The Pale Path
The mud of the King’s Highway did not merely soak the boots of Sir Thomas Ashworth; it consumed them, a cold, grey slurry that seemed to possess a will of its own, dragging at his legs with the sluggish persistence of a dying man. He had been walking for three days, since the morning the order came down from the capital, an order that tasted like ash in the back of his throat. They said he had...
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