Yes, but she gets her money's worth

Martin held tight to the saddle horn. The crossbow was strapped to one of his arms, and he had a dagger in his belt. He sat in front of Brunhilde on the horse, on a forest trail outside of the city. They were walking slowly on an uphill path in the forest. The pines were very tall on either side and the whole thing was shrouded in mist. It was beautiful. Brunhilde pulled on the reins and the horse stopped.

“We wait for a deer here?” said Martin.

“No. Not a deer. We’ll start small. We wait for a squirrel or a bird,” said Brunhilde.

The forest felt very still. The call of loons and the drilling of woodpeckers echoed through the vast woods. Far away was the sound of running water. There was the ever-present rustling of tree branches in the light breeze. It was still cool out, and a cerulean haze lay over everything.

Martin waited patiently for a squirrel. Brunhilde laid a hand on his shoulder and pointed. On the branches of a tall pine to his right, perhaps seven feet in the air, there was a squirrel. He looked at it and it chittered. He raised the crossbow. It was heavy, but already cocked. If he could just aim a tad bit high to make up for the arrow drop…

There was a loud snarling noise and the horse reared up. Brunhilde held on but Martin was thrown from the saddle and landed hard on his back, wheezing as the air was violently **** from his diaphragm. He heard neighing and cursing, the sound of a sword being drawn. The crossbow was still attached to his right arm. Painfully, he heaved himself up to his knees, feeling the soft dirt beneath him. He looked at Brunhilde and stared, speechless.

It was a dire wolf! A lone one, but still the size of a horse. It snarled and snapped at her. Brunhilde yelled a command and the warhorse reared up, flailing its hooves. The direwolf darted to one side, but met Bruhilde’s sword and jumped back. Before she could turn the horse, it circled behind her. It leapt, and had her arm in its maw. It dragged her down from the horse, which took off. She flailed at it with her free hand, but it was no use.

“No!” screamed Martin. He raised the crossbow and, without thinking, aimed it at the direwolf’s eye. He missed, but the arrow pierced its neck. Martin leapt to his feet and hobbled as fast as he could. The direwolf still had her sword arm trapped. Martin reached for his belt and drew his dagger. He held it in his hand, as she’d taught him, then placed the heel of his palm against the back. He drove it forward at the direwolf, which was still shaking Brunhilde by her arm. The very sharp knife sank into the creature’s neck to the hilt, and he dragged it downward to cut a gash. Blood poured out of the wound and the direwolf collapsed.

“Brunhilde!” he said, looking down at her. He held out his hand and took hers.

“Brunhilde, are you…” he said. She was looking up at him with her eyes a little out of focus.

“A tourniquet! A tourniquet, you foolish boy!” she said. She winced and looked around as if searching for something and not finding it. Martin took the bloody knife and noticed that the bedroll had fallen off the horse when it bolted. He picked it up, sliced off a long strip with the knife, and returned to Brunhilde.

“There, on my arm,” she said, “Just above the elbow. As tight as you can.” He complied, cinching the makeshift bandage around her arm as tightly as he could. He grabbed a small stick off of the ground for a windlass and used it to cinch the tourniquet.

“Is it broken?” he asked. She winced and wiggled her fingers.

“No,” she said, “I can move it and I can still feel it. Believe me, I can still feel it.”

Martin laughed nervously and continued pulling the tourniquet as tight as it would go. Brunhilde’s hair was laying across her face again. She blew at it and a few strands left her face. Then she sat up.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I don’t walk on my arm, do I?”

He offered his hand to help her up. She declined it and rose to her feet under her own power and whistled for the horse.

**************************************************

That night, they were home again. After a short time, the horse had returned. “They usually do that,” she had said, “Either that or wait at the trailhead. They seldom run far.” Then he had skinned and gutted the direwolf at her direction and they had returned with their prize in tow. The bleeding from her arm had stopped and she’d instructed him to wrap it in a tight white cloth while it healed. They were sitting in front of the fire in her bedroom high in the tower. The room was warm with the fire crackling. They had already sat on a blanket on the ground, eating jerky and talking for a while. Presently, Brunhilde lay face-down on the blanket, naked from the waist up. Both her arms were folded under her face and her long hair was tucked around one side of her neck. Martin wore only a fine silk robe a **** had brought from market and straddled her waist, rubbing her back.

“Brunhilde?” he said quietly.

“Yes?”

“You mentioned laws and customs earlier. About children.”

“Not yet, Martin. There is a certain time when I can tell you these things, and that’s when I’m certain that I want to breed with you.”

He continued rubbing her back in silence for a while.

“So…” he said finally, “When you’ve made your decision, I’ll know all about it?”

She pushed herself up on her hands. He got off of her back. She sat down and looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“Why are you so interested?” she asked.

“I just… Like the idea, I suppose.”

“You like the idea? What does that mean?”

He sighed heavily.

“Well,” he said, “I’m trapped here. This is my life now. It’s been on my mind for a while. What else am I going to do?”

“Not your choice,” she said, “Remember that I own you.” He stiffened up indignantly. Yes, he was technically her ****, but he was not accustomed to being treated as one.

“Sure, you own me,” he said, “But I don’t think you’re going to neglect me like that.”

“I’ll neglect you however I want. I can still sell you, you know.”

Something deflated inside of him. There was a withering sensation in his chest.

“And you’re going to do that?” he asked.

“I could if I wanted.”

“But will you do it?’

“You’re my ****. I can sell you if I so desire.”

“But will you do it?”

She said nothing.

“I don’t believe you will,” he said, “I don’t think you want to sell me. Maybe you can legally, but you don’t have the guts. You can’t quit me, the same way I can’t quit you.”

The corner of her mouth turned up in a contemptuous sneer and a vein bulged in her forehead. Her enraged face was contrasted deeply by the fire because lit from one side, half dark and half enraged. She grabbed him by the wrists and stood up, lifting him bodily off the ground, and strode over to the nearest wall. She pinned him against it and glared at him. Her hands pressed his wrists into the wall over his head.

“Who’s in control here?” she asked.

“You,” he said.

She held him there for a moment and his heart pounded. Pinpricks ran down his body. Was this the last straw? Did this mean she would sell him, or perhaps kill him right here? Her grip on his wrists tightened painfully and he began to shake. Oh gods, no, he thought, quivering like a leaf.

Then she kissed him. Her mouth locked over his and she roughly **** her tongue into his mouth. He squeaked into the kiss. She held it for a long time purposefully, to make sure he would run out of air, and only released him when he began to struggle. He gasped, hands still pinned above his head. There was a bulge in his silk robe now.