James R. Andersen

  Conan is young, in his early thirties, and fighting to make a name for himself among the kingdoms of the Western Sea. He has found himself wandering Koth after brief stints with different mercenary bands. He slew his last captain for withholding pay and absconded with the meager gold they had looted. Now nearly penniless, having spent most of the gold on ale, he hears rumors of someone offering lucrative pay for mysterious work in an isolated town. Necessity brings him to the foothills of the Flaming Mountains… A moonless night. The autumn air bit like a knife. Conan’s breath shrouded his head with every exhale. He was alone in the streets except for a few practitioners of the night-trades on the way to ply their craft. They gave Conan a wide berth as they skulked past. Conan pulled his cloak closer about him and strode forward down the star-lit street, a thin mist clinging to the earth.  “Why would they insist on meeting at night?” He scowled at the thought, glancing about ...

  The cold mire of the street did little to sober the man hurled into it.  “And don’t come back!” Someone shouted, they sounded muffled and far away.  Rising out of the sucking mud, the man staggered to his feet. Swaying from side to side and wiping his face, he turned toward the door to offer some rebuke, but was met with the bundle of his effects striking him in the chest. “Damned mercenaries,” came with the slamming of the door.  The man, Jean D’Vigny, was indeed a mercenary. As were many at the close of the 16th century, with Europe torn apart by religious and secular wars. He likewise felt damned, penniless as he was after a failed campaign, reduced to labor, hungover, and soaked in caking mud, unable to afford even a room for himself.   “In better days we would have burned that place to the ground and taken all the wine for ourselves with that swine groveling at our feet!” He thought as he spat with indignation. Picking up his things and shaking out t...