GUNNAR

by Mack the Knife

I am going to die, was the sole thought running through Tanah's mind as she stumbled, lost, through the dense woods. She knew that she was somewhere in northeastern Cathalia, near the Amethyst Mountains. Her skull felt like it was about to explode from the pressure within. The barbarian bitch that had clobbered her was dead now, by her spear, but knowing that did not help. Her helmet had saved her having her skull smashed in, but it now lay on the field where they had fought, dented where the barbarian’s weighted club had come down.

She leaned against the white trunk of a young birch, the tree swaying as it bore her weight. She swallowed and touched her right hand to the sore spot on her scalp. A bright lance of pain pierced her head, and she gasped. It made her a bit dizzy, but it also brightened the world around her, but only a little. Blood ran from her scalp, and from her right ear. She clutched her fighting spear in her left hand, but it dragged the ground, almost forgotten now. Her blue dress was stained with blood, mud, and grass stains.

Tanah had been in the service of the Crown for but five months. Two of those were in training at the garrison where she had volunteered to become a soldier. When asked why she would wish to join, she told the sergeant that it was for adventure and to see the world. The truth, however, was to avoid the fate of her older sister. Gellie had been her role-model for years. However, she took the only job available to a young woman in a town near the ongoing border war, and went to a brothel. At first, it seemed to do her well, she had money again, and the friendship of influential soldiers. But then she had caught syphilis. Tanah had tried to care for her as her mind and body rotted from the inside out over the next two years. Finally, the young girl, taking ultimate pity on her older sister, who was mentally vacant, slipped a blade between her emaciated ribs and put her out of her misery.

Tanah would not share that fate.

After the barbarian had hit her in the head, she became disoriented. The battle had been surging back and forth. From what she could tell, she had wandered away from it. She looked for some sort of landmark, or sign of civilization. She saw none. The birches made up the bulk of this part of the wood, small ones and large ones, but nothing stood out as recognizable. She took a mighty gulp of air then moved on, not even caring anymore which way she even thought she was stumbling.

The light was failing in her eyes, though she deep down knew it was but mid-afternoon. She tripped over an exposed root and fell onto the padded, leafy ground. Tanah spat out a few leaves and turned her head to look at the patches of sky she could see through the dense canopy. “Gods of war, if you can hear me,” she slurred, “please take me to your halls.” Then her eyes closed.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Tanah knew she was not dead. The dead did not feel pain, and she felt a great deal of it. She blinked open her eyes and saw double for a moment, blinked again, and her vision focused. She was laying in a bed, with a warm blanked pulled up to her neck. What she saw when her eyes at last agreed to look at the same point was a wolf pelt. Oh, shit, she thought, I’ve been captured by the barbarians.

Her hands were not bound, though, and she lifted one from her side. She then moved her head, lifting it a little and looking to her left. A tiny fireplace crackled happily with a little fire warming the room, and over it a metal pan simmered softly. She sniffed and smelled stew cooking. A chair sat near the fire, rough-hewn, but sturdy-looking. Her eyes wandered up to the wall behind the chair, and took in a red tunic, and went wide.

A Tilnon soldier! her mind screamed. She squinted at it, focusing her eyes and revealing the breast patch of a skull impaled with a sword. It was the crest of the Reavers Regiment. She quickly tried to search the room, and turned her head too fast, sending a searing line of pain through the right side of her head. She almost fainted at the intense burst of agony.

Slowly she turned after the darkness receded from her vision. At her feet, across the small room, was a door, sunlight leaking in around its edges. Next to the door was also a small rack, upon which hung a few weapons, including her fighting spear. A good sword also was hanging there, and a crossbow. She smiled, and started to sit. The smile evaporated as another wave of nausea and darkness engulfed her. She fell back onto the pillow, and heard the door open.

“Finally awake, are we?” a masculine voice asked, heavily accented with a Tilnon lilt, but passably her own tongue. The latest wave of dark receded and she looked down.

A broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, he seemed uneven somehow, then she realized what was amiss; the man was missing his arm from just below his shoulder and he had his tunic’s sleeve pinned to its chest. He shut the door and the lack of backlighting removed some of the mystery of his appearance. He was in his late forties, and looked to have been a strong man in his youth, and still looked powerful, judging from the muscles on his right arm. His dark brown hair was now edged with a large amount of gray. He still cut it in military fashion, short and straight across the back with trimmed bangs, forming a ‘cap’ of hair. So he had been regular army, she decided, not a conscript or levy. At least she could expect decent treatment, or so she hoped.

He walked to the little pot and stirred it. “I am afraid that I do not have much to offer in the way of fare,” he said conversationally. “But you can have what you want of it.” He dipped out a few spoonfuls into a bowl and walked toward her. He had a broad, round face, which wore an easy smile, and deep blue eyes.

He hooked the chair with his foot and dragged it to the side of the bed, then sat upon it. He sat the bowl upon a small table beside the bed. He moved deliberately, and seemed to waste no motion on extraneous movements. “Do you think you can eat?”

She nodded, but said nothing. He dipped a spoonful of stew and held it to her lips, she sipped and tasted rabbit stew. Her mouth rejoiced at the taste of warm food, something it had not had for weeks before even the battle. She smiled and said: “Thank you.”

The man nodded and patiently fed her. She felt coddled by the attention and kindness of the act. It gave her feelings she vaguely remembered from her childhood, when she would become ill and her sister and mother would help her eat. She pulled one hand from beneath the blanket with great effort and wiped an errant trickle of stew from her chin. When he had finished serving the stew in the bowl he stood up. “More?” he asked.

Tanah said, “No. I might get ill.” Her stomach churned around the hearty fare and was not at all certain it knew what to do with it.

He chuckled at that, and pointed beside the bed. “In that, if you would,” he said. She peered over the side of the bed and saw a wooden water pail.

Tanah smiled up at him. “You really plan ahead, don’t you?” she asked.

“I try,” he murmured. He rinsed the bowl out and slung the water out through an open window near the fireplace. “I am not surprised that it is a bit strong for you. You have only had broth for almost a week.”

“A week?” she asked, her voice rising. “I’ve been unconscious a week?”

He nodded. “You had a bad concussion, or as soldiers often say: you damn near got your brains knocked out of your hard head,” he said, his expression changing to a broad grin.

She smiled too. She had heard that expression, though it usually referred to bar brawls, and the resulting minor head trauma that accompanied a fist or mug bouncing off of one’s skull.

She could hold her curiosity in check no longer. “Why are you helping me?” she asked. “You know I’m a soldier of Sorkin, and you, at least, were a warrior of Tilnon.”

He looked at her a long moment. “You wish me to treat you as a prisoner?” he asked. “I used a lot of expensive herbs in keeping your brain from swelling and popping your eyes out of your head. I will not have my money wasted by turning you over to the Army just so they can pen you up in a filthy stockade until the next prisoner exchange.” He glowered a moment. “Or worse, if they thought you were spying. Though, I would at least be able to say you were wearing your uniform.”

She had not even realized that under the blanket she wore nought but a light cotton shirt. Tanah lifted the covers and looked down. “Where is my uniform?” she asked, then it dawned on her, “and why did you remove it?”

He smirked. “I wondered how long that would take,” he said. “It is in the chest under the bed.” He pointed beneath her. “I removed it because it was filthy, and because you had other wounds, though not nearly so severe as the one to your head. I did not seek to treat your head while infection set into other parts of your body.”

He shrugged. “If I were a pervert, who liked to toy with unconscious young women, I could have simply not helped you.” He looked at her. “Your mind was swelling in your skull, girl,” he said. “Had it kept swelling, it would have made you into a very blank-eyed creature, indeed. A toy with whom one could play with at leisure. You would make a top-quality toy of that sort, might I add, being both pretty and healthy. You would probably last two years before withering to a sack of bones.”

She shuddered, but looked at him suspiciously. “How do I know you didn’t anyway?”

He sat in the chair again, thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Because, I like my women able to fuck me back,” he said, his expression deadpan. “Had I wanted someone just to lie there and be a hole for my cockstem, I would have married instead of joining the army.”

She touched her aching skull and felt the swelling there. “I’m sorry. I should not accuse you of anything except mercy on a wounded enemy soldier,” she said. “I’m very frightened, though. I hope you understand.”

He nodded. “I would be too, in your boots,” he said. “Yet you are safe in this house. I will not hurt you, and no one else will while you are under my roof.”

“Duty binds me to try to return to my company,” she said in a quiet voice, by way of a warning.

He nodded. “I would expect no less from an honorable warrior,” he replied, and pointed at her spear. “Do not forget that,” he said, grinning.

She nuzzled down into the pillow beneath her head and looked up at the wolf pelt. “I suppose you tire of my ‘strong soldier’ routine?”

“I would, if I thought it just talk,” he said. “Yet I can tell you are a warrior, and not just posturing to impress me.” He went to a jug near the fireplace and poured a leather flagon full of water, and gave that to her, placing it in her hand above the blanket. “You should be fit to rise tomorrow. Then a couple of days after that, we will try to get you to your company, and home.”

She sipped the cool water. “You will help me even in that?” she asked.

He nodded. “As I said, I will not have my labors or resources wasted just to give the local garrison a new plaything for a few days.”

Visions of her nightmares of being captured flashed through her mind. Images of the leering faces of men in red tunics, or barbarians, pinning her to the floor and raping her repeatedly. They would likely beat her and abuse her in ways more horrible. She had such dreams from time to time, and they always frightened her. “Thank you,” she whispered. She did not even notice until the first tear slid down her cheek that she was crying.

He turned toward the door. “The war is over for me, lass,” he said. “I gave my king and country what I could. They took an arm, and nearly crippled me.” He looked back at her. “In exchange, they gave me fifty acres of land out here in the wilds, and ten pieces of silver.” His voice was not bitter, though. “Such is the lot of a soldier who does not die in battle.”

She looked at him. “Crippled?” she asked, “but I’ve not seen you limp.”

He pulled up his tunic and pulled down the left side of his pants, revealing a deep scar along his hip. It ran from just below his rib cage to beyond the lowered hem of his trousers. “Believe me,” he said, “I cannot run, nor can I do the dance of death required of a fighting man.” He chuckled. “I have learned to walk okay, so long as nothing disturbs my footing.”

She gaped. “What happened to you?” she asked.

He thought a moment. “One of the more creative weapons that your people developed for the war hit me,” he said. “It fired wide disks of wood with a metal rim. It took my arm and nearly my leg. My partner, and lover, Serena, was not as lucky, she was right behind me to my left.” His eyes were now distant, remembering a day long ago. “Yet at least she died quickly,” he added. “I do not think she even felt it.”

Tanah nodded. “How terrible,” she said. It amazed her at how important his loss seemed to her.

He grinned. “It was long ago, lass,” he said.

She said, “My name is Tanah.” She sat the cup on the little table and turned to regard him again.

He smiled. “I wondered when we might introduce ourselves. I am named Gunnar,” he said. “What regiment do you serve?” he asked.

Tanah thought a moment, but saw no harm in telling him. “I am with the Jendan Light Foot,” she said.

Gunnar smiled at that. “A good outfit,” he said. “They have been around a long while. I have faced them myself.”

She looked toward his tunic. “So I’ve heard,” she said. “Your old regimental marking is one we fear to see on the field, even today.”

He nodded. “The Reavers worked hard to earn that reputation, and spent much of their own blood for it, as well.”

The Reavers were one of the more terrifying Tilnon forces in this region. They were fierce in the battle and were known widely for their individual prowess. Most Sorkin regiments would rather face twice their numbers in barbarians, which was saying much. She had not to face them yet, and did not relish the idea of doing so.

He took some herbs from a small shelf and put them into her cup of water. “Drink that and sleep, you are still showing some signs of swelling,” he said. “Tomorrow, I think that you will feel better.”

Tanah drank the bitter herbal water and soon felt her eyelids growing heavy. As she drifted off to sleep, she heard him say: “Good night, soldier.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Tanah’s head felt much better in the morning, as she woke to the sun pouring through the doorway as he opened the door. “Good morning, Tanah,” Gunnar said, radiating morning cheer. “You look much better.”

She smiled and squinted into the sunlight before he shut the door. Voices drifted into the house from outside then receded from it, along with the sound of clopping hooves.

“Who was that?” she asked, her voice growing suspicious.

He winked at her. “Tilnon cavalry,” he said, “but fear not, they do not even suspect your presence.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Full of questions this morning, are you not?” he asked in return. “Yet I am afraid they bore bad news for you. A barbarian offensive has pushed your forces back, and the lines are more than thirty miles past us now.”

Her eyes fell. “Then getting back to my company will be nearly impossible,” she muttered.

“I did not say that,” he said, winking again. “We will get you to your friends and companions. It will just take longer.” He held out a small loaf of bread. “Get up and eat, Tanah,” he said. “It is time you took to your feet again.”

She tried to sit up and fell back as her head pulsed with pain. He came over and helped her, putting his hand under her elbow and assisting her in rising. After several small pauses, she was on her feet and a bit dizzy for the effort.

She looked down at the cotton shirt she was wearing, it was obviously not his. It was a woman’s gown, a sleeping gown. She looked back at him, and pinched a little of the soft linen between two fingers. “Did this belong to. . . . ”

He nodded and interrupted her by saying: “It was Serena’s.”

She looked around herself, while her vision stopped its spinning. “I never thought about this, but how have I been evacuating?” she asked, suddenly possessed of an urge to go to the latrine.

He nudged a bedpan at the foot of the bed with one toe. “You would display discomfort when you needed to go while unconscious, and I put that in place,” he said. “You probably do not want all the details to tending to an unconscious person, though.” He grinned. “It is not pretty.”

“Go ahead,” he urged her and stepped outside the door.

She finished the transaction and said, “I’m done.” Gunnar stepped back in and took the bedpan from her, and stepped out again. He returned a half a minute later, and slid it under the bed again.

“You should be able to get to the outhouse by tomorrow,” he said.

She smiled. “I never even thought about it.” Her mind flashed to her sister, as she wasted away, she had always been able to tell her when she needed a bedpan, but that never made the task pleasant. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. It was ignoble work, I know.”

He handed her the loaf of tough-crusted bread. “I would not call nursing a person to health ignoble,” he said. “Sometimes I feel the healers are the most noble among us. They will often serve even their enemies. Though, as I have said, I have no enemies anymore.”

She leaned on the chair and took a large bite of the bread. He pointed to a block of butter on the shelf, under a glass lid. “If you like butter, there is some,” he said.

Tanah mmm’ed in delight as she went to it and took it down. Smearing great globs of the stuff on her bread, she started munching with obvious relish, washing down great mouthfuls with water from the leather cup.

Gunnar smiled at her enthusiasm. “Now, that is a true soldier,” he said, setting them both to laughing, though she had to work around a mouthful of bread.

She finished her bread and sat in the chair a moment. Her mind was quite confused now, with mixed images of the propaganda the Sorkin army had drilled into her head about the soldiers of Tilnon. Along with the opposing image of this kind and warm man who had nursed her through an ugly wounding and performed some tasks that she herself knew were less than pleasant.

“I will repay you, as I can, for your kindness,” she said quietly, blushing slightly as she spoke.

He stopped chuckling and looked at her. “That is a very generous offer, Tanah,” he said, letting his eyes move down the gown to her legs, which were bare to halfway up her thighs. “Very generous,” he repeated, “but I do not bed girls who use their body as a trade good.”

Her face flushed at that, she had not even realized that what she had done was almost like whoring.

“As much as I would probably die of sheer excitement holding you, I will not take you as payment,” he grinned, trying to temper the rebuke with a compliment.

She raised her eyes back to him. “Don’t think me forward, but I wouldn’t have offered myself if it were something I did not desire,” she said, defensively.

He blinked a couple of times. “You desire me?” he said, looking at his missing arm, and his maimed hip. “Why in the world would a pretty young lass want an old warhorse like me?”

She rose from the chair, and walked toward him. Her eyes fell on her spear leaning in the little rack beside the door, but just for a moment. Then she focused on him again. She stood just before him, almost touching. “I’ve seen old warhorses on the field of battle, and they are the ones canny enough to protect their riders, rather than let them get themselves killed.”

Tanah looked up into his deep blue eyes. “They are the ones that survive the battles, and finally get put to pasture to breed the next generation.” Her arms came up and draped themselves over his shoulders. “Perhaps I wish to see if an old stud can still perform his tricks.” Her lower abdomen pressed forward and she felt, with certainty, that the ‘old stud’ was perfectly capable of performing tricks, still.

Gunnar’s one hand came up to the small of her back, and pressed her against him harder. “Tanah, be very sure what you are doing,” he said.

“Do I seem not to know?” she asked, pulling his shoulders forward to her, and kissing him. She could feel the warmth of his soft lips, and the tension in his shoulders. Tanah touched his lips with her tongue, brushing over them. He parted his mouth, and she slipped into him with a deep, probing tongue. His own tongue came forth to meet the invader and they sparred inside his mouth a moment. He managed to push her into a retreat and his tongue followed the routing muscle. She moaned as he filled her mouth with his thick, wet tongue.

She could feel his breath on her cheek as he started to breathe harder, and she could feel his manhood swelling against her belly. He had a bit of a stomach on him, as many men in their forties did, but it was not enough to worry over, she decided.

They broke off the kiss, and he pressed his face into her hair and neck. Her long, blonde hair was soft and smelled of honey and spices. He had shampooed it just two days ago, and she had seen little activity in the days between. She felt his kiss upon her neck and gave him more neck to kiss, tiling her head to the side. She kissed his shoulder, through his shirt, then moved his collar to the side to kiss the flesh beneath. Small scars were revealed there, and she kissed them, one at a time.

Her hands went down and back up under his tunic, running her small fingertips over his skin. She felt scar after scar with the tips of her fingers, never moving more than a few inches between them. “You are so scarred, Gunner,” she said in a whisper. “You were either the worst warrior in the world or among the greatest.”

He smiled into her neck. “I will not venture a guess, myself, being biased,” he murmured into her hair. She sighed as his hand slid downward and caressed her rump, squeezing one cheek then moving over the crease between them to the other.

“I must feel it,” she said, and slid one hand over his chest and to his left shoulder. His hand moved back up her spine again while she slowly explored his arm, and the horribly abrupt termination of it, just a few inches below the shoulder. The end was almost flat, and had been cleanly cut off. He moaned as she touched the scar tissue on the end of the stump. “I hear people feel their lost limbs after they are gone, still,” she whispered between little kisses to his shoulder.

Gunnar nodded into her neck, running his fingers through her long hair. “I do,” he said. “Some days I forget and try to pick up something with it, or reach over to scratch an itch on my left forearm.

She giggled. “Rather startling to realize again, isn’t it?” she asked.

He laughed at that. “Indeed, I find myself thinking, just where the hell did it get off to.”

Tanah pulled his head up from her shoulder, and grabbed the hem of his tunic, lifting it. He raised his one arm, and the stump went up, as if of its own accord. She giggled again, and he smiled at her. “Old habits,” he said, as she lifted the tunic over his head and dropped it to the floor.

He was not a young man, and there was much of his chest and stomach that was not quite so tight as a buck of twenty would have. Then again, she thought, neither did it seem unappealing. He was a mature man, and had years of experience to show for the dozens of scars she now saw. He had earned the right not to try so hard to be a hard-muscled stud.

Tanah ran her fingers over him again, looking at the scars. Some were small, nicks at one time. Others were larger, though, deep wounds, that puckered where they had torn muscle beneath them. She looked at the largest, the one on his hip, the deepest scar and the only one that ran out of sight into his pants. Her fingertip touched it and he gasped. She looked at his face and saw it was not pain that marked him, then continued her exploration.

When she reached the waist of his pants, she used her other hand to unbuckle his belt, and untie the cinched front of his trousers. They slid down, revealing the remaining scar, and other things of interest to her. She let her other hand brush over his cockstem, projecting out from him and pointing slightly upwards, and looked up at him. “I’ll come back to that shortly,” she said, and leaned toward him, and started to kiss the deep scar on his thigh. He moaned as her lips and tongue touched the sensitive flesh. She felt his organ twitch against the touch of her soft hair. She traced her way down the scar, wrapping her hand about the shaft of his member along with a large amount of her own hair.

He felt the silky strands caress his cock as her hand held them firmly to it. He was breathing in short gasps now, and she finally reached the bottom edge of the scar, almost halfway down his thigh. She followed a trail of smaller scars upward and inward from there, having to move her hand to progress farther. Her blond tresses fell from his organ and he felt warmth engulf the head and a good portion of the shaft, followed by gentle suction. He looked down to see the pretty young woman on her knees before him, with his swollen cockstem deep in her mouth. She rolled her eyes up and looked at him.

After a few moments, she removed her mouth from it and stroked it with her hand again. “I’ve never done that for any man before, Gunnar,” she said. “It was nicer than I thought it would be, though. It’s very soft to the tongue, despite being hard.” She did not add that part of why she had never done it was that she had seen her sister service so many men that way, as a quick and dirty means of earning a fast bit of coin. Still, from where she had been, it seemed an obvious thing to do.

Gunnar touched her hair with his hand, stroking the silky strands. She took him into her mouth again and with deliberate slowness, moved her head down the shaft until he felt the back of her mouth. She then pulling back to where just the swollen knob of his head was between her lips. Tanah pulled back again, after a few long, slow strokes, and regarded his manhood.

“Your cockstem lacks a foreskin,” she noted. “Was that also amputated by our clever weapon?” she asked, a small smile crossing her face.

He chuckled. “No, Tanah,” he said, “I had a slight malformation of the foreskin as a child, and a surgeon snipped it off me when I was but a baby.” He looked at himself. “I have often wondered what it would feel like to have it.”

She smiled at his penis. “I think it looks attractive this way, honestly,” she said. “The head feels good being free of anything blocking my tongue’s access to it,” she added then slid that part of her mouth over the mentioned part of his cock.

His fingers twined into her hair and she felt him tugging her upward. She followed the lead and rose to her feet. She placed a few kisses on his stomach and chest as she regained her feet. A small wave of dizziness hit her, and she touched her head.

He gave her a warm smile. “Perhaps you should lay down, Tanah,” he suggested. “It is the logical next step anyway.”

She smiled, too. Watching as he stepped from his pants then walk toward the bed. The young woman grabbed the hem of her night gown as she followed him to the bed, and lifted it over her head. When he turned around and sat upon the bed, she was dropping it onto the lid of the chest. His eyes widened. “Damn, you are gorgeous,” he said, looking down her lithe form, with an almost boyish look of pleasure in his eyes. Mother always said no matter how old they get, they are always boys, she thought

She grinned and stepped up to him. “Two more days, you say?” she asked, moving to straddle his waist.

He nodded. “Yes. Then I will get you back to your friends and companions,” he said.

She kissed his lips then his chin, which also bore a small scar. “My friends, perhaps, but my only companion of late is right here,” she said as she pulled herself to him. They rolled and turned so that she was now lying atop him her legs still on either side of his waist. Tanah reached downward, feeling his organ between their bodies, and pushed him down until it was sticking upward between her long thighs.

He felt the wetness of her slit against the top of his cockstem, but was not yet ready to enter this beautiful warrior just yet. He moved his hand downward, running his fingertips over her soft belly, then down to the compact patch of light brown hairs. “If I had two hands, I could explore you more rapidly,” he murmured as she kissed his neck and chest.

She looked up at him. “Take your time,” she said. “I like your touch, and would feel it for as long as you wish.”

He stroked her slit with his fingertip, then moved it to her hip, moving the hand up her side to her armpit. She squirmed as his fingers slid over her ribs, and then down to her narrow waist. “You are so young and beautiful, Tanah,” he said. “I have only loved one body like yours and that was very long ago.”

“Well, I give it for you to love,” she said, kissing his lips and tasting of his tongue when it came forth.

Gunnar felt her moisture growing more noticeable, and even felt it wetting the fine hairs above her opening. “I wish to taste you,” he said.

She smiled at that. “I wish to be tasted,” she said in return. She rose and turned about on the bed, moving almost like a dog trying to flatten the grass out to make a nest for itself. Then she was straddling his head. “It is okay like this?” she said, her opening above his face.

“I can hardly complain of the view, I have to admit,” he said. She giggled a moment, then started doing things that precluded giggling. Tanah kissed his swollen cock and the thighs next to it, then his scrotum, sucking one testicle into her mouth, then the other. He groaned with each new sensation, encouraging her to try more.

She gasped, however, when his tongue brushed over her already swollen clit, then as deep into her as he could reach. He opened his mouth wide, and clamped it over the whole of her womanhood. His tongue lapped between clit and slipping into her vagina. She felt gentle suction over the whole area and moaned.

He stopped her moving head. “Stop, now, Tanah,” he said. “I am no young man, if you finish me that way it will be a while before I can do what I really wish to do.”

Her pelvis was starting to squirm with his tongue’s motions, and she was beginning to let little moans escape her lips as it brushed over her exposed clitoris. She lifted up and sat upright over his mouth, and felt his hand on her thigh, pulling her down. She squatted lower grinding her pelvis into his mouth. Soon, she moved herself with a rhythm against his mouth, and moaned louder. He could taste her well now when she sat up and her juices started to flow from her into his mouth. She tasted good, with a slight hint of the rosewater he had cleansed her with a day before.

Her breathing grew short now, and she was gasping each breath. He could feel her starting to tense and breathed deeply himself, preparing for what was likely to happen.

It was a good thing that he had. Her orgasm exploded through her body and she pushed downward, smashing his nose flat with the ridge of flesh between her cunt and anus and sealed his mouth to her groin. For almost twenty seconds, she held that pose, grunting as her climax pulsed through her, and his tongue continued its rapid lapping. She leaned forward afterward and lay upon his body, sliding her fingertips over his stiff rod. She, regaining her breath, and he stopped lapping at her, only kissing her thighs and her open slit before him. She crawled from over him and moved about to straddle his hips.

“Now,” she said, “we do what I really want to do.” She grinned down at him and took hold of his cockstem, guiding it into her slickened entrance. She slid down in one long, smooth motion, taking him to his balls within her. He groaned as she started to rock back and forth. Tanah liked the feeling of his thick shaft opening her and burying itself into her welcoming cunt.

Tanah felt Gunnar’s body stiffen as he neared his own climax and started rocking faster, and in shorter motions. His hand explored her breasts, rubbing the nipple then squeezing the whole breast. She gasped, feeling his seed erupt into her, and she kept going. She was close herself, and was going to try to achieve another release before he grew soft within her.

Her climax was slow and painful, as her second ones often were. Tanah forced her way through to a very satisfying end. She collapsed upon his chest again, panting. He kissed her forehead while petting her silky blond hair, pulling the sweat-wetted strands from her cheeks.

She cooed into his chest, making indistinct little noises as she wriggled into a more comfortable position. She soon fell asleep, more tired from her wounds than she had thought. He held her for more than two hours while she dozed, with his organ still within her tight. In fact, it was his growing organ that awakened her. She felt cockstem swelling within her and her eyes opened.

Through a complicated bit of movement, they managed to reverse their positions. She lay on the bed now, and he hovered over her, his one arm beside her head. She could see the powerful muscles of that arm cording with the power needed to hold him up by itself.

The young woman kissed his wrist as he started moving deeper into her. He began thrusting in earnest now, and she moaned with each entry. Soon they had matched paces and were pushing against each other with each penetration.

Gunnar was a skilled lover, though she suspected that he had not practiced in some time. He timed their climaxes perfectly, both of them arriving at the same moment, and both bodies freezing simultaneously, holding them together through their climaxes. He lowered himself atop her and she invited him to sleep this time. He shook his head and rolled to the side, lying beside her slim body. He pulled her to him and both fell asleep with him pressed to her backside and his arms about her protectively.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The trek took them four days. Gunnar wore a heavy cloak against the driving wind and drizzle that had fallen since they left his little home. Tanah carried her uniform folded in a small bag: she would change when they sighted people that were friendly to Sorkin. They passed two small units of Tilnon troops, and were generally ignored, though a few soldiers turned to watch the young woman pass, as men are wont.

Then a small detachment of Sorkin cavalry had stumbled over them. The unit was on a patrol and hailed them and ordered them to stop.

They did so and she spoke for them. “I am Tanah of the Jendan Light Foot,” she said. “A barbarian wounded me in the battle ten days ago. I am now healed and seek my company.” She reached into the bag and pulled forth her uniform.

The sergeant of the cavalry squad regarded her. “Don your uniform then, soldier,” he ordered. “And you, sir? Are you also a returning walking wounded?” he asked. Tanah shuffled off with a worried look back at Gunnar and disappeared behind some bushes.

Gunnar straightened his stance. “No, Sergeant, I am not,” he replied. The troops reacted instantly to his heavy Tilnon accent. They drew their swords and took up positions surrounding the elderly man.

“Sir, I’m afraid you’ve made a grave error in coming behind our lines,” the sergeant said grimly, “especially in civilian dress.”

Gunnar looked the sergeant in the eye. “Then, sergeant, I recommend you fetch your commander,” he said, “and then review your heraldry manuals.”

The look of confusion on the sergeant’s face was almost comical as he regarded the middle-aged man before him. Tanah emerged from the bushes wearing her dress, mended of its tears and cleaned of blood and dirt.

“What are you doing?” she asked the cavalrymen.

The sergeant looked at her with irritation. “Mind your position, private,” he said. “We found you in the company of a man we now suspect is a spy, which does not speak well for you.” He glowered at her.

Tanah said. “Spy?” she looked at Gunnar. “He is no spy. He is retired from the army, and is no longer a combatant.”

The cavalry sergeant sneered. “Good cover for a spy, I should say,” he said.

“Sergeant,” Gunnar said, his voice suddenly commanding and powerful, “you will summon your commander immediately or you will escort me to him. If you do not know your duty in these matters, it will go very poorly for you when you discover what they are, probably at the end of a lash.”

One of the men moved his horse alongside the sergeant and leaned over to whisper into the sergeant’s ear. The soldier’s eyes were wide, as were the sergeant’s when the man finished his whispered remarks. The sergeant looked down at the cloak around the man’s shoulders, and then, more closely, at its embroidered edges.

Tanah looked down at it, noting that the edging was a a stylized skull and sword motif, like the emblem that had been on his tunic. The thread was yellow, but as she looked harder at it, she realized it was simply faded: the thread had been gold. Her eyes widened.

“Sir, I apologize,” the sergeant said, “I did not realize. . . . ”

“It is forgiven, sergeant,” Gunnar said, regarding the young man. “Yet as I have followed the proper forms and come unarmed to parley, I would speak to your commander.”

The sergeant dismounted and saluted the man. “Yes, sir, general,” he said. The other cavalrymen began to dismount in haste as they figured out what had just passed. Tanah looked at Gunnar, with a stunned expression.

“General?” she asked, her voice quavering.

Gunnar looked at her with apologetic eyes. “Yes, Tanah, I am General Gunnar, former commander of the Reavers Regiment.”

Tanah gaped a moment. “You said you were retired,” she said, stammering a little.

“I am, as much as any general can retire,” he said, wearing a wan smile.

THE END

Copyright � Mack The Knife 2005

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