Author William Jay Taylor
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The Wraith of Sethi
Chapter 1
His journey began before dawn; early fall, it was cold, dusk turning to dawn, sky grey as slate, draping low over the hill tops. The trees having lost their leaves, a few, desperate, still clinging to their branches, dark silhouettes against the sky; those lost to the ground, rotting, in dark, brownish layers; slippery wet, smelling of sweet, musty decay; the forest, cold, gray monotony.
Several days prior, he and his father received an unusual request from the sheriff of a village to the south, Nagomas; Silas was selected to go, negotiate a contract, and obtain an advance.
The weather, cool and sunny the last weeks; but this day promised change. A foggy mist blowing over the mesa; cool and wet against his face, snaking through the forest, drenching branches and bushes; his coat damp, face and hands wet and cold. The moisture dripping to the ground, from everything it touched, the earth a soggy sponge beneath his feet, dead leaves squishing into the mud, oozing up around the soles of his boots, making them heavy, clumsy, and slippery. The damp, chill, wind, working its way through layers of clothing; touching his flesh with its icy tongue, muscles shivering, joints aching; he was miserable.
After learning to read, write and do numbers, Silas apprenticed to his father and uncle, master sword smiths; his father, determined to teach him the rigors of the trade. He was the youngest smith in the kingdom, but still to prove his skill to the world.
The droplets began to coalesce into rain, driven by the wind, stinging his face, like shards of ice; he could not be more miserable. Spirit sinking, the thought of turning back, an admission of defeat, he refused to make; he would push on, the drudgery mind numbing.
Odd, the sheriff asked for an unusual number of swords, as if forming an army. Rebelling? But why – It made no sense.
Rain turning to ice, fine particles, cutting further into his flesh , gathering on his clothes, rattling against the leaves, on the ground, against the branches, a cold sizzle, barely audible. By mid morning, leaning into the increasing wind, flakes of snow mixing in, strong gusts, air much colder, his clothes weighed with ice, the ground crusty, footing precarious, every move punishingly slow.
Mid-day came and went, though unable to know for sure when, his senses blinded by dense, blowing snow, filling the air for some time now; the chill wind biting viciously at his cheeks, and icy crystals clogging his nose with every breath. Snow clinging to branches, already wet with ice, piling high; the heavy burden bending the branches low; everything a blur, the forest was closing in about him.
The trail, descending down off the mesa; snow blanketing the icy crust underneath, greasy, slick – devilishly treacherous; a slip of the foot, falling, tumbling downward; righting himself, with great effort; each tumble sapping precious energy.
After what seemed hours, struggling, slipping, sliding downhill, he reached level ground on the valley floor; but it offered little relief, snow now piling deep, drifting haphazardly, the trail impossible to follow.
A thick stand of evergreen trees provided a break from the wind, a slight respite from the raging storm. Six large trees, growing close together, their huge bows overlapped, close to the ground, forming a cavity filled with dead needles. Pushing the snow aside, he crawled under the branches, removing his frozen outer coat, using it to cover the opening he’d made crawling in, then burrowing deep into the dry needles. Sheltering from the harsh wind, dry and insulated from the cold, it was cozy; he ate bread from his pack, and fell asleep.
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