Sword of the Barbarian: The Kuda Chronicles, #2

By John Thane

CLASSIC SWORD & SORCERY IS BACK

 

The stakes couldn't be higher. Human existence is under threat from a colossal evil. None will escape its long reach unless an ageing wizard can safeguard a nation's heirs until they come of age.

 

But the solitary mage is long past his prime. Old and feeble he faces almost certain death against rising odds. What he really needs is a champion; a flashing blade to fight by his side in the ultimate battle.

 

But noble heroes are hard to find. In his desperation the old wizard ensnares the first prospect he comes across; an untamed barbarian named KUDA.

 

No kind of hero Kuda finds himself unwittingly swept up into a sorcerous maelstrom of bat-winged demons and sky-buccaneers.

 

For better or for worse the future of humankind now rests on… THE SWORD OF THE BARBARIAN.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DCO Books
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9786164560499

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Thirteen thousand years ago, human civilization flourished across the face of the Earth, until a blazing asteroid plunged out of the firmament and struck with the force of several thousand nuclear bombs exploding simultaneously. This cataclysmic event triggered a sudden and shocking climate change, ushering in an ice age that swept the planet for over fifteen hundred years. In order to survive, humankind reverted to becoming hunter-gatherers, degenerating into savagery before beginning the upward climb toward civilization again.

The elder civilizations were lost to history, remembered only in myths and legends.

Until now …

ONE

The sky, heavy, oppressive, dark with the promise of more snow weighed down upon the land as though threatening to crush it out of existence. Only the snow-clad mountains, whose lofty pinnacles lost themselves in the lowering clouds seemed to prevent this happening. Upon the flanks of one of these titanic guardians an insignificant speck slowly made its way across a vast snowfield.

A cruel wind buffeted the rider, plucking at his furs as though trying to steal them. It shrieked at him, reproaching him for the temerity he showed in placing himself amongst such savage splendor. The winds rebukes went unnoticed by the horseman who, seeming not at all in awe of the massive peaks about him, sat hunched over in the saddle as though bearing a terrible weight. Looking neither right nor left he allowed his mount to choose its own meandering path across the white-blanketed slopes.

Covered entirely in greased furs and thick wrappings little could be seen of this careless rider. Only the eyes were visible, eyes bleaker and more remote than his surroundings. A bag containing a dwindling supply of provisions hung from his saddle among other items necessary for survival in these lands. A battle axe whose double edges though nicked in places were honed to a razor sharpness. A shield, its battered surface blank and dull and a small crossbow which could be fired one handed. Slung across his broad back wrapped in its own furs a long broadsword rested in a worn scabbard, its hilt jutting up behind his left shoulder. Head bowed, steam rising from its flanks, the horse plodded on through the deep snow ignoring the spiteful wind that hurled flurries of ice at the pair.

Shadows grew and merged together as an invisible sun gave up its uneven battle with the frozen land. It was only when a dark shape grew out of the twilight directly in the horse’s path that the rider blinked his eyes and for the first time that day focused them upon the world. Identifying the black mass ahead of him as a stand of fir trees he took charge of the reins which hung limply in his hands and directed his steed towards them. The sturdy boughs would afford a little protection against the persistent wind.

Piled high with resinous wood the campfire flared brightly, illuminating the clustering tree trunks and the intertwining branches that formed a roof high above. Warmth; the man craved it more than anything else at that moment. Standing almost in the fire itself he removed the furry cap and cloth wrappings from about his head. The heat surged towards him in waves, and he could feel it warming his face. A clean-shaven face of fierce strength, bronzed by cruel suns and harsh northern winds. A face that had once been handsome but now looked only brutal. Loss, suffering and the scars of war had given the man a visage that promised only pain and death. The flickering firelight played upon his care-worn features, accentuating every line. Lank long hair, black as midnight grew straight to his shoulders, some of it twisted into warrior braids which hung down at each temple.

Working quickly the man removed the rest of his damp furs and garments. Standing naked he rubbed life back into numb limbs, his skin luxuriating in the life-giving warmth. Raising his heavily muscled arms he stretched his body so that sinews cracked and muscles writhed and rippled beneath skin that swirled with blue tribal markings. He stood taller than most, broad at the shoulder and deep of chest, every muscle upon him strong and perfectly formed from necessity through adversity rather than vanity. Scars crisscrossed that brawny frame, particularly across chest and arms.

For a long time the man stood without moving, staring down into the dancing flames, his features a carved mask that somehow seemed to exude a deep sadness.

Then he moved. Stooping to the pile of logs he had cut earlier he heaved one up and threw it onto the fire. Bright sparks jumped up and were carried high into the air. The leaping firelight cast back the encroaching darkness. It was then, in the suddenly flaring light that he saw the other man’s face.

Within two strides the naked warrior had reached his gear and the broadsword hissed from its sheath like a living thing. Holding it level before him he advanced upon the intruder. The long blade glinted wickedly in the firelight yet the stranger did not move. It was only when the point of the blade was an inch from the interloper’s nose that its wielder realized why there was no movement. The man was dead. Lowering the broadsword the naked warrior squatted to thoroughly and dispassionately examine the cadaver.

It was not a man but a youth who slumped frozen to the base of a tree. The young features, beneath a layer of frost and ice were preserved in a rictus of agony and despair. Eyes wide and staring, nostrils flared, mouth open in a soundless scream. Gouts of blood spurting from a deep hole in the youth’s chest had iced over in mid flow. It was the sort of wound made by a spear or lance, thrust with a great deal of force. The weapon had probably pinned him to the tree before being pulled clear.

Still squatting, the shivering warrior reconstructed the young man’s death in his mind’s eye. Stopping here to camp for the night he must have dozed by his fire. Then a sudden rush from the darkness and he awakes in agony, impaled. But what was the reason for the attack? Robbery? The youth’s clothes were not rich and he probably did not even own a horse. Why was he even here? This far up in the mountains … in winter? Fleeing? From what? The warrior examined the features more closely. In life they had undoubtedly been handsome and care-free. Difficult to imagine someone like that incurring a wrath that would pursue him so far and slay him so mercilessly. Then he saw the birthmark, it was on the back of the left forearm. At the moment of death the boy had been reaching out, clawing at the earth. His outstretched arm had frozen like that, each finger on his grasping hand a curved talon. Reaching down he tried lifting the hand but it was stuck to the ground. Clearing away the snow he studied the mark, it looked like a dragon rearing. Leaning forward he took hold of a leather pouch that was attached to the corpse’s belt and tore it away. The contents weighed heavy in his hand. So … the motive was not robbery. The killing made no sense and only a madman kills for no reason. The big warrior raised himself up and shivered again, not entirely from the cold. His eyes searched the surrounding darkness as he moved back to his fire still clutching the pouch.

The sun rose reluctantly into a clear sky turning it a deep optimistic blue. Reveling in the unaccustomed freedom of a still morning the sunlight illuminated peak after jagged peak causing the snows upon them to shine and sparkle. From horizon to horizon brilliant white fangs bit into a clear blue sky.

One small hump of snow trembled, creating small avalanches that tumbled down its sides. The heap exploded to scatter snow and pelts in all directions. A man lay exposed in the center of the demolished pile, steam curling up from him into the tranquil air. Shaking his mane of coarse black hair he cracked his eyelids just enough to give the green eyes beneath a glimpse of the few high clouds that drifted in an otherwise cold, hard, blue emptiness. Then he coughed, spat and turned on his side to find himself looking straight into a pair of eyes that were blacker than midnight.

Without stirring, the man continued looking into the eyes which were only six inches away from his own. The black eyes, full of curiosity began looking the man up and down. Having finished their perusal the bulging orbs returned their gaze to the man’s face. The eyes belonged to a large green frog who showed no inclination to move.

If you are waiting for me to kiss you frog. Then you are going to be freezing your ass there for a very long time. The man muttered, his voice thick and heavy with sleep.

I would find nothing more unpleasant I can assure you, stated the frog in a crisp matter of fact voice.

The warrior sprang up as though he had been bitten. Eyes popping and wide awake he stared down at the frog which was looking up at him with a trace of amusement showing on its wide-mouthed face. He tried to speak but nothing came out instead he pointed an accusing finger, his mouth working feverishly.

I don’t believe it, a small amphibian like me startling a big brawny northerner like you. The frog remarked in a condescending voice.

Magicks! Spells! Dark stuff! The northman had found a few words. He made a sign with his hand; one used to ward off evil in the northlands.

The frog seemed unimpressed. There is a little of that involved, it admitted. Though it is all in a good cause.

The warrior looked unsure. The frog sighed deeply, its throat bellying out.

Look, it raised its voice impatiently. If I had meant you any harm I could have abused you while you slept. Now couldn’t I, eh?

The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck the big man. His pride had suffered; being startled by a frog and jumping about like a maiden hitching up her skirts. He glanced surreptitiously about the stand of fir trees checking for witnesses. There were none of course, there probably wasn’t a living soul within a hundred miles. Still … the incident angered him and giving the frog a seething look he stamped over to the remains of his campfire.

The fire matched his mood, it smoldered. So he kicked a few embers into life and after adding fresh fuel slumped down next to it. The frog decided to follow him and after a series of small hops came to rest on the opposite side of the small fire. Sensing the man’s anger it remained there without speaking. The pair stayed that way for some time before the man eventually broke the silence.

Well frog, if it’s conversation you are looking for then you have come to the wrong place. His tone was as frosty as the scenery.

The frog’s throat bulged, its webbed feet shuffled slightly then it spoke again. My name is Cirrantine. I am a sorcerer of great power …

You can call yourself what you like but you still look like a frog to me. Not a very intelligent one at that or you would be with your fellows sleeping the winter away at the bottom of a nice warm pond.

At this interruption the frog seemed to lose all patience, it flew at the man who swayed back despite himself.

You stupid overgrown buffoon! The amphibian raved, its bulbous eyes blazing. I am here at great personal risk! A spell of transferal is never easily accomplished especially into a frog’s body over such a distance and all you can do is make witless remarks. Hear me out!

Man and amphibian glared at each other. Have your say frog, the man rumbled, feeling slightly ridiculous.

I have need of your sword to help an innocent escape a terrible danger. The small creature announced. The same danger that poor wretch over there sought to escape from. The frog swiveled both its black eyes to regard the frozen mummy. There is a great evil working in the world. It went on. Insidious and indefatigable it will stop at nothing short of total domination of all free spirits. They needed that boy for one of their myriad schemes. The frog drew a deep, melancholy breath. But he tried to flee so they killed him. The amphibian’s eyes, full of sadness now, returned to the man. There is another they can use just as well and that person is the one who I want you to …

I have no time for riddles and mysteries. The man cut in. How much?

How much … what … you mean, the frog seemed non plussed.

Gold, jewels, precious ores and none of your local tin currency. I exercise my sword arm for the good of my stomach not for the good of my free spirit. It is bloody work no matter how much righteousness you try to smother it in.

For a startling moment the man thought that the frog-sorcerer was going to leap at him again. Its eyes grew large, even for a frog’s and its throat pulsed at an angry rate.

Renumeration, it hissed, in a voice strained with disbelief.

I have learned my lessons well frog. Life is hard. No one can be trusted, not even those joined to you by blood. The only truth in life is the edge of my blade. It cuts through all lies.

You want payment for something in which you are already inexorably entwined?

Now just hold on there, I’m not … The warrior began to protest.

You are involved, the frog croaked adamantly. I have consulted the stars and cast the bones and you are undoubtedly there. I even have your name.

Setting his jaw the man leaned forward, his green eyes impaling the frog who shrank away from their icy gaze. Tread carefully, frog, he said, his voice rasping like a whetstone running down a blade.

Kuda. The frog intoned gravely.

The man stood up and without another word crossed to where his gear lay. Stooping, he hefted everything up into his arms before moving across to his tethered horse.

The frog hopped after him as best it could raising its voice. Your past has nothing to do with me. I know not all of it anyway. Only the future concerns me … a future which largely depends upon the safety of one person.

It took two minutes for Kuda to break camp. During the entire two minutes the frog did not pause for breath. It used all its wiles and arguments, offered the man more gold than he could imagine, yet nothing worked. Kuda swung into the saddle and rode from the camp without looking back, leaving the frog sprawled exhausted in the snow.

Breathing hard the frog raised itself to watch him depart. You cannot outrun who you are Kuda, it croaked in a hoarse whisper. Oh, you are the one and no mistake. You believe yourself master of your own fate do you … you bullheaded oaf! Life is much more complex than that I am sorry to say. Shifting around, the frog’s bulging eyes ranged over the landscape. Now … enough of this hopping, where did I leave that pond? With that, Cirrantine the great sorcerer hopped away from the copse in the opposite direction to that taken by Kuda the barbarian.

†

Thousands of leagues to the south lay an endless swamp. A vast mire stretching for many many leagues, infested by all the very worst of nature’s creations. Few men strayed there, fewer still knew of the secret ways which led through the lonely wetlands. To enter those labyrinthine marshes armed with an intimate knowledge of the pathways would be foolhardy and dangerous, to enter with no such knowledge would be suicidal.

Deep within this unhealthy dampness the lonely shape of a solitary stone tower sagged dejectedly. The crooked tower was a very old structure, built long ago by an unremembered people. Those people had been splendid artisans and they had built the watchtower strong and well. Back in the day the structure had stood proud and erect, but that had been a very long time ago. Now ancient and neglected, the edifice had relaxed its stance. Stooped, bent, crumbling and broken it waged a doomed battle against time and gravity.

Within this faded monument a short, round-bellied man wearing a much stained tunic over a coarse shirt waddled hurriedly along a dusty passage. Humming a tune to himself he looked down into the large dish which he cradled snugly in the crook of one arm. The deep dish was filled to the brim with angry buzzing flies. The sight of the insects made him feel very pleased with himself. It had taken a long time to gather so many and then to pull off their wings. His master would be very happy. He had not eaten for a long time and there were some exceptionally fat bluebottles in the mix. He licked his fat lips. There had been some fatter ones but he had not been able to resist those himself.

The little man stopped before a thick iron-banded door. Very carefully he put the dish down in order to draw the doors heavy iron bolt. Using both hands and all his considerable weight he pulled back the rusting bolt and creaked open the heavy portal. Then, with some difficulty, he bent and retrieved the dish recapturing a couple of errant flies as he did so.

Master, master where are you? His was a high-pitched voice and he used an enticing tone. I have something very special for you. The spherical man announced as he passed through the doorway.

The room beyond was carpeted entirely with stinking black mud and dead grasses. Stepping carefully across the threshold he recalled with joy how he had labored to make his master more comfortable.

Master look here. Look what I have for you. Standing quite still he waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkened chamber. A loud croak issued from a shadowy corner. Notching his smile an extra couple of inches wider the man hurriedly crossed the malodorous room in the direction of the grating noise.

His master squatted in the shadows. An old man; his face lined with his years, his tall gaunt body bent into a ridiculous posture, his white hair and beard matted with mud. The robes which draped his thin frame, once rich and gaudily covered in mystic symbols were now ripped and entirely covered in foul smelling slime. The old man peered at the approaching figure with trepidation in his huge popping eyes.

A treat, I have a treat. His voice syrupy the short man edged closer to his master who tried to shrink backwards into the corner. With a flourish he produced a wooden spoon from the folds of his coarse garments.

Now you just sit still master in all your lovely mud and Minch will feed you. Minch scooped up a spoonful of reluctant flies and offered them up to his master’s mouth. The old man looked down his muddied beak of a nose at the buzzing meal. Then, without warning, his long red tongue flickered out and back again taking a few flies with it.

Very good master, very good but Minch will feed you, it will be quicker. Without hesitation he rammed the spoonful into the old man’s mouth. His master’s large eyes showed surprise and then relish as his jaws masticated the lively food.

Good … very good, Minch shrilled with glee as he scooped up another spoonful.

It was as Minch held up the fourth spoonful that a change seemed to come over his master. The boggling eyes sank back into his head, his jaws slowly stopped their chewing and his creaking limbs rearranged themselves from a squatting to a sitting position. The old man opened his mouth to moan and Minch took his cue. He thrust another laden spoon into the open mouth. The master gagged and coughed scattering wet flies onto the muddy floor.

You incompetent fool, the old man gasped. Cirrantine the sorcerer had returned to his body. You mindless buffoon, he went on, spitting live flies at his cringing servant. I ordered you to lock me in this chamber and not to let me out until I called you to do so. Not to cover me in filth and try to poison me.

I was only trying to … stammered Minch.

I know what you were trying to do fool! You were trying to think for yourself. How many times have I told you. It’s not worth the effort. When Minch began counting on his fingers Cirrantine slapped them angrily away. More times than you can count up to on your fingers and toes. The wizard began struggling to his feet, pushing away Minch’s helping hands as he did so. Get away, get away from me! Where is my hat?

Minch scurried off to begin searching the muck filled chamber while his master leaned against a wall rubbing life back into numbed limbs.

Never again. Never a frog again. An animal next time, a panther perhaps then I may return to find I’ve eaten the fat clown. What … Minch had returned bearing a muddy misshapen object. My best hat, the wizard moaned. He made an angry dismissive gesture. Throw it away, I have another somewhere. Now get out from under my feet I have work to do. Flapping his hands he made his way rather unsteadily across the room heading for the door. And get this chamber swilled out, he threw back over his shoulder.

Minch stared forlornly after him for a long moment then he shrugged his dumpy shoulders and placing the mud encrusted hat upon his head went over to the dish of flies and began helping himself.

†

A few days later a mud free Cirrantine swept into his inner sanctum. Even stooped by age as he was, he was a tall man with his long silvery hair brushed back to reveal a high forehead. His eyes, perched above a long, distinguished nose were as vibrant and alive as ever as they scanned the room.

Dominated by a central column and vaulted roof of grey brick the sanctum took up the entire top level of the tower and though it was by far the largest chamber in the structure it managed to look both cramped and claustrophobic. The reason for this being that Cirrantine threw nothing away and as a result the circular room was stacked from floor to roof with magical and scientific paraphernalia. The ancient mage had a voracious appetite for knowledge; always reading or investigating, collecting specimens, testing out theories and disproving old ones. The flotsam and jetsam of a lifetime spent studying science and sorcery filled the chamber in high and precarious heaps. Shelves about the circular walls groaned under the weight of rolled maps, moldering books and curios. Tables were laden with beakers, flasks, tripods, and small braziers with their fires extinguished to cold ash. Jars of liquid held distorted things that might once have been living creatures.

For a few moments the old sorcerer stood quite still in the center of the room surrounded by his piles of junk-like possessions. His features became a picture of concentration as his fingers tugged thoughtfully at his long beard. Then, quite suddenly, he sprang into action. Moving quickly and decisively he shunted aside a pile of dust-laden tomes and discarding a model flying machine reached one long arm into a shadowy recess. His hand clutched at something unseen. He struggled for a moment then with a triumphant grunt withdrew an object. In his long-fingered hand he held a creamy colored sphere about the size of a grapefruit which he carefully carried over to a nearby table. Placing the sphere upon the table the wizard bent and closely studied its opaque surface. He did not notice Minch skulking quietly into the room behind him.

Standing back from the table his eyes never leaving the sphere Cirrantine rolled back his voluminous sleeves; it was no more than a gesture as his sinewy forearms were exposed for only a second before the sleeves rolled back over them. With a practiced flourish he thrust his arms and hands out before him and pointed his thin fingers towards the unassuming sphere. Throwing back his head so that the long white hair fringing his face bounced he cried out a hearty invocation in a loud voice that did not seem to match his spindly frame. The strange words filled the sanctum for only a few seconds before he once again stooped to scrutinize the pearly ball, the point of his nose hovering an inch above its surface. The sphere remained indifferent.

Straightening slowly Cirrantine turned away from the table. For a few minutes he stood quite still, head bowed in thought. The seeing pearl was a temperamental magical device at the best of times and he had been rather abusing it of late. Perhaps a different approach. Robe twirling Cirrantine spun about with arms raised high. Sleeves rushing down to expose thin arms he fixed the ball with a knowing gaze.

Ator yiil shabant plythangorr, he shouted exultantly, fingers wriggling for effect.

Nothing happened. For a few seconds Cirrantine held the triumphant pose, his features darkening. Recognizing the signs Minch retreated to burrow deep into a nest of parchments. The wizard sprang forward and dealt the sphere a ringing blow. Then he turned aside rubbing his bruised knuckles and cursing bitterly. Harsh words died on his lips when he noticed his shadow beginning to spread and thicken across the dusty stone flagged floor. Turning his head very slowly he cocked one wary eye over his shoulder.

The sphere had begun to glow, emitting a soft pearly light which was filling the sanctum. Very carefully the wizard inched back around to the table. Crooning quietly he reached out one hand to stroke the ball’s now glittering surface before stooping forward to stare deeply into the blazing sphere. With the light illuminating the crevices of his face he saw in the depths of the ball a grey fog that swirled and boiled. Infinitely slowly the fog parted … grey veils rolling aside to reveal something. Before his eyes a picture was beginning to form. With perfect clarity Cirrantine found himself gazing down upon a well trodden road winding through a leafless wood. A steady drizzle was falling upon the scene. As he watched a rider came into view his mount squelching its way along the rutted path. Cirrantine shifted closer, his snowy brows knotting together in fierce concentration trying to get a clearer look at the figure hunched in the saddle. His vulture like shadow loomed large upon the wall behind him. The fog began to roll back, obscuring the image but just before it was completely masked the rider’s features could be discerned; Kuda the barbarian.

As the pearly light began to fade Cirrantine tore his intent gaze away from the sphere with a startled exclamation. A huge grin transformed his scholarly features as he creaked back into a standing position.

Minch bounced up with a similar grin pasted to his face. Master is pleased with what he sees in the smoke ball.

I am very pleased, Cirrantine answered. Kuda does my bidding. The old mage gave his servant a lofty, patient look before continuing. Though he does not know it. He yet believes himself to be master of his own fate. To him life is simple. We know however … the wizard tapped the side of his nose with a cautioning finger. That life is anything but simple. He is a pawn in a much larger game.

Minch nodded gravely in an effort to ingratiate himself with his master. Cirrantine’s lined face creased into a warm smile sending more wrinkles bunching around the corners of his mouth and eyes. Absently, he patted his servant’s ball of a head as if he were soothing a dog. Minch wriggled with pleasure though the wizards smile wavered a little when his palm felt the tickle of tiny creatures going about their business in the small man’s sparse hair. He turned away to pace swiftly across the sanctum, wiping his palm vigorously upon his robe as he did so. When he came to a large overstuffed armchair he sank into it.

Our lives are set out for us, he resumed speaking in a portentous tone. Great forces conspire to plot our petty existences.

With his pudding face set into grave lines Minch fussed about his master. Positioning a footstool before the chair he knelt and placed both the wizard’s feet upon it. Cirrantine sighed heavily sinking further back into the chair which creakily supported his weight.

Kuda is no exception. Even now he takes the very path which I would have dictated had he listened instead of flying into a rage when he realized I knew something of his past. Something of what had driven him into the cold, cruel heart of the mountains. A past he is desperately seeking to escape from. But that is something which none of us can do. Redemption will come hard for him, if at all. The old sorcerer wagged a finger for emphasis. Minch dutifully nodded.

Not even a great sorcerer like myself can change what has gone before. Leaning his head back the old man stared unseeingly at the high vaulted ceiling. Do you know Minch, his voice became sleepy. I may be the very last sorcerer to remain at liberty? Still free from the foulness which is spreading across the world. I remember a time when there were so many of us. Practitioners of the arcane arts all keen and eager to help one another. Uninhibitedly exchanging ideas and visions. He heaved a great sigh, as if expelling something from deep in his lungs. When he spoke again it was with a deep resignation. I’ve tried contacting other wizards, but … nothing.

You still have me master. Minch spoke up in a creeping voice.

Ah yes. The wizard’s eyes were closing now. Good faithful Minch. The eyelids closed and the old man’s breathing became heavy and regular.

Minch tiptoed from the sanctum closing the door silently behind him. Once outside the benign smile dropped from his features to be replaced by a hideous scowl. White with indignation he brushed the top of his head with one podgy hand as though removing some irritation. Then he jumped up and down on the spot his balled fists beating the air in front of him in a frenzy of silent anger. Muttering beneath his breath he stamped off down the dark passageway wondering for how much longer he would have to play the fool.

TWO

An optimistic early spring sun touched the snowfields atop the craggy peaks of the Hind Mountains with a blushing pink, and the morning shadows in the deep valleys above the village were a misty blue when Kuda the barbarian rode slowly down the center of its shabby main street. He seemed to be staring straight ahead. Yet he missed nothing, his hooded eyes taking in every detail of the tiny squalid village. The tired wattle and daub buildings slumping against each other for support. The large stones set upon their sagging turf roofs to prevent heavy build ups of snow during the harsh winter months. The pigs snuffling in the muddy street, and the hens picking fastidiously through meagre vegetable patches. His nose twitched as he inhaled the blue wood smoke drifting down into the street from a dozen chimneys and the welcome aroma of a breakfast cooking. A few villagers stopped to stare at him, nothing registering upon their blank peasant faces. They all seemed to possess the same sullen posture that bore witness to their miserable existence. Most ignored him though, going about their tasks, stocky bodies wrapped in sexless layers of homespun rags.

Kuda tugged on a rein and his horse changed direction sloshing through the mud and rubbish towards a weathered sign. When he drew close enough a faded picture could be discerned upon the boards; a spotted pig drinking a tankard of ale. Saddle and leather harness creaking, he dismounted.

A spotty youth appeared from nowhere. Take care of your horse mister? Rub him down … nice barn for the night.

Kuda’s huge scarred fist shot out to grab the stable boy’s grimy jerkin. The youth felt himself being lifted off his feet, his boots making a plopping sound as they were dragged clear of the sucking mire. The northerner drew the boy up until their noses almost touched.

When I set off to cross the mountains, he spoke softly. I had three horses with me. I had to eat two of them just to get across those peaks. So a runt like you would be nothing more than a light snack for me. He lowered the youth slowly back down into his footprints. I want you to remember that when you are seeing to my horse and gear. Return them here a quarter candles length after dawn tomorrow and you will be well rewarded.

Stretching his large frame Kuda handed his reins to the boy before turning away to enter the inn.

The pale faced stable boy took the horses rein and led it off. Smoothing down his jerkin he decided that this was