This is the first time I've posted my writing, aside from the short story comps. All critiques are welcome and thanks to all reviewers for taking the time and energy to support me. Would you read on?
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Standing alone on the western slope of a small hill was a modest wooden house, all on one floor with a number of clay chimneys sprouting haphazardly from the roof. The hodgepodge of repairs and improvements made over the years gave it the look of a giant angular patchwork quilt. The inside was in keeping with the outside, everything tired and worn from decades of use, mended many times but just the right side of broken to be useful. It had a well-loved warm and cosy feel, the type of place that might have been witness to a lifetime of afternoon naps.
On this particular September evening oil lamps lit up the interior with a warm yellow glow as Sarrien Benwick paced up and down, deep in thought, absent-mindedly stroking his short scraggly silver-grey beard.
He walked past the large smoke-stained fireplace, oblivious to the dying embers on the grate, up the slight incline to a dark wooden trunk resting up against the far wall, a deep crack in the wood restrained by black metal bindings, turned round and walked back. A furrowed brow over unfocused blue eyes, he reached his favourite chair next to the fireplace and sat down, stood up and walked back up the slope again.
‘Something wrong dear?’ asked Amelda, Sarrien’s wife, who was making a cake in the kitchen on the far side of the room.
‘Hmmm…’
‘Sarri.’ she raised her voice.
‘Oh it’s nothing, nothing.’
She looked up from beating her cake mixture in a clay bowl cradled in her arm, yellow glazing flaked off the outside. ‘Nothing? You’ve been restless ever since you got back from the Sanctum.’
Sarrien finally noticed the fire was out, threw a couple of logs onto the hot embers and started prodding at them with a timeworn poker. ‘Well nothing much anyway.’
Amelda stopped her beating ‘Is it this big storm coming? Is that what’s bothering you?’
He stood up from tending the fire and satisfied it was well alight, walked over to the kitchen, the familiar smell of baking emanating from the wood fired oven. He leaned on the side and took a deep breath.
‘An inspector has turned up, unexpected and uninvited. She was at the Sanctum earlier.’
‘From Phaerox? What for?’
‘Yes from our illustrious capital, a Miss Osfelia Ribbal. As to what she’s here for, I’m not entirely sure, she has been less than forthcoming.’ he said shifting his weight over to one side.
‘They’re not due a visit to the academy are they?’ Amelda asked as she resumed her onslaught on the thick golden-brown cake mixture with a well-practised rhythm.
Sarrien scowled ‘No they’re not. Braytree’s behind this I’ll bet, she’s questioned what we do here ever since she became Premier.’
‘Maybe she’s interested.’
‘Perhaps but I don’t trust her given how she came to power.’ he said with a shake of his head, that ruffled his thinning but still shaggy hair.
‘It can’t be helped now, we’ll just have to hope for the best. Now then that ought to do it.’ Amelda half poured, half spooned the mixture into a blackened baking tin.
‘How far will hope get us? Anyway, I must get back over there and make sure the academy is prepared for the storm, although I’m sure the Cartwrights are on top of everything.’
Sarrien put on his thick hedgal-hide coat and sat down carefully on a rickety three-legged stool to put his boots on. ‘Well at least we haven’t seen any Storm Warners’ he said grabbing his staff from its place next to the door, his hand resting comfortably on the familiar grooved grip. It was scuffed, scratched and what looked like teeth marks were gouged out of the wood; the scars of a long partnership.
‘I may watch the storm from one of the towers so I could be a while.’ he slid the heavy bolt back and lifted the door latch.
‘I know. Be careful’ said Amelda as Sarrien stepped outside, letting in a blast of cold air.
He put his hood up and pulled it tight down around his face to shield himself from the powerful wind. Making his way north, up the narrow stony path that wound its way through the rolling green grounds of the academy, Sarrien’s limp was less noticeable as he leaned into the wind.
After several minutes the light grey outline of the Sanctum rose into sight, deceptively diminutive against the cliffs behind. Silhouetted against the backdrop a tall, slender figure further up the path headed in his direction. The figure was closing fast, moving with an unnatural ease, seemingly unaffected by its battle with the wind.
Sarrien progressed more slowly, heart quickening a beat as he gripped his staff a little tighter. The figure continued to move purposefully towards him, its face bound up against the gales. With only a few strides between them, Sarrien stopped and almost imperceptibly moved into a stance. The figure didn’t falter.
****
Standing alone on the western slope of a small hill was a modest wooden house, all on one floor with a number of clay chimneys sprouting haphazardly from the roof. The hodgepodge of repairs and improvements made over the years gave it the look of a giant angular patchwork quilt. The inside was in keeping with the outside, everything tired and worn from decades of use, mended many times but just the right side of broken to be useful. It had a well-loved warm and cosy feel, the type of place that might have been witness to a lifetime of afternoon naps.
On this particular September evening oil lamps lit up the interior with a warm yellow glow as Sarrien Benwick paced up and down, deep in thought, absent-mindedly stroking his short scraggly silver-grey beard.
He walked past the large smoke-stained fireplace, oblivious to the dying embers on the grate, up the slight incline to a dark wooden trunk resting up against the far wall, a deep crack in the wood restrained by black metal bindings, turned round and walked back. A furrowed brow over unfocused blue eyes, he reached his favourite chair next to the fireplace and sat down, stood up and walked back up the slope again.
‘Something wrong dear?’ asked Amelda, Sarrien’s wife, who was making a cake in the kitchen on the far side of the room.
‘Hmmm…’
‘Sarri.’ she raised her voice.
‘Oh it’s nothing, nothing.’
She looked up from beating her cake mixture in a clay bowl cradled in her arm, yellow glazing flaked off the outside. ‘Nothing? You’ve been restless ever since you got back from the Sanctum.’
Sarrien finally noticed the fire was out, threw a couple of logs onto the hot embers and started prodding at them with a timeworn poker. ‘Well nothing much anyway.’
Amelda stopped her beating ‘Is it this big storm coming? Is that what’s bothering you?’
He stood up from tending the fire and satisfied it was well alight, walked over to the kitchen, the familiar smell of baking emanating from the wood fired oven. He leaned on the side and took a deep breath.
‘An inspector has turned up, unexpected and uninvited. She was at the Sanctum earlier.’
‘From Phaerox? What for?’
‘Yes from our illustrious capital, a Miss Osfelia Ribbal. As to what she’s here for, I’m not entirely sure, she has been less than forthcoming.’ he said shifting his weight over to one side.
‘They’re not due a visit to the academy are they?’ Amelda asked as she resumed her onslaught on the thick golden-brown cake mixture with a well-practised rhythm.
Sarrien scowled ‘No they’re not. Braytree’s behind this I’ll bet, she’s questioned what we do here ever since she became Premier.’
‘Maybe she’s interested.’
‘Perhaps but I don’t trust her given how she came to power.’ he said with a shake of his head, that ruffled his thinning but still shaggy hair.
‘It can’t be helped now, we’ll just have to hope for the best. Now then that ought to do it.’ Amelda half poured, half spooned the mixture into a blackened baking tin.
‘How far will hope get us? Anyway, I must get back over there and make sure the academy is prepared for the storm, although I’m sure the Cartwrights are on top of everything.’
Sarrien put on his thick hedgal-hide coat and sat down carefully on a rickety three-legged stool to put his boots on. ‘Well at least we haven’t seen any Storm Warners’ he said grabbing his staff from its place next to the door, his hand resting comfortably on the familiar grooved grip. It was scuffed, scratched and what looked like teeth marks were gouged out of the wood; the scars of a long partnership.
‘I may watch the storm from one of the towers so I could be a while.’ he slid the heavy bolt back and lifted the door latch.
‘I know. Be careful’ said Amelda as Sarrien stepped outside, letting in a blast of cold air.
He put his hood up and pulled it tight down around his face to shield himself from the powerful wind. Making his way north, up the narrow stony path that wound its way through the rolling green grounds of the academy, Sarrien’s limp was less noticeable as he leaned into the wind.
After several minutes the light grey outline of the Sanctum rose into sight, deceptively diminutive against the cliffs behind. Silhouetted against the backdrop a tall, slender figure further up the path headed in his direction. The figure was closing fast, moving with an unnatural ease, seemingly unaffected by its battle with the wind.
Sarrien progressed more slowly, heart quickening a beat as he gripped his staff a little tighter. The figure continued to move purposefully towards him, its face bound up against the gales. With only a few strides between them, Sarrien stopped and almost imperceptibly moved into a stance. The figure didn’t falter.
