Lords of the Danube: Story Thread

[phonicsmonkey]

Sunlight danced on the rippling surface of the great lake as he guided the magnificent horse along its banks, its thick black mane bunched in his fists, his bare heels firmly pressed against its hot flanks, feeling the immense and powerful muscles pulse and surge as they galloped together in the orange light of the morning.

As they reached the crest of a bank they wheeled around and set off at an impossible gallop into the broad, flat, neverending steppe, aiming at the rising sun which cast its golden light upon the myriad seed heads of the waist-high grass through which they rode.

It seemed they would run together forever without tiring, horse and rider combined in a single spirit of flight, their hot breath merging, utterly at one with their steppe home and as they flew across the plain they seemed to converge and transmute into the form of an arrow in flight - irresistable, unstoppable and almighty.

Junior King Bokeny awoke with a start on the freezing cold flagstones of his chamber, his drool pooled before him on the dark granite and his vision blurred. Rising from the floor he experienced a blinding pain in his injured hip and he cursed loudly and without restraint, startling the chamber wench and sending her fleeing from the room with a giggle.

Damn that saddlebacked pony and its fear of snakes, the potbellied nag had thrown him into a bramble and set off at a trot across a pitted field, breaking its leg in the process and leaving him without a mount. No wonder he was dreaming about horses...

He relieved himself into the chamber pot and then staggered with it to the window. The cold grey light barely pierced the leaden clouds overhead and as he opened the pane he felt a bitter chill from the air. Down the slope and laid out before him was the city of Zagreb, his home for the past decade and the seat of his County. It was a grim outlook, the few stone buildings huddled together around a dung-piled central square, surrounded by near-slums in which the populace struggled to eke out a meagre existence.

By God he hated this place. Curse his father for sending him here and curse the Venetians who held the only part of Croatia worth having, the beautiful Dalmation coast. Why could he not be Count of Dubrovnic instead, that pearl of a city on the glittering bay with all the fruits of the sea to dine on and a view almost to Italy on a clear day?

He cleared his throat and spat into the chamber pot. Looking directly down into the courtyard he saw an old peasant lady gathering straw in a bundle. Waiting for her to pass beneath him he emptied the chamber pot upon her head and with a grim satisfaction closed the window and retired to his chamber.