2. WINTER MOON
Thespa cursed the darkness. She had followed the trail of the Aroth raiders for as long as she dared in the dim light. If she rode further, she might miss their tracks. If she stayed, the riders who had kidnapped her mother, Penoa, might travel on and leave her far behind. But she must stop for the night. If only for Erod's sake – the stallion's coat was damp with sweat.
She jumped lightly down from his back, and led the weary horse to the slow moving stream that ran from the mountains east of her home. The snow had melted slightly because of the sun that had shone so fittingly on Thor's feast day, but the stream was now covered with a thin layer of ice. Thespa used her booted heel to break it, clearing a foot or more, her feet awash with icy water. She squatted and drank, then pulled Erod's reins, let him drink a moment, and then led him to a nearby tree.
"Not yet," she whispered. "You must rest a little, my friend. Then you may drink again." Searching through the underbrush, she found tender young shoots of several saplings. She tore several branches free and brought them back to the stallion, who gratefully nibbled at the fresh green leaves.
Hills stood dark in this place, a sacred place she knew of old. Here, if you followed the stream into the cleft of the rocks, you would find a grove of ancient cedar trees, mighty with age. A place of magic. She found more saplings and remained with Erod until he had eaten his fill. She brushed his coat with a cloth from her saddle bag, and lifted each of his hooves. When his body had returned to its regular temperature, she loosed the reins and let him drink.
The black horse gleamed in the night. Thespa sat on the bank and watched the moon rise over the trees. A full moon. Far off, a wolf howled. Erod munched steadily on the food she'd collected, but she ate nothing. Finally, when the moon was fully free of the trees, its rays flitting down to the stream, Thespa stood.
Slowly she removed her armour, the thick leather jerkin, and the short cotton shift her mother had made her. She stripped her boots from her feet. She folded her clothes placed them in a pile. Then she removed her helmet and placed it on top. Her sword she thrust into the ground behind. She unloosed her hair.
She stood on the bank in the moonlight, tall, lithe, full-breasted, long of limb, yet firmly muscled. The horse was quiet now, watching her. Her long golden hair hung down past her waist. The night breeze touched her hair and made it shimmer in the silver light.
She plunged into the stream and washed. The dark eyes of the stallion followed her. She sang softly as she bathed in the icy water, her nipples taunt from the cold. When she was done, she whistled softly, and the horse stepped into the stream and came to her. He stood by her, his warm head bowed, waiting. She put both hands on his muzzle and lifted it, put her soft lips to his softer lips, and gently kissed him.
"Narguent a noonan," she said, bringing his lips to one of her breasts. He nibbled at it. She repeated the saying, her hands moving his muzzle to her other breast, nipple thrusting as his horse lips moved upon it. Then she brought his mouth to her essence, her golden bush. His rough tongue moved from his mouth, and tasted her.
