Crystal Fire

Excerpt - Chapter One

    It wasn’t the kind of weather anyone would like nor dislike. It was one of those grey, drizzly, early winter days that you woke up to and dealt with. The grey haired old woodsman ignored his aches and pains and pulled a well-worn pair of greased leathers over his woolen hose. The fire helped to stave off the aches in his swollen joints but now he had to venture out into the dreary half-light of constant drizzle. The leather pants and heavy boots, both liberally coated and soaked with animal fat would help, but this constant state of wet was unusual even for this time of year.

     He pulled on a heavy hooded canvas cloak, tightly woven to ward off the rain. As he stepped onto the covered porch of the tiny, seemingly ramshackle cottage, he threw old oil rags around the evenly cut firewood to ward off the drizzle, now becoming a heavier rain, threw the heavy bundle over his shoulder onto his back and trudged the mudded path to the soggy road to town.

     His firewood always brought a premium price gladly paid by the merchants, bankers, and gentlefolk of money in town because it was evenly cut, burned smoothly and long, and always gave off a pleasant scent. There were a few of the poor townsfolk who occasionally had the pleasure of his long-lasting hearth fuel because even though he played the grumbly old man, beneath that gruff exterior beat a soft heart.

     As he passed the miller road he saw as well as heard the miller's young apprentice cussing a blue streak, pulling on the horse’s bridle, trying to get the already straining beast to break the wagonload of milled wheat from the muck and mire that sucked at its right rear wheel. The horse’s eyes were wide with pleading as the old woodsman passed by, the heavy burden on his back bending him over.

     “I’ll trade you a ride into town for help in freeing your load from the mud,” he shouted to the young miller’s apprentice over the noise of the heavy downpour. The young man quit his straining, dumped water from his hat and wiped the mixture of sweat and drizzle from his face with an already soaked handkerchief. He nodded his approval.

     The old woodsman threw his burden of firewood up into the foot well of the wagon. To any other than the casual observer he threw such a heavy burden a little too easily for such an ‘old’ man. He winked at the horse, who nudged him gently with his large head and winked back. The horse instinctively knew who, or what, he was but wasn’t about to tell anyone. The old woodsman nodded at the apprentice, who once again grabbed the bridle. He mumbled something seemingly to himself, his fingers rapidly making runes, toned muscles bunched under the old man clothes, and the wheat filled wagon rolled forward easily. The rest of their journey into town over the pitted, muddy road was surprisingly smooth.

     As the old woodsman descended the marble stairs of the house of his last customer the thought of a pint or two of the stout, bitter local ale sounded more and more appealing. His feet automatically found their way down the street and across the alleyways towards his favorite local pub, his mind on other things. Less than a block away through the grey drizzle his attention was suddenly focused on the swift movement of a bluish hue almost sparkling against the mist. He chose this small town on the outskirts of nowhere for its lack of magic and magicians, witches, wizards, necromancers, warlocks, mages, and altogether boring existence. But that sparkling blue he'd glimpsed a moment before, all but invisible to the common man, was definitely the sign of special powers. He found himself thinking back as he sloshed through the street water and found his way to the foyer of the small but well-kept tavern.

     It was several years earlier up north defending Crystal City when he last used the full power of his magic. His lifelong chum and brigade companion gave his life force to him that day in defense of the Crystal. That life force flowed through him into the Crystal. The anguish and helplessness to do no more than that, and later the complete loss of his best friend was too much for him. With the battle won he traveled south until he was dog tired and found a simple place without magic. The only magic he allowed himself was for survival. Once you take the path of a mage or magician warrior, there is no going back. The magic of his firewood, which is not detectable to even the most adept because of the way it was infused, and occasionally as today with the rutted wagon.  Nothing else.