It was a dark, dank night, and Wim drew his cloak closer and raised his lantern, standing next to the old oak tree on the Horseshoe Path.
He had been waiting for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. He stamped his feet, trying to shake the cold from his toes.
What did the stranger want from him? he wondered, not for the first time. And why couldn't he tell him in the warmth of the Inn?
He heard the sound of a horse clip-clopping up the path, and he raised the lantern still higher, hoping the light would show him more. A rider approached on a small horse, not much bigger than the ponies Wim's sister kept in the paddock behind their cottage. He blinked the mist from his eyes, trying to identify the approaching rider.
A man, short but fat, sat upon the poor steed that struggled towards him.
...
