The last of winter’s snow had fallen on the mountain city of Brúnn. Its gentle powder wrapped a soft blanket over rooftops and cobbled streets, and for five long months it isolated the city amongst the mountains. Once the pass through the Hardingr and Haeringr ranges had filled with snow, all passage through Brúnn stopped. The spring trades were still a month away, and the only signs of life were smoke trails, wafting from grey chimney peaks high into the air. It was bitterly cold, the mountain winds sinking sharp teeth through the fur coats of two sentry guards aloft in their watchtower.

“Go and stoke that fire, boy. There won’t be much point in us keeping watch if we freeze to death up here.”

Bakke blew what warm air was in his lungs deep into his fur mittens, then stomped his boots to get the blood flowing through his body. As he tucked his hands under his armpits, he turned to see if his junior had carried out the order. He was disappointed to say the least.

“Get off your lazy arse, Poulle, or I’ll burn you,” he shouted, seeing the young boy quivering in a sheltered corner. “You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on the road, not sitting there doe-eyed thinking of the poor sow who’s waiting for you in a warm bed somewhere!”

He barked a laugh, the expelled air a white puff beyond his frozen beard.

The young boy rose to his feet, too numb to be angry at the old man.

He’s just bitter, thought Poulle. This is all he has to look forward to, berating me in the cold. He threw some heavier wood into a fire pit, lit in the middle of the stone tower. Poulle wished there was someone waiting for him in a warm bed, but none of the girls of Brúnn took any notice of him. He had already earned a reputation of being one to avoid, resorting to liaisons with any of the traders’ daughters that were bored and found a guard’s uniform an adventurous attraction.