Read Online The Knife's Edge by Matthew Wolf - Free Book Online
Authors: Matthew Wolf
Tags: Fantasy
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to Mura who was now examining some strange looking blood-red mushrooms in the path.
“What is it?” Gray asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mura said, scratching his head. “These shouldn’t be here…” The curious red color of the mushrooms tugged at Gray’s curiosity. He approached and a smell like rancid meat hit his nose and he cringed. Pinching his nose with one hand, he reached out with the other to check if they had gills when Mura yelled. “Don’t touch them!” The authority of the order made his hand shoot back.
“Why?”
Mura walked over and knelt down beside him. He stared at the mushrooms before him and scrubbed a hand through his stubble. “I don’t know, but something tells me to be cautious about them.”
“Even more than usual?”
“Aye, I’ve lived here for years, but something feels different… A strange presence,” the hermit muttered, and then stood. “Let’s head back, lad. It’ll be good to get out of this cursed wind,” he grumbled to himself, walking back towards the house, muttering something about a pipe and a fire.
Gray gave one last look at the peculiar red mushrooms. At his side, his fingers burned as if he had touched the strange fungi. Oddly, even his wrist tingled and he pulled back his sleeve to reveal the sinuous tattoo upon his wrist. Turning, he hurried after Mura beneath the shrouded canopy, towards the darkening clouds.
The Harrowing Gale
G RAY OPENED THE DOOR OF THE hut and was greeted by the aroma of stew. Throwing off his boots, he rushed to the fireplace. “When did you have time to make this? We’ve been out all day.”
Settling into a chair, Mura picked up his favorite dagger and began to whittle. “You were asleep. It’s been simmering all day, which might I add, is the only proper way to make stew.”
The whole house smelled of spices, onions, and roast chicken. Warmth seeped back into his numb fingers. Outside, the wind howled, and the chimes that hung from the low eaves crashed. “The wind is really picking up.”
Mura grunted. “Las Fael’wyn, the elves call it, or in the common tongue, ‘the harrowing gale’.” He continued his calm strokes, letting the shavings fall into a bowl on the floor.
“Fael’wyn…” Gray said to himself in thought, “Wait, isn’t it ‘wind’? I mean, doesn’t it mean ‘the harrowing wind’?”
Mura looked up in surprise. “How’d you know that?”
“Because you taught me…”
“Did I?” Mura asked. Gray couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Well then, I’m a good teacher. Yes, I remember now. I told you about the basic structure of Elvish.” He chuckled softly. “I might have skipped a few things for practical purposes, but, yes, that is what it means. Wyn is the Elvish word for ‘wind’.”
Gray repeated the term, wondering how many things the elves had named. Grabbing a spoon that hung from the brick fireplace, he stirred the stew. His mouth watered and he eyed a piece of golden brown meat. He snatched it, and then juggled his steaming prize before popping it into his mouth. It singed his tongue and he yelped.
Behind him, Mura chuckled. Gray turned with a glare. “Are you ever going to finish that thing?” he motioned to the piece of wood in the hermit’s hands that vaguely resembled a pipe. Instead of saying anything, Mura calmly put down his tools and disappeared into his room.
Gray heard him rummaging, and then dragging what sounded like a large object across the wooden floor. With a grunt of success he came back out carrying a dark blue trunk with a tarnished lock and gilded with silver oak leaves. He set it down with a heavy thud.
Grabbing the stool from the table he placed it before Gray, and then sat back down. “Sit,” he said. Gray had never seen the ornate chest before, and a thousand questions wrestled in his head. Shadows played on the chest, and the ornate silver looked out of place in the rustic cabin. From his vest pocket Mura extracted a key, and then inserted it
“What is it?” Gray asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mura said, scratching his head. “These shouldn’t be here…” The curious red color of the mushrooms tugged at Gray’s curiosity. He approached and a smell like rancid meat hit his nose and he cringed. Pinching his nose with one hand, he reached out with the other to check if they had gills when Mura yelled. “Don’t touch them!” The authority of the order made his hand shoot back.
“Why?”
Mura walked over and knelt down beside him. He stared at the mushrooms before him and scrubbed a hand through his stubble. “I don’t know, but something tells me to be cautious about them.”
“Even more than usual?”
“Aye, I’ve lived here for years, but something feels different… A strange presence,” the hermit muttered, and then stood. “Let’s head back, lad. It’ll be good to get out of this cursed wind,” he grumbled to himself, walking back towards the house, muttering something about a pipe and a fire.
Gray gave one last look at the peculiar red mushrooms. At his side, his fingers burned as if he had touched the strange fungi. Oddly, even his wrist tingled and he pulled back his sleeve to reveal the sinuous tattoo upon his wrist. Turning, he hurried after Mura beneath the shrouded canopy, towards the darkening clouds.
The Harrowing Gale
G RAY OPENED THE DOOR OF THE hut and was greeted by the aroma of stew. Throwing off his boots, he rushed to the fireplace. “When did you have time to make this? We’ve been out all day.”
Settling into a chair, Mura picked up his favorite dagger and began to whittle. “You were asleep. It’s been simmering all day, which might I add, is the only proper way to make stew.”
The whole house smelled of spices, onions, and roast chicken. Warmth seeped back into his numb fingers. Outside, the wind howled, and the chimes that hung from the low eaves crashed. “The wind is really picking up.”
Mura grunted. “Las Fael’wyn, the elves call it, or in the common tongue, ‘the harrowing gale’.” He continued his calm strokes, letting the shavings fall into a bowl on the floor.
“Fael’wyn…” Gray said to himself in thought, “Wait, isn’t it ‘wind’? I mean, doesn’t it mean ‘the harrowing wind’?”
Mura looked up in surprise. “How’d you know that?”
“Because you taught me…”
“Did I?” Mura asked. Gray couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Well then, I’m a good teacher. Yes, I remember now. I told you about the basic structure of Elvish.” He chuckled softly. “I might have skipped a few things for practical purposes, but, yes, that is what it means. Wyn is the Elvish word for ‘wind’.”
Gray repeated the term, wondering how many things the elves had named. Grabbing a spoon that hung from the brick fireplace, he stirred the stew. His mouth watered and he eyed a piece of golden brown meat. He snatched it, and then juggled his steaming prize before popping it into his mouth. It singed his tongue and he yelped.
Behind him, Mura chuckled. Gray turned with a glare. “Are you ever going to finish that thing?” he motioned to the piece of wood in the hermit’s hands that vaguely resembled a pipe. Instead of saying anything, Mura calmly put down his tools and disappeared into his room.
Gray heard him rummaging, and then dragging what sounded like a large object across the wooden floor. With a grunt of success he came back out carrying a dark blue trunk with a tarnished lock and gilded with silver oak leaves. He set it down with a heavy thud.
Grabbing the stool from the table he placed it before Gray, and then sat back down. “Sit,” he said. Gray had never seen the ornate chest before, and a thousand questions wrestled in his head. Shadows played on the chest, and the ornate silver looked out of place in the rustic cabin. From his vest pocket Mura extracted a key, and then inserted it
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