Fiction

The Weaver's Fee

Jirgan sat in the dark cellar. His hands were tied behind his back. A rag that smelled of sweat and vomit — neither of them his — was crammed in his mouth and held tight with rope. He could hear them coming. More»

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One Survivor

His feet hurt. Blisters upon blisters, the tattered remains of his Legionaire’s boots offered almost no protection any more against the broken dusty ground. More»