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"They turned on you and drove you out." Her eyes lit up suddenly. "You tried to take something." She
pointed to the box as he opened the third lock. "You tried to take that!"
"My recipes!" he shouted with a laugh as he threw open the lid.
Injera stared with disbelieving eyes. "It's it's a cookbook!"
Gyro shot her an offended look, and his eyes burned with an angry fire. "Not just any cookbook, you
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stupid woman!" He clutched the book to his heart. "This is the cookbook of the gods. You can't imagine
what I can whip up with this!"
Injera drew her knife. "You're mad!" she shouted. "I should . . . !"
Gyro ignored her and opened the book, thumbed through its first few pages, then stopped. The fire in his
eyes died suddenly as a powerful odor of dill and fennel and nutmeg rose from the pages. Too late, he
tried to slam the book shut, but a dark, wetly green hand thrust up from between the covers and clamped
with ferocious strength around his throat.
Horrified, Injera fell back on the sand and crawled away, unable to take her eyes from Gyro's face or
the too-familiar hand that choked the life from him. The sorcerer gurgled and gasped, and his eyes rolled
up inside his head, and then his tongue lolled. When he was finally dead, the hand released him and
withdrew into the book again.
The wind made an eerie sound as it rustled briefly through the pages.Spanakopita! Spanakopita!
Spanokopita!Then, of their own accord, the covers closed.
After a while, as the moon began its westward descent, Injera got to her feet. Regaining her courage,
she flung book and box as far into the sea as she could and sat for a long time thinking and staring at her
gold knife, and eventually she made a fire. She was still hungry. Immensely so. When she couldn't make
the whip work, she flung it after the book and box and sat down to think some more and to stare into her
fire, and slowly she smiled.
Gyro had promised her a good meal.
By dawn, he had delivered.
And as for his dun mare? It was truly done well done. Like Gyro.
Brunhilde's Bra
Laura J. Underwood
"Psst! Hey, lady . . ."
"Who are you calling a lady?" Gerda retorted to the seedy little man who slipped into her booth. He was
swaddled in several layers of cloak and robes, leading her to suspect that he was even smaller than his
lack of height indicated.
"Well, I don't dare call yousisterbecause I suspect you would smack the holy hog out of me," he said
cheerfully.
"What do you want?" She glared over the top of her tankard, hoping the stern look would hasten his
desire to leave. But he pushed back his hood, revealing a face that even a mother would cover. And
when he grinned, the effect was all the more bizarre.
"The name's Sigurd," he said. "I'm a man of the road, and I procure rare items which I sell . . . and when
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I came into the tavern and saw you sitting here, I said to myself, now there is a woman of warrior
proportions. . . ."
"Don't get cheeky!" Gerda said. "Or I'll add another smile under that phony one you're wearing." She put
a hand to the hilt of her sword. The seedy little man drew back mere inches.
"No offense, but I have an item for sale that I suspect a woman of your . . . profession would find
useful," he said.
"What?"
He reached into his cloak. Gerda heard a metallic clank. Then he drew out a moderate-sized parcel
wrapped in old burlap. Drawing back the edges, he revealed what looked like a pair of large metal
platters bound together with strips of leather.
"What in the name of the All Father is that?" Gerda asked.
"Brunhilde's Breastplate," Sigurd said.
"Looks more like Brunhilde's bra," she retorted.
"No, it's her breastplate. . . . You think I'd be stupid enough to consider selling a mere bra to a woman
with arms like yours?"
"What's wrong with my arms?" Gerda said.
"Nothing. They're good strong arms, more than capable of breaking my neck."
"Well, as long as you realize that," Gerda said sourly. "So where'd you get the . . . breastplates?"
"Off a Valkyrie," he said. Gerda started to open her mouth. "Oh, don't worry. She was sleeping in some
magic ring of fire and isn't likely to wake up for a while."
"And you just took her bra?" Gerda said. "What sort of little pervert are you?"
"I'm not a pervert," he protested. "And it was obvious that she didn't need it. And anyway, it was silly of
her to wear metal while sleeping in the middle of a magic fire. Think of the blisters. . . ."
Gerda frowned. "Let me get this straight," she said. "You crossed a magic ring of fire built by Odin
himself just to claim Brunhilde's bra. . . ."
"Breastplate," he corrected. "And no it wasn't easy. Burned my bum just leaping over it."
"You leapt over Odin's fire?" Gerda couldn't help but sound impressed.
"Pole-vaulted, actually learned it from the Romans. It's how they get on horses without any stirrups,
you know. A man of my stature has to grab every advantage he can, you know."
Gerda rolled her eyes. She had no doubt that there were other advantages he'd like to grab. "So you
vaulted over the magic fire, fondled the breasts of Odin's daughter while stealing her bra, and now you
want to sell it to me?"
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"Well, I didn't exactly fondle her breasts," Sigurd said, looking a little agitated by the accusation. "But
that is pretty much the gist of it all."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why should I buy a used metal bra that looks two cup sizes too big and will probably chafe like
everything?" Gerda said.
Sigurd leaned closer as though not wanting to share what he had to say with the whole room. "It's got
magic powers," he said. "But it only works for women."
"What sort of magic powers?" Gerda leaned over so she was practically nose-to-nose with him, then
drew back again when his breath assailed her. Smelled like he'd been sucking Brunhilde's socks.
"Picture yourself on the battlefield swinging your ax "
"Sword," Gerda corrected. "Can't abide an ax."
"Okay, sword," Sigurd said. "You're surrounded by the enemy, and they decide to rush you at once
because they figure you're a helpless woman. Only when they come at you, swinging their axes and war
hammers, they discover to their dismay that you are invincible!"
"Invincible?" Gerda repeated.
"Exactly!" Sigurd said. "The magic in this breastplate will make you impervious to ax, sword, slings and
arrows and anything else the enemy throws at you."
Gerda cocked her head. "Okay, how much?"
"What can you spare?"
She thought about it. All she had on her was two gold coins and a ruby she won in a poker game with a
troll. And the tavern bill wasn't paid. Still, if the breastplate did what he said it did, she wouldn't have to
worry about money any more. She would be the most invincible woman warrior in the land. That
reputation alone could earn her more gold than she had ever seen in her life. Mercenary wenches were all
the rage these days. Gerda needed an angle that would put her ahead of the other women, and this bra
might just do the trick. Slowly, she reached into her belt pouch and tossed the coins and the jewel on the
table. "That's everything I own, except for my sword and my horse, and you're not getting those."
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