suddenly, following the rock and searching for more movement.
“Go!” Roland whispered and pulled Griffith to his feet. He held the young sorcerer close to him and low to the ground, forcing him to run as fast he could. He kept one eye ahead and one eye on the light, expecting Pentdragon's men to realise, any second now, that they were looking in the wrong direction.
He was still looking behind him when he heard Griffith shout:
“Look out!” His warning came too late and they both stumbled over an embankment and dropped out of view of Pentdragon's house. The embankment fell onto a dirt road – Roland assumed it was a driveway. Picking himself up, he could see a black, house-shaped silhouette cast against the star-lit horizon. He finally let go of Griffith and dusted himself off.
“Is that a house?” Griffith asked, noticing the same silhouette in the distance.
“Let's go find out, before they catch up with us.”
Chapter 6
The dead of night brought a chill to the air and Roland's jacket - old and worn, like everything else he owned, including his body - felt flimsy and ineffective against the breeze. Between bad weather and bat-shit crazy sorcerer kings, the whole idea of finding Salem was losing its appeal. Cold, hungry and stripped of every provision save the clothes on their back, he marched on. He didn't say a word to Griffith. He didn't want to verbalise, and in doing so, validate his fear that what lay ahead was not a house at all but a vaguely house-shaped cluster of trees. Nothing would be more demoralising than a night out in the wilderness. Griffith didn't dare break the silence, either. Good. Roland wasn't quite sure how, yet, but he was sure this was all his fault.
But what awaited them was, as he'd hoped, an old farm house. Through the cracks between curtains, he could see a light on inside. Without hesitation Griffith rapped his knuckles on the front door. Moments later the porch light came on and the door opened just enough for somebody to peer out at them. Roland could discern an eye through the gap between the door and its frame but nothing else. He'd probably be worried too if strangers knocked on his door late at night.
“Hi,” Griffith said. “We're sorry to knock on your door this late but we we're a little lost. And cold. And hungry.”
“Did your car break down?” The voice belonged to a woman.
“Something like that,” Roland answered.
“We'd really appreciate it if you would let us stay here the night. We won't be any trouble,” Griffith added. Before the woman behind the door gave them an answer, a man came around the house and made the decision for her:
“Well 'course you blokes can stay here!” Roland and Griffith turned to greet him. The newcomer stood at the edge of the porch. He was a broad man dressed in a short-sleeved flannel shirt and a grey slouch hat, pushed back to reveal a receding widow’s peak. What he lacked in hair on his head, he made up for in the thicket of orange hair across his bare arms. He had a rifle resting on his shoulder but stood unimposing. “We've even got some leftovers from dinner, if you're hungry. Georgia, go fix them something to eat.”
“Thank you. We'd love that.” Griffith grinned and approached him, arm outstretched to shake the man's hand.
“No worries.” The newcomer met Griffith's hand and shook with a friendly vigour. “We've got a guest room upstairs you can take. Name's Thomas, by the by.”
“It's nice to meet you, Thomas. I'm Griffith and that's Roland.”
“Good to meet you both. Come on inside.” Thomas opened the door and ushered them inside. He brought them through the house to a kitchen. Windows overlooked the fields behind the house. Georgia was already there pushing a pot pie into the oven.
“I hope you don't mind leftovers,” she said.
“'Course they don't. Especially not when they taste as good as your steak and gravy pie,” Thomas answered for them as he took a seat at a humble white table in
“Go!” Roland whispered and pulled Griffith to his feet. He held the young sorcerer close to him and low to the ground, forcing him to run as fast he could. He kept one eye ahead and one eye on the light, expecting Pentdragon's men to realise, any second now, that they were looking in the wrong direction.
He was still looking behind him when he heard Griffith shout:
“Look out!” His warning came too late and they both stumbled over an embankment and dropped out of view of Pentdragon's house. The embankment fell onto a dirt road – Roland assumed it was a driveway. Picking himself up, he could see a black, house-shaped silhouette cast against the star-lit horizon. He finally let go of Griffith and dusted himself off.
“Is that a house?” Griffith asked, noticing the same silhouette in the distance.
“Let's go find out, before they catch up with us.”
Chapter 6
The dead of night brought a chill to the air and Roland's jacket - old and worn, like everything else he owned, including his body - felt flimsy and ineffective against the breeze. Between bad weather and bat-shit crazy sorcerer kings, the whole idea of finding Salem was losing its appeal. Cold, hungry and stripped of every provision save the clothes on their back, he marched on. He didn't say a word to Griffith. He didn't want to verbalise, and in doing so, validate his fear that what lay ahead was not a house at all but a vaguely house-shaped cluster of trees. Nothing would be more demoralising than a night out in the wilderness. Griffith didn't dare break the silence, either. Good. Roland wasn't quite sure how, yet, but he was sure this was all his fault.
But what awaited them was, as he'd hoped, an old farm house. Through the cracks between curtains, he could see a light on inside. Without hesitation Griffith rapped his knuckles on the front door. Moments later the porch light came on and the door opened just enough for somebody to peer out at them. Roland could discern an eye through the gap between the door and its frame but nothing else. He'd probably be worried too if strangers knocked on his door late at night.
“Hi,” Griffith said. “We're sorry to knock on your door this late but we we're a little lost. And cold. And hungry.”
“Did your car break down?” The voice belonged to a woman.
“Something like that,” Roland answered.
“We'd really appreciate it if you would let us stay here the night. We won't be any trouble,” Griffith added. Before the woman behind the door gave them an answer, a man came around the house and made the decision for her:
“Well 'course you blokes can stay here!” Roland and Griffith turned to greet him. The newcomer stood at the edge of the porch. He was a broad man dressed in a short-sleeved flannel shirt and a grey slouch hat, pushed back to reveal a receding widow’s peak. What he lacked in hair on his head, he made up for in the thicket of orange hair across his bare arms. He had a rifle resting on his shoulder but stood unimposing. “We've even got some leftovers from dinner, if you're hungry. Georgia, go fix them something to eat.”
“Thank you. We'd love that.” Griffith grinned and approached him, arm outstretched to shake the man's hand.
“No worries.” The newcomer met Griffith's hand and shook with a friendly vigour. “We've got a guest room upstairs you can take. Name's Thomas, by the by.”
“It's nice to meet you, Thomas. I'm Griffith and that's Roland.”
“Good to meet you both. Come on inside.” Thomas opened the door and ushered them inside. He brought them through the house to a kitchen. Windows overlooked the fields behind the house. Georgia was already there pushing a pot pie into the oven.
“I hope you don't mind leftovers,” she said.
“'Course they don't. Especially not when they taste as good as your steak and gravy pie,” Thomas answered for them as he took a seat at a humble white table in
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