Shieldmaiden

1. MIDWINTER

Thespa wept behind the black rock, her sword discarded on the icy ground. There were too many. She was too late. She knelt on the fern, hands grasping her leather jerkin, shaking with unvoiced rage.

Smoke and steam billowed from the thatched roof of the cottage. Riders cried to each other as they remounted, horses slipping on the packed snow. The unconscious body of a fur-draped woman hung across the saddle of an Aroth raider. It was Penoa, Thespa's mother.

The riders circled the burning home, then galloped over the half-frozen stream and up, over the brown hills on which her father would pasture his flocks in spring. She could see, through her tears, his limp body, impaled by an Aroth spear. A war cry tore from her throat.

Sword twisting in her hand, she ran to her father's side, her eyes wary of the shadows. But naught was to be seen. An early lamb, torn from the mother who had been herded away, cried at the top of the hill. The stream babbled under its crust of ice. But her father did not speak.

His eyes were motionless, his face tinged blue, stiff from cold. And death. She knelt by him and wept, for how long she did not know, but when she raised her head again the noon sun was westering.

She returned to the cave behind the rock, where she had hidden, returning home with her father's stallion. She had attended the midwinter feast of Thor in the village that lay not two miles east from their home. Erod, their finest possession, stood quietly where she had left him, one rein trailing on the ground. She led him carefully to her father's side.

She laid her father's body out on her cloak, and pulled him gently over the snow-covered ground to the cave. She wrapped him carefully, tying leather strips about his body, no time to wash him or light a fire to send him on his way. With great strength, she lifted his wrapped body up to a natural shelf in the cave, and laid her own sword beneath his feet. Stepping back, she let her palms glide through the air above him as she said a spell to guard her father and guide him on his way. She filled baskets with rocks and covered his body to protect it from vermin. And then she pushed the black rock until it covered the entrance to the cave, and scattered the dirt and snow until her footsteps were hidden.

She found her father's shield and sword in the outbuilding behind the trees, in the war chest he kept there. She used her knife to hack off her long blonde tresses. She took up her father's helmet and held it up over her head.

"I am Thespa, child of Penoa and Yeni, a virgin shieldmaiden. Thor, give me strength." Her voice was wrung with tears. "Give me the strength of my fallen father, and my unborn brothers." Hardened, her voice then rang out, carrying far across the fields. Thunder rumbled. "I claim the right," she cried, and placed the Aeti helmet on her head. It fit perfectly. Her father's sword she gird to her side, his shield she took in her left hand. She strode into the yard.

She moved toward the stallion, reborn, a woman with the strength of a warrior, her girlhood over. Her blue eyes were fierce, her once soft mouth now grim with vengeance. She hung her shield on the saddle and gathered Erod's reins in her left hand. She paused, looking again at the collapsing cottage, the stream where she bathed every morning, snow or no, remembering.

Remembering: her mother braiding her waist-length gold hair, bread baking on the hearth. Her father, showing her how to test the edge of her sword, teaching her to lift and fight, amazed at her strength. The passionate depths of the love her parents gave one another. The visions stung her heart.

Her mother's face flew into her mind, hair streaming as she flew through the air. She was lying face down over the withers of a rough-haired pony. Blood dripped from her mouth. "Thespa. East, toward Oria."

Thespa closed her eyes in silent prayer. Then she threw her foot in the stirrup and mounted. "Erod! Follow the Aroth devils!" The black stallion reared, snorting its eagerness, foam dripping from its mouth. In one swift movement, they were gone.

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Penoa was roughly taken from the back of the horse and flung down on the snow. She was up on her feet in an instant, scrambling to get away from her captors. She made it a few feet and then fell, the rope around her waist her undoing. She sat in the snow, glaring at the warrior who grasped the other end.

He laughed. His face was covered with beard and his stocky limbs were dressed with fur. His eyes were grey and clear. He spoke to the other men around, who laughed and then moved away to make camp. Penoa and the Aroth were left alone. Rock, high and steep, surrounded the camp on three sides, and, on the fourth, there was a wooden wall with a gap. She could see warriors filling in the gap in the wall with trees hewed from the grove that grew nearby. A stream bubbled up from the ground. The air was chill. Night was falling.

Penoa raised up her hands and wiped her mouth. The cut on her lip had dried, but she winced.

The man spoke, but she could not understand his speech. He tied the rope around his waist, then took a cup from a bag on the ground, and filled it with water. He walked over to her and offered her the cup. She took it, and threw the contents in his face.

He laughed.

He pulled at the rope, forcing her to her feet. He picked up the cup and pulled her with him as he went back to the spring, filled the cup with water, and offered it again. She shook her head.

He spoke again, his voice gentle. He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head as if to say, "Why go thirsty?" She took the cup, lifted it, and drank the ice cold water.

He smiled at her. She smiled back. He looked surprised. Then she flung the cup into his face as hard as she could. The cup struck his face and then fell.

Laughing, he grasped the rope and pulled her to him. He swiftly pinned her arms to her sides, shouting something to his comrades. They had erected a shelter by the grove. They laughed, calling jests, moving away to the fire that was now burning near the wall. Tiny snowflakes danced in the air.

Penoa fought and struggled, but soon she was in the tent. Torches flared at the entrance. A stake had been driven into the ground, and furs lay in front of it. Her captor pushed her down on the furs, and then tied her hands to the stake. He took a soft cloth from a leather bag, and stuffed it in her mouth. She glared at him. He stood above her, breathing hard, his eyes taking in her long legs. His eyes were dark, his mouth grinning.

He took a knife from his belt, and knelt beside her writhing body. Gently, he pulled her clothing away from her bosom and thrust the knife into the leather. Inch by inch, the blade cut through her coverings, falling open to reveal her flushed skin, the curve of a generous breast. Down, down, the blade travelled, over her trembling belly, down further, to the golden bush that dwelt between her long legs, down, until she was laid bare. She raised her legs and twisted, shoving him away, kicking mightily. Her wrists burned. He stood again, and watched her, speaking in a soft voice.

Again he came close, again she fought, kicking, almost faint from lack of breath. Again. She weakened, her limbs slower to respond to her will, her head heavy. Still she fought. And his eyes followed her pallid limbs as they convulsed with her anger and fear.

Finally she lay exhausted before him. He knelt over one of her legs, his hand on the other. She shook her head, her eyes begged him to stop. He ran his hand over her body, feeling the soft skin of her inner arm, the sunbleached, freckled shoulders, the softer mound of her breasts, the velvet of their pink tips. He flicked his thumb over a nipple and watched it harden. She moaned and shook her head.

He leaned forward and opened his mouth, showed her his long tongue, raising and lowering it in front of her eyes, and took it down to her breast, flicking at her nipple over and over again. Then he closed his lips and suckled softly, his eyes watching hers. His hand drifted to her other breast. She moaned.

His lips burned kisses from her breasts to her belly and back again. He trailed his tongue down the inside of her arms, where the skin was soft and tender. He kissed the curve of her hip, and ran his hands down one shapely leg, lifting it over his shoulder, the other imprisoned between his own legs.

He showed her his tongue again, and she shook her head. But, watching her, he let his tongue drift slowly down until it brushed the golden triangle between her legs. She lifted her free leg and tried to push him away, but he grasped it tighter in his iron hand. He showed her his tongue again. She lay motionless, hardly breathing.

He dipped his tongue between her pussy lips and stroked her clit. Side to side. Up and down, his eyes watching hers. His tongue was soft, fluid, strong. She felt a pulse run up her spine. He lifted her leg up high, revealing her core. He cupped her ass with his hand, and lifted her up. His tongue probed deeper, finding her pussy, thrusting deep. He withdrew. Then thrust again. Then back to her clit, lips gently caressing, tongue stroking. She felt a tightness building in her belly. A liquid fire ran down her limbs and she moaned again.

His lips fastened to her clit. He stroked her. He blew on her clit, teased it, caressed it. Her pussy encased his tongue over and over. She shivered. A wave of heat was born of his tongue and crept over her body, taking her higher. She was on fire.

She came.

He laughed, thrust his tongue into her pussy, and drank deep of her warm honey. He suckled her clit again, and again she trembled. Fire raced through her body, and she came, liquid streaming out, wetting his knees and the furs below. He drank deep again. Once more. His tongue on her clit, softly, gently, bringing her again to the brink. Then he let her hips drop to the ground.

Thrusting his trousers from his waist, he took his cock into his hand and showed it to her. Fully erect, it was enormous. It pulsed with each beat of his heart. He thrust his hand into her pussy, and raised his fingers, covered with her cum, to his cock, and caressed himself, eyes fixed on hers. She moaned and raised her hips.

He brought his mouth again to her clit, suckling, tongue flicking. A golden fire swept through her, and she came again. He raised one of her legs over his shoulder. At the moment of her coming, he thrust himself deep into her, his cock filling her pussy as it tightened around him, her cum gushing as he pushed. She drifted to the sky, her body shivering in ecstasy.

He grinned. He had lusted for her since he was a boy, but another warrior had stolen her from the village. Now she was his.

His hardened cock probed the depths of her pussy, felt the pulsating liquid warmth of her as she tightened once again, her nipples hardening, her breath rasping. He let his fingers drift down, pulling open her pussy lips. He stroked her clit. He watched her come again, shuddering with her release, cum embracing his cock. His ass muscles tightened as he drifted with her, up in the stars.

He pulled out of her and brought his mouth back to her clit, suckling again, his eyes on hers, watching as her pupils dilated, her eyelids shuttered, feeling the shivers that ran from his tongue through her body, bringing her again to the heights, feeling her cum, his hands grasping her body as she shuddered, then he thrust himself deep into the pulsating heart of her hot wet pussy, so tight, so warm, he could hold it no longer, and he came in long, shuddering spasms until he had spent every ounce of semen into her.

He pulled the cloth from her mouth and kissed her gently, mindful of the cut on her lip. His breath still laboured as he said the traditional words in the Aeti language: "You are now my wife."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to be continued