[Editor’s note: This is about half of the first chapter of my first fully-finished manuscript. I am currently looking at various publishing options, but would love to consider all avenues; if you have suggestions, or would consider supporting a self-published or serialized version of this or another novel, please let me know! As always, replying to this email will send your response to me! I would love to hear from you, so don’t be shy about responding!]
“Of Fireblood”
A lone figure swathed in cloth trudged through the harsh desert heat. A silver pommel with a red-black ruby stuck out from the folds of his weathered cloak. From under the brim of the man’s wide sable hat, he saw the seemingly endless abyss of tired sand. The man wore a gray tunic and a white-and-black cloak. Black pants were tucked into elegant gray boots. A long white scarf swaddled his face like a baby.
His studies told him that from hereabouts the desert extended approximately four leagues in every direction. A glance behind him revealed the same dreary landscape as his north-facing view, save for his fast-fading footprints. The sun bore down from almost directly above. The desert wind was strong, wicking away all the sweat from his brow and creating an aura of hurriedness around the man. One more day and he would be completely dehydrated, a fate nearly worse than death—and one that could lead to it.
Still, feet sinking in the wind-beaten sand, the man trudged on to his destination. He shook his head, to clear out the ever-present nuisance—the sand—and expanded a spell around his ears, the most affected part of his body. Instantly, the sand stopped its ceaseless roar. The mage smiled from under his tightly-wrapped scarf. Magic, even in its simplest form, was not possessed by many people. Stories tell of a great Drought that sapped the majority of magic from the land, such so that normal humans could no longer perform simple spells. However, the lone desert man was not normal. He was the First of Six Legendary Battle-Mages, a title earned through cunning and valor.
That lone man pressed onward, and, by nightfall, came upon a shanty village at the edge of the desert. Struck by the resemblance to his birthplace, the man quickly suppressed pangs of sorrow and rage. His stomach loosed a pathetic gurgle, and his deep-held feelings subsided to all-consuming hunger. Intoxicated by the prospect of a meal, the man doubled his pace through the town, coming upon a small tavern, nestled in between what looked like an armory and a tailor.
The three buildings were squat, leaning together as if they depended on one another to stave off collapsing right into the coarse earth.
The sign on the door of the middle building spelled out “Vernon’s Tavern” in the fascinating runic language of the Li’pau people. Tacked underneath the well-worn wooden sign was a parchment notice, this one written in the language of the Kingdom, reading “no mages allowed.” He had studied for several years the desert tribe’s enchanting vernacular at the College, but he still did not consider himself well-versed. Disregarding the bulletin, he entered the squad-looking building.
Upon entering, came a cry from the barkeep, “No weapons!”
Inside, the tavern was much larger than it outwardly appeared. The ceilings were not low and dingy, despite the doorframe intimating so, the tables were well kept and seemed not too dusty, and the interior was lit with beautiful floating lanterns, clearly the result of some worker’s magical talent. Ironic that the tavern says no mages, yet magic dwells here, he thought, holding back a snort. There were probably two dozen round, short tables, each seating at least 3 people. It would seem today is their busy day, the mage observed.
Obliging the barkeep, the mage carefully unhooked the sword belt containing his ruby-studded sword and set it on the table under the sign that said weapons. Noting that this sign was also parchment and written in the King’s Tongue, he stepped further inside. He grimaced and removed the scarf from his face, revealing a blond beard and a hooked scar across his cheek. He strode over to the bar and lowered himself upon an uneven four-legged stool.
“Give me a strong drink, please,” the man asked, in the local tongue.
The barkeep’s thick eyebrow rose, reacting to the accent that the stranger possessed, and he reached for a glass. Then he tapped the frothy mead from a large barrel and handed the brimming glass to the man.
“Thank you,” the seated man said. He took a hearty swig, and with one swift motion, removed his hat and wiped the froth from his mustache. Thick, blond locks emerged from under the large hat. From under his sleeve, for a second, flashed the man’s mage armband, a thin green circle of rubber, a product of the magic mages are known for. The keen-eyed bartender spotted it before the man could finish his gulp.
Steel flashed and a rusty sword was at the man’s throat. The bartender’s eyes bulged. He had dealt with a rowdy soldier or two before, but mages were a different monster altogether. The blond mage stood up, placed his hand on the table, downed the contents of his mug, threw a gold coin on the bar, and strode toward the exit. He scooped up his sword on the way out. As he exited the door, he tied the white scarf around his face again and tucked it into his cloak. One of two of the more educated customers observed the elvic runes for “master” and “fire” emblazoned on the back of his white-and-black cloak.
A small child threw a rock at him as he trudged slowly out of the town. The projectile, which seemed destined to clatter into the skull of the departing stranger, right before the moment of impact, veered away to the side and skittered along the hard-beaten clay. He was the First Battle-Mage of this country, and yet some people despised those with the gifts of magic. He shook his head and continued walking. He would be home from his exodus within days…
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Keep your eyes peeled for more posts soon 👀
-H