BRENHYA 11
By HECK


Thanks to Diana the Valkyrie for her valuable help in getting me past my writer's 
block, and without whom the rest of this story would have been ...less magical.
Comments to heck@euphony.net

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The first rays of a midsummer sunrise silhouetted the mountain chain to the east 
and cast a golden glow on the forest that lined the southbound roadside. The last 
of the night creatures made their way back to their cosy dens to sleep away the 
long hours of daylight, while the dawn chorus lent a musical, if raucous 
introduction to the day
  At the half-jog that was the normal Warrior's marching pace, Brenhya made 
good speed, her long stride devouring the leagues like wildfire. She never looked 
back at the ruined shell of what had been the closest thing she had had to a home 
town for the past nine years or so. Her mind was totally focussed on the road 
ahead, on the task she had set herself. Her tireless legs could keep up the pace all 
day, if need be.
  Once or twice, her Warrior's instinct sent her ducking into the trees well before a 
cart, or party of itinerants, passed by. She was anxious to avoid any encounter that 
might delay her progress. Travelling all day, and most of the nights, stopping to 
snatch a couple of hour's sleep where she could, the distances between villages 
and hamlets vanished in her wake like rocks in a stream.
  At each village, the work of the Raiders was to be seen. Without exception, they 
were burned and looted and every living thing, man, woman, child, horse, cow, 
pig, put to death. Often most horribly. Brenhya found the occasional survivor, and 
did what she could to ease their pain, but did not allow these distractions to delay 
her unnecessarily from her chosen path.
  As the nights lengthened and summer slid seamlessly into autumn, it became 
obvious to Brenhya that she was on the trail of one band of Raiders. The scenes of 
devastation she came across had a quality of sameness, a repetition of method, 
that spoke of the deeds of a single group. What was also becoming obvious was 
that she was gaining on them. The bodies were more fresh, the ashes less cold, the 
carnage more recent.
  One afternoon, as she approached a curve in the road, she smelled the smoke and 
saw the glow of fires still burning. Increasing her pace, she slipped into the trees 
just before she rounded the bend, her acute hearing picking up the sound of raised 
voices, some of them singing. As silent as a panther, she snaked her way through 
the trees. At the edge of the hamlet, she stowed her saddlebag, quiver, and the 
Wheelbow, and shinned up a stout elm and edged out along an overhanging 
branch until she could view what was happening below. The meagre gathering of 
homes consisted merely of eight cottages lining the sides of the road; all had been 
put to the torch, two were still ablaze. Very few bodies lay about, and Brenhya 
assumed they had all been indoors when the raiders struck, never giving them a 
chance to escape death in the infernos their homes had become. What bodies there 
were, three in all, all female, one no more than a child, were obviously dead, 
obviously violated, and casually left to lie where they had died.
  Right in the middle of the road, confident that they would not, could not be 
opposed, a group of ten Raiders had built a fire and were roasting a pig on a 
makeshift spit. They had not even bothered to post guards; that, Brenhya thought, 
would be their downfall. They had found a few wineskins from somewhere and 
had put them to good use. One was singing a ribald song, the head of another 
lolled on his chest as he dozed drunkenly.
  'C'mon', said one. "Let's have some o' that pork'. They all sat on folding camp 
stools in a circle surrounding the fire.
  'Hang on', said another, who was in charge of turning the spit. 'Nearly ready'.
  'That's the trouble with him', said another, nudging his neighbour in the ribs and 
giving an arch wink.
  'What's that?, said the chef. 
  'You found that pig, and you didn't know whether to cook it, or fuck it!'
  They all laughed uproariously at this, all except the butt of the joke, who glared 
daggers at the joker. He lurched to his feet.
  'Well, you can ...', he began. His words were cut off by the sudden apparition 
that appeared from nowhere. A tall figure that seemed to drop from the skies to 
land right in front of him. 
 'Hello, boys'. The apparition spoke with a rich contralto.
  For an instant, the men were rooted to the spot by Brenhya's sudden appearance 
among them. In that instant, she drove the heel of her hand up under the cook's 
chin, snapping his neck in the process, lashed out a foot to connect with the killing 
spot on the temple of another, and stove in the throat of a third with the edge of 
her other hand. He toppled from his seat, gurgling horribly.
  As the remaining men got to their feet, Brenhya hurdled the fire, roasting pig and 
all. The toe of her leading foot sent a man reeling backwards, and as she landed so 
she sprang into the air again, spinning like a top to take two more out of the action 
with high kicks. She ducked to the side as a man aimed a fist at her head. She 
grabbed his wrist in an unbreakable grip and flipped him over. He landed on top 
of the pig and, with it, went crashing into the fire. The hot embers, disturbed by 
his sudden arrival, burst into life, engulfing his body in flame. Back broken, he 
could not escape the fire. His terrible screams were soon choked off as the searing 
heat shrivelled his larynx.
  Three men were still standing. But not for long. They had seen enough to know 
that this was one fight they were not going to win, and took to their heels. As they 
ran, they reminded Brenhya of nothing so much as three kicked dogs with their 
tails tucked firmly between their legs.
  She gave chase. The men had a brief head start, but her long legs quickly 
overhauled the one in the rear. She tapped his ankle with her foot, and he tripped 
himself over his own heels. He gave an "oof!", as he hit the road.
  Brenhya grabbed a wrist and an ankle. He yelled, unheeded, to his mates as he 
felt himself lifted and begin to be spun around. Her powerful arms held him at 
shoulder height as she twirled him around and around like a hammer-thrower, 
finally letting go as he attained maximum speed. His body sailed through the air 
and into the trees, and even Brenhya could not help flinching as he slammed into a 
thick trunk.
  'That's got to hurt!', she said to herself as his body slid down the bole to lie 
motionless at its foot. The last two Raiders were vanishing dots in the fading light 
as they made good their escape.
  'Tell Boulic Brenhya sent you!', she called after them. Quickly, she returned to 
the fire to check on the other men. Four, including the man in the fire, were dead. 
The other three were definitely out of the picture for now, and would be for some 
time to come. She collected her belongings.
  The roast pig, borne down by the weight of the charred corpse on top of it, was 
largely burned and blackened, but the hindquarters had been shifted clear of the 
hottest flames, and were perfectly cooked. "No use letting good food go to waste", 
Brenhya said to herself as she tore the two haunches from the carcase. Taking a 
sheet of waxed parchment from her saddlebag, she wrapped one of the haunches 
and stowed it for later use. She took a huge bite from the other joint, rich juices 
running down her chin, and began to chew as she set off back down the road.
  Brenhya stopped in mid-chew and mid-stride as she passed the last cottage. She 
cocked an ear. A noise? She listened intently. No, perhaps not.
  She had not taken three steps when she stopped again. There it was again. A low 
moan, somewhere off to her left. Warily, holding the pork more like a cudgel, 
now, than a tasty meal, she crept towards the sound. She edged along the smoke-
blackened wall of the cottage, and peered around the corner.
  Two figures lay behind the cottage. One, an old man wearing a long black robe 
embroidered with esoteric sigilli that were hardly visible through the filth, lay 
propped against the wall. A few crisped tufts were all that remained of his once 
long white hair and beard, and vivid burns showed on his face and hands. These 
were the least of his problems, though.
  Between two of his ribs, just to one side of his heart, a dagger penetrated his 
chest. His lung on that side had deflated, and his chest cavity was rapidly filling 
with blood. His breathing, rapid and stertorous, brought little bubbles of red to his 
lips.
  The other figure was that of a young man, no more than a youth, really, of 
approximately Brenhya's age. He lay face down in the grass, unconscious, but 
breathing easily, and apart from some sooty smears on his clothing and exposed 
skin, seemed undamaged. His black jerkin had similar markings to the other's 
robe. 
  The old man turned pained, fearful eyes to Brenhya as she stepped around the 
corner, pork joint falling to the ground, forgotten now. His breath wheezed as she 
squatted at his side. She laid a gentling hand on his arm.
  'Don't be afraid', she said quietly. 'I'm here to help, if I can'.
  She ran an eye over his injuries. As a Warrior, she had been trained in battlefield 
first aid and triage, and had quite an extensive knowledge of such injuries and 
their treatment. The burns were not much of a problem but the dagger wound, she 
knew, was a different story. If she was to save him, she would have to remove the 
dagger and replace it with a drain to let the blood out of his chest. But given the 
fact that she had nothing to use as a drain, and that he would probably bleed out 
into his own chest in the meantime, told her that his chances of survival were 
virtually nil. The state of his respiration told her that the buildup of blood pooling 
inside was already causing pressure on his other lung and heart.
  'No ...use', the old man wheezed. 'I'm finished. See to ...the boy'.
  'He'll be OK', Brenhya reassured him. 'He's only had a bang on the head'.
  'He's a ...good ...lad. A bit ...clumsy at ...times.' The old man tried to smile, and 
gave a hard cough instead that caused a grimace of pain. 'Have to shout ...at him 
to ...get him moving sometimes'.
  'Shh', Brenhya said. 'Don't try to talk'.
  'No. Have ...to tell you ...something. He's my app ...my apprentice. A good 
...lad, but he needs looking after. Will you ...see he's all right?'
  'If I can', Brenhya agreed. 'Apprentice at what?'
  'I'm a wi ...a  wizard. Can't you ...tell by the sigilli on my ...coat?'
  'A wizard?' Brenhya was skeptical. 'There are no wizards any more. They were 
all wiped out in the Wars of the Mages, hundreds of years ago'.
  'All ...the great wizards, yes. But ...there are a few ...of us left'. His voice was 
getting quieter, costing him more effort. 'Hedge-wizards, we're called. Local 
...wisemen. Nowhere ...near the pow ...the power the Great Ones had. But use 
...ful in our own way'.
  'If you're a wizard, why don't you use your magic to heal yourself?' The old 
man shook his head.
  'Can't ...use it ...on yourself'.
 'And he's an apprentice wizard?' Brenhya asked, indicating the boy. The old man 
gave a small nod.
  'Got all the ...the theory off pat. Not ...so ...good ...at practice ...though'. He was 
fading fast.
  'What do you want me to do with him?'
  'Find ...other ...wizard ...finish ...training ...will ...help?'
  'I have something I must do', Brenhya said. 'But I'll take him with me, and if we 
come across another wizard ...' Her voice trailed off as she realised the old wizard 
was beyond hearing her any more. She closed his eyes.
  'Sleep well, old man'.
  The young wizard stirred. Brenhya went to his side. Gently, she turned his lean 
body over and cradled his head in her lap. A livid bruise showed on his forehead.
  She was looking at a face that was not handsome, but pleasant enough in its own 
way. Thin, with rather thick lips under a long, straight nose, and a wispy, downy 
beard. Wizards were supposed to have beards, she guessed. Long mousy hair, 
already showing signs of receding, covered his quite large head.
  The building behind her groaned, and another of its timbers went crashing down 
inside. Brenhya knew it was unsafe to be this close to a wall that might collapse at 
any minute, so she scooped the young man up in her strong arms and carried him 
down the road with ease.
  They had gone about 150 yards when the lad opened one eye. He raised a hand 
to his brow.
  'Oh, my head', he groaned.
  'Hello', Brenhya said. 'Welcome back'.
  'Thank you'. He tried to turn over, as if he were in bed. Brenhya restrained him.
  'What's wrong?, he asked. 'Why can't I move? Wait a minute. Are you carrying 
me?'
  'Looks like it'.
  'Well, stop it. Put me down!'
  'You've had a nasty bang on the head. It might be best if you just enjoy the ride 
for a while'.
  The youth raised his head to look her in the eye, much more awake now.
  'I do not need to be carried!', he said indignantly. 'If you'll just put me down I 
...where's my Master? What have you done with my Master?' Brenhya stopped. 
Her look was sympathetic.
  'He didn't make it'. She felt his body tense in her arms. 'He's at rest, now'.
  His eyes welled with tears. He did not quite know what this woman had to do 
with it all, but from her manner he knew she was not responsible for his mentor's 
death.
  'I hoped', he choked. 'But inside I really knew. He didn't really have a chance, 
did he?' Brenhya shook her head. The lad swallowed his tears. 'Put me down. I 
have to go bury him'.
  'It's not safe. The cottage may come down any minute', Brenhya told him. He 
squirmed in her grasp.
  'Put me down!', he said firmly. 'If it was your Master, you'd want to bury him, 
wouldn't you?'
  Brenhya sighed.
  'I suppose so', she agreed.
  'So, then. Put me down, please'.
  Brenhya set him on his feet. Standing, he was almost as tall as Brenhya, but in a 
skinny, round-shouldered, gangling, uncoordinated sort of way.
  'Whoa!' He reeled on rubbery knees. Brenhya grabbed his arm to steady him.
  'A bit dizzy?', she enquired. He put a hand to his head.
  'Just a bit. I'll be all right in a minute'.
  'Just take your time'.
  The young man took several deep breaths. Brenhya folded her arms as she 
watched.
  'So', she said. 'An apprentice wizard, eh? What's your name, Apprentice 
Wizard?' The youth took another deep breath and drew himself up to his full 
height.
  'Lonier Andaret Eaadras Tilluth', he intoned with pride. Then his shoulders 
slumped a little. 'That's my Occult Name', he explained. 'But most people just 
call me Lon'.
  'Well, hello, Lon. I'm Brenhya'.
  'Charmed, I'm sure', said Lon in a halfcocked attempt a gallantry. 'Now, about 
my Master?'
  'Yes. Let's get it done'.
  The two returned to the cottage. Lon's eyes filled with tears again, and his lower 
lip quivered as he looked on the body of his erstwhile master. He sniffed and 
rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
  'He was a good Master to me', he told her. 'I just wish ...' Brenhya laid a 
comforting hand on his shoulder. He sniffed again. 'Come on. Let's get on with 
it'.
  'First thing to do', Brenhya said, 'is to move him away from that wall. It's going 
to come down any minute. It's all right'. She held him back. 'I've got it'.
  Brenhya approached the corpse and squatted beside it, preparing to lift. There 
was a ominous creak, and the wall began to topple forward to crush whatever was 
caught beneath. The Warrior jumped to her feet and braced her back against the 
wall. A few stones fell from its top but its collapse was temporarily halted.
  'Get him out of here!', she called to Lon. He stood with his mouth hanging open. 
'Now!'
  Lon was galvanised into action by her sharp command. He grabbed the dead 
wizard's feet. The distal ends of the wall started to crumble and collapse, the 
centre section still supported on Brenhya's sturdy back.
  'Quick as you can!', she snapped. Lon dragged the old man's body clear of the 
wall and several feet away.
  'Clear!', he called. With a backward heave, Brenhya leapt clear. The wall 
tumbled down missing her escaping heels by inches. She ran her forearm across 
her brow.
  'I'll find a suitable spot', she said. 'You go and find something to dig with'.
  'Hmm?'
  'Something to dig with?'
  'Oh, yes. Right'.
  Lon wandered off. Brenhya cast around. She found a shaded spot under a tree, 
and carried the body over. Lon returned in a little while, bringing a pickaxe with 
him. Brenhya indicated the spot.
  'That will do nicely', Lon said, removing his jerkin. He spat on his hands and 
picked up the pick. His thin, white body, with its stringy muscles, was not weak, 
but neither was it strong. He seemed to be all joints and not fully in charge of any 
of them. He raised the pick above his head and brought it down with all his 
strength. The point penetrated the ground at least three inches. Brenhya watched 
in amusement as the youth repeated the action. She stood, and shed her weapons 
and shoulder armour. 
  'Let me', she said, laying a hand on the haft. 'We'll be here all day, at this rate'. 
Lon shuffled his feet and rubbed his nose.
  'I'm still a little dizzy. But I can do it'.
  Brenhya gave a half-smile, cocked a hip, and held out her hand.
  'Well, OK', he said. 'But if I wasn't still recovering ...'
  'Sure', Brenhya agreed. 'Now just sit down over there'.
  Lon sat on a tussock. As he watched, Brenhya hefted the pick and began to 
swing it in long, easy actions, driving the point to its full depth, pulling free large 
chunks of the clayey earth. In the twilight, the sheen of fine sweat that soon 
developed on her body accentuated the roll and play of her muscles as she 
worked.
  Lon found himself fascinated by the movement of her glorious body, and despite 
his grief he felt a distinct swelling in his groin. He had been carried by this 
woman, and had seen her hold back a collapsing wall, yet the sheer strength and 
muscularity of her had failed to dawn upon him. Until now. Wide eyed and slack 
jawed, he watched her power in action. She was clearly much stronger than him, 
than anyone he had ever met, yet despite her cold eyes was obviously capable of 
great compassion and gentleness. He had never seen a woman like this, had never 
even thought that there could be a woman like this, and found the unique 
combination of femininity and strength stimulated him in ways he had never 
imagined. And her face! So very, very lovely, a perfect compliment to the beauty 
of her body. He became vaguely aware that she was talking to him.
  'Sorry, what?'
  'I said, what happened here today?' She spoke without interrupting the rhythm of 
her work.
  'I'm not sure. Ralagant and I were indoors when we heard the racket. This is 
Ralagant here, my Master'. He choked as he indicated the dead wizard. 'We had 
heard rumours of the Raiders, but never believed they would bother about a place 
as small as this. We came out to see what was going on, and there were all these 
men, and houses were on fire. One of them did something to Ralagant, I guess he 
must have stabbed him. Then I remember nothing else until I woke up and you 
were carrying me down the road. They must've taken me out then. I don't know 
how my Master got burned. They must have thrown him in the cottage. I don't 
know anything else'.
  Brenhya stepped out of the hole she had dug. It was about two and a half feet 
deep.
  'That will have to do. It's getting too dark to do any more. We can build a cairn 
on top to keep the wolves and foxes out'. She picked up the body and laid it 
gently in the grave. Lon came to help her cover the lifeless form.
  'You probably know more about what happened after that than I do', he said. In 
a flat, emotionless voice, Brenhya told him what she had seen. As they piled 
stones from the collapsed wall on top of the grave, the tears flowed freely down 
his face, and continued to do so when she told him what his Master had said.
  'That's very kind of you. You don't have to take me with you, if you don't 
want'.
  'Yes I do. I promised. But you'll have to keep up. And we need to get some 
sleep, right now'.
  She replaced her armour and collected her weapons. They repaired to the only 
near intact building, and Brenhya cleared a space to rest. Lon continued to weep, 
following her about like a lost puppy. She sat down with her back against a wall, 
and took Lon in  her arms, laying his head on her leather-clad breast.
  'Let it all out', she said, and he did so, weeping hard and long for his lost Master, 
his lost home.
  'I owe him so much', he sobbed. 'He took me in when I was a homeless child, 
taught me about The Art, gave me a future'. His hand found her bicep, hard and 
round even when relaxed, and found comfort in the feel of it. Brenhya read 
nothing into it. 'I don't know what's going to happen to me, now'.
  'You're going to come with me, and we'll find another wizard to complete your 
apprenticeship'.
  Lon wept late into the evening, finally crying himself to sleep. Brenhya cradled 
him on her shoulder all night, dozing, but watchful.

  In fact, Lon managed to keep up quite well.
  They travelled many days, but found no more evidence of the Raiders, and 
Brenhya was satisfied that she had dealt with the band that was travelling this 
road. There was said to be a wizard at Kelstion, but when they got there they 
found that he had come to the end of his long natural life some five years ago. 
They spent a couple of days there anyway, resting up and purchasing supplies for 
their assault on the desert.
  The night he had spent crying in her arms had proved to be something of a 
catharsis for Lon, and he had showed himself to be a loyal and amusing travelling 
companion. He insisted on carrying the saddlebags, which was something of an 
advantage to Brenhya as it left her freer to use her weapons if need be, and she 
even allowed him to carry the Wheelbow, reasoning that she could bring it into 
play more quickly if he was carrying it than if it were slung across her back.
  For his part, Lon had come to idolise this tall, powerful woman who had become 
his saviour. He was in love with her wonderful body and gorgeous face, her 
flowing chestnut hair and her graceful movements, but more than that he was in 
love with her spirit; her controlled determination, her compassion, her air of calm. 
He knew she was like a cocked crossbow, cool and quiet when resting but capable 
of unleashing terrible energy at less than a second's notice. He followed her like a 
faithful dog, utterly loyal and adoring, content to be in her presence even though 
he knew that it was beyond his widest dreams that she would ever return his love 
in the way he felt about her.
  He found himself unable to keep his eyes from straying to watch her. The play of 
her muscles, the funny way she had of lifting an eyebrow or the corner of her 
mouth, the way she would push back her hair with the inside of her wrist, all acted 
like magnets to his vision. Often of an evening, when they had settled down for 
the night and sat opposite each other, Brenhya would look up from whatever she 
was doing to see him gazing at her across the fire with a far-off look in his eyes.
  It had been their second night on the road when Brenhya was given her first taste 
of his magical "prowess". They had moved away from the road, as was her habit 
at night, and found a tiny clearing in the forest. Brenhya decided it was safe to 
build a small campfire, and they had collected wood and kindling. She had 
gathered a small pile of the dry material and knelt beside it, striking her flint, 
when Lon stood up.
  'I can help', he said.
  'I don't need any help to strike a spark', she replied, but he shook his head.
  'No, no. I can do it with magic'. He looked smug. 'A simple spell, really'.
  Brenhya sat on her haunches, making a "go ahead" signal. He raised his hands 
above his head, making complicated gestures towards the kindling, his lips 
moving as he murmured the words of the spell.
  'Basman, durican, maltifal'. On the last syllable, he pointed at the tinder.
  A fat red spark dribbled from his fingertip and fell to the ground to sputter out its 
brief life in the grass at his feet. Brenhya raised an eyebrow.
  'Nice try', she commented as she took up her flint once more.
  'No, I can do it. Let me try again'.
  This time he screwed up his face in concentration and seemed to put a lot more 
effort into the gestures. The words were almost shouted.
  'Basman,  Durican, Maltifal!'  His finger stabbed dramatically.
  Brenhya threw herself backwards as a head-sized fireball blasted into the pile of 
tinder. It exploded with a dull "Whoomph!", and a pillar of flame as thick as a 
man's body speared twelve feet into the air. It roared briefly, singeing the leaves 
from the overhanging branches, before collapsing in on itself and dying, leaving a 
charred, blackened patch of earth to mark where it had been.
  Brenhya raised herself to a sitting position and treated Lon to a sardonic look. He 
shuffled his feet with embarrassment and scratched his head.
  'It's, er, it's a question of emphasis', he explained. 'You have to, er, you have to 
judge it just right'.
  'You don't say?'. Brenhya climbed to her feet and came to his side.
  'I can get it right', he said, drawing himself up to begin the gestures. She placed 
a firm hand on his arm.
  'I'm sure you can. You just need a little more practice. Away from me. Away 
from flammable things. For now, I can manage with my flint'.

  That had been their second night together. Now, they had been companions for 
nearly three weeks, and had become comfortable with each other. Lon was still 
infatuated with the woman he privately thought of as his own personal goddess 
and Brenhya, for her part, regarded Lon with the same affection one would hold 
for a favourite pet. She was fiercely protective of him, as he discovered one 
evening in Kelstion.
  It was their third night in the town. They had made all their purchases, were 
prepared to set out for the Destitution Desert the following day, and were at a 
table near the fire in a corner of the inn at which they had been staying. They had 
dined satisfactorily on meat and potatoes and a flagon of ale each. Beer was a new 
experience for Lon, and he slightly felt the effects of his single jar.
  Brenhya left the table for a short while. She made herself comfortable and 
washed her hands before returning. She came back to an unusual sight.
  Lon was on his feet, nose to nose with a huge behemoth of a man dressed 
entirely in bearskins so that it was difficult to know where the fur left off and his 
thick brown hair and beard began. The man was leaning forward in a threatening 
manner, and Lon was leaning back.
  'Have a care, sir', he was saying. 'I'll have you know I'm a wi...' His words 
were cut off abruptly by a strong hand that clamped over his mouth.
  'I'm sorry'. Brenhya addressed the big man. He stood a half-head taller than her 
and was twice her width. 'My friend was about to say he's a wimp'. She ignored 
Lon's hurt look. Her voice was calm and friendly. 'What's the trouble, here?' The 
big man looked at her scornfully.
  'Look, lads!', he announced to the company. 'It's a "warrior" woman! Or a 
woman who thinks she's a warrior!' He guffawed loudly. Many of the Inn's 
patrons joined in. A little muscle tightened in Brenhya's jaw, but she gave him her 
brightest smile.
  'We don't want to cause any trouble', she said. 'If you tell me what's wrong, I'm 
sure we can sort it out'. The man stabbed a finger into Lon's chest.
  'Your "friend" spilled my drink!'
  'Brenhya!' Lon butted in. 'He was six feet away! There's no way ...'
  'Lon! If the gentleman says you spilled his drink, we can easily replace it for 
him'.
  'Not good enough! I am Gurghan! And anyone who spills Gurghan's drink will 
fight! Or die where he stands!' Brenhya rolled her eyes heavenward.
  'Gurghan, Gurghan, Gurghan', she sighed. 'Look at him. You're twice his size. 
He wouldn't stand a chance. It would be slaughter'.
  'No difference! Honour must be satisfied!'
  'Shouts a lot, doesn't he?' Lon whispered. 'Oof!' Brenhya's hard elbow jabbed 
him in the ribs.
  'All right', she said to Gurghan. 'But you can't fight him. Let me take his place'.
  'I can't fight a woman!' Gurghan boomed.
  'Fair enough. Then armwrestle me. Will that satisfy your honour?' Gurghan 
burst into laughter.
  'Ha! Yes! It will be fun to beat you, "warrior" woman!' He turned, laughing, to 
the company. They yelled their encouragement. Brenhya raised her voice.
  'Two conditions', she announced. 'The loser buys drinks for the whole 
company'. The Inn erupted with approving cheers. 'And', she went on, 'win or 
lose, you leave Lon alone afterwards'.
  The man-mountain glared at her for a second. She met his gaze unflinching. He 
nodded.
  'Agreed! Darrian!', he called to the Innkeeper. 'Get ready to take the woman's 
order!' Gurghan shucked of his bearskin jacket to reveal a massive torso that was 
almost as hairy. Covered with a layer of thick fat, nonetheless he was a formidable 
figure with a broad chest and huge arms almost as thick as Brenhya's legs. 'Let's 
do this!' He took a seat at the table at which Brenhya and Lon had eaten.
  'Brenhya', Lon breathed in her ear. 'Even you can't armwrestle with this 
...mammoth! He'll hurt you!'
  Brenhya gave him a reassuring look as she removed her armour. Her superbly 
muscled arms and shoulders and her shapely body drew admiring glances, several 
gasps, and more than a few leers. She sat opposite the huge man. Both took a left-
handed grip on opposite ends of the table, and joined their right hands in a thumb-
grip. Brenhya assessed her opponent's strength from his grip.
  'Lon, you say "go". OK?' She looked at Gurghan for confirmation. He grunted 
assent. Lon leaned forward.
  'Ready ...GO!'
  The huge muscles of Gurghan's arm and the defined and full ones on Brenhya's 
raised and became rock hard as they took the strain. Gurghan's eyes opened wide 
as he realised that this woman was holding him, and was not going to be the 
pushover he expected. He gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts. Still she held 
his arm motionless, the powerful cables of her forearms and the round hardness of 
her biceps forming an immoveable obstruction to his efforts.
  Gurghan grimaced as he poured even more power into his arm. He was 
astounded that she continued to resist his efforts. After all, he had the advantage 
of leverage. Brenhya, too, was grinding her teeth, eyes screwed up with apparent 
effort. Sweat ran freely down both their faces.
 Three minutes into the contest, both their arms began to tremble with the strain, 
although Gurghan was unsure which of them was the cause of it. He gave a huge 
grunt as he poured the last of his strength into the battle.
  Finally! At last! The bar patrons began to shout encouragement, either to one 
combatant or the other, as he began to force her arm toward the table top. Slowly, 
inch by inch, Brenhya herself grunting now, he pushed her arm down, down, until 
her hand was no more than four inches from the table top ...
  ...and stopped. 
  Gurghan looked into Brenhya's sweaty face, eyes goggling with amazement. He 
could not believe that she had halted his steady push. She looked him in the eyes 
and flashed him a brilliant, wolfish smile. He felt his heart sink as he realised that 
this incredible woman had been playing with him! He had poured every ounce of 
his great strength into the contest, and she had stopped him, inches from victory. 
And now, the bitch was smiling!  
  Her already big, hard and round biceps suddenly became bigger, harder, and 
rounder as Brenhya sent an explosion of power down her arm. The massive man 
felt his arm being pushed back, back up to the upright position. He heaved and 
grunted, but was unable to halt the inexorable strength that was pushing his hand 
back. His mouth fell open as it dawned on him that this woman was going to win!
  Brenhya gave her competitor another bright, white smile, and sent yet another 
surge of power into her steely arm. Gurghan gave a gruff cry of agony as she 
slammed his knuckles into the table, There was an audible "crack!" as his thick 
arm broke just below the elbow.
  Immediately Brenhya let him go. He sucked the air through his teeth in a sibilant 
hiss of pain as he gathered his injured arm to his chest.
  'Innkeeper!', Brenhya called. 'Send for a healer for this man!'
  'Belay that, Darrian!', Gurghan countermanded. Shouting was his normal way of 
speaking, and the fact that he was in pain did not alter that. 'I owe this bar a round 
of drinks! Get them in!' Brenhya laid a gentle hand over his uninjured one.
  'You need to have that arm looked at', she said solicitously. 'Will somebody go 
for a healer?', she asked the room at large.
  'I'll go', said a voice from somewhere. Brenhya spoke quietly to Gurghan.
  'I'm sorry I broke your arm', she said.
  'No need! Another day, I would have busted yours! No compunction!'
  'Well, I hope you don't feel too bad that a "warrior" woman beat you'. She 
echoed his earlier sarcasm. He did not seem to notice.
  'There is no dishonour in being beaten by a stronger opponent! That the 
opponent, who happens to be the only person I've met who's stronger than me, is 
a woman, doesn't matter! Brenhya, isn't it?' She nodded. He dropped his voice to 
slightly less than a roar. 'You've made a friend this day, Brenhya. Any person 
who can stick up for someone weaker', he jerked his head at Lon, 'is an 
honourable person, and deserves the friendship of Gurghan!' He held out his 
undamaged hand. He and Brenhya clasped each others' wrists.
  'But...', Lon began. Brenhya shushed him. She realised that this was a solemn 
moment for the big man.
  'My house is your house!' Gurghan intoned. 'My strength is your strength! My 
life is your life!'
  'Your friendship honours me', Brenhya said, equally solemnly. 'My friend and I 
have to leave tomorrow, but I look forward to your company in the future'. This 
seemed to please the big man, and he grinned hugely. Brenhya released her grip 
and stood up.
  'Come on, Lon', she said. 'Let's go and get some sleep'.
  
  

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