Jack followed the three men down a side street to a dilapidated storehouse at the edge of town. His senses on high alert, he glanced around for telltale signs of an ambush – footprints leading to a darkened alley, snow disturbed from a rooftop, a building that could conceal a surprise attack. But if there were enemies around, they were well hidden.

The sour-faced man pushed open a rickety door and entered first. Jack paused at the threshold, trying to assess the danger within. But it was pitch-black inside and all he detected was the stench of rotting straw.

‘My apologies,’ said the old man, ushering him meekly in. ‘But this is the only lodging we can afford.’

A stub of a candle flickered into life, its weak flame illuminating a spartan room with a hard-packed earthen floor and a rough wooden deck for sleeping.

The young man closed the door behind them as Jack was invited by the leader to be seated upon the raised platform. Unshouldering his pack, Jack removed his swords and placed them, close at hand, by his side. The three men knelt before him on the dirt floor.

‘My name is Toge,’ said the leader, bowing his head. ‘We’re farmers from Tamagashi village. This here is Sora –’ the old man bowed – ‘and the boy is Kunio.’

Offering a gap-toothed grin, Kunio prostrated himself before Jack. Peering from beneath the brim of his hat, Jack now saw Kunio wasn’t much older than he was. Sixteen or seventeen, at most.

Jack nodded his head in acknowledgement, deciding not to reveal his own name. Until he knew these people’s intentions, he had to be cautious, but he didn’t wish to lie to them either. An awkward silence fell and the three farmers began to fidget uncomfortably as their anxiety grew at this mysterious samurai.

‘Your rice is just coming,’ said Sora quickly, gesturing towards the far corner of the storehouse.

Only then did Jack notice a fourth person in the room; his fatigue had clearly impaired his warrior awareness. He reached for his wakizashi, then, on closer inspection, checked himself. Hidden in the shadows, a girl crouched over the dying embers of a small fire. Scooping out a portion of rice from a battered pot, she scurried over to Jack and presented him with the bowl.

Little more than a waif in a tattered kimono, the fourteen-year-old girl had a tangled bob of black hair and a round pale face that appeared pretty beneath the many layers of grime. As she looked to Jack, he noticed her cat-like eyes constantly flitting between him and the farmers, revealing a lively spirit behind her unkempt condition.

Toge batted his hand impatiently at the girl and she returned to the pot. Working silently, she served out three more bowls of rice and handed these to the farmers.

‘Please enjoy,’ said Toge through tight unsmiling lips.