### 109

The morning sky is filled with a sullen grey haze, and around you the tall plains grass undulates like a green sea, stirred to motion by a chill westerly breeze. The Great North Road cuts a straight line to the horizon with tracks that lead to cottages and farmsteads branching off at regular intervals. Sheep and cattle graze by the roadside, and the air is rich with the scents of the farmyard, flowers, and damp grass.

‘We should reach Tharro by sundown,’ you comment, checking your position on the map.

‘Maybe,’ replies Paido, cautiously, and points to a menacing streak of blue-black cloud rolling across the skyline from the west. ‘Just so long as we stay ahead of the storm.’

By noon you have put thirty miles behind you but still have thirty more to ride before you reach the town of Tharro. Steadily the sky is darkening, and what began as fine drizzle has now developed into sheets of heavy rain. Both of you are drenched, and your horses are beginning to steam as they splash through the ankle-deep puddles that punctuate the muddy highway.

Through the pall of rain, you see an inn on the banks of a stream, whose waters are greatly swollen by the storm. A wide stone bridge spans the rushing torrent, and a mill with a thatched roof stands close by.

If you wish to stop at the inn, turn to 188.

If you wish to cross the bridge and seek shelter at the mill, turn to 61.

If you choose to ignore your discomfort and ride on through the storm, turn to 318.