Bring Forth a Fire (Book 1)

Prologue - October 1869

Peter Haywood stumbled through the dark woods, hearing a storm coming. His leg bled heavily from where a bramble bush had snagged it, and he was bent sideways with a stitch from running. He could barely summon the strength to light his way, although all it took was a little concentration and a flick of the wrist. They'd nearly gotten him back there on the road, attacking his carriage and dragging him out into the mud. They'd had knives on them. He'd had to use the small reserve of power he'd trained himself to save for occasions such as that.

The rain began hissing down, and Peter pulled his coat around him tighter. The night was dark and he was not looking forward to spending it in the woods. Taking a deep breath, he mustered the rest of his power and flicked his wrist. A small ball of flame leaped up, hovering a few centimeters over his palm. It only lit the ground a little ways in front of him, and sputtered. As he'd thought, his injuries weakened his powers. He needed to get somewhere safe soon, or he would collapse.

All the same, he pressed on, tripping over roots and fallen branches. He even fell into a bush once and snuffed out the flame. As he picked his way through the dark forest, he allowed his mind to wander, first to the girl he'd been courting for a year and a half now. She was beautiful, with bright red hair and sharp green eyes, and a wit that snapped like a whip. Then they strayed to his mother, the Countess of Dorchester, who after the death of his father had wanted him to marry and produce a male heir as soon as possible. He didn't even know the girl that well. Much less convince her to help him carry on the Haywood bloodline. At least, that was what all the young men in London had said about her.

Then, as Peter struggled to ignite the flame again, he glimpsed a small pinprick of light in the distance, winking in the holes between the leaves. There was a house out there, his possible saving grace. Abandoning all composure, Peter ran towards it, branches tearing at his clothes and his skin. As it got closer, he could see it was a small farmhouse.

Thank goodness, he thought, the prospect of shelter making his feet swifter.

Reaching it, he pounded the door, shouting through the rain now sheeting down.

It took minutes of this before a pair of eyes peeked out through the crack.

"Can you help me?" he said, shivering mostly for effect. "I'm injured and need a warm place for the night."

The eyes moved a little. Even in the low light, Peter could see they were brown, the kind that never shifted. A Natural. "What're yer doin' out in this weather anyway?"

"I was attacked back there on the road and got lost in the woods. Please. Just a warm dry place for the night is all I ask."

"Well, yer a crazy bloke, aren't you? Come on. We haven't got all night." The eyes disappeared and the door opened. A short little man stood there, with a beard so long he had to tuck it in his belt. He was looking up at Peter with a great degree of interest.

"Thank you," he said, ducking inside and not even caring about all the water he brought in with him.

"Want a blanket?" asked the man when he had pushed the door shut behind him. "Shakin' like a leaf, yer are."

"Yes please."

When the man had gotten him what he'd promised and Peter had settled himself by the fireplace, the man joined him and attempted to make a fire.

"Yer got a match, mate?" he asked, turning to him.

"A what?" Peter was momentarily confused. Naturals didn't know how to produce their own fire. They didn't know how to produce their own anything the way the Elementals did. They were unable to harness the power of the elements and channel them.

"A match," said the man, also seeming confused. Peter could hear his voice now. Was he born yesterday, this punter?

"No...I don't use matches," he said, only realising his mistake after it was out of his mouth.

"Yer don't use matches? Don't play with me, mate." The man squinted suspiciously at him. "What kinda bloke don't use matches, then?"

"I meant...I don't use them all the time. I don't carry them with me, you know." Peter backpedaled furiously, hoping he could save himself quickly enough.

"I see." After another appraisal, he seemed to think nothing was wrong and went back to the attempts at fire-making with a shrug. Naturals weren't bad at it, but they needed to use matches and flint and all those cumbersome tools. In short, a much less efficient way.

It took some time before the man gave up. "Can't burn that wood. Too wet, and no dry wood to be had anywheres."

Peter, on the other hand, knew just the right kind of fire for that. Instinctively he flicked his wrist and conjured up a purple flame in his palm, holding it upside-down over the wood until it caught.

"Yer Elemental," the man growled, seizing Peter's arm. He had caught on quickly.

"I can explain." Peter backed out of the man's grasp, hands held out in front of him. "I just...I need to–"

"Yer need to get out." The man advanced on him, one hand going to his belt, where Peter noticed now that he kept a short knife sheathed. "Yer know yer not welcome here. I don't deal with Elementals, 'specially not the likes of Fire-breathers."

"I won't do it again, sir, I swear." Peter flinched at the insult, hoping to keep things calm. Naturals had all sorts of creative – or not so creative, most times – insults for Elementals.

The little man was backing Peter towards the door, looking like he had half a mind to stab him through the stomach with the rusty knife lying on the table near him. Peter didn't look at it, for fear of giving him the idea.

"Out," the man said, shoving him into the wood.

Peter fumbled with the doorknob and practically fell outside, finding himself out in the rain again. The house seemed particularly inhospitable now.

Naturals, he thought. He pulled his wet coat closer around him, even though it didn't do much good, and trudged on through the rain, wondering if he would be able to find a warm barn or some other structure to spend the night.