MAGE By Heck A new "Brenhya" Saga, in which our heroine battles against magic, mythic beasts, and her own feelings. Comments to heck@heckster.co.uk Copyright "HECK" 2001. All rights reserved. PROLOGUE THE AFTERNOON SUMMER sun glittered and sparked off the ripples on the calm sea. The tide was almost at its height, and raised gentle blue muscles of waves as it lapped against the quayside. Grey, weatherworn planking was studded with rusty metal cleats, while mooring bollards tarred with black spaced themselves along the edge of the busy wharf. Square rigged wooden fishing boats lined the dockside, either unloading their most recent catch or preparing to set sail at the peak of the tide, and nimble-footed seamen picked their way through sinuous coils of rope and piles of nets and tackle. All along the quay, the bustle of commerce and business kept up a continuous rumble of noise. Voices raised in shouted conversation, interspersed with the occasional bawl of the skippers as they yelled their orders, competed with the eternal screech of gulls squabbling over stolen titbits. Rows of ruddy-faced fishwives worked at high tables, keeping up a loud gossip as their strong, horny fingers deftly wielded the sharp knives, gutting the catches with practised skill and speed. The central point of the activity was the "Seine Netter", a public house where all the skippers and their crews gathered to spend some of their stipend upon coming ashore, or before departure, to discuss tides, catches, weather. The tavern was renowned for it’s good beer and hospitality, and was guaranteed of full patronage for as long as the landlord cared to remain open. Stolk didn’t want to leave the inn at all. If it wasn’t for fear of the retribution his matriarchal wife would doubtless heap upon him, and the fact that he had ran out of money and credit, he would never go home at all. But he was well served with the pub’s finest ales, and the warmth of humanity coursed through his veins as he staggered through the weathered doors. "Hey, Stolk", one of the fishwives called. "Wouldn’t want to be you, when you get home!" "Marrit will have his balls on a hook!", another jeered, and the entire gaggle of women shrieked with laughter at the thought of the unfortunate drunkard’s fate. "Ah, ffff....". Stolk growled at the women, making shooing motions with both hands. His attention distracted from the delicate process of putting one foot in front of the other, he tripped over his own feet and stumbled several yards, to further gales of hilarity from the women. He regained a semblance of balance, and reeled off along the quay. Several seamen called greetings to him as he made his unsteady progress, and he waved cheerily to them. Out of a sense of devilment, a rogueish tar called a greeting to him just as he approached a coil of rope. He turned to acknowledge the greeting, and backed into the rope. His feet let him down to roars of laughter, and he fell among the coils, rolling over and over, to come to rest on the very edge of the dock, his feet dangling over the side. Stolk sat up on the parapet, kicking his legs over the edge. His relaxed state had prevented him from injuring himself, but he was disorientated and bewildered. It took him several minutes to get his bearings. Climbing to his feet, he made what he imagined was his way homeward, balancing on the wooden beam that formed the edge of the quay with arms outstretched, swaying and picking his way over the cleats and mooring ropes with exaggerated care. It was not long before the inevitable happened. Lifting his feet high, he attempted to step over a bollard. He successfully placed one foot over the obstacle, but his trailing foot fouled the rope that was looped around the bollard. He staggered forward, arms windmilling madly as he felt himself falling toward the water. Something caught the back of his jacket. At an acute angle over the water, his fall was stopped dead. A puzzled look crossed his face as he leaned out, one foot still on terra firma, and the other hanging over the water several feet below. "Come on". A mellow female voice spoke from his rear. "Back you come". His head pivoted on his neck as he strained to see what had saved him. He found himself supported on the end of a long, muscular arm, which hauled him to safety with sure strength. His drunken state was unable to associate the arm with the serenely beautiful face at the other end of it, and he shook his head as he felt his feet actually leave the ground as the arm swung him back onto the wharf. Stolk shook himself as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. The arm was leading him away from the edge, and sat him down on a coil of rope. A face swam into his vision. A beautiful face, framed by a cascade of shining chestnut hair. Piercing green eyes bored into his, and a soft voice enquired if he was all right. He nodded, making his head swim again. "You’d best just sit there for a while, until you sober up a bit. You’ll be OK?" The drunk nodded again, more carefully this time. His vision cleared a little, and the woman came into focus. He began to realise it was her arm, her strength, that had saved him. "Thank you, Miss", he managed to articulate. "You’re welcome, I’m sure". This was a male voice, and the face belonging to it appeared over the woman’s shoulder. "Come on, Brenhya. He’ll be all right. We have to go, or we’ll be late". The two people left Stolk sitting on his coil, leaving him to watch them go. Both figures were tall, the taller of the two being the woman. Standing just under six and a half feet tall, she walked with a long, easy stride, legs swinging smoothly from the hip. Even from behind, her long red hair a tumbling cataract down her back, she was stunning vision. Wide shoulders, made even wider by the stout leather pauldron she wore, tapered to a narrow waist that flared into round, tight buttocks that moved enticingly under the short leather skirt. Her bare thighs, rippling with muscle, gave way to small joints before rounding out into chiselled calves, diamond shaped and diamond hard, wrapped about with a lattice of thongs that kept her stout sandals secure. As they walked unhurriedly along the quayside, all eyes were on the woman. Male eyes were agog with her beauty, and female eyes with admiration or jealousy. Her breasts, perfectly symmetrical and full and round, rode high on her muscled chest. Her arms swung at her sides, showing the detail of her musculature as it raised a large, peaked bicep as she brushed a stray hair from her face. Twin wide brass bracelets encircled her lower forearms, resting just above her large, powerful hands. Her bare midriff displayed the squares of a perfectly conditioned belly as her hips swayed with the action of her gait. A heavy, wicked broadsword swung at her side in a tooled leather scabbard, it’s expertly formed pommel, crafted to fit her hand exactly, moving in counterpoint. Every movement spoke of her physical power, and that she was a warrior was obvious to all. But as powerful looking and muscular as she was, she was in no way musclebound. Her very stride itself spoke of grace and flexibility, and there was no possible doubt as to her femininity. The lustful gaze of the men was testament to that, and just as many were awed by her astonishing facial beauty as were desirous of her fantastic body. Her companion was almost her diametric opposite. A couple of inches shorter, he was a gangly youth who seemed to be completely built from joints. Where she was muscular, he was skinny, almost scrawny. Where she was graceful, he was clumsy and uncoordinated. Where she was beautiful he was, to be kind, not unattractive. His hair was floppy and unruly, and a wispy beard clung to the bottom half of his face, as if someone had stuck it on in random tufts. He wore baggy moleskin pants and a black jerkin covered in embroidered sigilli, and carried a small pack over one narrow shoulder. "What boat are we looking for, Lon?" The woman scanned the moored vessels with a hand raised to shield her eyes. "I don’t know. All I know is that the wizard will meet us here on the quay. He will take me to the right boat, I expect". "It was a bit of luck, meeting that fey woman who just happened to know a hedge-wizard looking for an apprentice, huh?" An edge of suspicion in Brenhya’s voice belied her words. In her world, coincidences were rare, and were always treated with a healthy scepticism. "Wasn’t it, though?" The youth did not detect her sarcasm. "After looking for so long. It’ll be good to get back to my training. But, Brenhya". He stepped directly in front of her, forcing her to a halt. "This seems like the best time to tell you. I ...er ...I want you to know that meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me. I know we’ve gotten into some adventures, not to mention danger, and our lives have been on the line a time or two, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Being your companion has taught me so much about life that I could never have learned, even if my old Master had survived. I almost wish I didn’t have to go. In fact, for two pins ..." "Don’t say that", Brenhya interrupted. "This is your calling. This is what you’ve always wanted, and you’ve worked so hard on your own this last couple of years. It’s what you deserve". "I know. But I’m going to miss you. I love you, Brenhya". By way of reply, the tall woman held out her arms. Lon stepped into them and they hugged each other tenderly. "I know you do", Brenhya said. "And I love you, too, in my way". Lon snuggled against her neck, burying his face in her luxuriant hair, feeling the protective strength of her arms about him, not caring what the onlookers thought. The two stood like that for a long moment. "Ah. Ha!" A reedy voice piped up at their side. "A young man in the company of a warrior woman. Uh-huh. That’s right. Mmm. You are the ones I am looking for, yes?" Brenhya and Lon drew apart. A frail-looking old man looked up at them from about the height of Brenhya’s chest. He looked ancient and wizened, with long, thin white hair and the obligatory long beard. His chin moved up and down constantly, causing the beard to waggle all the time. He leaned heavily on a twisted, tendinous staff, and was dressed in a full length black cloak, embroidered with the familiar sigilli that adorned Lon’s own jerkin. "I’m sorry". Brenhya looked him up and down. "You are ...?" "Hmm? Oh! Yes. I beg your pardon. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Drosklyn Chaithe, Master of Magic and Herbal Healer. And you?" He addressed his question to Lon, who drew himself up to his full height. "I am Lonier Andaret Eaadras Tilluth, apprentice hedge-wizard. And this is Bre ..." "Yes, yes". The wizard dismissed the warrior woman with a wave of his hand. She raised an eyebrow, unused to being treated as inconsequential. "That is your occult name", Chaithe went on. "But what do people call you? Hmm?" "Oh. Right. Er ...Lon". "Good, good". He linked an arm through Lon’s and began to lead him along the dock. Completely ignoring Brenhya. Lon looked back at her with a resigned expression. She smiled and flapped a hand at him, telling him it was all right. "I am so looking forward to this", the old man continued. "Mmm. It’s been so long since I had an, um, apprentice. I can teach you so much. Mmm. I’m sure you already know a lot. I knew your old master, Ralagant, you know. No? Oh, yes. Many, many years ago, you understand. Long, long before you were born, of course. Terrible, terrible shock to hear of his death. Mmm. I know he must have taught you well. It’ll be for me to just, erm, polish the rough diamond, so to speak. Knock the edges off, to coin a phrase. Did he ever tell you ..." The old wizard rambled on in this vein all the way along the dockside, while Brenhya trailed along behind, a half-amused look on her face. Soon, they came to a slightly ramshackle boat with sails that looked a touch moth-eaten. A rickety gangplank stretched from her gunwales to the dock, her swarthy skipper with an impatient look standing at the top. "You’ll be Master Chaithe?", he called down. "Yes, yes. And this is ..." "Get aboard, then, before we miss the tide". The man turned and stalked away. Drosklyn Chaithe led Lon onto the plank, but the apprentice stayed him for a moment. "I must go and say goodbye to my friend". "Ah! Of course you must. Mmm. Go ahead. Hurry, now!" Lon and Brenhya looked into each other’s eyes. "I’ll miss you", he whispered. "Me, too. But don’t worry. As soon as your apprenticeship is over, we’ll see each other again. Maybe even before, if your new Master gives you a vacation". "Yes". He gave a heavy sigh. "We will. I’ll make a point of it." He gripped her upper arms, surreptitiously savouring, for what would be the last time in a long time, the feel of her hard biceps under the velvety soft skin. She kissed him softly on the cheek. "Go on. Don’t miss the boat". With a last clasp of hands, Lon hurried up the gangplank. The ropes were hauled aboard. Hands swarmed up the ratlines and clambered among the timbers. The rectangle of sailcloth unfurled with a snap, and the helmsman heaved on the tiller as the boat nosed her way out into the bay. Lon stood at the rail, watching the figure of his best friend receding on the shore. He’ll be fine, Brenhya told herself. It’s what he wants. He’ll be happier, following his chosen profession. We’ll meet up again one day. And I’ll be happier too, without having to worry about him all the time. Yes. It’ll be better. Better all round. But there was a definite lump in her throat as she watched the boat until it completely disappeared over the horizon.