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Chapter One
The town of Dorlin shimmered white in the desert sunlight: white-washed mansions, colonnades interspersed with palm trees, fountains playing in courts, rivulets feeding cool arbours. Gram the Barbarian and Sandra the exiled Warrior Queen reined in their horses and looked down upon Dorlin from the hill just above.

"The first town in the Republic of Gorst," said Gram, "after you pass through the desert. I have a powerful thirst."

"I also," said Sandra, wiping the sweat from her high forehead and swinging her long sand-dried auburn pigtail back over her shoulder. "Should we be wary when we go down to this rich-looking little town? What know you of this land?"

"I know little, save that it is ruled by Mocatu the Tyrant. What manner of man he may be, I know not."

"The clue may lie in his name," replied Sandra tartly.

Gram turned to look at her with a glint in his eye. "Were you perhaps exiled from your kingdom for excessive sarcasm, my lady?"

"No indeed! I was exiled for always being right. Last one into Dorlin buys the beer!" And she urged her horse down the slope. Gram watched her bottom in tight leather trews bouncing in the saddle for an appreciative moment before chuckling and pounding after her.

---oOo---
They made a striking couple riding into town. Gram sat high upon his white stallion Skyrmir. Unlike many professional barbarians, who look more like bodybuilders, he combined knotted muscularity with a lean grace and an intense, single-pointed physicality. His long blond hair, matted in locks and barely restrained by a head-band, cascaded over his shoulders and down his powerful back. He wore a white cloak to keep out the sun over a chimera skin loincloth and high brown soft leather boots. Slung over his back was his broadsword, Blood-drinker. A two handed sword was attached to Skyrmir's harness on one side, while a mace and a bow and arrows hung on the other.

Sandra rode a bay mare, Lucy. Her stately bearing and tall poise belied both her mischievous nature and the intensity of her battle lust. Green eyes glittered with amusement and wonder as they surveyed the cruel world around her. Her royal nostrils were held high above the common stink, though when need arose she could wallow with the best. Beneath her shimmering cloak she wore ample breastplates of gold, and the aforementioned knee-length skin tight trews on legs like muscular scissors. She glistened with sweat from the desert crossing, for which skin tight leather was probably not the best outfit. However, she was not given to compromise, as the matching broadsword, Skullsplitter, over her back demonstrated. From her pommel hung a bolas, a net, and a double headed Argelian death stick.

They rode steadily through the town, ignoring stares and comments from the plump prosperous townsfolk, until they came to a bar with its striped awning and clustered vine leaves to keep out the sun.