The Distant Joke
The mud of the King’s Road was a thick, sucking thing in the autumn of 1347, pulling at the wheels of the cart and at the boots of Captain Elias Thorne as he walked beside it, his shoulder heavy with the weight of a wooden crate that smelled of dried sage and bitter root. He was forty years old, a border warden for the last twelve, and his name was currently a stain on the Duke’s ledger,...
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