10 comments/ 16319 views/ 28 favorites The Smoke-Girl & her Northern Ghost By: TaLtos6 *** This is a one-off, written in a single afternoon and it's based on a couple of things. One of them is a Frank Frazetta painting done back in 1978. I don't know if the title is correct, but what I saw was called "Night Winds". The other thing was a line spoken in the film "The Thirteenth Warrior", so if you can imagine those two things inspiring me, then I guess that I can say that it doesn't really take all that much to make me write a story, huh? The opening scene in this is based on an actual event which occurred late one night in 969AD, and the rest happens about two weeks later, but I didn't catch the actual date (in December) until it was almost written, so I'd just like it if the reader could just move it back about a month, 'kay? The event at the start actually happened, and the names of the Emperors, the Empress, and the description of the duties and purpose of the Varangian Guard are all correct as well as the descriptions of the nomadic tribes mentioned. At the time of the incident, the age of the Vikings was well into its decline and at that point in time, almost all of the Varangian Guard were Norsemen of some kind, and most were Vikings. The descriptive adjective "Varangian" is a Greek one and had nothing to do with the Viking age. The Varangian Guard saw service for a few hundred years after this incident, but by then it was composed of more Norman and Saxon stock. If you consider the distance in geographic terms - almost across the known world at the time, it seems implausible, but the pay was good enough to ensure that there would always be hopefuls showing up at the gate to apply, believe me. Everything else is the fantasy, especially the meeting which I've placed somewhere in southern Romania. 0_o --------------- He heard the call as the cry rang through the great common hall of their quarters, outside of his personal lodging room. Grabbing his sword and his bearded long-axe, Gunnar ran along with the rest, prepared to lay down his life for Nikephoros II, the current Byzantine emperor. But time was against them, it seemed. Nikiphoros lay dead, brutally hacked down as he'd tried to run, by the look of things. Only a little away and almost at his feet and just across the threshold of the doorway where he stood lay the servant who had raised the initial alarm which had been heard and relayed through the palace. That servant now lay writhing in agony with a bolt protruding from between his shoulder blades, just a little too high up to have been fatal and quick-acting enough to prevent the desperate cry in the first place. Gunnar stepped over him and walked into the large chamber holding onto that sheathed longsword and the axe. The unfortunate servant lay screaming and Gunnar was annoyed. He'd been having a bath and now stood naked and dripping as he looked around himself. Many of the staff and the countless advisers, augurers, and courtiers gasped and stepped back as he walked slowly around the corpse. He looked around himself at the collection of what he thought of as human cattle. This easily might have happened while a great many of these sheep had been present, though the time of day said otherwise. The Emperor himself, ruling head of the Eastern Roman Empire lay murdered in his own Imperial bedchamber. Gunnar supposed that even he and the other Varangians couldn't be everywhere at once. If they'd been kept any closer, they might as well have stood in to fuck the empress for him. Nikiphoros was an old man, after all. Many of the Varangian Guard were housed in the Bucoleon Palace a short distance away, but that was only so that the court wouldn't need to be exposed to and kept upset by the appearance of the large and fearsome mercenaries, though the term was a little ill-suited in their case. Though they were considered an elite part of the Byzantine army, they were much more used as the Imperial bodyguards. Sworn to protect the emperor with their lives by an oath which universally bound them by their honor as well as their lives and above all, their reputations, the Guard were feared and loathed by many, for they often proved themselves to fit their reputation for fearlessness a little beyond the conventional meaning of the word. Fearless they were and they also stood to protect their charge with their blood if need be, and spilling a little of that only seemed to make them happy. If it happened and they lived, they only bound their wounds and grinned as they went on. They were well-treated and with good reason. These wild northmen could not be bought. That was why they were here, after all. They were considered a part of the army, but there was always a contingent of them near to the man. Just not near enough tonight, it seemed to Gunnar. He shook his head and called over to Olaf, his old friend and veteran companion in Swedish, "Can you find out what he knows and try to quiet him a little before I kill him just to shut him up?" Olaf walked over and picked up the man, carefully turning him over and grimacing as the screams were now sung a lot nearer to his ears. "Did you see this happen?" he asked several times in Greek and the stricken servant, still screaming in agony from the drawing of each breath nodded. "Is the one still here? Which one? Speak server. Who?" The servant could barely raise his hand, but he managed it eventually and Olaf looked over. "He was shot in the back," the man said, "He saw little if anything." "True," Olaf nodded with a grunt, as he reached to grasp the bolt. The poor man howled and cried out piteously. Now that he had his arm up, he tried to reach behind him to draw it out. "Do you want it out?" Olaf asked, and the man nodded. The bolt was wrenched free in one pull and the scream on the man's lips was halted suddenly. He gaped into space ahead of himself as the obstruction in his artery was now gone. With nothing to impede the flow anymore, his blood spurted freely into his chest cavity from just above his heart and the servant breathed his last shocked gasp. Olaf let him fall forward onto his face and stood up, looking to be certain that he wore none of the blood. "Well that's better then," he said with a small smile. Gunnar regarded the one who had been pointed out, "Dead from a bolt in the back." "Yes," the man nodded, making no attempt to hide the small hunting crossbow that he held or the blood from the murder on his hands. The other guardsmen formed a quick informal huddle which lasted only seconds before they all got to one knee and bowed to the murderer, John I Tzimiskes. The Varangian presence was misunderstood by many at the time. Most held the belief that they were loyal to the man who held the empire, but that wasn't entirely correct. They'd sworn their oaths to protect the man who occupied the position and not particularly to the man himself. While he lived, their oaths kept them prepared to lay down their lives for the emperor, unlike the Roman Praetorian Guard which had murdered many of their emperors themselves. With Nikephoros dead, there was no purpose to any loyalty in that direction and so, knowing what was bound to occur anyway, their act was their pledge to defend the emperor -- the new emperor. Even some emperors themselves were hazy as to the purpose of the large and wild northmen, sometimes using them at critical points and times in their battles. The sight of the Vikings as they waded in and the cheerfulness with which they disregarded their own wounds while they cut down any who even tried to stand against them was far past unnerving to many. It had happened before that when the Varangians had appeared on the field, the opposing army fled and it began the rout. It had no effect on the outcome, but the sound of the brutes as they sang while chasing down the runners and the loud laughing as they hacked them to pieces went a long way to cementing an obviously true legend. John looked around the room as everyone knelt. Only one person; one Varangian remained standing. "You have killed your own uncle," the tall and muscled northerner said quietly in Greek, still quite naked and unashamed, though not dripping as much now. He ignored the stares of the serving women. John was Armenian, but he knew Greek well and nodded, "He was my guide and tutor in all things of strategic importance. He helped in my rise often. In return, I urged and helped him to ascend to the position of Emperor. I was to be given command of the eastern armies so that I could continue to defend us from the eastern tribes. That was our pact. But when one ascends to any office of importance," John smiled a little, "it is best and prudent to find and prepare someone as a replacement for when the time comes to move higher again." He smirked with a shrug, "It is even more prudent to prevent that one's rise at some point. So my uncle stripped me of my command over his imaginings. He had more than enough enemies to assist me, so I have helped him one last time to rise." He chuckled a little as he looked up. Gunnar nodded with a curt grunt, understanding everything -- or most of it. He wouldn't give voice to his thoughts, but he rather suspected that there was a multi-layered plot here. John had been sent far away and yet he was here this night. That meant that he must have crossed the Bosphorus river, well-masked by the convenient storm which raged outside at the moment and been smuggled into the palace. The man's wet footwear said as much to him. Gunnar wanted to curse the lax and easily-bought palace guardsmen. Varangians would never have allowed his easy passage into the palace no matter what disguise or pretext had been offered. As well, he thought about it and knew that the empress Theophano was a legendary beauty who'd come from humble beginnings as the daughter of a tavern-keeper in Sparta. The emperor before this now-dead one had fallen for her beauty and married her against the many objections of his family and advisors. The couple had been happy, but try as she might, Theophano could not cross the wall of ill-will which the many of the courtiers had erected. With the untimely death of Romanos II at only twenty-four, Theophano had forged an alliance with his successor, Nikiphoros, an unattractive but very successful general over twice her age. Gunnar had a feeling that the doors of the Imperial bedchamber had been left unlocked. He wanted to ask the question of just where her Highness had been when this began, but he now doubted that he'd ever get his chance. And anyway, ... what was the point? Nikiphoros was dead. He looked over toward the new emperor and bowed. "Will you not pledge your protection to me and do you refuse to kneel as well?" John asked rather pointedly. Gunnar knew what he would have preferred to do, but he knelt then, "My pardons, Your Excellency. I accept your legitimacy, but I have asked for my release from imperial service some time ago." He looked up, "I began in the service of Emperor Constantine. I served through the latter part of his reign and then I served Emperor Romanos. Then I served Nikiphoros here. I have held to my task and served well for over twenty years. I am a Northman, sire, and now I wish to allow another, younger man to take my place in your service. In my heart, " Gunnar lied, "I would be pleased to carry on, but I am an old warrior now and not as able to protect you and yours as I once might have. Time changes us all." The polite refusal was the Varangian's right, and to do anything other than accept graciously would have gone a way to casting John in a bad light on the very night that he held his dream in his hand. He bowed his head only a little in more of a nod and thanked the naked warrior for his service and duty, noting that he granted the release as his first official act. Gunnar bowed again and left the room. On his way out, he noticed the way that the Imperial widow looked at him for a moment before she turned her adoring gaze on the next emperor that she hoped to win to her bed. John wasn't as pleased about it at all a few days later when he was informed that when an emperor passed on, the Varangians held the right to take from the treasury as much as they could carry. Since this was in addition to their pay, it meant that a retiring member of the guard could go home a very wealthy man. Gunnar had already gone for his share over the deaths of the past two emperors and this marked his third and last time. He went that very night and was gone early in the morning the following day with a pair of horses. He wasn't a subject of the empire in any way. He was only an employee and that agreement was now ended. But he wasn't stupid. He took nothing of size, and preferred only gold. It was heavy, he'd grant, but it was a lot more compact and if one packed it right, it made little to no noise. His horse was a large war mount out of necessity, and the other horse was one that he'd been given by Olaf as a parting gift for their long service together. He'd had enough, and none could say that he hadn't done his share. As well, Gunnar was respected and even feared a little by some of his cohorts for the things that they'd seen him do in combat. The more usual Norse peoples were well- represented among the Guard, though the majority were of Swedish background. Gunnar was a minority of one. He was a Finnar, the word meaning that he was Finnish of Swedish extraction. His mother was Finnish and it was from her that he received many of his latent abilities as well as his very long white-blonde hair. His father was a Swede, descended from a long line of warriors who had once sought to augment and improve their existence by going 'a-viking'. It said something that after finding himself in Finland and looking at one particular girl as she tended to her family's goats, her pleasant and very interested smile and her considerable charms had caused the large Swede to stay. Even Gunnar's surname harkened back to a different time. 'Fornjot' meant 'ancient giant' and if there was any truth to that, well a little of it at least had come to him. Gunnar stood nearly seven feet tall and though he'd come seeking employment along with many others in the service of the Byzantine court, it might be said that his size and strength had gone a long way toward sealing the deal for him. He'd still been a boy when he'd arrived, though a large one at just shy of eighteen. Most eighteen year-olds no matter who they are lack the power to fight for very long or very hard, but Gunnar had been taught well by his father and even had a few scars to prove it, since he'd fought in defense of his village from bandits a few times already. Even so, he'd been looked at a little askance at the time due to his tender age. The ones in charge of determining who would be taken only smiled, but one of them smiled for a different reason, since he could see something in the big lad. "I seek to be given a chance," Gunnar had said, but the Greeks only told him that he ought to go home and come back in a little time. Gunnar countered that he'd come from his home for this all alone and had traveled at least five hundred leagues and over a year for this. He respectfully asked again for only a chance. The only Northerner there in the group spoke for Gunnar then and they reluctantly sent for someone to whip the youngster's ass so that he would leave with his tail between his legs. Gunnar said nothing more aloud and only mouthed the chants which his mother had taught him as he waited in the warm sunshine in the back-courtyard of a palace in what had once been known as Constantinople, and then Byzantium by the Romans. One day far into the future, it would change its name again and be known as Istanbul. A large Dane stepped out into the glare of the sunshine, rather annoyed to be pulled out of the arms of a wench in the afternoon for this. The girl had been good enough to hold his interest over the previous evening and all of the night and the following day up to now. For being ordered away, he now wanted to kill somebody. "You'll regret this, boy," the seasoned warrior said. Gunnar only looked and ran his fingers over one ear, pulling the whitish hair on that side behind it. Seeing that the other held a javelin, he guessed that it must be the weapon of choice to begin with and reached to hold his own in his hand. He didn't know what to expect at the time, but the Dane threw his javelin then and Gunnar threw his even faster as he raised his shield, seeing how the other one flew. His shield was pierced a little and rather than try to pull the weapon out and waste time, Gunnar dropped the shield, drawing his axe over his shoulder as he began to run. The Dane stared at the distance which Gunnar's javelin had come through his own shield and drew his sword. A man with an axe was a bit slower in his swing, he reasoned, and in that time, a sword had time to bite hard. The clash really wasn't one; the Dane swinging a hair too soon. Gunnar slammed his left foot down to slow a little just as he swung. There was a sword singing in the air before him, but it passed by and in that time, Gunnar's wide bearded axe had the other's left arm clean off below the shoulder and was deep into his ribs. The Dane knew that he was done, but he tried to stab anyway. Gunnar saw the intent in that face and wrenched his axe. The agony of that stopped everything for the Dane and with the axe free, Gunnar swung around over his head and almost but not quite removed the Dane's head, though the result was the same. Gunnar said nothing. He only pulled out his axe and his javelin and walked back. "Are there any more?" he'd asked as he looked up. Today it was two decades later and an older and scarred veteran was going home. Now he thought to himself, he just had to get from Byzantium to his home in Finland with his haul. He wasn't even certain that he wanted to go back there, but unless he found a place where he could live out his days in a little peace and comfort on the way somewhere, that was where he was headed. -------------------------- This was the worst turn of cruel fate, she thought as she ran her legs off and wanting something to occupy her mind now that she had a little space while she ran over a mostly featureless valley floor. All that she saw ahead of her was a line of darker darkness and she guessed that it was a forest or something where she might rest and hide a little. She just had to get there, rest to get her wind back and run on. She didn't know whose feet to lay this at, any more than she knew about anything else in her past beyond a point. The little that she knew for certain was that as far as she knew, she was a descendant of nomadic wanderers from both sides. At least the thinking might take up a little time as she ran, since she still had no idea which warlord was responsible for this. Otherwise, she knew herself and she'd waste precious moments looking over her shoulder and probably land on her nose if she tripped in the darkness. Her ribs were already hurting her. And this was no game. From her mother's side, she had some Qashqai blood and what was more, she'd learned things which most women never got the opportunity to know here where women were expected to know 'womanly' things because of it. For one like her, it was little more than a joke. She'd forgotten the name of her grandmother, there never seeming to be enough time to get an answer from her mother if she asked to be reminded as they'd worked. She'd never met the woman. But she did know that her grandmother had been captured in a raid -- if you could call one man grabbing a girl as she washed clothes and carrying her off a raid. The thing of it was, by what her mother told her, that her grandmother had suddenly found herself rather surprisingly married and happy with a Kipchak warrior who had come down far from the steppes to look for a bride and well, ... The Smoke-Girl & her Northern Ghost Stealing one was a lot cheaper than paying a bride-price any day. Her grandfather had also known his fantastic luck, for his stolen bride had been happy with him from the first. Given where she'd come from, he knew that he was very lucky that she hadn't killed him in his sleep, so he must have been doing something right. Or maybe she'd just been elated that somebody had swept her off her feet and taken her away from the drudgery of being a girl in her clan. Two years after rejoining his tribe, there had been a daughter born, and that had been her mother, of course. Next, she knew that her mother had been courted and won by a Cuman, since they were allied so closely with the Kipchaks that it almost wasn't worth the asking of what the interested young man had been born as. And there was one thing which had been constant across the generations. The mother of each daughter had her little girls in a saddle and learning to ride as soon as she'd found and bargained for the smallest pony that she could find. But now it looked as though the last and youngest of her mother's line would either be re-captured, and beaten to death at best, or failing that, she'd probably freeze to death. It was just tidying up the details, that was all. She ran on, hoping against hope. Her father was their khan and he'd forged alliances all around, but in this place, far from the steppes, it was difficult to hold any sort of tight rein on anyone and there had been a few intrigues already. Her mother had warned her father, but he hadn't listened. Now everyone was dead. It had been her bad luck to be sleeping on the other side of the yurt last night and away from where the horses were staked. Oh, how many times had she groaned when she had been sleeping there? Last night when she could have really used her horse to be right outside ... It had been over in a minute, her parents dead and she'd been dragged off. She cursed her choice to be visiting like that, but it had looked like her last chance for a while, the way things were these days and with the almost constant fighting. She was the last unmarried daughter left and the youngest as well. Now she was long past marriageable age at twenty-eight. She ought to be a grandmother by now or close to it. She had several nieces and nephews, some nearing marriage-choice age, though she guessed that they were dead as well now. But it had always been her wildness and her way to resist anything which had been expected of her if she didn't like it at first blush -- it was almost a reflex with her. There she'd been, still playing at being a warrior-girl in a male world. She supposed the fact that she'd even been allowed this at all was due to her father doting on her and the fact that he was the khan. As she saw her own breasts bouncing in her lower view, she cursed her luck and sadness yet again as she felt her tears come to her once more. She'd gone from being the spoiled daughter of a well-known family to a naked and cold woman running for her life. And running like this was hurting her tits, so she tried to hold them with one hand and arm. She didn't even know where she was. Where she'd been from, she'd learned to find her way even if she stood on the featureless plains of some of the steppes. Here in this land, she didn't think she'd had a view over more than maybe a league at best, even in the daytime. This crazy land had more mountains and forests to block her view than she'd ever seen. And it was night now. And it was late in the autumn. And she was running for her life as naked as she'd been born. She knew that she'd die here in any of a few ways. Whoever had done this had taken everything from her and not even left her the means with which to cover her modesty, not that she's ever had much, she admitted. As part of who she was -- or who she'd been, she decided, she'd had her fun now and then, but having to submit to a man's crude desire simply because, ... well that sort of domination hadn't been something that she'd have ever allowed and it was likely the largest reason for her present predicament. As she'd huddled naked in a few furs, the flap of the yurt had been lifted and at least one of the pigs responsible had swaggered in. She hadn't recognized him, but she listened as he told her that she would be his, to do with as he pleased, and that she needed to learn to accept her place. Once he'd helped her to do that, he'd said, her life would get a little better. She didn't believe a word that he'd said. His eyes told a far different tale. She'd tried to ask who he was, where they were, things of that nature, but he'd opened the game with the back of his hand across her face to send her sprawling before he's seized her ankle and pulled her to where he'd been kneeling. Like everything else in the past two days for her, things after that had happened almost too quickly to be seen and as he'd slapped her several times for trying to keep her knees together, she'd seen the dagger and ... But there had been only moments after that, not even enough time to look for a fur that didn't have the weight of the dead brute's body on it and from what she'd heard outside the tent, she was to be shared between several of the men here. The last straw -- the final spur of her desperation came when she heard one of them say that he hoped that by the time that it was his turn, she was still at least alive enough to do more than moan for him a little. She'd lifted the bottom edge of the yurt on the opposite side of the door and then she ran, across the open ground as fast as she could, right into the middle of where the horses which had been staked there. Her appearance in the middle of them had only spooked them, but in the middle of those insane moments, she'd found her foot a little warmed from stepping in fresh horsedung, and she'd found a mare that didn't look to be nearly out of her mind from the suddenness of being startled that way. She'd pulled the stake and leapt on, spurring with her bare heels to get them going at least. That had led to a wild ride in the darkness with her being barely able to see the way ahead, but it had raised hell back there, with frightened horses pulling their stakes and creating havoc, running into the sides of other yurts and knocking them down, or knocking over the men who ran around shouting. It was a good few minutes before she heard the shouting settle as she opened some space between her and her captors. She was thankful that she'd found this one horse who didn't seem to be much bothered, other than not being terribly enthusiastic over being urged to thunder along in the night. At least she was a Cuman horse. She knew it since she could be guided by her knees. That was when she'd been amazed to find that she still hung onto the bloody dagger. But it came to an end a little later when the mare slowed to a stop and plainly would go any further. It was clear that she wanted to turn back to seek out her feedbag again, so before the horse broke into a gallop to take her right back to her captors, she'd jumped down. The horse shook her head and whinnied a little and was gone. All that there was to do now was run. From their style of living and the way that the horse had been trained, it was clear to her that her captors had been just as used to a nomadic existence as she'd been. That meant that they could track, and that meant that she was still far too close to them by about two days, and that was only if she had a horse who was willing. At least she'd gotten this far, she thought. She felt the small and thin dagger in her right hand. It seemed hopelessly small and impotent out here, but it was the only thing that she had. For some stupid and insane reason, she suddenly heard her mother's voice from a time when she'd been a stick of a girl. She knew that there was a lot more weeping in her near future regardless, but right now she didn't want to hear her mother's admonition to never run with a blade. Well where was she supposed to put it then? That was the point where she saw the darkness in front of her, the slow moving river. She didn't even slow down. She just gripped the dagger tighter and ran in. It was colder to her than the night air, but she needed this. She'd already heard the dogs. ----------------- Gunnar was tired from another day of riding, though it had been a good one and he'd seen a lot of leagues of road slip past his feet. The small meal was almost hot enough and the tent was warm. He was just thinking of eating and then turning in when he heard a soft and rather distant splash in the river that he knew lay a distance to the south of him and got to his feet. He thought that he could hear dogs baying. With a sigh, he took up his axe and his sword. As an afterthought, he picked up his hatchet as well and slid the haft of it through the belt at his waist. He hadn't thought that anyone lived hereabouts. It had been the main reason that he'd decided on this place as where he's spend the night. He kicked sand onto the small fire and was gone in the darkness. --------------------- She lay on the bank on the other side, a little upstream from where she'd crossed. The mud on her back and haunch was cold and she had trouble holding still. She couldn't even feel her feet anymore. She needed to stop shaking, she told herself. There was precious little to hide behind, and something which moved in any way would just draw the eyes of her pursuers. The large silver hoop earring which now lay against her neck wasn't helping things much either by its coldness. As she listened to the quiet words of the men who were looking for her on the opposite shore, she was almost without hope. She could see them almost clearly from all the way over here. There couldn't be any possibility to her mind that they wouldn't see her in a little time. The thin moon was at their backs. At least the dogs had been fooled so far, she thought as her eyes slid along the shore over there seeing that there had been five of the men at first, but that the one who handled the dogs had whistled softly after a moment and taken them to look elsewhere since they were ruining whatever few tracks she'd left them in the mud of the shore. But the other four must have at least a little experience at hunting humans, by her guess. They hadn't left. They'd only begun looking harder. She almost gasped, but she'd caught it in time as she heard a few very soft sounds from the bank above and behind her. She was almost afraid to breathe as she looked up and over her shoulder to her right very slowly. She saw the head of a horse as he stood stock-still in the darkness there, but aside from her prayer that the horse didn't snort or make any other sound now; she had one other thing to stare at in her fear. That large equine head was over the edge of the bank by most of the length of its neck and she could see that the animal was looking at her. ------------------------ Gunnar looked at his steed and he knew. This one animal had been a godsend to him so many times the past couple of years. He knew that there was something there below or the animal wouldn't be looking there. From what he knew of his large friend, something or someone was there. He looked across the river and saw the men, searching for something and not wanting to risk lighting a torch. He wondered what this was about, but he knew what this was. Whatever or whoever lay just out of his sight was the object of this search. There was a tiny, just barely audible click which came to his ears. He looked at his horse, and thought of the rings which held the leather breastplate on him. They could have made the sound, but he hadn't heard it from there almost beside him. It had come from the bank below. He doubted that it had been loud enough to get past the quiet sound of the river and a look showed him by the actions of the men that they hadn't noticed anything. As she lay in the mud of the bank, the woman looked over in horror at the silver bracelet on her right arm and the two that had slipped down to her wrist. Gunnar looked down at the edge of the turf then and decided that he needed to know, so he slid one foot nearer to the bank and testing with his weight, he leaned forward a little and looked down and to his left before he leaned his weight back and thought about it. There was a woman there. From the way that she was dressed, or rather, not dressed, he couldn't think of a single good reason for the way that she seemed to be hunted by the men. Well one way or another, he decided that he had only a slim chance of getting his horse turned around and well enough hidden before something happened here, and he doubted that it would be good, whatever it was. He led his horse off just a ways and into some trees. He took a moment to speak to the animal softly and he knew that the beast was intelligent enough to know when not to make a sound if he did that. He could just hear the animal's breathing as he walked off. He slid over the bank slowly and he did hear the woman's quiet gasp, so he turned his head and waved his hand in front of his mouth. She looked as though she really wanted to scream, but he did see her nod a little, so he laid his long-axe down next to her in the mud and looked up. The moon had been hidden behind a thin bank of clouds for a little while, but from what he saw, he'd have only a moment or two to get out of sight. If the cloud slipped away before that, he'd be clearly visible and he knew it. All that they had to do was look. He stepped into the water and crouched as he did. ---------------------------- She was trapped. She saw a large foot come down from above not all that far away from her and looked at it to follow its progress the way that a fly might find itself trapped and be fascinated as it watched the spider approach. She felt as though she couldn't move or do a thing in her defense. She guessed that it was the same thing, really. The brief period of fearful fascination would come to an end sometime very soon and then, just like the fly, she'd struggle as hard as she could to fight for her life, but this would end with her death all the same. She saw more of him slowly ease over the edge. And more. And still more. The true measure of just how large this man was began to filter through her fear to what was left of her logic. This was the single largest man that she'd ever seen. She wanted to stand up so that she could make the best use of the slender means of defense in her right hand, but she felt paralyzed now from fear or the cold or a combination of them as she watched the way that his arms swelled and rippled as he eased down farther so that his feet were on the sloped bank. There were different units in use among her people, but the median height for men at the time was about five feet, six inches and a man would be considered tall at five, ten. One of the reasons why the youngest daughter of the khan had never been courted very much by anyone was that she stood at an almost impossibly tall five, nine; a good six inches taller than the median height for the women of the tribes. She watched in awe as the pale monster straightened up and began to quake all over again. She couldn't make out his face in the darkness for the angle of the moon, but the hair that she saw spilled down far past his shoulders and what hung at the front of him reached to almost his navel, and in the thin light, all that she saw was that it was white. She couldn't even make out more than his nose, but for a moment, she thought she saw the glitter of two pale eyes. Then he moved and the eyes were in deep shadow again. She made a half-hearted attempt to raise her dagger in a hopefully threatening way, but he shook his head and pointed to the men opposite from them for an instant. Then his huge hand was in the air between them, waving back and forth in front of where she guessed that his mouth was. She understood that he was asking her to be still. What could she do? Call the ones who wanted to harm her over? She gave as much of a nod as her petrified nerves would allow and eased herself back a little against the bank. She watched as he looked up at the moon, she supposed, and then he soundlessly stepped to the river and began to sink out of sight. She tried to control her breathing a little and gave it a thought. She'd never seen a ghost before. Now she had, and it looked to her that he was some river spirit. She was thankful that she hadn't been in the water when he'd decided to return to his home there under the waves. ----------------- The bottom dropped away fairly quickly and he was a little thankful for it and it couldn't have happened a moment too soon. He moved away from the shore, trying to feel for a foothold or something and cautiously swim at the same time. He eased himself lower and moved away a little downstream. "Look!" one of her pursuers called out quietly, "She is there." The woman gasped and knew that her number was pretty much up right then. She looked for the huge man and saw little in the current, nothing identifiable, anyway. She wondered where he'd gone and why. She didn't think that he'd have any reason to want to help her. But he'd left his axe there near to her. She looked over at her dagger. Then she reached for the long-handled axe. They were in the river and wading out to her already. She could barely lift the thing. She remembered the horse then and tried to get up the bank. As full of desperation and fear as she was, she couldn't do it. She looked over her shoulder at the men and whimpering a little in her desperation. She tried again, trying to grapple with some roots there. They let go and she fell on her face. She also lost the dagger. She tried, but she couldn't find it by feel in the mud. One of the men tripped over a submerged root or tree and fell with a quiet curse. A few moments later, a second one gasped just after there had been a soft thudding sound. What was not visible was that the man tried to gather his breath to scream, but he was pushed under deeper and drew only water into his lungs. Even like that he's have floundered to the surface to struggle for breath, but the sword which now slid between his ribs put an end to his struggles as the hatchet in his back was pulled free. The other two, who were out in front noticed and turned, but saw nothing. "Go back and see what happened," the one closest to the other bank said, "I can handle the bitch myself." But by the time that he began to wade grinning out onto the mud, the third one was under the surface and almost dead. Gunnar saw how things were and swam as quickly as the hatchet in his hand would allow him to while still doing his best to be quiet. Perhaps it was the effort or the uncertainty that the last man felt, but he was slow in stepping out onto the bank. The woman held the long-axe up a little shakily and her face told that she'd use it. But the man knew that he only had to get her to swing it once. She'd miss and then he only needed to be a little quick and he'd have her to drag back for his reward and the gold which was offered would go a long way to help him to find new friends to drink with if the rest of them were as afraid of the dark as this. There was a wet sound almost beside him and he began to turn just as a hatchet drove in below his ribcage. Gunnar wouldn't have time for a second swing to silence him, but he did catch a bit of a glint in the moonlight of something there in the mud. Recognizing the shape, he scooped it up and reversing his hand, he swung his fist to thump the heel of it against the center of the man's chest. The dagger in his fist slammed through the cartilage of the breastbone and slid in to pierce the heart behind that. The Smoke-Girl & her Northern Ghost There was a long moment where the man looked as though he couldn't decide just what to do. While the indecision lasted, Gunnar wrenched his hatchet free and as the man's knees slowly gave out, he took him by the hair and began to hack at the side of his neck. The man was plainly dead by then, but the northerner kept hacking until he had the head free. He looked at the horrified woman and he held out the dagger to her haft first. "Take it. It's yours, I think." She stared at him and he repeated himself, "Take it and then wash the mud off your ass." She didn't comprehend him at all. She didn't understand Swedish. Gunnar realized it and tried other languages that he knew. While he was doing that, she took the dagger and he held up his hand to indicate that he wanted her to wait. She squatted down a little in the river and ran her hands over her bottom, face, and legs as she watched while he found a long root and, shoving it into the soft earth and mud, he watched and tested it for a moment to see if it would sag under a little weight. It held if he wedged a rock under the end in the mud, so he jammed the man's head onto the other end. She couldn't believe what she'd seen, "What are you doing?" she asked in the language of the Cuman people and he thought that he recognised something akin to Turkish, but he ignored it for the moment, wanting to be done with this. "I make a nidstang -- a niding pole to send a curse" he said quietly, knowing that she must have asked. "I want to keep others away until I am gone." He washed his hands, "It is more to cause fear than anything. I do not think anyone here would see it as a curse. And anyway," he said, washing the mud and blood from the hatchet as he went on explaining to someone who he knew couldn't understand what he said, "for a true nidstang, I would need the head of a horse, and I do not want to make that gift." He picked up his long-axe and tossed it over the edge and was up the bank like it was nothing more than a long reach to him and he turned around and offered her his hand. She looked up at him for a long moment and he smiled, trying to look at least a little less threatening, if not friendly, "Come. That is no place for you to hide anymore and bring your little fingernail cleaner as well." She didn't understand anything that he said, but what choice did she have? She looked back and saw the bodies of four men as they floated slowly down stream. The head on the pole was a grisly thing, and one that she saw must have been placed as some sort of warning. Then she looked back into that face and she tried not to look too frightened as she held out her hand and grasped his. --------------------- He led her to where his horse was tied and then they walked on a little, with her wondering why they didn't ride. He said nothing, but he guessed that she might be curious. He hadn't brought the animal with him to ride. He'd needed the beast's senses to add to his own. She stopped when he walked to a space off the path a good distance into an area of even deeper gloom in the night. Most of the places that she looked, she could see at least a little way into the forest, but in that place there was nothing but blackness. Then the man disappeared from sight and she saw only the back end of the horse for a moment, and then it too was gone. She didn't know what to make of it for a moment, but then he was back in sight and beckoning to her. "It's alright," he said in Swedish, "we'll be well-hidden here." "Where do we go?" she asked him in Cuman, "I cannot see a thing there." He walked back to her and held out his hand again, waiting. He guessed that from her side of it, this was going to need a measure of trust. She looked at him, trying to see more of his features. She wanted to trust him, and the longer that she thought of it, she knew that really, she needed to. There were all sorts of issues for her here and he even seemed to know that, somehow. Even so ... He looked at her and he shrugged, "Well, there is food waiting for me inside, and it must be growing cold again by now. Stay here if you must, but I am only hungry and a little tired now." He turned away and as he walked, she heard the soft nicker of his horse for a moment. She didn't know why, but it seemed to settle something for her and she called to him softly in little more than a whisper. He stopped and began to look back, but he found her there beside him as she took his hand to lead her. She wondered just what sort of pan that she was jumping into with him. ------------------------ She stared as she looked around. She didn't know how it was possible, but he'd lifted something out of the way and guiding her inside, she now stood in a warm place. He told her to stay where she was for a moment, and though she didn't understand the words, the sense of it came to her and she waited. She couldn't see much anyway as she watched him get to his knees and fumble with the fire, trying to find a still-hot coal or two. What he found there was too cool now to do much of anything, so he reached for a few twigs and broken branches from a small heap and with a few words, she almost cried out in surprise as flames sprang to life in the little pile that he'd made over the coals. She almost ran out back the way that she'd come. In fact, she did turn to do that, but she found herself looking at nothing. There was nothing there but blackness. "The door is gone," he said in Swedish as though it was completely unremarkable. Her outstretched fingers found only a little resistance, but there was nothing to feel. She looked back, and he was holding out a fur for her with a smile. She took it with a careful nod. As warm as the air in here was, she was still a long way from feeling her feet again. "Sit," he said, pointing to a place with more furs, "You are making me nervous like that." As she very cautiously edged her way over to where he'd indicated and after a moment where she'd looked down to be a little sure of just what she was about to sit on -- almost expecting to find a huge hound lying there or something, she eased herself down and sat. Gunnar looked over now and then as he sought to see if there would be enough of his supper to feed them both a little. What he saw was a tired and frightened - and still very cold woman. He hoped that she wouldn't get sick now, after plainly having had to run for her life back there. He couldn't see all of her face from the way that she seemed to want to hide behind her long and dark hair. He'd seen enough of her body back there on the bank to know that the rest of her was wonderful but the first thing, he decided was to get her warm. His eye took in the one nipple which was a little visible to him and if this were a friendlier time, place, and at least a moment where they knew at least a little of each other, he'd have allowed the remark that what he saw could likely blunt his axe. But it wasn't any of those sorts of things, he sighed. What he could see of her face was lovely, but she looked to be at the far end of her terror. She didn't need any more uncertainty. He had no idea at the moment what he was going to do with her, though he knew what he'd have liked to do in better circumstances. He remembered that when he'd been trying different languages that he knew at least something of on her, he'd thought that he'd seen at least a little glimmer when he'd spoken the rough Turkish that he was familiar with. He held out his hand toward the dagger. She misunderstood and he knew that she likely would, so he withdrew his hand and poured a little water into the oldest little pot that he had. He held the pot out to her then and she got it wrong again, but he very slowly brought the pot out so that he could lift it under the dagger's blade so that the first part at least was in the water. He swirled the pot around a little with a smile and kept on in Swedish, "You'll need that in a moment to eat with -- unless you prefer to use your fingers." She stared at the pot and her dagger and she didn't notice it at first as he slowly brought his other hand out to reach into the pot so that he could get the entire blade clean. She'd have jumped then, but it was too late and he withdrew both the pot and his hand. A moment later, and he was holding out a piece of rough fabric to her by the edge. There was no response from her, so he changed the way that he held the rag and he very slowly and carefully took her wrist in one hand and wiped the blade with the other. Then the rag and his hands were gone again and he was holding out a wooden bowl of warm food to her. She got it then and nodded to him. He still couldn't see all of her face, but he did see the surprised smile. There were a few minutes of silence between them then as she ate and he watched a little while getting just a little of the meal into another bowl for himself. He saw in a moment that she hadn't eaten in at least a day, from the way that she wolfed it down after deciding that she liked it at least enough to think that it was fit to eat. He made as if to take a while over deciding on just what bits and pieces of the sumptuous feast that the pot held that he'd choose to eat himself. She wasn't a fool, well, maybe now that she was feeling a little better, at least. Her wits were coming back to her and she saw plainly that what he was really doing was taking the last of it -- all that there had been left after giving her the lion's share. It took her no more than a thought to know that he hadn't expected to have a guest and that he'd probably made himself only a light meal to begin with, and that there now had to be almost nothing left for him to eat. She looked down. There were now only a very few bits left from what she'd been given. She held on to the bowl and leaned forward onto her knees. He mistook her intent and quickly offered her a crust of bread. She shook her head and pointed from the bread to him. While she watched his eyebrows rise, she reached and saw into the pot. There was nothing there but a few almost tiny bits of vegetables, so she held out the bowl to him and motioned for him to eat all that there was left. She eased herself back onto her haunches in a squat again, shaking her head as it all disappeared in a moment. When they'd been walking, she'd noticed that she came up to -- maybe -- the middle of his breast with her eyes. She looked at him again, and decided that he must outweigh her by far more than half, and she was a woman, after all, so it hadn't escaped her notice that she hadn't seen a hint of fat on that body anywhere yet. She could only wonder how much food a man such as this might need to keep himself alive. However much it was, she thought, what he'd eaten must have surely been only enough to fool his gut into thinking that there was a lot more coming to it. She pointed and spoke to him in her language, "You are still wet. Are you not cold?" He caught a little, but he still didn't let on, not being quite sure of what he'd heard yet since there were a few wide differences in the words and her inflection. But her motion had reminded him that he was still a little wet from their adventure, so he stood up, hoping that she wouldn't feel terribly frightened. "Forgive me, my friend," he said, reaching for a crude towel and throwing it over his shoulder. "I am being rude here, but I hope that it is not too rude for you." He reached down to untie the greaves that he wore on his shins and after fussing with his bracers for a moment, the rest of him was bare only seconds after that before he dried himself a little and toweled off his light hair for a minute. He decided to try out a little of what he'd heard then, "I know nothing about you, but I did not think it was right that you be hunted the way that you were. You might be some sort of high one, or you might only be some smoke-colored serving girl, I -" He stopped then as he saw the blue flash from her eyes in the way that she glared at him over the remark. "Oh!" he smiled, "I have said at least something which was understood, I see. I meant nothing by it, other than to say ..." "Go on," she said evenly, "I am no serving girl, at least not yet. I wish to hear the rest of your insult." "I meant no insult to you," Gunnar smiled, "I have been far from the people of my kind for a long time and I have seen all sorts of people who are not as I am. Where I am from, my skin is the same as anyone's there, but here I look like a corpse if I stay inside. By the same measure, to me, most people's skin carries a pleasant color that is rarely seen in my homeland if it is even seen at all. I wanted to say that one way or the other; I cannot know what you might be. I only thought it was wrong for four men to hunt you. In any case, I wished to say that it matters not to me. I did what was done for us both." "In what way?" she asked, a little satisfied, "And do you have a name, warrior? Since we seem to have found a way to speak to each other, I would like to know at least a little." He squatted before her then, though he still towered over her even like this and she stared at what she could see there between his muscular thighs. He reached out for her hand then -- the one which still held the dagger. She gripped it all the more tightly, though she allowed his touch as he turned her hand over and touched her skin with his thumb. Whatever he thought that he saw in her skin, she thought, his comment must have come from the comparison to his own skin. He was so light and fair, even though she could see that he spent at least a little of his time in the sun. Even so, the other parts of him that she could see made him look pale next to the skin of her hand. If there was anything to it at all, she reasoned, it had to be from her grandmother, and the difference in any shade of it was barely perceptible to anyone. He looked like a ghost to her. "Margit," she said and he looked up, thinking that it was another word which he couldn't understand. "It is my name," she said, "Now I would know you own name, mighty ghost, if your kind has such things." It made him chuckle softly as he looked into her eyes for a moment, "Gunnar, my name is, Margit. What sort do you come from? I have seen many people in my travels, but I have never seen anyone with blue eyes such as yours since I left Byzantium, and that was almost a fortnight ago." "Byzantium?" she whispered as her jaw dropped, "I know the name. It is said that the curse of my people comes from that place. As we move ever westward, the way is often blocked by their armies, but I have heard nothing of any there who look as you do. Is that where you are from? I have heard nothing of any who have our eyes in that place." "I am going to my homeland," he said, "at least it is a thought that I hold. I have not been there in long years now. There are some in Byzantium with eyes like mine, hair like mine, and who look like me -- at least a little. I was there in the army, the Varangian Guard, to keep the emperor safe. But I do not come from there. I only worked there. I am a Northman, Margit. I come from Finlandia." He decided to leave out the battles that he'd fought in at times when the progress of the regular army had been stalled and they'd been brought forward out of reserve to clear the blockage. He knew nothing about her, but he couldn't think that it was a time to mention things that he would now rather forget -- especially since she plainly thought of the ones that he'd worked for as enemies. "He must sleep a little less soundly these nights then, if you are not there to keep his worthless life inside of him," she said. "As an answer to you," she went on," I think that I must be someone that you have likely not seen in your travels. I come from people who live as they move. We are far now from our homeland. There are others coming from the east, as we have seen and there are too many whenever we have seen them -- so, we move away. But it has brought us here, and even so, this is a time when we need to stand together, all of our little tribes. But it happens that we fight among ourselves too often. Old disputes which we thought were long past and forgiven arise again. I do not know yet who they were, but the ones that you killed this night were some of the ones who killed my family the night before. I was the daughter of a khan then. I am nothing now, not even a ... " She paused, trying not to feel any sting in the words. "Smoke-colored serving girl." She looked up into his eyes and shrugged a little, "This time it is me who means no insult, Gunnar." "What is a khan?" Gunnar asked, and she told him that it was a small king, one who ruled over and led a tribe. "Though it likely means little now anymore, I am Cumar and Kipchak in where I was born, and I hold a little Qashqai blood as well. From the little that I know, it is from my grandmother and they are another people far to the south from us. They also love their horses just as we do." "You can ride then, Margit?" he asked and she nodded, "Yes and well, Gunnar. I was on a pony almost before I could walk. You have helped someone this night who would make a poor wife to likely any man, but I can ride and if I had better than this pickle-stabber to my worthless name, I can fight as well." He looked at her, wondering just how to express his surprise at what he took from her words. How was it that someone like her was not wed? To him, it didn't seem possible. But then it came to him that perhaps there was something which she wasn't telling him of either. "Where is your homeland, Gunnar?" she asked, tilting her head a little. "I have heard of ones who come from far to the north. But by your speech that you made here before, I did not take you for a Rus." "I am not," he smiled a little; "I am part Swede and part Finn. I come from the north, but not that far East, I think it is." She shook her head and he liked it when she did for the way that she shrugged to him, "I have not heard of any of those ones either. But the longer that I sit here, the more that I am certain that you have likely saved my life tonight. I wanted to get away earlier. I only waited for it to be dark and I would have at least thought to look for my clothes then or something to wrap around me. But they began to prepare to come for me for some pleasure, I think, and from that I heard spoken outside the yurt that I was in, it was not expected to be for longer than a night for me, and I would be killed in it somewhere or die afterwards. So, when I had the chance of it, I killed the leader with my ..." "Fingernail cleaner," he smiled, "That is not much more than that, where I am from." "Perhaps," she grinned right back at him, "but it took two men this night between us and so I grow a little fond of it, all the same." He nodded as he thought about it for a moment, and then he sat down next to her. Margit suppressed the urge in her to jump up in alarm. "I can give you better than that one, Margit," he smiled and she nodded. "I see that, Gunnar, trust me. I have had a demon of a time trying not to look as we spoke with you there like that." He looked surprised then for a moment and then he rolled his eyes and said, "I meant that I can give you a better blade than that one. If you can stay your dagger while I sleep this night, I do not know what your plans might be for the morning." She was a little shocked, but she managed to hold it to a look of polite interest, "I have nothing anymore. Why would you say something like that? I am feeling very thankful." He frowned, "I have served in an army that belongs to an enemy of your people, I think, though I serve there no longer. I have been there for most of my life and it is time to go home, or at least it is long time that I seek one," he said. The Smoke-Girl & her Northern Ghost "If you wish, I could use another person on the road with me. I have a hope that in a little time, you might even get used to the way that I must look strange to you. I have lived my life among many other men. I am used to having someone around me who might be trusted. In return, I can offer a horse to you and I will buy some clothing so that we do not need to keep ahead of the long line of men who would follow us, dressed the way that you are." "I am not dressed at all, Gunnar," she smiled, "and now for the first time in a few days, this is what I wish to wear. I am still feeling very thankful, you know." She reached up a little slowly, as one might who maybe wanted to touch a rose, but was not certain that there were no thorns nearby to prick her fingers and he kissed her then, a little softly and rather tentatively. But her reply in her own kiss after a few moments was meant to signal her encouragement and they found themselves growing a little frantic in the pile of furs not long after that. When they drew apart a little, she looked up at him, liking his face and the large and very hard body that she pressed herself against. "What are the women like where you come from, Gunnar? I am no maiden, but I can say that I have never been kissed this way in my life by any man. Are they all as big as you?" "No," he smiled, "though I had a sister who was almost my size. It was a bit of a joke among my friends that she'd be a conquest, but not after they'd lain with her. Not one of them joked after that, Margit." He looked away for a moment as he remembered it, "She had many lovers then who sought her hand. Not long before I left to come here, she was wed to the son of a lord. He was perhaps a hand shorter than she, but they two were very happy, from what I could tell and from what she told me of it." She felt him swell against her and she eased herself onto her back for him. He surprised her by moving back farther than she'd have thought that he'd need, but she understood it better as he took her hips in his large hands and lifted her up a little while sinking down. She watched in a little disbelief and a tiny bit of alarm, since no man that she'd ever been with had done what she was staring and watching him do now. Then again, she smiled once she knew and began to lift her legs so that she could rest them over his broad shoulders, surely none of them were strong enough to do this either. As his face came to her, he lifted her a little more and then he looked over her thatch to ask her if she was alright like this. It made Margit giggle, "Better than that, if I am right over what you would do now, Gunnar." Then his mouth was against her mound and she thought that she must have done something right in her life to be allowed a little of the heaven that he was bringing to her with his lips and tongue. It went beyond anything that she'd ever felt, since this wasn't done by the men of her tribe, or any other that she was aware of. In fact, she thought, she'd never heard of it being done at all. She felt her hips buck a little and she was still self-conscious enough to laugh in a little shy embarrassment, over the way that he slurped and sucked at her so hungrily that she began to feel like a ripe bit of fruit which was being devoured. As his groans and his quiet grunting went on in her ear, she began to answer him. It hadn't been her intent to make any noise at all -- she was still a little self-conscious even now. But she soon found that there was no help for it. He didn't stop. She doubted if she even could stop him. She threw her arms over her head and sighed just before the next wave began and looked at him. He was huge to her and he held her up to enjoy her -- and she knew that it was what he was doing as well as pleasing her -- with little more effort than a man might use to eat a fruit. He was using two hands in his devouring of her, that was all. "I think that you enjoy this meal very much," she chuckled and she saw the blue eyes lock onto hers as he nodded a little. "I am happy then," she smiled, "you may do this for as long as you like, Gunnar. I am at your mercy, and I would never have had the thought that I would enjoy the hungry sounds that a man makes as he does this -- at least the way that you make them." He went at it a bit harder and those were her last words for a time until she tried not to, but she bucked against his face anyway and tried a little frantically to reach for more of his head than his hair, but at last, his hair was what her fingers found and she hung in his grasp with only her shoulders there in the furs, her head bent forward for long moments as she cried out. He eased her down so that she could rest while he ran his fingers over her sensitive and sopping sex in such a way as to never cause her to want to push his hands away. It was as if he just knew. She looked up and watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thank you," she smiled and he nodded with a smile, "It is something which I enjoy, but do rarely. Something like that is a thing that I would want to do with my woman." He shrugged, "and not having one, I do it only when I have the want and a woman who appeals to me." Her whispered chuckle made him smile, "I hope that I appealed to you very much then. I think that I must have. You made sounds as though you had found the best melon in the cart." It made him smirk as he looked at her breasts, "Perhaps the wettest, I'll grant, but there are others nearby in the same cart. Margit." "Give me a chance, Gunnar, "a little grin sliding onto her lovely face as she whispered, "Maybe we might find something between us to keep you in my little market." He nodded as he ran his palm over her from her lower belly to her breastbone and back a few times and Margit felt like a cherished pet before he moved to come for her. She felt him swell against her and she eased herself onto her back for him. Margit tried, but she couldn't hold back the groan when he slid into her slowly. "A little slower, Northman," she sighed, "I think I am made to let children out of me who ought to be only a little smaller than what you seek to fill me with." He began to apologize, but she chuckled up at him, "I did not say that I didn't like it, Gunnar. Keep going, you are a surprise to me, that is all." As he began, Margit found that she couldn't take her eyes off him for very long at all. The longer that she looked, the more that she found to like in the details which came to her eyes. He rose up after a while and they looked at one another. To her, he was what he said that he was, a scarred fighter; that was plain to her. But she also saw other things in him if she looked a little deeper. She ran her fingertips over his body and she could see that he liked it. She hoped that he liked it at least a little as much as she did. Her fingers slid over his muscles and she could easily feel the ridges of the scars of his battles almost anywhere on him -- in fact, she wondered if there was anywhere that she wouldn't be able to find one. As good as this was with him, she wanted to seek for just one place like that and so she lifted her legs, mostly because she really wanted to anyway, and she reached far back on him for a moment. She almost laughed, but she didn't, not wanting to disrupt something so slowly powerful as this -- when a pale northern beast took her in their pleasure, but she did grin as she held his head with her fingers in his impossibly light hair while he kissed her throat and she felt the beginnings of her first strong wave coming to her. "I was frightened of your hair at first," she whispered, "But I have since come to like it on you very much, Gunnar. I see now that there is at least a little color to it and that makes me like it even more - as though I know a little secret that no one else knows." She felt her smile on her own face to have found that not even the cheek of his flank was without a ridge somewhere which spoke of his might and ability to kill whatever might have gotten in a lucky swing with a blade. She felt lucky to still be alive. She felt lucky to have found someone like him and the way that it felt as they fucked like this. She now couldn't seem to keep her eyes open for any length of time. The way that this ghostly creature fucked made it impossible. He looked down and had to keep reminding himself to keep going. As good as this felt to him, and as much as he was enjoying her, it was all that he could do to keep stroking in and out because if he could see her, just a little as she was like this -- her eyes closed and a soft smile on her face -- well, it almost brought him to a halt just to gaze at her. He was now certain that he'd never made love with a more beautiful creature in his life -- and he'd had more than a few. But the ones that he'd wanted had always shied away, looking fearful of him or just disliking him for what he was. The Northmen were feared in Byzantium for the most part, and if not, they were disliked and looked upon as some strange and powerful beasts which protected the emperor. Any women that he'd had a thought to maybe want, would have never laid down for him like this beauty had. They'd never be able to avoid the looks if they became someone who loved him. Everyone would say that she was lying with some animal, since from what they knew of the way that they did anything, they surely had to be. Who sings and laughs as they kill men? He'd most often had to settle for one of the whores which were brought for them now and then. None of them had looked like this to him, either. Margit threw her head back and just as she realized that it was her who's been making the quiet moans that she'd been hearing -- as though there was another female here under him -- her body began to shake and twitch and she cried out in far more than a moan, bucking against him while she did. Before she'd really gotten over it and settled back down for more of the way that he was driving her, it happened again and so quickly. He leaned back and took one of her legs to lift it and she slid it over his massive shoulder with a smile and a little soft begging for more, but not very long after she'd settled into this change, she was doing it again. Her voice broke, but she cried out his name, wondering where it had come from inside her. When she felt that she had a little wind back, she threw the rest of her reserve away as she asked him to stop for a moment. He did and she was sure that she could fall in love with him for only the concerned look on his face right then. "You have done nothing wrong, Gunnar, but please, oh, please, ... let my leg down and fuck me as you did at first. I need to feel that I can finish a wonder such as you." He smiled then, and it looked as though it was a little shy on him. It was a look that she was certain didn't cross that face very often, but he nodded and he eased her leg down for her and she fell a little more for him right then. As he moved to lie on her without crushing her, she wrapped her legs around him and mewled in his ear softly about how good he was for her. When he groaned back at her that he'd never felt anything this good in his life, Margit was certain of a few things, and the very first one was that she needed to kiss him or die for the want of it. If she'd have said such a thing to him, he'd only have nodded, since he was a littler certain that he felt the same need in himself as they lay there struggling to breathe and kiss each other at the same time. When he cried out in his deep voice and she felt him stiffen an impossibly hard thing in her even more as she felt the contractions which told her that he was spending into her, Margit just knew that for the first and only time her life, she'd now had the best one for her. It took a rather long time to her after that. She'd been far more used to men softening a lot faster than Gunnar now did and she'd wanted to kick herself over it when she'd moved only a little and felt a bit of him begin to slide out, so she froze. "What is wrong, Margit?" he asked in a husky whisper in her ear then. "Nothing, warrior," she smiled as she hugged him tightly, "You are still in me, where I want and need for you to be. I want this feeling to last long before you slip out. It is every woman's wish, those who have been fucked so well to want their man to remain as long as can be inside of her." She suddenly realized what she'd said and needed to hold her tongue; before she made the rest of an assumption that she felt she had no right to make. She only knew how she felt. "Then do not move again," he smiled as he lifted his head to look down at her, "Most of the time, a man wants to draw out now, though he does not know why, really. I have no such wish." They stayed like that for many minutes longer as they looked at each other and smiled. "We have the same eyes," she decided with a little nod, "I have a hope that you might see that we are the same, the ghost and the smoke-girl. I want to talk foolishness to you right now and it goes against anything that a woman learns of fucking with a man." "Is that why you are so quiet?" he asked. "Yes," she said and then they both groaned a little sadly as the last of him left her. "I wish to make silly noises and ask you if I was good for you. I wish to ask you if I pleased you. I have never done this before." She shrugged, "I have never cared before." "You would ask me something then which needs no answer if you knew me better," he smiled, "But I am glad that you make the admissions to me. It saves me from asking you if I made you happy and also, it prevents the next stupid thing that a man might ask when he is young and foolish." Margit looked up at Gunnar and knew what he meant. Even so, it surprised her. "Then ask if you need to, ghost," she grinned and pulled his head down next to hers, "I feel just as foolish and in a moment such as this one, I might tell you that I want this a lot with you. If you have such a lonely need to have your ears chattered off by a companion in your travels, then look no further than my eyes, Gunnar. But ignore my mouth when it asks over and over if you might see a little spot in a hidden place up ahead so that I can have a little more of this loving from you." He nodded then and it was settled. Margit hugged him so hard that her arms ached at the elbows and shoulders. The next time that they did it, she was on her knees as he took her from behind and while she loved it, she soon asked him if they could move so that she rode him. "I like to look at your face," she shrugged, "I cannot help it." They were still talking a little later on, and Margit sat up and told him more of her people as she sat within the ring of his body, his legs on one side of her and his head on the other while he lay listening fascinated with his head propped up on one hand and gently stroking her back with the other. She reached for his hip and pushed it over a little so that she had the room to lower her head, having decided that he needed to feel her lips on him there. As she sucked and licked him noisily, she froze a few moments later as she felt his tongue in another place on her. She couldn't help what she felt and so she moved a leg to the other side of his head very carefully. "Are you sure that you want that?" she smiled a little hopefully, "It feels good to me, but ..." He didn't answer. He just pressed his face in farther and Margit raised her head to moan at the ceiling. It took a lot of effort and even more grunting between them, but at last, the slight pain and the discomfort was past. Margit was on her hands and knees, though her hips had to be eased down in his strong hands. They didn't do very much but move very slowly as she gave him a virginal opening. Her head hung down and she panted like an animal, not being able to move at all. She was his in this -- even more than she'd been when he'd been in her other opening, but to her, this felt much more like a possession by him, and she could do nothing about it. She wouldn't have wanted to either in any case. At first, she'd justified it out of the way that she felt about him. She'd never allowed any man to take her this way. She didn't have anything against it on the face of it, but to her, this had always seemed to have more to do with domination, no matter what her mother had said of it. She heard her mother's voice in her head again, telling her that this way; there was no risk of a child being conceived. She heard her mother say that she and her father did this just as often as they did the other thing. It was another way for a woman to please her man, after all. But she'd never heard her mother say that she liked it. Margit now wondered what was wrong with her. Gunnar had been so very slow and careful not to force himself into her. She felt a lot for him for the consideration that he'd shown. But even so, it had been by her agreement to try this with a man who was so large that just to get him in past her labia was not undertaken all that lightly, once she knew the size of him. This was another thing entirely. There had been moments in this when she'd been a little afraid that he'd split her wide open, but he didn't. But once they'd managed the long struggle, she found that her faith in him hadn't been misplaced. He was caring and gentle and she decided that she loved this with him, even if they couldn't do it all that often. She now understood what her mother had been talking about. But there still must have been something wrong. Margit loved the way that he took her like this. She opened her eyes and saw two walls of her long hair as it hung down, and she realized with a start that her mouth had been open as well. But then she felt his large and calloused hands on her body, placed so very carefully and stroking her along the length of her whole side and she knew then that he'd never hurt her. She was surprised at the halting and quivering sound of her own voice ad she asked him a little plaintively not to forget her breasts, they hung now under her, but they were asking for a little of his love as well. When she'd gotten as used to this and as comfortable in it as she thought that she could, she was surprised that they could converse a lot easier than they could the more usual way and she asked him to tell her of his where he'd come from if he could. He did and she hung spellbound in his grasp for a long while as she listened. He told her of the land and its people, the forests and the reindeer and caribou herds, though he didn't use those names for them and she'd never really seen them, other than a few creatures that she thought might have been something a little like what he'd described from a distance once. He told her of the long and cold winter and she replied that she didn't care about that. She was used to it as long as where they lived was warm inside and they could do this now and then. He stopped to ask her if what he'd just heard from her was how she felt and she pushed back against him with a loud moan and answered yes. He never really sped up, but there came a time when she felt him swell and she asked him. Gunnar said that he'd withdraw before he hurt her, but Margit only hung her head again and begged him to go on to his finish. She felt him move then and the way that his hand reached to slide over the underside of her belly confused her for a moment. It hadn't felt as though he'd pulled out of her in any way, but for him to be able to have his hand there, he must surely have. The next moment, she gave up her wondering as his fingers began to work another, more familiar magic on her body. At first, the sensations conflicted to her, but as the movements went on , she suddenly felt more wanton that she could ever remember feeling in her life and she began to push back against him even more. The Smoke-Girl & her Northern Ghost Margit couldn't believe the way that she felt now. She raised her head and moaned like a cat in heat and begged him to fuck her right to the end. "Fuck me Gunnar," she groaned, "Fuck your smoke-girl. I have never wanted to belong to anyone, but .... OHHHH! I need to belong to you. Fuck me. AHhhh. More. Harder Gunnar! I need this." Gunnar was a little uncertain, but he went on right through the strangest climax that Margit had ever had. She trembled in his hands and groaned that she wanted more. He was afraid to hurt her, but the feelings that she's aroused in him spurred him on, wanting the images that she'd placed in his mind. "I'll go with you and I'll live in a frozen yurt with you, Gunnar. Just fuck me. Fuck me like this when I can stand this joy, and I'll spend the long winter in the furs of your bed. I'll bear your sons even if it makes me burst like a yam which has fallen into the fire. Just fuck me, GUNNARRRR!" He watched as her ribs heaved in and out with her frantic breathing, her voice raw from her cries and the little sobs that he heard. Margit was amazed to find that she was crying. Other than the way that he was now stretching her a little more, she wasn't hurting anywhere other than maybe her knees a little. She raised her head again and then lowered it as she came and she sobbed right through it as she shook in his grasp. Gunnar came then and Margit screamed at the way that he stretched her. But he froze so as not to make a bad thing worse for her and when she eased herself forward to lie on her front, she pleaded with him to stay with her and follow her down. It worked for the most part. Margit spread her legs and she sobbed a little more when she felt his concerned kisses against her cheek as they waited for him to soften together. "You wonderful and mighty ghost," she smiled weakly, "Tell me about the magic that you work to stay hidden." Gunnar wondered if she was a little unhinged or something for a moment, "It is nothing more than what I learned from my mother. I can hide us and in a fight, I can sometimes move to be in another place when I need to kill a man. Is that what you wanted to hear, Margit?" "Enough for now, "she smiled as she felt him soften a little more and begin the slippery journey out of her, "I know what I wanted to know and I know what I want to have." He pushed his hair over his ear and then he reached to do the same for her as gently as he could, "And what are those things, beautiful Margit?" "All I need to hear now is whether the white-haired witcher wants me for his own. Say yes to me, Gunnar, and I will always love to be held by you." "Witcher?" he asked and she nodded, "I know of four other words for it, but this is one that you might know in this speech." She raised her face a little to look at him, "I think that I need that now -- that, and perhaps some of these skins to make a few clothes for me to wear. I will go with you to your home and be the wife of a very strong man, as long as I can hold his hand and his heart." Sometime during their loving, right about at the point where she'd realized that though she might have started this out of her thankfulness and want to do something for him, that she was falling no matter what she might have wanted, Margit had decided to discard her earlier plan -- the one that she'd held in her mind at first before they began. The one which saw her stealing his horse and a few things for her to wear after she'd slit his throat with a little sadness after his kindness to her. The way that she felt now, there wasn't any need in her to go anywhere but where Gunnar led them. She knew this man now, and she knew that she belonged with him, wherever their travels took them. So she said the words that she felt needed to be said and she was happy to hear his quiet agreement and she closed her eyes then as he pulled the furs over them both. -------------------------- It wasn't even full light when they were up and he began to break camp. As he worked quickly, Margit took her little dagger and set the fine edge of it to work for her as she carefully slit up the two skins that she'd been given for the task. By the time that he was done and stood there, he stared at the things that she'd been able to make for herself while she stood looking pleased and a little proud that he liked her new clothes. They saddled up and were gone then, thinking that their long road would be taking them through what could only be a perilous path through many different nations before the end. Margit knew that it had to happen eventually, but she hoped it would be fairly soon that she wouldn't need to sit on the extra fur that she needed to perch herself on now in the saddle. They wintered in the mountains of Transylvania and that was as far as they went after finding an already old fortification on a hilltop. Neither of them knew who built it here or what they'd been trying to defend, but after a couple of nights there and a look around, they decided that it could be what they were looking for in a home, since it even had a well, so they remained there to ride out the winter which was almost upon them anyway. There were little vales there down the slopes where they could plant a few things and where the heat of the sunshine in a sheltered place could work miracles. Inside and out, Gunnar made a few repairs for their shelter and warmth, and even though Margit worked to make their bedchamber into a place which felt like a home, it always astounded her that once they were bedding down for the night, the doorways and entrances to this old place held nothing but darkness then and she knew that nothing and no one could come to them then. No one did anyway. The place had long been said to be haunted, not that there was any truth to it, but after they'd taken up residence there, the old rumors and legends sprang to renewed life once more and none dared to go there. It was a long way to the nearest form of settlement, but they didn't care and they spent two years that old fortress. It was four years later when they stood on the north shore of the Baltic Sea looking for a ship, and by then, they traveled in some company. Olaf had found them the second spring as he traveled home with the woman he'd found for himself and a dozen men he'd hired as protection for when he needed to get through the wilds of Germania. A fortnight after that and Gunnar was home where Margit was welcomed by the largest woman that she'd ever seen -- since her man did indeed have a sister. They build homes on land very close by and were surrounded by the many nieces and nephews which Gunnar tried to get to know, but it was a pleasant enough task. And while many remembered Gunnar and took Margit into their hearts as a neighbor and kinswoman, they marveled at the small boy with black hair and the little girl whose cerulean eyes and white hair seemed to be able to cast moments of enchantment only to see her for a minute or two.