Hardcastle, Master of Logie, came swinging up the last of the stiff miles that climbed from Norbrigg market-town to the high uplands. October’s mists had lain heavy on the lowlands, but here on the tops he strode into sunlight and clean, nipping air.
Grim and lean, toughened by many sorts of weather, Hardcastle paused to get breath again, and looked out across the lonely acres that stretched to the four quarters of a blue and amber sky. Ahead of him, bordering the roadway, he saw the straggling clumps of houses known as Weathersett. A brave, storm-battered village, keeping watch above the mines that once fed its people, it wore a comrade’s look to Hardcastle. So did the barren pastures, roaming out and over between their grey stone fences to the gateways that gaped across the hill-tops.
His thoughts were busy with all that lay hidden in these broken lands—unfenced mines, their waters brimming deep—caves, wandered through in boyhood, that had set their spell of mystery and dread on all his after life. It was a haunted land, as all folk knew, and in its old mine-workings lurked trolls and ancient goblins.
