Hardcastle, Master of Logie, came swinging up the last of the stiff miles that climbed from Norbrigg market-town to the high uplands. October’s mists had lain heavy on the lowlands, but here on the tops he strode into sunlight and clean, nipping air. Grim and lean, toughened by many sorts of weather, Hardcastle paused to get breath again, and looked out across the lonely acres that stretched to the four quarters of a blue and amber sky. Ahead of him, bordering the roadway, he saw the straggling clumps of houses known as Weathersett. A brave, storm-battered village, keeping watch above the mines that once fed its people, it wore a comrade’s look to Hardcastle. So did the barren pastures, roa…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.