Today R.L. Kiser, author of Crystal Fire, stops by to share a guest post and an excerpt from his book.
Guest Post
I want to thank Donna and Dave for listing this guest post and excerpt.
I discovered reading as a juvenile, how it could take me into magical worlds of my imagination. I’ve always been a fan of the unusual. Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, SciFi and Fantasy. At age 14 I started writing Space Opera SciFi. But then life got in the way. High School, military service, war (Vietnam), rock n’ roll during the late 60s (musician), surviving in civilian life, marriage, raising a child as a single parent, and all the complications therein.
In 2000 I found myself in a situation with nothing but time on my hands. I have to give credit to Robert Aspirin of Myth Conceptions fame for the inspiration to take up writing again. He published an anthology mentoring young authors in the dimension traveling-fantasy genre he made popular. So I wrote a western. (Do double take here).
Yeah, a western. Why a western, I have no idea. The idea just came to me. It flowed, I wrote. It turned out so well I wrote a sequel and I’m working on a third one.
But that’s not what this post and the following excerpt is about. I’ve always been a great fan of sword & sorcery magical fantasy. I had time to read Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series and was inspired by Ed Greenwood and Robert A. Salvatore’s Forgotten Realm series, with Elminster the wizard and the dark elf Drizzt Do’Urden.
I sat with pen in hand, sometimes it was a lead wrapped graphitic indicator (pencil) or a felt tipped pen. It’s an archaic method, hand printing, but it was all that was available at the time. That presupposes a lot of work to follow in getting all those scribbles into a word processor. But get done it did. When it came time to give “Fantasy One” a title I couldn’t think of one. I let it ferment for a while and the Title wrote itself. Crystal Fire.
The story flowed in bits and pieces. Sometimes I would write pages, other times no more than two or three paragraphs. The muse struck, the ideas just came to me. I don’t follow any preset pattern as some suggest. I make notes when I think of them. I don’t make an outline nor write the end and work backwards, I just write, There are times when further ideas will occur to me to add something three chapters back. With a word processor one can just type it in place. On pen and paper I had sheets of “inserts”. Over a three year period the story took shape and was finished.
It left a lot of questions and references as to what went on in the time before. It begged for a prequel, so I wrote Fantasy Two (The Last Battle). That book tells of the horrendous battle in the time before and sets up the third story The Twelve Tablets. It worked out quite well.
Getting it published is a whole ‘nuther story. Brick and mortar publishers weren’t interested, I didn’t have an agent, and couldn’t get one interested. The solution: self-publish. There’s a whole new world available out there that wasn’t there a few years ago.
Being new to the self-publishing business I investigated ways of getting it done. I made the mistake of going with a “professional self-publishing rights agency”. That was a very expensive $1000 lesson. They took forever, didn’t do what I needed done, and wanted to charge me every time I blinked. While dealing with them I learned how to do it myself. I dove right in and published the eBook with Amazon, and later learned of Smashwords. My learning curve was almost a vertical incline. There’s so much to doing all this. I learned how to publish a print book through CeateSpace (an Amazon affiliate). I currently have eight books available as eBooks (in all formats) and print editions.
I wear all the hats, a true definition of DIY (Do It Yourself). I’m the writer-editor-proofer-agent-marketing exec-advertising agent, and VP in charge of empty boxes. Fun times!
Excerpt from Chapter One of Crystal Fire
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 gray 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 gray 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.
The tavern was not large but it was clean and comfortable. There was an entryway at street level big enough for two or three large men to shed the weather from their cloaks. To the left and right of the entryway were large wooden pegs for hanging hats and cloaks. Two steps took you down to the weathered wooden floor. To the right was the bar, a long solid wooden affair closed in the front. Nothing fancy, just solidly built by a craftsman who knew his art. Behind the bar were two large barrels of ale, one light, one dark, and smaller barrels of wine. To the left of that was a cutting board for meats and cheese.
A stone wall cut back into the room at an angle supported a wide door to the store room in the back. Along the back wall were two dartboards and on a shelf an old trophy or two. Not many had time for darts these days.
On the other wall opposite the bar, also cutting the corner, was a large hearth and fireplace where one of the old woodman’s special logs burned happily filling the place with warmth and a pleasant smell. Placed randomly facing the fireplace were six sturdy tables each with four chairs.
He looked around the sparsely populated tavern, trying to spot the glow of magical power but couldn’t. But he did spot something unusual. Sitting in the back in the shadows was someone out of place, someone in rich traveling robes of tightly woven bluish-grey wool, a slight hooded figure, with an aristocratic aura of breeding and education. He laid his last fire log down on the counter and was greeted warmly by the innkeeper with a mug of warm, stout ale and a shot of fine whiskey to ward off the damp. Such whiskey was secreted away and only served to his best customers.
The old woodsman stood tall for a moment revealing himself to be a big man, much larger than his old woodsman persona would have you believe. He waved the whiskey under his nose savoring the aroma and tossed it into his mouth holding it there for a moment tasting the fire, and swallowed in a single gulp. He truly enjoyed the taste and shock of that first fleeting moment of whiskey.
The barkeep picked up the fire log and placed it next to one like it near the end of the bar. “I am truly indebted to you, sir,” he said, “I haven’t even used the last one, this rain, business has been really off. Not even any travelers for the southern trades.”
“Yes,” the old man nodded. “The rains have been unusual.” He picked up his mug of ale and turned to face the back of the room where the stranger sat. There was a sudden lightening of the gloom under the hood and he could see a pair of eyes, pretty eyes, a woman’s eyes. At the same moment a soft woman’s voice said to him, “I must speak with you. It is urgent.” Yet her lips didn’t move and no one else heard her speak.
As lightning flashed outside momentarily lighting her dark corner, he was aware that she was not alone. There were wisps of shadows, the glimpse of movement one occasionally catches out of the corner of the eye. There were ethereal beings who travel between worlds, at least two of them, with her as protectors. In a crisis they would be real enough and their enemies just as dead. He saw their kind fight before and had a healthy respect for them. But he also had a sudden desire to know who intruded upon his private sphere.
He strode over to her table, set down the half drained mug, leaned his large fists onto the solid oak, leaned toward her, and in a soft but demanding voice said, “Who are you?”
“One who brings an urgent plea for help,” she replied softly. Her lips moved now, it was the same voice.
“Do I know you?” he queried.
“You know my mistress,” she replied and filled his receptive mind with a vision of a woman so beautiful as to turn most men’s eyes to water and minds to mush. A woman who at one time filled his heart and mind almost to the exclusion of all else. A soft, oval face framed by thick, lush, blonde hair the color of summer wheat, luscious lips colored by the kiss of a rose, a thin, dainty nose separating two large, soft, round eyes the color of a pale blue summer sky, eyes that sparkled with humor, intelligence, wit, and once held nothing but love for him.
Upon seeing this vision there was a sharp intake of breath and he felt his heart seize up a moment with an ache that would fill the void of space, he felt such love for the woman in his vision.
“Noooo,” he moaned and slumped into a chair. “Why do you torture me so? I cannot help you.” Looking down he sat for a moment but quickly started to lift his bulk from the chair.
Her soft and dainty hand was on his as she said, “Please…” a pleading in her eyes. “The Crystal is in danger, she is in danger, your friend…” Her voice trailed off as she saw his visions of his best friend’s life force ebbing into the Crystal. She continued, “You are one of the only ones left who knows the secrets of the Crystal. Who knows the way of the defenses…”
“No!” he shouted, startling what few patrons there were. “Never again. It’s too dangerous for even the gods.” His memories of having summoned powers from deep beneath the Crystal, horribly destructive powers, were locked away. Now they were set free and his face was pale, the life in his eyes dim, staring at nothing a thousand years away reliving those days of the last battle.
The northern hoards descending upon them, severely outnumbered, he and his few Crystal Warriors dredged up from the earth a terrible fire which rained down on the invaders. Intense heat and flames, clinging to man and beast alike, wave after wave of fire erupting from the earth, falling from the heavens, the smell of cooking flesh permeating their very existence.
He came back to the present with her gently rocking him, his head against her breast as if he were a small child, her soft voice cooing to him. None of the other patrons paid any attention to them, which is what she wanted.
“My mistress warned me of this… and I am here to help.” What this man went through to defend his kind and sacred Crystal shouldn’t have been asked of a god, least of all a mortal man. Even one as adept in the ways of crystal magic as him. Yet he survived, though how he kept his sanity was still a mystery.
Upon her signal the barkeep passed another whiskey under his nose, which he gulped down thirstily. “What would you have of me?” he croaked, resigning himself to whatever might come next.
“She needs you,” came her soothing reply “We all need you. We must travel north, but not by magic. There is wizardry about, black sorcery. I have a coach and fire stallions nearby.” Fire stallions were a sort of wizardry unto themselves and were known to cover leagues in a day, but they were rare and no one was ever known to tame them nor keep them for long.
He sat there staring into her soft blue eyes for several minutes saying nothing, the pain and horrors of the past clearly visible in his eyes. He downed the rest of his ale and slowly shook his head from side to side.
He said, “I’m not who you think I am. I… I… no. You must go, now. Leave this place. Leave me,” and he stood to go.
Again she placed a soft, gentle hand on his and said, “You are Rowan, captain of the Crystal Guard. Rowan, who holds the heart of M’Lady Ariel. There is no other.” Her soft eyes looked up at him beseechingly.
Still his head shook slowly from side to side denying the truth in her words. He was trembling. So softly he could barely hear it himself he repeated, “No… no… no.” With tears in his eyes floating the fear and horror he said, “I can’t.”
With tears welling in her own eyes she said, “You must. There is no other.”
Leaning both his big hands on the table, still trembling, he said, “But what of…” but she was shaking her head from side to side.
She said, “Warriors are being recalled, but they are scattered throughout the land, and they are so few. Novices are in training, but they need a captain. The Crystal is in grave danger. It needs you.” Her eyes took on an even greater pleading as tears spilled from them and ran down her pretty cheeks. “We need you.”
He stood there still, hands on the table, but the trembling stopped. He looked up and away for a moment and drug his hands slowly across the table as he stood up straight. Suddenly there was no longer the grumbly, bent old woodsman. In his place stood a tall, noble Crystal Warrior, his eyes alight with new purpose.
He looked down at her and in a deep, strong voice, one he had not used in many years, said, “Very well,” and lifted her hand as a signal for her to arise.
She laid a silver coin on the table, a coin rarely seen in these parts, and followed him to the foyer where he donned his hat and cloak. Eyes followed him in wonderment as if they had never seen him before.
Together they left the warmth and dryness of the tavern out into the incessant alternating drizzle and rain. “There are a few things I need,” he said. Suddenly there was a coal black coach beside them driven by one of the shadowy wisps, the rain sparking off the backs and hooves of the four huge and beautiful fire stallions. In moments they were at his ramshackle abode. The old man disappeared inside to a spaciousness that belied the outside dimensions. What appeared a few moments later was not an old woodsman, but a tall, muscular, straight backed, handsome warrior wearing the magically armored doublet of the once revered Crystal Guard. Swords and throwing knives hung from his side and were secreted about his person. He tucked his now dark hair up underneath the golden warrior’s helmet and stepped lively to the coach. As he seated his bulk across from the pretty messenger one solitary word was all he said. “North!”
Crystal Fire (2012)
About the Author:
I was born in Barnsley, South Yorkshire, England and have always been a bookworm and enjoyed creative writing at school. In 1999 I created the Elencheran Chronicles and have been writing ever since. My first novel, Fezariu's Epiphany, was published in May 2011. When not writing I'm a lover of films, games, books and blogging. I now live in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, with my wife, Donna, and our six cats - Kain, Razz, Buggles, Charlie, Bilbo and Frodo.
David M. Brown – who has written 849 posts on Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave.
