Tis the Fire I Fear
by William Fischer
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“DAMN THOSE WIZARDS!”
So swore the peasants tilling the fields. So swore the tinkers, cobblers, bakers, and masons working in the shops in the towns. So swore the knights in their saddles and the dukes in their manor homes. And so, swore the kings and emperors.
It was the ire of the lower classes, more than the mages themselves, that had moved the rulers to gather in council. In the lord's chamber, of Westfield III's great corn palace, that sat on a long and rigid block of gold rising up from a windswept plain full of wheat. Their gathering place had no roof and low walls, the better to enjoy the sunlight and warm breezes that vexed the wizards so.
“I'm thinking of letting the rabble have their way with them,” grumbled Bloodgre
