BRENHYA 13
By HECK


What can I say? She's a ball-buster!
Comments to heck@euphony.net

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  To the two travellers, it began to seem that the desert would never end. Day after 
day they trudged onward, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other, battling 
the constant wind. The dried meat, from the antelope Brenhya had killed, stood 
them in good stead but ran out soon enough, and they were reduced once more to 
the scant rations they had brought with them. More seriously their water supply, 
even supplemented by Brenhya's ingenious still, was fast running out and she had 
strictly limited their intake to stretch the precious liquid as far as possible.
  The incredible strength and stamina of the Warrior woman had seen her through 
so far, without much damage. She had made an ointment from the rendered fat of 
the saiga which had helped them both, and the hoods of their cloaks alleviated 
much of the effects, but even so her skin was reddened and her lips were chapped 
through continuous exposure to the wind, and she was beginning to tire at last. But 
it was Lon she was more concerned about. He still kept pace with her, but it was 
only her strong arm about him and the added protection of her cloak that let him do 
so. He could no longer carry his share of what few belongings they had. He had 
stopped initiating conversation, speaking only when spoken to, and then no more 
than was absolutely necessary. At night she had almost to force him to consume a 
few pieces of dried fruit, before he wrapped himself in his bed roll to fall 
immediately into an exhausted sleep, lying as still as death until she wakened him 
next morning.
  Eventually, the morning came when he could not get up, and it took Brenhya all 
her time to wake him and keep him awake. It was just before sunrise when she 
shook him by the shoulder.
  'Lon. Lon! Wake up!' He briefly opened one eye but did not reply. 'Lon!'
  'No use', he mumbled. 'Can't go on. Leave me'. Brenhya sighed.
  'Sorry', she said, slipping an arm under his shoulders and knees. 'Can't be done. 
Come on. Up you come'. She lifted him up, surprised to find that it cost her a little 
effort. Even she was beginning to feel the effects of weeks of walking through a 
barren, hostile environment. However, even encumbered by all her weapons, 
saddlebag, both bed rolls, Lon's backpack, and the debilitated body of her 
companion himself, she was pleased to find that she actually made better time 
carrying him than letting him walk and half-carrying him as she had been 
previously. His head against the leather clad slope of her breast, she strode on at a 
steady pace, focussed on nothing except for the need to keep walking, determined 
that neither should die in this cold hell. 
  The sun was fairly high in the sky before she stopped to rest. She propped Lon 
against a large stone and forced a few drops of water between his cracked lips 
before drinking a little herself. He was barely conscious, now, and she was unable 
to get him to eat even one piece of dried fruit. She stroked his matted hair.
  'You're not going to die here, Lon', she told him, not even sure if he was capable 
of hearing her any more. 'I promise. You're not'. She got to her feet, scanning the 
landscape, looking for something, anything, that would give him the strength to 
survive. For the first time that day, her eyes focussed on the terrain, looked in the 
direction they were heading. A slow grin spread across her sore lips.
  A rainbow! She could actually see a rainbow! Faint and far in the distance, but a 
rainbow nonetheless, and where there was a rainbow there was rain! Water!
  Her gaze took in the sight with wonderment, tracking down the multicoloured arc 
to find its base. And there was a fuzzy line of black against the grey sky. A treeline! 
She rushed to her friend's side.
  'Lon!' She shook him awake. He opened his eyes, a mere slit. 'A rainbow! Trees! 
We're nearly there!' 
 'Tha's nice'. His eyes closed again. Brenhya observed him closely. His breathing 
was regular, but he was very weak.
  She picked him up again. The pervasive sense of dread she had been battling to 
suppress was lifted, and she walked on with renewed hope.

  Mathrum sat by the fire, whittling a length of elm into a new handle for his 
favourite dung fork. That fork had stood him well. He had owned it for forty years, 
and in all that time it had only required five new handles and three new sets of 
tines. They didn't make them like that anymore.
  He was an old man, Mathrum, well over seventy, but still strong and spry. His 
sage old face, creased and tanned like fine leather, showed the hardships of the 
fifty-odd years he had farmed his few cows and annual cereal crop on this small 
patch of land, about a league from the edge of the desert. A pair of gnarled, work 
hardened hands handled the whittling knife with an expertise born of years of 
experience.
  'Maze!', he called to his wife. They had been married for near on fifty years, now, 
and he had always called her "Maze". If asked, he would have had to think hard for 
a minute to remember her real name. 'You makin' a cup o' tea, Girl?' She looked 
up from her crochet work. She was making a sunbonnet for the latest in a long line 
of grandchildren that lived in the village nearby. 
  'Make it yersel', I'm busy'. Maze, who's real name was Amblerazie, was devoted 
to her cantankerous old husband but had never allowed him to bully her. Mathrum 
laid aside his task and hauled himself out of his rocker, hitching up the moleskin 
pants that were, not very efficiently, held up with a length of twine.
  'Damn' opstroperlous ould biddy', he muttered to himself as he filled the kettle 
from the kitchen pump. Outside, a heavy rain pattered against the window in the 
darkness. There was a knock at the door.
  'Now, oo's that at this time o' night?' Mathrum wondered. 'Maze!' he called. 
'Door!' He heard his wife heaving herself from her chair.
  'All right. I'm gettin' it.'
  Mathrum heard the familiar creak as the front door opened. Then his wife called 
him urgently.
  'Mathrum! Quick!'
  'All right, all right. Bloody ould besom! I'm comin'!' He put down the half-filled 
kettle with a clang and stalked through to the parlour.
  Just inside the doorway a tall woman stood, holding in her arms a young man who 
was obviously the worse for wear. Her garments were soaked, and the rain 
streaming down her face from her matted hair and dripping from the hem of her 
cloak was forming a widening puddle on the flagged floor.
  'Bring 'im in, bring 'im in'. The farmer swept the remains of supper from the 
table, clearing a place for the youth. The woman gently laid her burden on its 
scrubbed surface. 'Maze, get something dry for them to wear'.
  'Just see to Lon, first', the tall woman said, weariness showing in her voice.
  'Mathrum!' Amblerazie took charge of the situation. 'Get that kettle boiling for 
some 'erb tea, and don't come back in 'ere 'til I tell you'. She bent over the 
recumbent form on the table and began removing his clothes. 'You, Miss, get out of 
those wet things. Yer'll catch yer death. And yer can put them weapons somewhere 
out of my sight. I'll not have such things in my house'.
  'Brenhya', the younger woman said as she removed her armour and weapons. 
'Call me Brenhya. Where shall I put these?' 
  'I don't care', the old woman said. 'Stow 'em in the porch, if you like'.
  Brenhya did as she was told and returned to find that a pile of Mathrum's clothes 
had been laid out for her. She stripped off her wet clothing.
  'You'll have to make do with me 'usband's gear', she was told. 'None of mine'll 
fit yer'. The old lady had undressed Lon entirely, and was vigorously towelling his 
body, stimulating his circulation and drying him at the same time. She tossed 
another towel to Brenhya and flapped a hand at the fire.
  'Sit yersel' by the hearth', she instructed Brenhya in a kindly but no-nonsense 
voice. 'Get yersel' warmed through. I'll see about something to eat in a bit'.
  Brenhya pulled on the clean moleskin pants and canvas shirt. The pants stopped 
halfway down her calves, and the shirt was a little snug across her wide back, but at 
least they were dry. She sat in the rocker and  dried her hair on the towel.
  ''Usband!', the goodwife called as she pulled an almost identical set of pants and 
shirt on her charge, although in his case they were more than a little baggy. 'You 
can come in, now'. Mathrum backed through the door, laden with a tray of 
steaming mugs. He stood for a minute, staring at Brenhya who was now combing 
the tangles from her long hair. He watched the play of muscle in her arm as the 
thick cloth of his shirt was stretched by the expansion of her biceps. A tut and a 
glare from his wife reminded him of his task.
 ''Ere you are, Miss', he said, handing her a mug. She smiled her thanks, and 
winced a little as her poor, chapped lips protested at being stretched.
  'Next thing to do', the old woman said, 'is to get this lad into bed. No'. She held 
up a staying hand to Brenhya, who had started to rise. 'You've carried 'im enough 
for one day. Mathrum?'
  The old man grunted as he heaved the youth from the table and carried him 
through to the bedroom, his wife at his heels.
  Brenhya sipped the hot, refreshing herbal tea and relaxed in the warm glow of the 
fire. They had done it! They had survived the crossing of the Destitution Desert 
and, with the help of these kindly folk, Lon would be all right. She smiled at the 
thought. She had become accustomed to his company, so used to having him 
around, that the idea of losing him was repellent to her.
  In a few minutes, the old couple returned. Amblerazie went straight to the kitchen, 
and the sound of clattering pans could soon be heard. Mathrum joined Brenhya in 
the parlour.
  The name "parlour" was something of an euphemism for what was actually just a 
small room with a table, a chest of drawers, the rocker in which Brenhya sat, and a 
couple of hard wooden chairs. Mathrum drew one of these to the fire, at sat 
opposite Brenhya.
  'Missus'l be out in a minute', he explained. 'She's just gone to get yer some grub'.
  'That's very kind'.
  'Yer welcome, Miss'.
  'Brenhya'.
  'Beg pardon, Miss?'
  'Brenhya', she repeated. 'That's my name. Not Miss'.
  'Oh', the old farmer said. 'Right you are then, Brenhya'. Looking at the woman, 
beautiful despite her wind-burned face and chapped lips, he felt a stirring in his 
loins he had not felt for many a long year. 'And I'm Mathrum. And the missus is 
...um ... Amblerazie. But mostly, folks just calls 'er Maze'. He chortled quietly. 'I 
must say, Mi ... Brenhya, you fills out that shirt better'n I ever did!'
  Just then, his wife returned to the room carrying a steaming bowl. Mathrum 
looked sheepish.
  'I heated yer some broth', she informed Brenhya. 'It'll perk yer up no end to get 
some good, 'ot food inside yer'. Brenhya thanked the woman as she took the dish.
  'What about the lad?' Mathrum enquired.
  ''E's 'ad some tea', his wife replied. She turned to Brenhya. 'What 'e needs now 
is a good night's sleep, to let the 'erbs do their work, Miss'.
  'Brenhya', Mathrum said. ''Er name's Brenhya. And, before yer start, I've done 
the introductions and that'. The old lady smiled at her guest.
  'Pleased to meet yer, Brenhya'. She jerked her head toward the bedroom. 'And is 
'e yer 'usband?'
  'Lon? Goddess, no. He's just my, how shall I put it, travelling companion. A 
friend'.
  'I seen them markin's on 'is jacket afore', Mathrum put in.
  'He's an apprentice wizard', Brenhya explained. 'Hedge-wizard, actually. We're 
looking for a new Master for him. I don't suppose there's a wizard hereabouts?' 
Mathrum took a clay pipe from his vest pocket and began to fill it with some vile-
looking weed. He sucked air through his teeth., shaking his head.
 'Not for years an' years'. He lit a spill from the fire and applied it to his pipe. Blue 
clouds of smoke wreathed his head. 'Not since I were a lad, any road. You 
remember any wizards, Maze?'
  'There was one passin' through, I remember, about fifteen year ago', she recalled. 
'Didn't stop long, though'. Brenhya gave a polite cough and waved away the foul-
smelling smoke. 'Mathrum! Take that 'orrible thing outside. If you 'ave to smoke, 
do it where it won't bother our guest'.
  'No, really. It's all right', Brenhya protested. Mathrum gave his wife a hopeful 
look.
  'It's still tippin' down out there', he observed.
  'Then stand in the porch. Out!' The husbandman got to his feet, muttering vile 
oaths under his breath, and shuffled out the door. Amblerazie turned to Brenhya 
with a smug look.
  'That's got rid o' 'im', she grinned. 'You two must've come a long way, state 'e's 
in?' Brenhya nodded as she swallowed a mouthful of the tasty soup.
  'We've just come across the desert'.
  'What, right the way across?' Maze was incredulous. Brenhya nodded again. 
'Well, I Never 'eard of that afore! Them Vash whatsits generally puts paid to 
anyone that tries. I'm not surprised your friend's nearly done in'. A conspiratorial 
look crossed the lined old face. 'You're made of sterner stuff, I'm thinkin'. What 
wi' them weapons, an' all. Not like them soft village girls, at all'. Brenhya could 
not disagree.
  'I'm a Warrior', she explained. 'I'm trying to do something about the Raiders'.
  'Haven't had any truck wi' them. 'Eard about 'em, though. It's good somebody is 
takin' against 'em'.
  'How long do you think Lon will be laid up?'
  ''Ard to say. Depends on 'is constitution. Could be just a few days, could be a few 
weeks. 'E's not in any danger, though but'.
  Brenhya laid down her empty bowl and sat back in the rocker with a sigh. A few 
days would be all right. Even she could do with the rest. But a few weeks ...that 
would make it hard for her not to leave him behind. It was late autumn already, and 
winter was not far away. It would not do to get snowed in.

  Due to her athlete's recuperative powers, all Brenhya needed was a good night's 
sleep and a couple of hot meals, and she was back to her old self. Amblerazie had 
prepared an aromatic unguent that she applied twice a day to Brenhya's face and 
lips, and her complexion was soon back to normal. As soon as they were dry, she 
reverted to wearing her soft leather halter and short skirt.
  Because the old woman was obviously so adept, Brenhya left the nursing care of 
Lon up to her, contenting herself with frequent visits to the sick room to pass the 
time of day with her friend. At other times, she assisted Mathrum with his tasks 
about the farm. The farmer was impressed by her knowledge, of horses in 
particular, and was completely dumbfounded by her muscularity and strength.
  Lon, on the other hand, took longer to recover although, to Brenhya's relief, he 
healed in days rather than weeks. By the fourth day, he was able to get up and take 
his meals at the table; by the sixth he was able to potter about on his own, and by 
the ninth was fit enough to travel on.
  It was his first day up, and Brenhya and he were sitting in the parlour, passing the 
time in idle chatter, he in the rocker, she sitting cross legged on the floor. 
Amblerazie was in the kitchen, preparing lunch, and Mathrum was outside 
chopping wood.
  'When we do find me a new Master', Lon was saying, 'all I need to do is sharpen 
up my practical skills for a couple more years, and I'm done'.
  'I've seen your practical skills', Brenhya laughed. 'I'd say a couple of years is 
being optimistic'. Lon looked hurt.
  'Unfair! I may have miscalculated the fire spell that first time, but what about in 
the canyon with the Vash Kansanar? I seem to recall saving the butt of some 
woman not too far away from here'.
  'Yes, you did', agreed Brenhya, 'and thank you for that. But you cut it pretty 
close. I wonder how many tries you had, before you got it right?' His face blushed a 
deep red.
  'Five', he said, with downcast eyes. 'But I did get it right in the end!' Their 
hostess came through from the kitchen.
  'Lunch's nearly ready', she announced. 'Do you want tea with it or ...' She 
stopped as Brenhya held up a hand for silence, every muscle tense and ready. They 
all listened carefully.
  There was a splash, and sounds of male laughter, coming from the yard. Brenhya 
sprang to her feet. Lon sat up in his chair.
  'You two stay here', she told them. She was at the door in one stride. 'Oh, no', she 
muttered to herself. 'Not here'.
  She stepped out into the porch, picking up her sword as she passed. Opening the 
outer door, she leaned out to scan the yard.
  A group of four men were standing about, watching something, laughing 
uproariously. One, a bear of a man, not tall but stocky and strong-looking, carried a 
heavy cudgel over one shoulder, and the others had stout staves, but were otherwise 
unarmed. They were all dressed in a motley collection of garments, not in any kind 
of uniform. Brenhya relaxed a little. Not Raiders, then.
  She followed their joint gaze. At the water trough a man with a broken nose, staff 
lying on the ground at his feet, was holding something down in the trough, 
something that splashed and struggled. As she watched, he let his victim up to 
breathe. Mathrum broke the surface, coughing and gasping for air. The man with 
the cudgel, obviously the ringleader, spoke.
  'I'll ask you once more, old man', he said, his voice light and conversational. 'We 
know all you farmers keep a stash somewhere. We'll find it ourselves, if we have to 
rip this farm apart to do it. So, where's the money?'
  'Bugger off!' Mathrum spluttered,
  'Have it your own way'. The big man nodded to his comrade, who pushed 
Mathrum back under.   Brenhya placed her sword back in the porch. She would not 
be needing it. Barefoot, and wearing only her skirt and halter, she stepped out into 
the yard and sauntered over to the men, swinging her hips seductively.
  'Hey, boys!', she called. 'Is there a problem?'
  Five pairs of eyes swivelled her way as if drawn by magnets. There were several 
sharp intakes of air at the sight of her, the men almost drooling over her 
breathtaking appearance. They took in her
womanly curves, her long, long legs, and the swell of her magnificent breasts. One 
man in particular, the one that was holding Mathrum underwater, could not take his 
eyes off her superb musculature; the full roundness of her thighs, the sculpted 
perfection of her belly, the visible power of her arms, the majestic breadth of her 
shoulders. He figuratively lost his place as he watched her approach, allowing 
Mathrum to rise spluttering from the water once more.
  'Brenhya!', he yelled when he saw her coming. 'Get back inside!' Brenhya 
continued unheeding, cool grey eyes locked on the leader.
  'Oho!', laughed cudgel-man. 'You have a daughter, old man! She's a beauty!' To 
Brenhya's disgust, he actually licked his lips.
  'Yeah', agreed broken-nose. 'A strong one, too!' He was all but salivating.
  Brenhya knew where the most danger lay. The other four were just thugs, but the 
leader had a cruel twist to his mouth, a hard glint in his eye, that told her he would 
murder without hesitation and take pleasure in the killing. She gave him a dazzling 
white smile as she sashayed straight up to him. He was about six inches shorter, but 
that did not appear to faze him as he looked up into her eyes.
  'Well, hello, Baby! Come to Papa'.
  Brenhya gave a girlish giggle, and draped her arm over his shoulder. Convinced 
his luck had changed for the better, cudgel-man wiped his lips with a dirty sleeve 
and puckered up.
  Brenhya's expression changed to one of revulsion as her strong hand clamped on 
the back of his neck and her right knee, driven by the full power of her steely thigh 
muscles, smashed up into his groin. His cudgel dropped from nerveless fingers and 
he gave a high pitched squeak as he clutched at himself and collapsed in a heap at 
her feet.
  The swift demise of their leader rooted the other four to the spot for a second. In 
that second, Brenhya executed a perfect high spinning kick that connected with the 
jaws of the three nearest and sent them sprawling in the dirt. She turned her 
attention to the leader, who was struggling to regain his feet, still gasping in pain.
  'No, you don't'. She slugged him in the head with her hard fist and he went down 
again.
  Brenhya stood with hands on hips, watching the three men she had felled climbing 
to their feet, scrabbling for their staves. She wheeled at a yell from behind.
  Broken-nose, staff held ready to strike, was charging across the yard toward her, a 
determined look in his eye. Almost casually, she watched him approach. He was six 
feet away when she ducked his wildly-swung staff. Using partly his own 
momentum and partly her tremendous strength, she caught hold of his belt with one 
hand and pitched him high over her head. Arms and legs flailing, he skittled into his 
three comrades, scattering them like ninepins.
  They had had enough. Scrambling to their feet, they were on their toes and 
running down the lane like the hounds of hell were after them.
  'And don't come back!', Mathrum yelled after them, shaking his fist as he 
climbed from his impromptu bath. Brenhya gave a short laugh.
  'And as for you', she said, walking up to the fallen leader. She grabbed hold of his 
collar and yanked him to his feet. His feet left the ground as she hoisted him up to 
her eye level, a look of genuine terror on his face. Her voice was cold and deadly 
calm. 'Remember this, my friend. These people are special to me, and I'll be 
coming back this way. So if you ever, ever do anything to harm them, or even show 
your putrid face around here again, I will hunt you down and crush you underfoot 
like the rancid slug you are. Understand?' The hapless fellow nodded vigorously. 
'Then get out of here'.
  She let him go, and the man ran like a scalded cat, helped on his way by 
Brenhya's toe applied to his behind. She walked over to where Mathrum stood 
dripping. When she spoke, her voice was solicitous.
  'You OK, Mathrum?', she asked. The taciturn old man nodded. He was having 
conflicting emotions; gratitude for being rescued, and embarrassment that his 
rescuer had been a woman.
  'Yes', he said. 'And ...er ...thanks'. Brenhya gave a small laugh.
  'You're welcome', she said. 'Now, let's get you inside and dried off. It's too cold 
to be out here soaking wet'.

  Late autumn sunshine shafted through the bare boughs of the trees, flashes of 
copper glinting from the few remaining leaves.  Busy squirrels hurried through the 
branches, cheek pouches stuffed with nuts, rushing to stock their larders before the 
onset of winter. In the distance a stag roared defiance, daring any other to come and 
try to wrest his hinds away from him.
  Fully recovered now, Lon stood to on side while Brenhya said her goodbyes to the 
elderly couple who had been so kind. He had already taken his leave, and his 
travelling cloak flapped around his legs in the chilly breeze while he waited.
  'There's just one last favour I want to ask', Brenhya was saying. 'We have a long 
way to go, and travelling on foot will take us forever. Do you think you could lend 
us a horse? You know I can take good care of one, and we'll bring it back as soon 
as we can'.
  The old man looked doubtful. His wife looked at him expectantly.
  'Of course', Brenhya went on, 'if you can't spare one ...'
  'Mathrum!', his wife snapped.
  'Quiet, woman! Can't you see I'm thinkin'. Gods dammit!' He pondered some 
more before speaking again. 'I've only got the one 'orse that'll carry you both for 
that sort o' distance. That big black plough 'orse o' mine. I've got a young'un'll 
take 'is place next year, so 'e's yours. I 'aven't got a saddle, mind. Only a bit o' 
ould leather'.
  'Thanks, Mathrum'. Brenhya leant down and planted a big kiss on his 
weatherbeaten old forehead. 'We'll bring him back in good order, as soon as we 
can'.
  'No, yer won't. I tole yer, 'e's yours'.
  'To keep? Mathrum, we couldn't. You need him'.
  'If I needed 'im that much, I wouldn't 'ave offered 'im. 'Sides, least I c'n do, after 
what you did fer me t'other day'. Brenhya relented, realising that do refuse the gift 
would be an insult.
  'Well, thank you very much, Mathrum. And you, Maze. Come here'.
  She enfolded them both in her long arms and hugged them fiercely. The old 
woman shed a tear, and even Mathrum dashed his fist across his eyes.

  And so, Brenhya became the owner of the big, black, placid plough horse with the 
slight deformity of the near-side forefoot that caused her to name him Bentoe.

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