NIGHTSEED 3
By Heck

Comments to heck@heckster.co.uk

CHAPTER THREE

  While she enjoyed and, on occasion, actively sought out sex with men who 
attracted her, she was not averse to physical love between two women. In the 
Hall of her Sisterhood, where such liaisons were not considered improper and 
in fact were passively encouraged on the grounds that women living together 
in self-imposed isolation had needs and desires that required release, her best 
friend had also been her lover, and she had relished the experience.
  This was a little different, however. Deavon's suggestion that Brenhya spend 
the night with her was unexpected, and left the warrior woman feeling 
somewhat awkward, at first. 
  As a child, when first introduced to Deavon, she had developed a 
tremendous crush on the woman. She had been in awe of her strength and 
muscularity, never dreaming that she herself could one day surpass it, and in a 
childish way had loved her passionately. But as with most childish things, this 
passed quickly, and the relationship that developed between them became 
akin to that of a mother and daughter, or a niece and favourite aunt.
  So it was hardly surprising that she was a little taken aback by Deavon's 
suggestion. She glanced down and rubbed her nose on the back of her hand. 
"Are you asking what I think you're asking?"
  Deavon took her chin in her own hand, and turned her face up to look 
directly into her eyes. "Yes", she said in a soft voice. "Is that a problem?"
  "No, no!", Brenhya said quickly. Probably too quickly. "It's just unexpected, 
that's all. I didn't expect you to... I mean, I have been with another woman, 
that part's no problem. But it's you. Wouldn't it be like making love to your 
own daughter?"
  Deavon cupped her face in both hands. "Brenhya, you are as close to me as 
any daughter could ever have been", she said. "But you are not my daughter, 
and I am not your mother. You are a strong, beautiful woman, very beautiful, 
and I am very attracted to you". She softly kissed the younger woman on the 
tip of her nose. "I'm not so bad looking myself, am I".
  Brenhya felt butterflies in her stomach and a growing moistness between her 
legs. "Goddess, yes!", she breathed. "I mean no. I mean... you're beautiful, 
Deavon. When I was little, I thought you were the most beautiful person I'd 
ever seen. I still do". She reached a tentative hand to stroke the other's creamy 
cheek. For all she was half a head taller and much stronger than the 
professional strongwoman, she was still in awe of this magnificent woman, 
and a little nervous. "I don't know. I ..."
  "Shh". Deavon rose to her feet and went to stand at Brenhya's side. "Just 
relax".
  She bent forward and kissed the younger woman tenderly on the lips, soft 
and slow, mouth closed. Brenhya felt a tingle in her loins at the gentle touch, 
and pursed her lips to accept the contact. Deavon looked deep into her eyes, 
and she could see the love and desire therein. She initiated the next tender 
kiss herself, and let her hand rest lightly on Deavon's firm breast.
  Deavon took both of Brenhya's hands in hers, and drew her to her feet. She 
stepped in close so their bodies were in contact down their entire length, and 
put her hands on Brenhya's muscular back. Through the soft leather halter, 
she could feel the hardness of the muscles, firm even though relaxed. 
  Brenhya ran her hands over Deavon's shoulders and arms, still impressed by 
the woman's muscles even though, on a subconscious level, she knew her 
own were stronger.
  The older woman tilted her face up to Brenhya's, and drew her head down to 
her mouth. This time, she kissed her with her mouth fully open, and Brenhya 
responded in kind, her tongue probing gently at first, and then deeper as 
Deavon caressed it with her own. Their tongues slid round and over each 
other, and their kisses became passionate and firm, their hands exploring each 
other's hard bodies. 
  There was an electricity between them, even through their clothing, but 
Brenhya, now fully committed to the act of love, decided that wasn't good 
enough. Keeping her mouth firmly clamped on the other's, her hands found 
the tie-belt of the robe Deavon was wearing. She loosened it, and drew the 
robe down over the strong wide shoulders.
  Deavon was fumbling behind Brenhya's back, trying to find a fastening for 
the pliable leather halter. Brenhya stepped back, and removed the garment 
over her head. She took off her brass headband and shook out her long auburn 
hair. Deavon gasped as she took in the full vista of Brenhya's stupendous 
body, now clad only in a short leather skirt.
  With arms upraised in the act of throwing back her hair, Brenhya's biceps 
showed big, hard and round, each bigger than the fist of a big man. The strap-
like muscles of her forearm, partially hidden by the wide brass wristguards 
she still wore, rippled as her fingers played through her hair. Wide shoulders, 
with their rounded deltoid caps, narrowed to a slender but muscular waist, 
and with her arms held up her majestic breasts rode high on her strong chest. 
Beautifully sculpted flared thighs, with a perfect teardrop shape to the 
muscles just above the knees, blended into small joints and the full diamonds 
of her calves.
  Deavon gazed open mouthed at the spectacle of her one-time pupil's 
fantastic body, as Brenhya untied the drawstring at her waist to let her skirt 
fall to the floor and removed her skimpy undergarment. She quickly divested 
herself of her robe and stood before Brenhya in her own glory.
  Apart from the blond hair, Deavon's body was almost a slightly smaller copy 
of the warrior woman's. Her mature physique comprised full, hard, and 
seriously strong muscles that allowed her to be billed as "the strongest woman 
in the world". For several years, now, she had felt slightly guilty at continuing 
to use that catchphrase, as she knew that, from the age of sixteen or so, 
Brenhya had been her physical superior, and still was. But, in the words of the 
late proprietor, it "put bums on seats".
  Brenhya had always been, and continued to be, deeply impressed by 
Deavon's musculature. Her admiring eyes took in the sensuous curves and 
lines of the perfectly conditioned body, and she felt hungry to be close to it. 
The strongwoman flipped the table up against the wall, where it automatically 
triggered the catch that held it there, and moved the chairs out of the way. 
Brenhya stepped forward, and their bodies met skin to skin for the first time. 
Deavon's hands found the warrior's voluptuous breasts and rolled the erect 
nipples between finger and thumb. At the same time, her face nuzzled against 
the taller woman's neck as she kissed the smooth column of her throat.
  Brenhya's hands ran down the sides of Deavon's body to rest either side of 
the muscular waist. Her lips kissed her eyes and she nibbled gently at an ear. 
At Deavon's instigation they both sank to their knees and, as they kissed deep 
and long, hands exploring the private nooks and crannies, they both lay face 
to face on the soft rug.
  Deavon gave a tiny cry as Brenhya's hand went to the soft mound of her 
pudenda, trailing its fingers through the pale downy hair. Brenhya sucked the 
older woman's bottom lip into her mouth and chewed it gently, as Deavon 
fondled and manipulated her breasts.
  A firm hand on Deavon's shoulder pushed her tenderly on to her back. 
Brenhya leaned over her, her sparkling grey eyes smiling down into Deavon's 
blue ones. She kissed the older woman briefly, and moved down her body, 
kissing and nuzzling at the round breasts and dark nipples. She licked and 
kissed her way down the flat plain of the belly that showed no signs of 
sagging with age. The same could be said for the rest of the fifty year old's 
body. She bit playfully at the nest of curly blonde hair, before burying her 
face in the warm groin.
  Deavon's legs spread wide to allow access. Brenhya turned herself round so 
that her knees were above Deavon's shoulders, and bent her head into the 
cleft. Her tongue began to lap at the soft lips she found there.
  Deavon moaned softly. Her strong hands went around Brenhya's hard, round 
buttocks, and she pulled herself up to reach the sweet-smelling groin above 
her. Each woman probed the moist vagina of the other with her tongue, at 
first gently, and then with increasing urgency as the juices began to flow. The 
two powerful women, each thrusting her groin into the face of the other, 
started to move against one another with more and more strength as they 
approached their respective climaxes.
 Brenhya thrust her face hard against Deavon, pushing her strong tongue deep 
within the honeyed moistness, lapping fiercely at the hard clitoris.
  Deavon almost screamed with ecstasy. She responded by nibbling the hard 
button within Brenhya's vulva and plunging her tongue far into the salty-
sweet tunnel of the vagina.
  Two sets of incredible muscles flexed and hardened with the approaching 
twin orgasms. Two heads, one blonde, one auburn, bobbed with increasing 
rapidity as each sought to bring the other off in synchronicity with herself. 
Each strained to delay her own climax so as to come together, and at the same 
time tried to hasten the release of the other.
  With perfect timing, the dual orgasms began to build within the pair. They 
both let out little grunts, building in frequency and volume as their eruptions 
neared.
  Finally, wonderfully, they both reached the apex of ecstasy, and together 
they spasmed into a delicious, delightful, delirious, double orgasm.
  Wave after wave of sheer pleasure wracked the two terrifically strong 
bodies. The muscle contractions were so powerful that the two seemed to be a 
sculpture carved out of polished stone, each muscle group etched in perfect 
definition.
  At last, the waves subsided. Brenhya relaxed on top of Deavon, confident 
that her weight would not inconvenience the older female. The two naked 
bodies, now totally relaxed, and satisfied for the moment, lay together, 
panting slightly, slick and shiny with sweat.

  Dark clouds scudded across the yellow face of a full moon. Trees swayed 
and swished in the strong breeze, and the sign outside The Poacher's Pocket 
creaked as it swung to and fro.
  Lights showed at the windows, and from within the inn came the hum of 
continuous friendly conversation. Skolman, the landlord looked out from 
behind the bar with a satisfied smile. Business was good, as the full pub 
attested, and his reputation for hospitality had been cemented over the past 
eighteen months, since he took over inn on the retirement of his father. Only 
one thing marred his contentment.
  Leaning against the bar, Haddo, a well-known local drunkard, was in full 
flight, and Skolman was thankful that his customers that night were all men, 
for the song the fat man was singing was not one for mixed company. 
"Aaaaaaaa sailor courted a farmer's daughter,
But she did deny him his lustful way.
For many a year, he did besought her,
A-seeking her right-fol-di-tooral-i-ay.
Ooooooooooh..."
  "All right, Haddo". Skolman leaned over the bar and laid a firm hand on the 
drunk's arm. "That'll do. Time to go home".
  Haddo wrenched hid arm from the publican's grasp. "Gerroff! I'll go home 
when I'm good'n ready. Whassa madder wi' you, anyway? Can't a man 
entertain his frien's?" He raised his voice. "You all want another song, don't 
you?"
  There was a chorus of groans. Somebody shouted, "Leave it, Haddo", and 
somebody else advised Skolman to throw him out.
  Haddo rounded on the company, slightly overshooting his spin. "Garn, you 
bas'ar's!", he slurred.  "Jus' 'cos, jus' 'cos you don't 'preciate good music! Here, 
here, here's a good 'un. Oooooooooh ..."
  Skolman came round the bar and took hold of Haddo's arm. "Come on, 
Haddo", he said, not unkindly. "Time to go home". He led the man toward the 
door.
  "Nonono", Haddo protested, ineffectually trying to extricate himself. He 
turned to face Skolman, putting his arms around the burly Innkeeper in a 
drunken embrace. "Youyouyou. Hmph. You don't unnerstan'. Can't go home. 
Can't. Fuggin' bitch's thrown me out". He began to cry. Skolman's eye rolled 
upwards.
  "Not my problem, Haddo. Time to go".
  "Oh, don't, Skolman". He laid his head on the Landlord's broad chest. "Don't 
throw me out. You, you, you're my fuggin' bes' frien' in the whole worl'. 
Lemme stay. I got, I got, I got nowhere to go".
  By now, Skolman had steered his lurching charge to the door. He pulled it 
open, and a firm shove propelled the distressed sot through, to fall to his 
knees outside. 
  "Go home!", Skolman advised firmly, and closed the door. He turned back 
to his bar, shaking his head regretfully.
  Haddo hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, cursing bitterly. He turned as if 
to reenter the Inn, but stopped and flapped both hands at the door in an 
exaggerated dismissive gesture. "Fuggit", he spat. "Who, I say, who needs 
yer?' His voice became a shout. "You hear that, Skolman? I said, who needs 
yer?" He reeled off down the street, still cursing under his liquored breath. 
"Fuggin' bas'ar'. Throw, throw me out, would he? I'll show him. Take my 
business, take my business somewheres else'. He staggered around to face 
roughly the way he had come, and yelled "Bas'ar'!"
before lurching on his way once more.
  From the shadows on a street corner, baleful yellow eyes watched him 
approach.

  A shaft of morning sunlight streamed through the window, and fell on the 
sleeping face of Lon as Brenhya stepped quietly into the wagon. He stirred 
and opened one eye, raising himself on an elbow.
  "Good morning", he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and 
thumb. "Where've you been?" He was not accusatory; just curious.
  "I spent the night with Deavon", the warrior replied. "We were ... talking. I 
forgot the time".
  Naked, but using the blankets to cover himself, Lon swung his legs out of 
the bed. "So what was decided? Are we going to help?"
  "I am. You don't have to come. These people are my friends, but you don't 
owe them anything".
  A corner of Lon's mouth lifted in a quirky half smile. "So when do we 
leave?"
  Brenhya's radiant smile lit up the dim interior of the wagon. "I was hoping 
you'd say that", she grinned, as she picked up her shoulder armour from the 
floor. "We leave now. Get your things".
  Holding the bed linen across his lap, Lon cleared his throat. "Ahem! just as 
soon as you give a chap his privacy, eh?"
  Brenhya buckled on her broadsword and slung her quiver across her back. 
She picked up the Wheelbow and stepped to the door. "See you outside".
  She walked through the showground in the early morning light, tendrils of 
mist curling around her ankles as she traversed the dew-laden grass. No-one 
else seemed to be about at that hour, and she enjoyed the tranquility as she 
made her way to the stable tent.
  Bentoe whickered a greeting as she entered. In stalls next to him, she saw a 
fine boned grey gelding about fifteen hands high, and the tiny skewbald pony 
of Brannagh's. Hunkered down in the straw beside the pony was Brannagh 
himself.
  "Good morning, Brannagh", she greeted. "Come to see us off, have you?"
  "Nope", the dwarf replied. "I's comin' with yer". Brenhya opened her 
mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a small upraised hand. "An' before 
yer says anythings, don't. Fool is a right pain in th' arse, sometimes, but 'e's 
like a son to I. If 'e's in troubles, I wants ter 'elp. I's comin' an' that's thats. 
Don't make a fork's pass by tryin' ter stops I".
  "Fork's pass?" Lon said, as he entered the stable carrying Brenhya's and his 
saddlebags. "Where or what is that? And good morning, Brannagh".
  "Mornin's. Some furrin lingo. I see'd it writted down. Fork's pass. Means a 
stoopid mistakes. So. I's comin', ain't I?" It was not a question.
  "OK", Brenhya shrugged.
  "Where's my horse", Lon wanted to know.
  " 'E's thrown a shoe", Brannagh explained. "We's swappin' 'e fer this'n". 
He indicated the grey. "An' you is gettin' th' betterer of th' deals".
  Lon, whose only knowledge of horses was how not to fall off one, and then 
not all the time, shrugged noncommittally. "He'll do, I suppose".
  "Supposes? Yer supposes, does yer? Lissen, matey, this 'ere's a much 
betterer piece o' 'orseflesh than that ol' bag o' bones yer was ridin'. 'E's a 
trained ..."
  "OK. Brannagh", Brenhya butted in. "Knock it off". She went to stand 
beside her big, black plough horse and stroked his long face. "Ready, Bentoe? 
We're off again. Poor old chap. Don't deserve all this excitement, do you? 
You are getting too old for all this galloping about the place".
  "He doesn't have to", came a liquid female voice. They all turned to see 
Deavon, framed in the tent doorway. "Come here, Brenhya", she beckoned.
  Brenhya followed her out of the tent. The others trailed behind, and caught 
up in time to see something neither of them had seen before. The sight of 
Brenhya, laughing with delight, jumping up and down and clapping her hands 
with glee, just like a little girl. It should have been incongruous, ludicrous, 
even, to see a tall, strong warrior woman behaving in such a fashion, but in 
fact, it added to her feminine appeal.
  The object of such excitement was a seventeen hand bay mare. Her dark 
brown coat shone with health and vitality, and her black mane and tail had 
been combed and groomed to perfection. Her proud head was turned toward 
them, and Brenhya could see tiny copies of herself reflected in the animal's 
clear, kind eyes. A muscular, powerful, clean limbed animal, it was almost an 
equine version of Brenhya herself and, to the warrior's keen horsewoman's 
eye, was as fine a horse as she could ever hope to see.
  The mare wore a black leather bit-less bridle inset with silver studs. A 
matching high-pommelled saddle trimmed with white sheepskin road over a 
sheepskin numnah, and it even had a boot to take the unstrung Wheelbow. 
The stirrup irons were made of shiny steel, a rare and valuable commodity in 
those times.  
  "This is Maakar", Deavon was saying. "She's the best horse we have. She's 
strong, spirited, and fast. She'll go anywhere, and she has a heart like a lion. 
She'll make a fine horse for a warrior, don't you think?"
  Lon could not help himself from grinning at the girlish delight on Brenhya's 
lovely face. "She's a magnificent animal, Brenhya", he called.
  "How'd you know?", grumbled a surly voice at about waist height. Lon 
chose to ignore it, as Brenhya had advised.
  "Deavon, she's fantastic! Fabulous!" Brenhya approached the beast with 
hand outstretched. The horse, showing no fear of this stranger, sniffed her 
hand and let her velvety muzzle rest in the palm. Brenhya stroked the fine 
head, and stepped closer to stand under the arched neck.
  Deavon watched the two magnificent females bonding with a wide smile on 
her face. "She's yours", she announced. "Not for a loan. A keeper".
  Brenhya leapt forward and enfolded the strongwoman in a fierce embrace, 
sweeping her off her feet in the process. She thanked her profusely for the 
incredible gift, kissed her on the cheek, and thanked her again for good 
measure, before allowing her back on her feet.
  Deavon smiled and shook her head in appreciation of the immense strength 
of her erstwhile pupil. She tucked a stray hair behind an ear. "And don't you 
worry about Bentoe", she told Brenhya. "We'll keep him here, in retirement. 
He can spend the rest of his days being pampered in peace".
  "Thank you for the grey, also", Lon put in. "Does he have a name?"
  "Opal", Brannagh informed him. " 'E's called Opal. And mine's is called 
Thraxx, after an old Dwarf King".
  "An old Dwarf King?", Lon sneered. "You called that stunted little ..."
  A powerful hand clamped across his mouth. Lon knew it was not Brenhya's, 
because it made no effort not to cut off his breath.
  "Mind your manners, wizard-boy", Deavon's voice hissed in his ear. "That 
'stunted little' whatever you were going to call it is a dwarf war pony, bred 
for strength and tenacity in battle, and it's owner comes from a long line of 
dwarvish warriors, himself. He is a very proud little man, and very protective 
of his friends, including Thraxx. In a hand to hand fight, he'd tear you apart. 
Are we clear on this?"
  Lon nodded. Deavon released her grip, and he immediately apologised to the 
scowling dwarf. It was grudgingly accepted.
  Brenhya, engrossed in her admiration of the big bay mare, did not notice, or 
chose not to notice, any of this exchange. Lon, watching, was struck by the 
similarities between the two females of widely different species. Both the 
woman and the mare were tall and athletic, muscular and graceful. She patted 
the horse on the shoulder, and turned to the others. "Time to go", she said. "I 
just have to say goodbye to Bentoe".
  She entered the stables, leaving the trio feeling slightly awkward in each 
other's company. After a minute, Brannagh busied himself with Thraxx's 
tack, and Lon slung the saddlebags on Maakar and Opal. There was not much 
in them, but enough in the way of cooking utensils and equipment for them 
both. Very few provisions, other than some dried fruit and utensils. Brenhya's 
hunting skills and woodcraft would be sufficient to provide for their needs.
  Brenhya emerged from the stables, looking a little wistful. She and Deavon 
faced each other, each gripping the other's upper arms and looking at each 
other with moisture filled eyes.
  "Take care", Deavon said. "And bring our Fool home safely".
  Unable to speak, Brenhya turned away abruptly, clearing her throat. Her 
long, long legs allowed her to mount the tall mare without help, and she 
swung astride the horse in a single, fluid movement. Settling into the 
comfortable saddle, she heeled the horse and trotted away without a backward 
glance. From the rear, she seemed to be dabbing at her eyes.
  Lon and Brannagh hurriedly took their leave, and urged their mounts to 
catch up. 
  A single tear coursed down Deavon's cheek as she watched them go.

  Haddo continued his erratic progress down the main street, swearing and 
cursing all Innkeepers to hell. As he passed a certain street corner, he thought 
he heard something, thought he saw a movement in the shadows.
  "Whassat?". He stopped to listen, swaying gently on his feet. "Hm. 
Nothing". He began another chorus of his raucous song, and lurched off 
again.
  He had weaved less than fifty yards, when he began to sense a presence. He 
swung round, fists raised in a pugilistic stance, staggering as he came close to 
overbalancing. "Who's there?", he demanded, but received no reply. No-one 
was within his blurred field of vision.
  "Huh!", he muttered. "Bloody bas'ar's!"
  A low growl sounded behind him. He stood stock still, instantly sober, 
cringing ever so slightly. Very slowly and carefully, he began to turn.
  He never saw the owner of the three-fingered hand that grasped him by the 
neck with a hideous strength. His cry was abruptly choked off as the fingers 
tightened about his throat and, with panic in his heart, he felt himself roughly 
pulled against a hard, scaly chest.
  The Dragonkind almost purred as it began to feed on Haddo's essence, 
draining the energy through a brutal osmosis that sucked the life from his 
helpless body. His mouth gaped in a silent scream as his skin desiccated and 
cracked. His eyeballs dried up and shrivelled in his head, while his muscles 
shrunk and contracted, bringing his arms and legs into a grotesque foetal 
position.
  The monster continued to feed long after Haddo was dead, until all that was 
left was a blackened, dried up husk that it tossed aside like the piece of  waste 
it now was. The brittle corpse shattered into several fragile pieces as it struck 
the dirt road, no longer recognisable as human remains.
  Having consumed its well-soused prey, the Dragonkind staggered slightly as 
it began to move off. Uncertain of what was happening to it, it stopped and 
threw back its saurian head.
  In The Poacher's Pocket, a hush fell upon the company, and they listened 
open-mouthed as a prolonged, unearthly howl filled the night.