The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle)

Cover The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle)
He slowed, stopped, looking around, searching for a sign of life this way or that, his only sense of geography given by the slope of the Heath and an instinct that somewhere, that way, a long way off, was the river. It was at times like these that Lyle almost wanted something to pray to.
He felt in his pockets. They bulged less than before. The dynamo was in Tess’s hands, somewhere overhead, and the little glass spheres that burnt so brightly were almost gone: two left out of the handful he alw
...ays carried. In the darkness, he ran his hands over the tubes that filled his pockets, feeling the shapes and sizes of their corks, the tiny indentations in each one suggesting what might be inside. His fingers brushed the matchbox, slid it open, felt inside. One match left. He closed the matchbox and shuffled onward through the dark, hands held out clumsily, feet feeling the way, like a blind man.
There were things around, in the darkness. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear through the fog the definite crunch of hard snow underfoot, faint but close, and was aware of the shadows keeping him company.
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