The Workhorse by Michael Walker

Long before cities rose, in a dusty frontier town where treasure maps were scratched on weathered parchment, lived Juriel—a penniless prospector obsessed with gold. His only companion? A massive black horse he simply called “Horse,” treating him like a tool rather than a friend. But Horse was no ordinary beast: jet-black coat gleaming like polished onyx, a single white star on his forehead, and deep, knowing eyes that saw straight through his master’s greed.

One furious morning, Juriel raised his whip to punish Horse for eating their last bag of oats. Before the lash could fall, a mysterious voice called from a crooked shop doorway: “Why waste your strength on such a useless animal? Come inside…” Spellbound by the strange old shopkeeper and the promise of unimaginable riches, Juriel stepped into a world of shimmering lights, ancient herbs, and magic. In moments, he held a faded parchment map leading to fortune beyond his wildest dreams.

But true treasure isn’t always gold.

Join Juriel and the loyal Horse on an epic, cinematic fantasy thriller that will sweep you into a heart-pounding adventure of greed, wonder, and redemption. Perfect for readers young and old, this unforgettable saga reveals the life-changing power of caring for those who love you most.

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Excerpt from The Workhorse © Copyright 2025 Michael Walker

CHAPTER ONE

Juriel [*Zhuriel] and the Onyx Horse

Dawn crept across the horizon like a shy visitor, brushing pale gold over the ragged edges of the scrubland. The world was waking inch by inch: first the distant rustle of sagebrush, then the flutter of a bird’s wing, then the hush of morning wind dragging itself over the cracked earth. But none of this beauty mattered to Zhuriel.

Zhuriel had never been a man who greeted mornings with gratitude or awe. He woke each day with the same heavy sigh, the same determination to find riches that forever slipped through his fingers, the same bitterness wrapping around his heart like a stubborn vine.

He kicked at the ashes of last night’s fire and muttered, “Another day, another disappointment unless luck finally decides to show itself.”  Beside him, tethered to a leaning post of dead wood, stood his horse — a creature so striking that even the sunrise seemed to pause for a moment, casting brighter light just to examine him.

Horse — for that was the only name Zhuriel had ever bothered to give him — was enormous. His coat was the deepest black imaginable, so dark it seemed to swallow shadows whole. When Horse moved, light traveled over him like water over polished stone. His mane cascaded down his neck like strands of midnight silk, and his eyes, dark and still, held a quiet intelligence that unsettled anyone who looked too long.  He was the kind of creature stories should have been written about.  But to Zhuriel, he was simply a beast to carry burdens.

Zhuriel stomped toward him, frustration already buzzing in his head. “You ate the oats again,” he said, voice sharp as flint. “Those were worth coin, you stupid animal!”  Horse’s ears flicked back. He didn’t step away or resist; he only watched Zhuriel quietly, that same unreadable depth in his gaze. The way he looked at Zhuriel was strange — almost knowing, almost patient. As if he understood something the prospector refused to see.  That look only angered Zhuriel more.

“How many times must I teach you?!”  The whip cracked through the air like lightning. Horse flinched, his muscles rippling beneath the onyx sheen of his coat. His hooves scraped dust. Yet he didn’t fight back, didn’t rear, didn’t even snort. He simply endured.

A voice broke through the tension.  “Why waste your strength on such a useless animal?”  The whip froze midair.  Zhuriel turned. An old man stood a few yards away, leaning on a crooked staff carved with swirling patterns. His clothes were simple, patched in places, the fabric the color of wood smoke and earth. His beard fell in soft waves to his chest, and his eyes — pale gray, sharp as winter frost — studied Zhuriel with a disconcerting mixture of pity and amusement.

The prospector scowled. “This is no business of yours.”  “Oh, but it is,” the old man said lightly. “Everything is the business of those who still care to notice.”

He pointed with his staff toward a narrow door wedged between two weather-beaten buildings Zhuriel swore hadn’t been there yesterday. Above the door hung a dingy wooden sign so old the letters had worn away entirely.  “Come here,” the man said. “Inside. I’ve something to show you.”

Zhuriel opened his mouth to refuse, but the old man’s tone — calm yet oddly commanding — tugged at him. Something in Zhuriel’s chest tightened in curiosity before he could stop it.  He tossed the whip aside. “Fine. But make it quick. I have work to do.”

As Zhuriel stepped toward the shop, Horse raised his head. For a moment, his dark eyes glimmered with something like alarm — or perhaps warning. But Zhuriel didn’t notice. He was already ducking into the doorway, muttering, “Probably just another beggar with some tall tale.”  Inside, everything changed.

The moment Zhuriel crossed the threshold, the dusty world outside disappeared. The shop was vast — unimaginably vast — stretching upward into an arched ceiling so high it vanished into shadow.  Suspended from that ceiling hung hundreds upon hundreds of crystalline ornaments: long spears of glass, bells shaped like frozen raindrops, spiraling rods etched with delicate patterns. They reached from above like the hanging gardens of some forgotten kingdom.  Light filtered through cracks in the walls, catching the edges of the glass and scattering it in shimmering colors — sapphire, rose, emerald, gold. And then the breeze came.

A single cold breath of wind swept through the room.  The crystals answered.  They chimed — not randomly, not chaotically, but in a symphony so soft and haunting it felt alive. Each shard swung on its thin glass filament, all in different directions, yet somehow perfectly timed. The sound rose like the whisper of a thousand fairies singing from the heart of a mountain. Each crystal’s note layered upon the next until the entire shop vibrated like a giant instrument.

Zhuriel staggered back.  “What — what is this place?”  “Ah…,” said the old man, strolling past him. “The music of things that are fragile but know how to endure.”

Zhuriel stared upward, awe breaking through the crust of his hardened personality. “But how did you…? These things should break. They should fall.”  The old man chuckled. “Why would they fall? The floor is only a suggestion.”  Zhuriel blinked. “A…suggestion?”  The man winked. “This is only your first visit. We must leave a few mysteries for later, mustn’t we?” “…Be careful… I wouldn’t want you to fall um-hm… hmmm…”

The mysterious man lowered himself into a chair beside a small, cluttered table — though Zhuriel was certain that table had not been there seconds ago.  “Sit,” the old man said, gesturing. “Let me tell you something important.”

Zhuriel hesitated. He wasn’t used to taking orders, especially from wrinkled strangers in uncanny shops. But something in the air — maybe the soft singing of the crystals, maybe the old man’s unfathomable calm — coaxed him forward.  He sat.

The old man fixed him with a steady gaze. “You seem like a man always searching and never finding.”  Zhuriel bristled. “I find what I need.”  “Do you?” The old man said, as he raised a brow. “You carry hunger in your eyes. But not the useful kind. This is the hunger of someone who wants everything except what he already has.”