss. I ...'
  'Be still, old mother. If you keep silent, you might just get out of this. I'll come 
back, if I can'.
  She cautiously raised her head above the level of the steps. The alley was empty.
  The livery was in a part of town that had escaped much of the burning, although 
not the looting and killing. Brenhya approached through an alley that opened 
almost opposite the big double doors of the stable, and scanned the street for 
Raiders. She could hear a commotion coming from the far end, where there was a 
small street-market, but no enemies were in sight.
  Her gaze fell upon the body of a big, corpulent man lying face down on the 
cobbles, not far from the livery. It looked familiar to Brenhya, and she crossed 
quickly to it, turning it over with one foot. Her suspicions were correct; it was 
Ped's father staring up at her with sightless eyes.
  'Ped!', she whispered to herself. She rushed to the stables and burst in through 
the door, sword in hand, and was stopped in her tracks by what she found.
  Probably because it contained horses and tack that would be of use to the 
Raiders, the livery had been spared much of the devastation to which the rest of 
the town had been subjected. The same could not be said of the son of it's owner.
  Hanging head-down from the same rope that he and Brenhya had climbed to 
reach the hayloft the first time they had made love, throat cut like a beast in a 
slaughterhouse, Ped dangled over a widening pool of his own blood.
  Brenhya hesitated only a second before she acted. Ped hung only a couple of feet 
above the ground, and Brenhya stepped up to him and wrapped one muscular arm 
about his waist, easing the weight from the rope about one of his ankles. With her 
sword, she sliced through the rope, taking his full weight under one arm as he fell. 
Still only using one arm, she carried him to one side, where she laid him down in 
the straw, making a check for signs of life that she knew was futile. One look at 
his face, congested purple where the remaining blood had pooled, told her he was 
long dead.
  She sheathed her sword and knelt at his side, cradling his head on her lap and 
stroking his thick, black hair, heedless of the blood that stained her hands and 
thighs. She gazed down at him. He had been her lover, her friend, and had died 
most horribly. Even so, only a marked tightening of her jaw betrayed any feelings 
she might be experiencing.
  She turned her head toward a noise at her back. Three men were framed in the 
doorway. She sighed, and got to her feet.
  'Here, lads!', one of them said. 'We've missed this one. She's a ripe one, too. 
Me first!'
  'Careful', one of his mates warned. 'She's one o' them Warrior women'.
  'So?', the third one asked. 'If we take her all at once, she'll be no trouble'.
  They all rushed at her together. Brenhya didn't even bother to draw her sword. 
Her trained Warrior's eye had appraised them in an instant, and she saw at once 
that they were disorganised and a little drunk.  Automatically, almost casually, she 
drove the stiffened fingers of one hand into the throat of the nearest man, crushing 
his larynx like cardboard. Even before he hit the floor, she grabbed the heads of 
the other two in her hands and slammed them together. They met with a wet 
crunch, skulls stove in like ripe melons.
  Three men were dead in less than that number of seconds. She gave her dead 
lover a last wistful glance, picked up the Wheelbow, and stepped back out into the 
street.
  The ruckus at the far end was still going on. Keeping to the shadows, Brenhya 
ran quickly in that direction. As she approached, she slowed, and hid herself in a 
dark doorway where she could see what was going on.
  At that end of the street was a public square where, since time immemorial, a 
small street market had been held once a week. It was usually a scene of friendly 
banter and camaraderie, as the stall holders vied with each other over prices and 
quality.
  This night, it was very different. The stalls had been overturned, the produce and 
craftwork ruined. The bodies of a number of stall holders and patrons lay about, as 
unheeded as the scattered goods. Several raiders were squabbling over the booty, 
and a group of six were tormenting a frail old man, passing him roughly from 
hand to hand around a circle with jeers and taunts. As Brenhya watched, the old 
man stumbled and fell. He was hauled harshly to his feet and sent on his way 
around the ring again with a hefty boot to the seat of his pants.
   She could count fourteen Raiders in the square. She was fairly sure she could 
take them all, but thought it wise to even the odds a little. She nocked an arrow on 
the string of her powerful bow, and moved to a slightly better position where she 
could see three of the Raiders more or less lined up. In a single practiced 
movement, she drew the bow and held it, waiting for the exact moment. Her great 
arm and shoulder muscles stood out in relief as she restrained the better than two 
hundred and seventy pound pull.  
  Soon, the moment was right and her targets were lined up perfectly. She loosed 
the bow, and the big arrow screamed through the air. It took the first man squarely 
in the centre of his chest, passed right through him, and the next man, and the 
next, to end up quivering in a wooden stanchion ten yards beyond.
  The Raiders were momentarily stunned as the sudden demise of their comrades 
took them completely by surprised. In that moment, Brenhya got off two more 
arrows, taking out three more men, and the old man managed to lose himself in 
the confusion.
  By the third arrow, the remaining eight Raiders had pinpointed where they were 
coming from and turned as a group. One, a big, heavyset man, obviously the 
ringleader, yelled an order.
  'Spread out! Don't stand in a group!' He faced the direction the arrows had come 
from. 'Show yourself!'
  The odds more to her liking and unable to make any more multiple kills, 
Brenhya laid down the Wheelbow and stepped into plain sight. She held her arms 
out to her sides, to show she had laid aside her bow. Her broadsword still nestled 
in it's well-oiled scabbard.
  At the sight of a woman, the Raiders visibly relaxed. They grouped together 
again and began to advance on her.
  'Big, strong men, aren't you?', Brenhya taunted. 'Picking on a poor old man! 
Where's the sport in that?'
  'There'll be more sport in you, I'm thinking', said the big man. 'Get her, boys!'
  It is an interesting fact that a large group of men is less likely to make the first 
move than a solitary fighter. The reason for this is, in a group, nobody wants to be 
the first to meet the victim. The outcome of the confrontation is pretty clear, that 
is, the larger group is going to win anyway, so why should "I" be the first to meet 
the singleton's sword, and perhaps die while "my" mates overwhelm him? So 
there is a momentary hesitation while they steel themselves to be first. A well 
trained fighter can take advantage of this, and do some serious damage while they 
are sorting themselves out.
  Brenhya was a well trained, emotionless, coldly efficient fighter, and was 
amongst them in that instant of uncertainty. Like an avenging demon, she whirled 
as she landed high spinning kicks and hard punches on heads and faces. In a 
matter of seconds, she was through them and out the other side, leaving three 
more dead or incapacitated, and others nursing sore ribs or bloody noses, 
dumbfounded as to what had just happened to them.
  Now she drew her sword, and before the last five could turn around she was 
among them again. Her sword found the belly of the big leader, ripping his guts 
open like a dressed chicken. As she withdrew, the same hand drove the pommel 
backwards under the ribcage of another man, stopping his heart with the force of 
her blow, then slashed round to carry the head from the shoulders of another. 
Using her extended arm and sword as a counterbalance, her left foot pistoned out 
into the face of the fourth, dropping him where he stood.
  The last standing Raider had seen enough. His sword fell from nerveless fingers 
as he wheeled and ran like a frightened rabbit, up the street toward the livery. 
Brenhya sheathed her sword and was after him in an instant, her long legs eating 
up the distance so that she was on him in a few yards. Her strong hand closed on 
the back of his tunic and jerked him off his feet. She slammed him down to the 
cobbles and pinned him from behind.
  'Where's Boulic?', she demanded. The man shook his head. Brenhya took a 
handful of his hair and forced his head back. 'I asked you nicely. I'll ask you just 
once more. Where's Boulic?'
  Obviously, the man was even more afraid of his master than he was of the 
immensely strong woman that held him. He began to struggle frantically and, 
although he was unable to dislodge his captor, managed to get a hand free and 
produced a knife from somewhere. He tried desperately to stab Brenhya by 
flailing wildly behind him, but she calmly caught his wrist and plucked the knife 
from his fingers. She turned him over and sat on his chest, pinning his arms with 
her knees.
  'You're not going to tell me, are you?', she asked. He shook his head, wild eyes 
darting about in the hope that someone, something would save him. 'Ah, well. 
When, if you see him, tell him Brenhya is looking for him. OK?' She did not give 
him time to reply. Her big fist slammed into his temple, a blow that could kill, but 
Brenhya hit him with controlled force, just sufficient to leave him unconscious for 
a long while.
  She examined the knife she had taken from the man. It was slim stiletto, it's 
four-inch blade of finely wrought steel, with a smooth pearl handle, a genteel, 
elegant weapon. She looked thoughtfully at the prone figure, back at the blade, 
then at the figure again. "Too nice for the likes of you" she thought, as she slipped 
the knife inside her brass wristguard.
  She retrieved the Wheelbow, and began a systematic search of the town, keeping 
in shadow, unseen. Three Raiders found themselves dragged backwards into dark 
places by an invisible strong hand, and asked the same question. They all refused 
to answer, and all were rendered unconscious for their pains.
  As the third man sank to the ground, Brenhya was startled by a gruff voice 
behind her.
  'I'd look to the Town 'All, was I you'
 Brenhya wheeled, and her sword was half out of its scabbard before she 
recognised the misshapen body and twisted features of Dirty Thom, a well known 
local beggar. Brenhya had often tossed a small coin into his tin cup, and had been 
rewarded by  stream of guttural curses. Thom was completely evenhanded in his 
social dealings, and cursed everyone with equal vicissitude regardless of their 
standing. He was also, it was said, a little mad.
  'Goddess, Thom!', she hissed. 'I could've killed you, then. What're you doing, 
skulking in the dark like that?'
  'Doin' whut I'm best at. Stayin' unnoticed. They buggers bin roarin' round town 
like banshees, but they never sees ol' Thom. There's folk's think I'm mad. Not so 
mad I couldn't look to meself an' keep out the way of they bastards, eh?'
  'What makes you think they're at the Town Hall?'
 'Wull, stands to reason, dunnit? Some bugger'd 'ave to be in league wi' them, 
else they would'n've bin able to come on us so sudden, like. It'd be them bloody 
bastard soddin' buggerin' Burghers up to the Town 'All, fer my money'.
  'You know, Thom, you might not be as daft as you let on'.
  'Cheeky young cow! Spare a groat fer a poor ol' man what's down on 'is luck?'
  Brenhya allowed herself a brief smile as she tossed him a coin.
  'Never miss a chance, do you, Thom?'
  'Comes of bein' a good businessman. Now, piss off'. There was no malice in 
this last remark, and Brenhya took it as being as close as Thom could come to 
wishing her good luck.
  
  In contrast to the timber buildings that, in the main, comprised the majority of 
the town, Brandwick Town Hall was a grand, stone-built edifice. Broad stone 
steps led up to a brightly lit, tall front door surrounded by fluted architrave and 
capped by the Town Seal finely carved from granite. The building itself was 
nothing more than a huge cube, four stories high, and in fact was quite ugly, but 
the interior was plush and opulent. The Burghers of Brandwick did themselves 
well.
  Brenhya observed the building from a vantage point of one of the few intact 
rooftops nearby. She had never been inside the building, but had walked several 
times around it's perimeter in the past and knew that the front door was the only 
visible entrance. At the moment, that was guarded by two Raiders. She could have 
taken them both out with the Wheelbow but that, she reasoned, would announce 
her presence too early. She wanted to be well inside before a hue and cry went up. 
She would have to find a different way in.
  By a circuitous route that avoided the guards' direct line-of-sight, Brenhya 
approached the civic hall. Feeling like a burglar, moving with the stealth of a cat, 
she stalked around the building, looking for something, anything, that would aid 
her access.
  At the rear of the building, at second floor level, she saw a window, open just a 
little, just big enough, she thought, to admit her. She found a safe place to leave 
the Wheelbow and quiver, and examined the wall with careful scrutiny.
  The wall was constructed using large stone blocks about eighteen inches by 
twenty-four, held together with limestone mortar. Years of weathering had eroded 
the pointing between the blocks, so that there were gaps a half-inch wide and an 
inch or two deep between each one. These gaps offered no kind of a toehold, but 
Brenhya thought she might get her fingers in there. She reached up with her right 
hand, and found she could insert her fingers to the depth of the first joint. Her 
bicep swelled hard and round as she pulled herself up. She repeated the 
maneouvre with her left hand, and found she could safely progress up the wall in 
this manner.
  By means of a series of what were, in effect, one-armed pull-ups, in a display of 
strength that would have astounded, had there been anyone there to witness it, 
Brenhya levered herself up the wall until she could get a hand on the sill of the 
open window. Raising herself up with that hand, she placed her other hand under 
the sash and pushed up carefully, trying to minimise any squeak it might make. 
After a slight resistance, the window slid up smoothly and she clambered in.
  Warrior or not, Brenhya was still a young woman and [although she herself 
would deny it] an extremely lovely one. She briefly examined her fingertips, and 
was a little dismayed by her torn and bleeding nails, before dismissing them as the 
irrelevant inconvenience she knew them to be. She quietly crossed the darkened 
room in which she found herself, and opened the door just a crack, listening 
intently for sounds of activity in the corridor beyond.
  Tall and muscular though she was, Brenhya was as lithe and flexible, as light on 
her feet, as any cat. Quickly, but in absolute silence, she slid out the door and 
traversed the corridor. At every turn, she stopped and used her sensitive ears to 
detect any sounds. She could hear distant voices.
  Her hearing told her the voices were coming from the floor above. She 
negotiated the passages until she found a flight of stairs, mercifully unguarded. 
"They must think they've got the place completely subdued", she thought, "to 
leave so few guards here. Sloppy".
  At the top of the stairs, a L-shaped corridor led off to the right. Brenhya made 
her way to the corner and allowed herself one eye to peer round it. A single guard 
was posted outside one of the rooms, but he was leaning against the wall and did 
not appear to be taking much interest. The voices were coming from within.
  Tucking herself back behind the corner, Brenhya gave a soft cough. She listened 
for a moment, but heard no movement. She coughed again.
 This time, she could hear the rustle of a leather tunic, as the guard shifted his 
weight. Then there were footsteps. He was coming to investigate.
  The guard was not overly concerned. Someone had coughed - so what? But he 
thought he better take a look, just in case. He sauntered down the corridor and 
turned the corner.
  He was met by the edge of Brenhya's hard-swung hand, timed precisely to catch 
him full in the throat as he rounded the turn, instantly choking off any cry he 
might make. Brenhya stepped forward and caught him as he fell, still anxious to 
avoid unnecessary noise as yet, and hauled him out of sight. She laid his body 
down beside the wall, and strode, confidently now, around the corner, stopping 
outside the room to listen. One voice was telling the other that Lord Boulic would 
be pleased with the cooperation his men had received. The other, toadying voice 
was assuring that he would serve Lord Boulic well.
  The door stood very slightly ajar. Through the gap, Brenhya could see a pair of 
booted feet, propped on a carved wooden desk. On the opposite side of the desk, 
she could see the chains of office of a well-fed Burgher resting on a fat stomach. 
The Burgher would not be a problem. She would have to take out the other first.
  The door burst open to her kick. Brenhya crossed the room in two long strides, 
before the man could react, and struck with the heel of her hand just under his 
nose, driving the nasal septum up into his brain, killing him instantly.
  'G....!', the Burgher began to shout, but was brought up short by the point of 
Brenhya's broadsword pricking his throat. The sword had seemed to appear with 
magical speed, and he found himself looking along the blade and the muscular 
outstretched arm that held it unwaveringly, into the most beautiful face he had 
ever seen, with the coldest eyes he had ever seen. She lifted a quizzical eyebrow.
  'I know you', she mused. 'You're ...Pranz. You used to be a guard at ...some 
town or other, about ten years ago'.
  She recognised him as the vulgar watchman who had been so rude when she had 
first met the Fool. He had aged, of course, and had put on about sixty pounds, but 
there was no mistaking it. He nodded carefully.
  'So what if I am?'
  'Nothing. Just a bit surprised to find you here. What I want to know is, where is 
Boulic?'
  'I ...er ...I don't know'.
  Brenhya put just a tiny bit more pressure on the blade. The point just pierced the 
skin of his jowly neck causing a small trickle of blood. She had correctly assessed 
him as the coward he was.
  'All right, all right! I'll tell you. He lives in the city, these days. Hardly ever 
leaves it. He orchestrates everything from there'.
  'Which city?'
  'The only one on this continent. Where've you been? Pallandry, of course'.
  'How do I get there? How far is it?' Brenhya sat down on the edge of the desk, 
sword still at Pranz's throat.
  'It's more than four hundred leagues. You go south, to Kelstion, then go 
southwest until you come to the Destitution Desert. Then, it's a hundred leagues 
straight across. You'll never make it though'.
  'You'd be surprised', Brenhya said. 'I'm quite resourceful. What makes you say 
that?'
  'The Vash Kansanar'.
  'Vash Kansanar?'
  'They're a tribe that live in the desert. It's said that they're the only ones tough 
enough for it'.
  'Well, if Boulic's men can cross it ...'
  'Boulic pays tribute', Pranz interrupted. 'His men get special dispensation. 
Anyone else is killed and eaten'.
  'Let me worry about that. Then where?' She moved to stand behind him.
  'Well, if you get across the desert, you turn south again, and carry on for two 
hundred or so leagues. You can't miss it. But that region is thick with Boulic's 
men.'
  'And Boulic will be there?'
  'Almost bound to be'.
  'Good. Because I'll be coming back this way, and if you've lied ...'. .
  'Does that mean you're not going to kill me?', Pranz gulped.
 Brenhya appeared to consider for a long moment. This man's collusion had 
caused the deaths of many innocent people, including many of her friends on the 
mountain. He was responsible, however indirectly, for rape, arson, looting, and 
torture. If anyone deserved to die, it was Pranz. In addition, if left alive he would 
sooner or later raise an alarm, which might result in the curtailing of her quest.
  But Brenhya could not bring herself to kill in cold blood.
  'Not today', she told him, and he let out his held breath. 'If you ever see Boulic', 
she continued, 'tell him Brenhya wants to see him'. 
  Brenhya grabbed his chains of office from behind and jerked them backward, 
jamming them down over his shoulders and around the chair back, effectively 
pinning him to his seat. She ripped five strips from the hem of his robe, and used 
them to tie his hands and feet to the chair and a wad of his own kerchief in his 
mouth. Then, she tore down the heavy velvet curtains and the long plush pull 
ropes. She draped the curtains over his person, and secured them with the ropes. 
Quite the little gift package, she thought.
  She found a reed pen and a sheet of parchment in the desk, and painstakingly 
wrote:
  "To Captain Vara, Greetings.
  "This man is a conspirator, responsible for the events here in town, and at the 
Hall. Please do with him as you see fit.
  "Regards, and all love, Brenhya"
  She pinned the note to the curtain with her own sergeant's owl insignia so that 
Vara, whom Brenhya knew would be coming as soon as she had restored some 
order at the Hall, probably by morning, would know it was genuine.
  Now that they were leaderless, Brenhya thought her Sisters would have little 
trouble in routing the Raiders out and putting them to flight. She went to the 
window, and jumped down the three stories.
  Another person might have been killed by such a leap, but the tremendous 
muscles in Brenhya's thighs acted like great shock absorbers and she landed on 
her feet like a panther and trotted lightly to where she had left her bow.
  She would have liked to stay a while, meet with her Sister Warriors and help 
with the survivors, but to do so would, in her eyes, have unnecessarily delayed her 
journey.
  Satisfied that she had significantly reduced the numbers of oppressors, as well as 
taking out their leader, she made her way to the town gates.

  At daybreak, five Raiders reeled out of bed. They were all hung over after a 
night of carousing that had included more than a few incidents of rape, but were 
diligent in their duty. They were to relieve their nightshift counterparts on watch 
at the main gate.
  They were three hundred yards away, walking down the long main street, when 
they noticed the gates stood wide open and broke into a trot.
  At one hundred yards they broke into a run as they made out a number of bodies 
at the gates.
  At twenty yards they stopped dead in their tracks.
 Two of their comrades lay dead, heads twisted at impossible angles. Another 
sprawled unconscious nearby, and a fourth sat propped against a gatepost, nursing 
a broken leg. 
  The fifth night watchman, also dead, had been hung on a nail in the opposite 
post, like an old coat.
  The relief watch walked cautiously forward, pikes at the ready. As they drew 
near, they could hear the injured man muttering to himself.
  He was mumbling something about an eight-foot tall female demon with the 
strength of twenty men.