BRENHYA 17 By HECK Comments to heck@euphony.net CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The first sensation was pain. Pain in the head. A dull throb that felt as if her brain was pounding against the inside of her skull trying to get out. Pain in the arms, too, like edges of sharp metal being pressed against the sensitive skin of the inner wrists. And a nausea that threatened to disgorge the contents of her stomach at any moment. The next was smell. A dank, musty, foetid odour, mixed with the stench of the sewer, that permeated the nasal passages and saturated the sensitive olfactory membranes. She could not see. Whether it was because her eyelids were adhering together because of the accumulation of grime, or because she was dead, she could not tell. Nor, at that moment, could she care. A deluge of icy cold liquid splashed all over her, robbing her temporarily of her breath. Her mouth opened and gulped for air as she returned abruptly to full consciousness, eyes blinking madly against the flood of water. Finally she regained some of her composure and was able to take stock of her surroundings. Brenhya was in a dimly lit, damp room with stone walls. Various implements of torture were hanging from the walls; among them she recognised a thumbscrew and a foot crush, but there were other instruments that looked so horrific that she chose not to look at them. In the centre of the room was a long, low table with some sort of ratchet arrangement at one end, and in one corner a tall, narrow cabinet stood open, the insides of the back wall and the door covered with long, wicked looking spikes. It was when it dawned upon her that her feet were not touching the ground that she realised she was suspended from the wall at her back. She was shackled to a bolt, the chains adjusted so that her toes could not quite reach the floor. Twin rivulets of crimson ran down her inner forearms. Her ankles were chained together, and when she looked down at herself she realised she was now totally naked. She pulled hard at the chains, her biceps flexing hard and round, but all that did was to lift her higher up the wall. She was unable to brace herself to gain any purchase. However, there might be another way, a way to put pressure on the links themselves, rather than the bolt. Pulling herself up again until her arms were at right angles, the rough stones behind her scraping her unprotected back, she gathered the chains in both hands as she readied herself for the feat she was about to attempt. Slowly, her teeth showing in a grimace of effort, she pushed her arms straight out until she was suspended in a perfect cruciform position, every muscle in her stupendous arms standing out as though carved from solid teak. The chains were now taut, and might give if she could just ... 'You'll never break them, you know'. At the sound of the unexpected voice, Brenhya dropped back down the wall. The jolt of the shackles against her raw wrists almost made her cry out. There was something vaguely familiar about the heavyset, broad shouldered figure that sauntered into her field of view. The harsh voice, that lantern jaw, those coarse features, the black hair hanging in rat's tails, tugged at the memory strings in her still partly confused mind. 'Dru?' The recollection of her old rival hit her like a smack in the face. 'The very same', Drucia confirmed, walking a few steps nearer but careful to keep out of kicking range. 'Except I'm known as Jarris, now, sprog. Captain Jarris, that is. I work for Magister Boulic'. Brenhya could see the deep hatred, suppressed for years, in the other woman's eyes. 'As I say', Drucia went on. 'You'll never break those chains, so don't bother trying. I made sure they were too strong, even for you. And even if you could, I'm not about to give you the chance. The Magister wants to talk to you, but he said that, as old "friends", we could spend some time together first'. On the last word, Drucia slammed her hard fist into Brenhya's bare midriff. The blow was telegraphed slightly, so she was able to tense her terrific belly muscles to absorb it. Drucia's wrist was jarred by the impact, and she shook her numbed hand as she stepped back. 'Still keeping in shape, I see?' Drucia commented as she strolled casually to a nearby bench. 'OK, then. Special treatment for you'. Opening a drawer, the Captain produced a pair of heavy brass knuckle- dusters, making a big production out of fitting them over her thick fingers so that Brenhya could see every movement. 'Don't worry', she told her victim in a voice dripping with venom. 'I'm not going to kill you. Not for a while, anyway. But I am going to enjoy this'. In rapid succession, she landed two blows to Brenhya's abdomen. The Warrior was able to absorb them, but they hurt. She brought up her knees to try and ward off her attacker, but Drucia landed sharp strikes to the nerve plexuses on the outside of each thigh that rendered her legs useless for a minute. The Captain then went to work, systematically landing blow after blow to Brenhya's abdomen until she was no longer able to absorb the punishment and let out grunts of pain with each strike. She gasped when the treatment moved on to her chest, and Drucia took great pleasure in battering her ribs and breasts until they were a mass of purple bruises. Eventually, Drucia stepped back breathing heavily, but whether from her exertions, or from the psycho-sexual stimulation of the beating she had administered, was impossible to say. 'How does it feel?', she snarled at her captive. 'How does it feel to be on the receiving end? All the pain? All the humiliation? How does it feel?' Brenhya raised her head, her sweat-soaked hair dangling. She hawked deep in her throat and spat a gob of mucus, catching her tormentor full in the eye. 'Oh, you'll pay for that, sprog', Drucia said, wiping off the gobbet with her sleeve, her voice cruel and cold. 'Your face, I think. Your poor, pretty, pretty face'. The first punch, its impact more than doubled by the metal encasing it, raised an angry welt on Brenhya's cheek and closed her left eye. The next split her lip, releasing a trickle of blood to run down her chin and drip on her abused breasts. After that, as the blows rained, Brenhya became numbed to the punishment, and very soon lost consciousness again. But Drucia did not stop until every part of the once radiantly beautiful face was beaten and bruised almost beyond recognition. Lying on her back. She was lying on her back. So how did it feel like she was still hanging from the wall shackles? These were the first conscious thoughts in Brenhya's mind as she struggled back to reality. There was pain, of course, from the terrible battering she had received, but that had not quite registered yet. She forced her eyes open and looked groggily around. She appeared to be lying on a table with her ankles shackled. Her arms were stretched above her head, and seemed to be manacled to some kind of windlass. To her right, she could see the edge of a big, toothed wheel. She tested her bonds; still weakened from her encounter with Drucia, there seemed not to be any give in them. She was able to lift her head, slightly. Three figures stood at her feet. Boulic, Drucia, and a squat, balding, muscular fellow, who looked uneasy. A sergeant, by the look of him. Sergeants always had a certain stamp about them. Drucia moved to the side and seemed to be doing something with the wheel. Clack. Clack. Clack. Sudden pain in her shoulders caused her to draw a sharp breath and close her eyes. When she opened them again, Boulic was standing over her, staring into her face. 'Welcome back, my dear'. His voice was bright and almost cheerful. 'We'll forego the formal introductions, if you don't mind. Tut, tut, Captain Jarris. What a mess you've made of such a lovely face.' Drucia gave a snigger. 'What do you want?' Brenhya mumbled through swollen lips. 'Oh, nothing, much. You're going to die, of course, but before you do, I would like to know why? Why do you have this vendetta against me?' Brenhya jerked against her bonds. 'I'll tell you that, you foul, filthy, murdering, lying, robbing ...' Her tirade was cut short as Boulic casually backhanded her across her bruised cheek. 'Uh, uh, uh', he sang. 'Not yet. The Captain and I must have our fun, first. One must take one's pleasures where one can, yes?' He gave a small hand signal to the woman he knew as Jarris. Clack. Clack. Clack. Brenhya chewed on her lips to stifle the scream that was nearly ripped from her as the pressure on her arms and legs increased. 'Handy piece of equipment, this, isn't it?' Boulic said conversationally. 'We call it the Stretcher. In other cultures, it's called the Rack. Wreck might be more appropriate. It will certainly wreck you. Ha!' He permitted himself a single harsh laugh at his own joke. Clack. Clack. Clack. Drucia leered into Brenhya's face as she tightened the ratchet a few more notches. 'Getting uncomfortable, sprog?' Brenhya strained against her bonds, her splendid muscles still able to resist the constant pull of the torture device, trying to ignore the pain in her wrists and ankles. Clack. Clack. Clack. She centred her mind on nothingness, trying to will the agony away. The pain in her wrists and ankles was now matched by the pain in her back and all her other joints. A tiny cry escaped from between her grinding teeth and tight lips. Clack. Clack. Clack. The pain intensified. She still managed to block it, to a degree, but knew she could not stand it for very much longer. Clack. Clack. Clack. 'Come on, Captain', Boulic said, getting impatient. 'Put your back into it. Her arms should've been out of their sockets, by now'. There was an anticipatory gleam in his eye. 'With anyone else, they would have', explained Drucia/Jarris. 'Don't worry, sir. Not long now'. Clack. Clack. Clack. A low moan issued from Brenhya's lips. Any minute now, she knew, she would scream and the struggle would be over. Her mighty limbs would be torn from their sockets. But she was determined to resist to the last. On the very edge of hearing, Brenhya heard the familiar sound of a sword being drawn. 'Enough!', the sergeant cried, brandishing his weapon at his superiors. 'She can't take any more. Back off!' Boulic hardly spared him a glance. 'Captain', he said. 'Deal with your man'. 'Harfon!', she barked. 'Put that sword away!' 'Sorry, ma'am. I can't let this go on. If yer gonna kill 'er, kill 'er an' 'ave done with it'. Drucia's foot lashed out. Her booted foot connected sharply with Harfon's wrist, sending the sword spinning from his numbed fingers. He waded in with fists flying. That Harfon had an old fashioned aversion to striking women mattered not one jot. He was simply outclassed in any case, and Drucia proceeded to give him a sound beating. Boulic, never one to miss out on a spectacle that involved the suffering of someone else, turned to watch. Somehow, Brenhya managed to get her hands around the chains that connected her to the windlass. She took advantage of the distraction, and seized hold of her pain, her rage, her hatred, and compressed them all into a hard knot of resolve that fed strength into her muscles. She strained with both arms and legs, the incredible tension turning the chains into solid rods of iron The great muscles in her arms and shoulders, back and thighs, contracted into steely plates as pure power exploded through them. The thick wooden beam of the ratchet began to creak. Many things happened at once. At the tiny noise, Boulic turned away from the fight. Simultaneously, the beam gave under Brenhya's irresistible efforts with a loud crack. She swung the heavy ratchet, now dangling from a chain attached to her wrist, and caught Boulic a glancing blow that staggered him and caused a trickle of blood from his forehead. Now with hands free, Brenhya was able to quickly snap the chains from her manacles and foot-shackles. Boulic dived for the door at the very instant that his Captain dropped the sergeant with a roundhouse kick to the head. 'Kill her!', he shouted to Drucia, a touch of panic in his voice. 'Kill her!' All the pain, all the bruises, all the weakening treatment temporarily forgotten, Brenhya stood at the end of the Stretcher. Finally released after years of suppression, her towering rage twisted her mouth into a hellish snarl as she glared at the Magister, who fumbled at the door in his anxiety to be anywhere, other than here, with this terrible woman. Her anger did not entirely blur her thoughts, however, and she knew where the greater danger lay. She turned toward Drucia with clenched fists. If the hatred in her eyes was a weapon, the Captain would have died on her feet. Looking a little nervous, Drucia took up a stance. Taking in Brenhya's battered, bruised, and abused body, though, her arrogance returned. She was confident she could take her. Boulic finally got the door open, and fled, yelling. 'Guards! Guards!' Brenhya began to dance lightly on her feet, hands hanging loosely at her sides, in contrast to the other's more four-square style, waiting for her enemy to make the first move. Drucia was a strong and expert fighter, and Brenhya did not underestimated her in the least. Both women circled each other warily, watching for an opening. First one feinted, then the other. One would swing a foot, the other a fist, but neither made contact in the first long seconds. Drucia moved in with a swinging fist that would have broken a rib, had it landed. Brenhya stepped neatly aside, and snapped a backhand blow to the side of the heavier woman's head, before skipping back out of range. Drucia shook her head, and wheeled about. Her aim was to close with her opponent who, in her weakened state, Drucia reasoned, would be vulnerable from that position. Brenhya had no intention of allowing her to close. Not yet. She kept just out of reach of the flailing fists, occasionally landing a punch or kick of her own which looked casual, but each blow landed with the strength of Brenhya behind it. Drucia began to lose some of her confidence. It seemed that no matter what she did, she could not connect a punch or a kick on her silent, weaving target. On the other hand, the tall woman was landing some fast, telling blows. In desperation, she charged, arms spread wide. She would wrestle her to the ground, and finish her there. Her shoulder slammed into Brenhya's belly. The redhead's powerful muscles absorbed the impact, but a wave of pain washed through her body as the bruises reminded her of their presence. Still, she was not borne to the ground, but found herself locked in Drucia's tightening embrace. Twisting to one side and the other, Drucia endeavoured to lift Brenhya's feet clear of the ground in order to slam her body to the flagstones. The Warrior could not allow that to happen, not if she intended to come out of this fight alive. She snapped her head forward, butting the bulky Captain on the bridge of the nose. A gout of red spurted and her grip eased slightly. Slightly was all Brenhya needed. She powered her arms up, breaking the other's grip, and reversed the situation. She now had Drucia in an unbreakable bearhug, and being somewhat taller there was little danger that her tactic could be turned against her. Putting every ounce of her tremendous strength into it, Brenhya began to squeeze. Her arm and pectoral muscles became hard as oak as she forced the breath from her opponent. Each time Drucia let a little more air out, Brenhya took up the slack, and tightened even further. A look of panic appeared on the black haired woman's face as she fought for life-giving oxygen, but Brenhya was relentless. Eventually, there was no air left in Drucia's lungs, and she mouthed silently. Here eyes began to bulge, and her lips and protruding tongue acquired a bluish tinge. Still Brenhya poured on the power, with flashing eyes and bared teeth. Ribs began to give way with muffled popping sounds but Drucia, having passed out from lack of oxygen by now, was spared the agony. And Brenhya continued to hug, crushing the life from her childhood enemy, squeezing and squeezing until, with a grinding noise, the vertebrae fractured under the relentless pressure and Drucia flopped like a rag doll. As if it was something filthy and disgusting, Brenhya flung the inert carcase from her. She looked about, to find Sergeant Harfon climbing groggily to his feet. She went to stand over him, feet apart and hands on hips. Harfon, having seen the final result of the battle with Drucia, braced himself for a killing blow, but Brenhya merely held out her hand to help him to his feet. He accepted her assistance with a little laugh of relief. 'Thank you', Brenhya said. 'If you hadn't distracted them when you did, I would never have got free'. Harfon gave a wry smile. 'Don't mention it. Miss'. 'Tell me, Sergeant, is it?' Harfon nodded. 'Where would Boulic go?' 'Looking for 'elp, I should fink. 'E'll go to the wardroom'. Brenhya placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the door. 'Show me'. The door to the wardroom burst open as Boulic rushed in headlong. The few soldiers that were in there, taking a break, awaiting orders, or enjoying a well-earned mug of wine, glanced in surprise at the panic-stricken figure. Some, recognising the Magister, got to their feet. He slammed the door behind him and shot the bolt. Several of the men sneered as the finally recognised him as the craven coward he was. He ran forward, arms flapping urgently. 'Get up, get up! Protect me!' The soldiers formed a loose knot in the centre of the floor, looking toward the door as if they could see through it to whatever had caused such terror. Boulic hid behind them, cowering. At a single powerful kick from a muscled leg, the door flew open. Brenhya stood in the frame, glowering into the room. Naked and beaten up though she was, she was nonetheless an imposing site, muscle definition visible through all the blood and grime as she held her clenched fists tight at her sides. Many of the men were unable to tear their eyes from her nudity. Sergeant Harfon squeezed past her in the doorway. With a single glance, he took in the bunch of soldiers and deduced their purpose. Her motioned with one hand. 'Stand aside, you men'. These men were not raiders. They were, for the most part, earnest and honest men, regular soldiers all who would fight to the last man when ordered, but did not commit needless and wanton acts of cruelty. They were torn between their loyalty to the "Sarge" and their fear of Boulic. Although the latter did not appear to be in a position to inspire much fear at the moment. 'I said, stand aside. This lady 'as business with the Magister'. He spat out the word as if it left a nasty taste. Harfon's attitude would brook no denial. The group parted to either side. Exposed, Boulic cringed back against the wall. Brenhya had not moved a muscle. 'You men! Arrest them both! Immediately!' Boulic's voice had an unaccustomed shrillness. Some of the guards shifted their feet uneasily. 'As yer were!', Harfon snapped. 'You men listen 'ere. Not one of yer is to interfere with whatever 'appens next. Clear?' There were mutters of, 'yes, Sarge'. Their respect for the bristling, stocky man now outweighed their diminishing fear of the Magister. 'Right, now, clear off, the lot of yer'. Smartly, reacting to the tone of command, the men marched out. 'An' shut the door be'ind yer!' Brenhya and Harfon were now alone with Boulic. He knelt in a corner, hands held up in a supplicating posture. Brenhya walked slowly toward him, an expression of pure hatred on her face. 'You filthy piece of dog turd', she growled. 'You're such a big man when you have your minions to protect you. Not such a big man now, eh?' She took more steps toward him. He cowered in his corner. Her voice was low and dangerous. 'You had my family killed, my mother raped, my friends tortured, and my village burned to the ground', she said, as if reciting a litany. You nearly destroyed the Sisterhood. You sacked the town I had come to call my home. Goddess knows how many people you've had put to death, how many lives you've ruined'. She was towering over him, now. He sank down in the corner, making himself as small as possible. 'No', he said in a tiny voice. 'Please. Don't'. 'And now ...' There was disgust on Brenhya's face. She sighed heavily. '...and now, I can't be bothered with you. You're not worth the effort of killing you'. She turned her back and walked away, ostensibly to speak with the Sergeant. 'Look out, Miss!' Harfon yelled. Brenhya spun on her heel. Boulic had grabbed a heavy wine jug, and was preparing to bring it crashing down on her head. She plucked it easily from his hands and tossed it over her shoulder to smash on the flagged floor. With a grimace of disgust and loathing, she casually backhanded him across the face. He flew back against the wall as if jerked on strings. 'You just don't know when to give up, do you?' Arms spread wide, she advance upon him. His fear giving him speed and agility, he ducked under her arm and raced for the door. Harfon got a couple of fingers on his garment, but Boulic jerked from his grasp. He flung open the door and ran from the room, retracing his earlier steps Brenhya began to run to catch him, but Harfon held up a hand. 'Don't bother, Miss. There's only one place 'e can go, running that way. Back to the dungeon'. Setting a brisk pace, Brenhya strode after her quarry. She's like a stalking tiger, Harfon thought, as he followed. They reached the dungeon just in time to see the door close hear and the bolts shooting. Brenhya threw herself against the thick dark wood of the door. It did not give an inch. 'Well, that's it, then', the Sergeant observed. 'E's in there with no way out, an' we're out here with no way in'. 'Don't be too sure', Brenhya said. She looked him up and down. He was a strong looking man. 'Come and stand behind me, back to back. That's right. Now, link your arms through mine, hold on tight, and brace me. Lean forward as I kick off'. At any other time, Harfon would have been pleased, nay, delighted, to be this close to a naked young woman, especially one that looked like Brenhya, bruises and all. But he had an idea of what she was about to do, and concentrated on his instructions. Brenhya raised both her feet from the ground, supported on the Sergeant's back as he leaned forward to lift her even higher, bracing his feet in a wide stance. She slammed the flat of both her feet into the door with such force that Harfon was propelled across the corridor and only barely avoided his face smacking into the wall opposite. They were rewarded by a loud creak and the sound of some of the screws that secured the bolts falling to the floor on the inside. 'You OK, Sergeant?' 'Yes. Come on, Miss. One more should do it'. They resumed their back to back position, and repeated the exercise. This time, Brenhya's feet hit the door with such power that Harfon was knocked flat, his breath knocked out by Brenhya landing on top of him. But the door had given up the unequal struggle. As her feet connected, it flew open. Brenhya was up and through it in an instant. There was no sign of Boulic at first. Then a quiet little whimper attracted her attention, and she saw him, hiding under the remains of the Stretcher. She tossed the torture table over, exposing his cowering form. Her strong leg lashed out, and her foot connected with his ribs. Lifting him clear of the floor and sending him flying several feet. He scrabbled to get out of the way, but she grabbed an arm and hauled him close. She forced the arm up his back, and slammed him face first in to the wall. He was as tall as she, and standing behind him she could whisper straight into his ear. 'You snivelling, miserable, slime sucker', she breathed. 'You've tortured your last victim. It's time to die'. Brenhya dropped her hands to his waist, and hoisted his screaming body high above her head. Spinning round, she hurled him, flailing, across the room ... ...where he came to rest right inside the evilly spiked cabinet. His mouth widened in a soundless scream. He jerked as the wicked spikes pierced his body through. A torrent of red gushed from his lips and streamed down his front. Executing a perfect high spinning kick, Brenhya whirled across the room and rammed her foot into the door, slamming it shut on his still writhing body. The spikes on the inner surface skewered him through and through. A red mist descended on Brenhya, then. She yanked open the cabinet door, and slammed it shut again. And again. And again. She kept on slamming that door, pulping the corpse inside, giving out an animal grunt each time. 'Ugh! Ugh! Nn-ugh! Nn-ugh!' Sergeant Harfon called out to her. 'Miss'. No response. 'Miss!' More insistent. He could see what was going on, had seen it too many times in battle. Soldiers sometimes got into a berserker rage like this, and gods help anyone who got in their way. He took his life in his hands, and stepped up close enough to grab on to an arm. 'Miss!' He was flung away like a pesky flea. He picked himself up and prepared to try again, this time catching her arm with both of his and hanging on for dear life. He was shaken about like a terrier shakes a rat, for several seconds, then found himself lifted by the collar, clear of the ground. He looked into her face, but saw no recognition there. In desperation, Harfon took her face in both of his hands, suspended a foot in the air as he was, and looked deep into the flashing angry eyes. 'He's dead!', he yelled. 'Miss! 'Es dead!' A look of confusion crossed Brenhya's face. Harfon patted both her wide shoulders, and lowered his voice. 'Yer can stop, now, Miss. 'E's dead. And yer can put me down, too, if yer'd like'. She lowered the Sergeant to the floor, almost gently, and touched a hand to her forehead. To Harfon's eyes, she looked dizzy and befuddled. 'Dead?' She whispered, her voice almost that of a little girl. 'That's right, Miss', Harfon said soothingly. 'Yer've done it. If that was what yer set out to do. Magister Boulic is dead'. Brenhya wandered round the room aimlessly for a minute. Eyes wide despite the bruising, she stared about her as if unsure what to do next. All the torture, all the beatings she had endured, finally caught up with her. Her head lolled back, and her eyes rolled up in her head. Harfon was just in time to save her head from striking the cold flagstones as she fell to the floor in a dead faint. EPILOGUE Galliane and Harroc were wreathed in white light, welcoming arms extended. She was running, running toward them, her long muscular legs pumping, her chestnut hair streaming in the wind, but came no closer to her parents. There was no fatigue, for all it felt as if she had been running forever, and no frustration at her lack of progress. All that mattered was that she keep running. There were no shadows in the tunnel. Just the warm, brilliant light, so bright that it should have blinded her. Yet she was not dazzled, and could see her parents as clearly as if it were a sunny day. Then a shape appeared in the light, indistinct at first but gradually becoming more and more solid until it obstructed her view of Harroc and Galliane. She tried to peer round it as she ran, but wherever she looked the shape was in her direct line of sight. This puzzled but did not disturb her, and she felt no threat. As it solidified, the shape took on a recognisable form. The form of a woman, tall and muscular, regal of bearing, belly heavy with fecund life. The form of a woman she recognised. Not a woman. A Goddess. The form was that of Themyra, unmistakably, but the smiling face was not that of the revered Earthmother. It was the face of Brenhya herself. Even in her haste to reach her parents, she was confused by the spectre. How could the Goddess have her face? She stopped running. The vision raised a hand, pointing back the way Brenhya had come. She knew that could not be right; she was supposed to run, run into the light to join her parents. She tried to move around the figure, but whichever way she turned, the smiling face was before her, pointing the way back. Harroc and Galliane appeared behind the Goddess, peering over her wide shoulders. Their expressions were kindly, but left no doubt that they were in agreement with Themyra. Brenhya must go back. It was not yet her time. The figure in the bed stirred, and gave a little moan. Harfon got up from his chair and rushed to the bedside, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. It was the first signs of life in four days. The long lashes fluttered, and the grey eyes opened. Glassy eyed and confused, Brenhya looked about her until her gaze alighted on the figure at her beside. She looked puzzled for a moment, but then recognition dawned. 'Sergeant?' Her mouth was dry and her voice croaked. Harfon sighed with relief, and a huge grin split his features. 'That's right, Miss. Good to see yer back. Yer 'ad us a bit worried, for a minute, there'. A frown creased Brenhya's forehead. 'Boulic? What about Boulic?' Harfon placed a gnarly hand over hers. 'Don't you worry, Miss. Yer done 'im, good an' proper. It's all over, now'. 'No', she said. 'There's something else ...' She made an impatient face. 'I can't think'. 'Well, never you mind about that'. Harfon turned his bald head at the sound of a door opening. 'There's someone here to see you. Says he's a friend of yours'. A concerned face appeared. Lon was looking over the Sergeant's shoulder. Brenhya smiled, as best she could with swollen lips. 'Hello, Lon' 'Brenhya! Thank gods!' He punched the Sergeant on the arm. 'Why didn't you tell me she was awake?' 'She's only just come to. I'll leave you two alone for a minute, see if I can't rustle up some grub for yer, Miss'. Lon sat on the edge of the bed as Harfon left. He pre-empted her first question. 'I had the most awful feeling', he confided. 'I had to come and find you. I was sure you were ...gone'. Brenhya sucked a sharp breath as her cracked lips protested her smile. 'For a time', she said, 'I thought so, too. How long have you been here? And how long have I been out?' 'I got here yesterday. It took an age to talk my way past Harfon. He was very protective, like a little terrier on guard. He tells me you've been "away" for four days. Here', he said, as Brenhya tried to sit up. 'Let me help'. He assisted her to a sitting position and smoothed her hair. 'Your face! What happened to your lovely face?' She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand, letting it fall on top of his. 'Never mind. It's in the past, now. It's good to see you, Lon'. Harfon returned at that moment, bearing a steaming bowl of meaty broth. They sat in silence while Brenhya ate. She surprised herself at how hungry she was. She handed the empty bowl to Lon, and cautiously swung her legs out of the bed. 'Ere, steady on, Miss'. Both Harfon and Lon moved as if to restrain her, but she waved them away. 'It's all right', she insisted, and both knew that if she said she could do something, the odds were that she could. 'And you can drop the "miss", Sergeant. Call me Brenhya, OK?' 'Yes, M ...Brenhya. A lovely name, if I may say so. And you can call me Harfon'. 'Fine, Harfon. Now, if you or Lon could just lend me a hand? I know what I have to do, now'.' Both men came to her sides as she stood, a hand on each of their arms to steady herself. Her head swam and a wave of nausea swept through her as she came erect, and she used her companions to steady herself, at the same time catching sight of herself in a mirror. Her once glossy hair was a tangled mess, matted in places with filth and blood, and her face was a mask of bruises. One eye was swollen almost shut, a deep purple, almost black welt marred one cheek, and her lips were bloody and thick. The sleeping robe she was wearing, a man's, was obviously made for someone much shorted and reached just past her hips. Someone had thoughtfully put a pair of man's underpants on her, and tried to clean her up, but she could see that her legs and the visible part of her chest were also covered in bruises. It seemed like every muscle in her whole body ached, and when she tried to walk, she who was used to being so lithe and limber, the stiffness took her by surprise. She covered her face with her hands and her shoulders began to shake. Lon put a comforting arm around her, but was most affronted when he discovered she was laughing. 'What's so funny', he demanded to know. Brenhya turned her battered face to look at him. 'I am', she chuckled, self-mockery in her voice. 'The Great Warrior, tottering along like an old lady!' She looked about her. 'But this room. It's a man's room, isn't it? And this is a man's robe, and pants. Harfon, are these ...?' 'Yes. These is my quarters. But don't you worry none. I bin too busy sortin' out the mess Boulic left be'ind to worry about where I'm sleepin'. The reg'lars is all to cock, millin' about with no leadership. I've nearly knocked them into shape, though. An' the Raiders is all runnin' wild, dispersed to the seven winds. Good riddance, says I'. 'Well, thanks for giving up your comfy bed for me'. Her head had cleared a little now, and she felt less nauseous. 'Now, I need to ask you one more favour. Take me to see the Emperor'. 'You ain't gonna do for 'im, an' all', are yer'. For all the years of corruption at the hands of Boulic that the country had suffered, Harfon was still a patriot at heart, and the thought of Brenhya murdering his Emperor did not sit well with him. 'Relax, Sergeant. I only want to talk with him'. 'Right. Well, in that case, this way please'. Callias loved his life. He spent his days living in the lap of luxury, servants at his beck and call, women to pleasure him at his whim, the best of food and the finest of wines. And he got through a lot of wine. He was currently on his second flagon, and it was not yet noon. He passed most of his time in a drunken haze, lolling about on the enormous divan in the centre of his huge, opulent suite, surrounded and pampered by beautiful women. The Emperor himself, to his father's regret the only heir he had sired, was an overweight slug of a man addicted to a life of self indulgence. He knew nothing of affairs of state, content to leave all that in the hands of his Magister who, in his turn, had always encouraged his sovereign's attitude. This morning, he was lying on the divan while two nymphets attended to his manicure and pedicure. Other lissome girls bedecked the room, and a bulky eunuch stood on guard inside the door. In the hallway outside the Royal Apartments, Brenhya tottered down the corridor, half supported on both sides by Lon and Harfon. The two guards on duty outside were quickly dismissed with a jerk of Harfon's head. Brenhya freed herself of her human crutches and took several deep breaths, centering herself. She stood tall and erect, and nodded to Harfon. The Sergeant pushed open the door, and his sword was at the throat of the eunuch before he had time to move. Brenhya strode purposefully forward. Aside from her bruises, there was nothing to suggest she had only shortly gotten out of a sick bed. She walked directly up to the Emperor, who sat with mouth agape. The pleasure women fled twittering to the farthest recesses of the suite. She spoke before the drunkard had a chance to shout. 'Good morning, your Majesty'. Her words were polite enough, but there she put enough venom in the title to kill a viper. 'My name is Brenhya, and I've come to have a word with you'. The Emperor found his voice. 'This is an outrage!', he spluttered. 'I'll have you beheaded for this! Guards!' 'Quiet!' The sharpness of command in her voice left him no choice but to obey. She leaned forward so that her swollen face was inches from his, and spoke in a deadly calm, quiet voice. 'Listen to me, you insignificant, spineless worm. And don't bother calling for your Magister. I've already dealt with him'. Callias' face turned ashen at her words. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. 'While you've been living in the lap of luxury, your country has been turned into a charnel house. Boulic was responsible for muder, rape, and the ruination of thousands of lives. And you just sat here in your fancy apartments, living off the fat of the land, and let him do it. You make me sick to my stomach. 'But things are going to change. You, for one, are going to sober up, and take an interest in what goes on around you'. She pointed at Harfon. 'This man is going to make sure of that. You are going to make him commander of your entire army, and you are going to institute some kind of police force. Harfon will oversee that, too. Is this clear, because this is what is going to happen. 'If it does not, be sure that I will hear of it, and I will come back to have another "word" with you. And if you believe nothing else, believe this. If I have to come back, you will wish I had killed you here today. Are we clear on this?' The Emperor's jowly chins wobbled as he nodded. Eyes wide, fear etched all over his face, he was keen to show this swollen faced woman that he was eager to do her bidding. Brenhya turned on her heel and marched out into the corridor. Lon and Harfon followed, the latter turning to bow to his Emperor. The lupine grin on his face told Callias that he intended to carry out every word of the Warrior woman's instructions. Once in the corridor and out of sight of the Emperor, Brenhya leaned heavily against a wall and rested her aching head against the cool stone. 'It's back to bed for you', Lon said. She could not find fault with his logic, and did not protest. She put an arm around him and drew him close. 'I told you to stay at the town', she said. 'But I'm pleased you didn't'. 'I couldn't stay. I waited three days, and that was about as much as I could bear. So I came on. And when I found Bentoe alone in the fields above the city, I began to fear the worst' His voice became stern. 'You must never leave me behind like that again. Promise?' 'I promise'. Lon's voice became solemn. 'I couldn't stand to lose you, Brenhya. I love you, you know'. 'Yes. I know'. She took his face in both her hands and kissed him gently on the cheek. 'Ow!' She winced, and raised a hand to her swollen mouth. 'And I love you, too, in my own way, but not in the way ...' '...not in the way that I want you to love me'. Lon sighed. 'I know. But it'll have to do'. Brenhya slipped an arm around his shoulder. She extended her other arm to enfold Harfon, and drew them both close, hugging them as hard as she dared, given the state of her abused body. She looked at them both, and smiled. A smile that, despite her beaten up appearance, lit up the whole corridor. A smile that crinkled the corners of her eyelids, and shone deep within her glistening eyes. A smile that expressed all the emotion she was feeling, now that her long quest was over. Everything was going to be all right. THE END Copyright "Heck" 2000. All rights reserved.