Hundar

Saga

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  • Slew Theobald the Dimwitted, a Frankish chief.
  • Made love to twelve women in a single day, but only because he couldn't find twenty.
  • Destroyed the cult of Kadash, more or less by accident, when the high priest Jisath brought down his own temple through the use of unchecked sorcery. Later, Jisath caught up with our hero and was killed in a freak sword-through-neck accident.
  • Led a mercenary company to sack the city of Zahari because, well, there wasn't much to do that day.
  • Defeated the viking champion Ragnar Longmast in an arm-wrestling competition.
  • Deposed the tyrannical Sultan of Nankris, rescuing his fair daughter (against her will).
  • Survived against the giant Abnu-Khan. Not exactly a victory, but Hundar argues that he didn't die, so it counts.
  • Thwarted a Drow incursion in the outskirts of Skuldhellir.
  • Maintains that he bested Skallagrim in a wrestling match, though many doubt the veracity of this claim.
  • Participated in bloodsport in the Golden Tether arena, mostly alongside Ulfrik, heaping fame and glory upon his name.
  • Slew a monstrous dragon (fyrdraca) and made a coin purse out of its testicles. Hundar may have been assisted in this feat, though he's vague about the details.

  
  

• Legends

  • Campfire Tales

    What is history but a labor? And do not all works—from the jewelry we wear to the houses in which we dwell—reflect the heart of their author? When bygone events are related on a page, they emerge like a mulled wine, artfully spiced to suit specific tastes. A patriot may skew the size of an army to make his comrades seem heroic, just as a monk may blame dark events on the will of a sinful king. I make no claims on truth; I simply write what I have seen.
    
    My name is Andross Basileos, and for many years I was an olive trader. It was honest work, left to me by my father, but I had always longed for adventure. I would imagine my olive cart as a chariot, and my doughty oxen as magnificent war-steeds; my lash became a thunderbolt, and the ruins I passed were transformed into Minoan labyrinths. This was all idle fantasy, and I never thought my life would be suddenly turned inside out—that is, until the day I met Hundar.
    
    He stood a head above any man I had ever met, and his fair hair and skin marked him as a northerner, perhaps a Gaul; I later learned that he was from Saxony, a place in far Germania. It is enough to say that when I met this Saxon walking the Alexandrine road he was in a bad way, having lost his horse and his money, but he spun an interesting tale. Though he was a pagan, I was bound by Christian charity to help him, and so I offered to give him a ride to the city. The rest, as they say, is history.
    
    I could tell you the story of Hundar in ancient Kadash; I could tell you of the fall of Zahari, or of Nankris on the Nile. But those stories are old, and every child from here to Frankia has heard their telling. This is a new story, and it is about when Hundar chose the wrong side of a battle. He often plied his sword for gold, and rarely without profit—this time, however, it cost him his freedom. He passed into the possession of the slaver Khaled al'Muqtar. By an oddity of circumstance, the galley on which Hundar was pulling oars was bound for the slave port of Guildereim—and it was not the Saxon's first visit to that place. During Muqtar's absence, Hundar was purchased and subsequently freed by his old friend Leofrik, a Danish warrior and brother to Ulfrik the Scourge. That is where the story truly begins. I could tell you the rest; I am his chronicler, after all, but telling tales is thirsty work. Buy me a cup of wine, and you may just loosen my tongue.
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  THE village where Hundar was born was a small, sleepy place; the men went raiding from time to time, but mostly they focused on raising cattle and crops to see them through the harsh winters. The Saxons were not the most civilized of peoples: an average night might be a drunken feast in the mead-hall, where men would invariably quarrel for one reason or another (sometimes over a woman, but more often over a cow) and fight, much to the roaring approval of their fellows. They were gifted artisans, however, and great storytellers—thus, Hundar grew up listening to the ancient sagas, full of heroism and glory.
  
  While still very young, perhaps no more than twelve winters, Hundar was already a large and ferocious boy. The men in the village took notice, not least of all their lord, Ulfwine Kegdrinker. He paid a handsome weregild to Osfric, Hundar's father, and the boy was fostered henceforth in Ulfwine's hall. He began as a cupbearer and page, and once old enough, he was named a huskarl: Ulfwine's household guards, composed of the best warriors in the village who fought at their lord's side.
  
  Most of the actual fighting was against other Saxons, but occasionally they also fought with Frisians, Angles, Jutes and Danes. Though they all shared a similar culture, it happened to be an extremely violent one, and when there were no Franks to kill, they killed each other. It was in one of these disputes that Ulfwine perished; the villagers maintain that he fell to the blades of sixteen foemen, but in truth he was kicked in the head by his own horse. Finding himself dispossessed of a lord (Ulfwine's son Ulfgar was jealous of Hundar's beautiful hair and wanted nothing to do with him), the barbarian bid farewell to his mother and father and set off in search of glory.
  
  Over a period of ten years he traveled extensively, moving from one place to the next and selling his sword to the highest bidder. He built a reputation as a mercenary, warring abroad and having many adventures. In the east he deposed a sultan, destroyed the cult of Kadash and briefly led his own mercenary company. His wanderlust took him far and wide, and eventually he met a party of Danes and joined up with them for some easy plunder. Shortly after their first raid, Hundar bested their champion in an arm-wrestling contest and mocked them all incessantly thereafter, asking where their husbands were and when he'd get to meet the actual warriors. The Danes put up with him for about a week before abandoning the Saxon at the nearest port; from there, his legend only grew.
  
  
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