Of North Blood Drawn

Magen: Of North Blood Drawn

By C. J. Watterson

Contributions by Sam

Copyright 2010 C. J. Watterson

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Out of the Cold and Into the Darkness

Chapter 2: Then the Fortress

Chapter 3: The Motley Crew

Chapter 4: Friend, Foe or Damoclus

Chapter 5: Alarums and Excursions

Chapter 6: Damoclus’ Soldier Factory

Chapter 7: The Trials of Damoclus

Chapter 8: The Singing Sword

Chapter 9: Elshan’s Story

Chapter 10: The Black Knight

Chapter 11: The New Weapon

Chapter 12: Shadows of the Past

Chapter 13: Tossed by the Sea

Chapter 14: Tyr’uc’s Trial

Chapter 15: Spy in the Sky

Chapter 16: Power of Thought

Chapter 17: In the Gardens of Tsultsi

Chapter 18: Magen’s Shadow

Chapter 19: The Siege of Solara

Chapter 20: Rule of the Many

Chapter 21: Eat, Drink and be Merry

Chapter 22: For Tomorrow We May Fry

Introduction

This book first began in 2002 as a prologue to introduce Magen for another series and set of characters. The universe this is set in is not ours, but a creation of two young boys playing with Lego. You can find Magen himself in Lego set number 6813.

In detail, you might find some passingly familiar objects, places, animals and people – rest assured this is a deliberate attempt to make everything more comprehensible to you Earthlings. A sheep-like animal for instance, will simply be called a sheep rather than ‘ztorbxbj’. Those who know me best, might notice a likeness to real events, or characters that seem oddly reminiscent – this is of course purely co-incidental.

As with all writing it can’t help but reveal something of the writer, and it will be clear at times that some of my own religious and political views come through. I hope despite this unfortunate occurrence the book is an entertaining read.

Some more discerning individuals might feel that at times a belief in the absurd is encouraged. This is a Science-Fiction Fantasy, and while in the course of things, some things might turn out to be true and some things not, it is for the main part incautious fantasy and wild imagination. I for one do not care if there is or isn’t an invisible pink unicorn in the room – as long as someone cleans up after it…

There is one central absurdity that I urge readers not to believe – and that is the idea, that this Universe is nothing and came from nothing, for no good reason at all.

Thank you to everyone who laboriously read through the chapters as I wrote and encouraged me with their laughter and thoughts. I give you Of North Blood Drawn.

Ciarán

Chapter 1: Out of the Cold and Into the Darkness

Life’s but a walking shadow

-Macbeth, By William Shakespeare

The sky blossoms fell, each one swirling to its own individual path, shaped and distorted by the world’s breath. At first each one looked the same, a tiny white dot, water turned solid. But as one looked closer it became more unique, and then a beautiful crystal lattice. It was unbelievable that no two were the same, each one formed by apparently random forces in the bleached wool-like clouds above.

Yet as one focused more and more on the individual it seemed to lose its purpose. It became nothing more than a short-lived pretty object. Many together combined, in a panorama, and they could blinker and blind any within their swirling mist. Then with the cruel, cold wind of the Ice Bridge, it became a skin piercing blizzard – a death bringer. The minute crystal palaces became biting shurikens.

They tore at Magen’s face, and damped his clothes – freezing his flesh. They sapped away his warmth. He crouched beneath a splintered ice shelf, formed by the slowly shifting sea of ice, ever expanding and contracting. This violent force had created the shield, which now bore the brunt of the wind.

He clawed at his white cloak attempting to wrap it tighter and clutched his knees to his chest. It was futile, it hardly mattered that he was clothed. The world made him naked. He bowed his head in submission, his hood pulled low, guarding his eyes against the stinging snow.

He remained still for some time, almost formless looking with the blinding blizzard. One might have thought him dead or even just another deceiving ice sculpture in the frigid, unforgiving snowscape. The Ice Bridge was so empty and lonely one could be forgiven for thinking that an oddly shaped lump of snow was a person.

It was a harsh place. There was no soil, nothing grew there, and nothing lived there, there was nothing to eat. It only existed in the winter when the planet Seatus drifted away from its master – Solus, the system’s lone sun and the north seas froze.

Seatons did not usually cross it. To them the land of the north was nothing but an unattractive desolate waste. The more superstitious believed there was an advanced and ancient race hiding there. No Seaton had ever found evidence, or at least returned with it – so the Men of the North remained myth. The Ice Bridge connected the continent of North Terranch to a continent of ice that the Seatons called simply in their own language, ‘North Ice-Isle’.

From the latter Magen had come – through hardship, and starvation. Through snow deep enough to swallow all but the toughest of men and women. Surely, he had survived only by great strength of will – or perhaps by the miraculous? Maybe it was just luck, but surely, luck is only an illusion. A way to describe why one in a million chances, should happen to be the one, just at the right time and place.

Magen’s face was gaunt and drawn from the weeks of toil. So many times he’d been blown off course or lost his bearings; the days spent backtracking had stressed his supplies. Then about a week ago – he could no longer be sure – he had lost his pack of supplies after falling into one of the many ever shifting crevasses. Not that there had been much left, but he had also lost his tent, his power packs and his heating equipment.

Now all that protected him were the clothes he, which while appearing like light summer wear, were made of an advanced weave designed to conserve heat. Even so, the arcane technologies of his race could not hold out the penetrating wind of the Ice Bridge.

He was dying now, he was sure of it. His once brilliant blue eyes, sunken now, almost grey – dead, lifeless. His long reddish brown hair, hung lank and limp. Once well trained muscle was now gnawed to bone. Despair and death closed in on him, like vultures of the desert. He could not see that this land of ice, seemingly forsaken by Cru’athor – creator of the world – would ever end.

Magen was outcast; despised, feared, ridiculed and unwanted. He had no place in a society of telepaths - such as the ‘mystic’ North Ice-Islanders were. He had no such ability. His mind was firmly shackled within itself. Cursed from birth by his creator – so he considered.

It was only by his parent’s love – and deceit, he had reached the age of twenty before being discovered. They had done their best for him, they had taught him much. They had taught him how to shield his mind from telepaths. This was how the society maintained individuality. Not all thoughts were shared. They concealed his lack of ability, but in any society no secret lasts forever – more so in a society of telepaths.

Society, Magen felt, was very unforgiving. How inhuman and cruel to send one of their own into the cold. Friends from childhood had turned on him. His parents had to feign disgust – which must have been terrible for them. How hard it was for them. How reviled for the bearing of an abomination – a genetic regression.

He hated those hypocrites. They claimed to be a just, forgiving, accommodating, almost perfect society. Now the wool had been pulled from his eyes by those same hypocrites. They were no better than the Seatons of the south, over whom they presumed superiority. They were no more perfect, and they were no less human in their failings. Yet to the Seatons, they were an ideological aspiration. But the Seatons did not know the Northerners; all they knew of them were myths, legends and old wives’ tales.

To the Seatons Magen had set out – been forced out. On foot, he had left with only the supplies he could carry on his back. Leaving had been dreamlike – or nightmarish, it seemed unreal; but it had happened and his mind could find no respite from it. He had not been unprepared. His mother never believed the lie would last, but His father never even admitted there was a lie; such was his skill at self-deception.

In any other family, a non-telepath such as Magen would simply have been ignored and hidden from public view. Magen’s father though, was one of the Oisla, leaders of the North Ice-Islanders. He was obligated to follow the ancient traditions that had ruled the North Ice-Islanders these past millennia. How Magen despised these traditions, traditions that kept time frozen for the long lived Northerners.

One thing that stood out was the sword. An old man, with a ridiculously long beard had approached him. He had been flustered, as if he had almost forgotten some event of monumental importance, and remembered just in time. All he had done was breathlessly hand him the sword. He said not a word, except, Cru’athor guide your path, boy. It was absurd – the man had made Magen feel so important in a moment where he had felt like nothing.

Foolishness; the old man probably wasn’t even really all there anyway. What use was the sword, it was purposeless. For defence, a gun would have been better – but the North Ice Islanders had rejected such things long ago. Oh, they still had the knowledge and ways of manufacturing such things, but they were hidden and forbidden to the Eisla – and Magen was not even Eisla, he was outcast.

Magen was well trained with the sword. For the son of an Oisla, knowing how to use a sword was vitally important. A duel was the traditional way of settling a dispute between the Oisla, but no blood was to be drawn. The duel was more about ceremony and style, than actually causing injury to the other combatant. The dispute was resolved by showing greater expertise, and disarming your opponent. The whole thing was more an elaborate dance than a violent combat – which made it much more palatable to the North Ice-Islanders.

Guns and bows however, were simply for killing, which the traditions spoke against. And no matter Magen’s skill with a sword, he still could not stop a gun with one – and the Seatons used guns, were violent and fought wars.

Magen had loved the grace of the sword and lovingly indulged this hobby. He had studied many styles, even the more violent, more brutally practical Seaton ones, much to his father’s disapproval. There were few that could best him. Now he began to hate this sword. It seemed a joke, something his parents had arranged to make him feel better, but it pointless. So much had been taken away – there could be no comfort.

These thoughts brought back the anger and hate which had fuelled him until now. Now it spurred him again. He would prove he was no mere, weak genetic regression. He would conquer the Ice Bridge. He would reach the forest-like cities of the Terranchi and he would not be insignificant. No!

He would be no mere vagabond to be hated and despised. He was not garbage; he was a human being, whose power is not solely in the body, or physical abilities, but in the creativity, imagination and freedom of the mind. It was what a person decided and did, despite circumstance, that made them human or not – not telepathy, or two legs and a pretty face...

The blizzard was slackening, and Magen determined it was time to move on. Then, inflamed by his pride, hate, his desire to prove himself, and a rather fanciful belief he was worth something, he stumbled to his feet, and began to walk. Shakily he placed one foot before the other – pitching his will once again against the elements, and the world, which seemed to spurn him.

He staggered through the deep snow, the chill of which had long ago touched his feet with disease. But no pain could bar him from the prize he sought – life. His will alone could not have sustained him as he plunged onward – he was not forgotten, and the old man had not been quite mad.

He plodded sturdy in his resolve for many hours. Then his spirit ebbed again, and there was no ridge of shelter. His head hung low, partly to shield his eyes, partly because he could not find the strength to raise it and see where he was. He began to slow and his steps faltered and became erratic. And that disease which is not easily shaken – despair, was catching up as he slowed. Its dark clammy hand closed on the fire of Magen’s rage, which began to splutter as it was suffocated.

Now, he neared the end of the Ice Bridge. Had he looked up to the horizon, he would have seen the mighty trees of North Terranch. Those trees that stood un-yielding, a fortress of life against the splintering winds of the Ice Bridge for hundreds of years. The Seatons were known to love the trees, a remnant of some long dead belief, and let them grow wild and old. Magen had been told to look for the trees, as a sign he had come to the end of his journey. He did not see the hope before him, which may have salved his ailment.

Memories billowed up before him like mirages in a desert – not the poisonous ones of recent events, but the sweet honey-like ones of the past. Memories of all that was good; of his home, his parents love, and his friends. The splendorous cities, like ice or snowflakes, but warmer – intricate, crystalline, and beautiful beyond all measure to Magen.

He could remember the scent laden air of his homeland, clear fresh and free; for the scent of Osant’s ice blue flowers, opened the airways. Osant, the only plant that grew wild in those frozen wastes. Oh! How he did miss that sweet air. Here he fought for each and every breath in the fast flowing wind.

Then there was the singing of his race, inaudible to the ear, but heard always in the mind. In reality, it was merely the chatter of thousands of telepaths. To one ungifted, it seemed like a wistful song – with every emotion in its lyrics. In that respect, it was true. Magen had heard it all his life, until he had been taught to block his mind – to hide his shame. The regrets of a life lost forever, opened the wound of despair, and soon illness flowed back.

His feet became leaden, almost immovable – and his shoulders, like two colossal anvils bearing him down. He stumbled, snow lapped around his waist. Briefly, he tried to stand, but he could not raise himself. He could go no further, his fire dead, the embers spent... He knelt, slumped, defeated, the long silence drawing near. He closed his eyes, as if to shut out the uncaring world, the tears of his sorrow seeped out.

Over the fading winds, an unpleasant voice came to him…

Hey! Look lads, what’s this... a kid, all lost and alone, it sneered, Maybe we can show this poor child his way to the fancy dress party... the voice guffawed in Terranchi Seaton, raucous laughter of others followed. He referred to Magen’s clothes, which of course, had not been in fashion for some thousands of years in Seaton society.

Magen lifted his head sluggishly and opened his eyes again. With a blank, almost disconnected look, he took in his now altered surroundings. His mind was slow to translate what the Seaton said.

A rather grubby looking, unshaven man stood not more than a few paces away. How had he not heard his approach, had he been asleep, unconscious? Perhaps he had just been so disconnected with the world he had not heard. Further away, a dozen men encircled him; they looked as shabby as the first. They wore heavy fur coats, and had every appearance that they were living in the wild.

It seemed quite menacing that they had taken this encircling position, almost like a slavering pack of wolves. Magen realised that these men were not looking to help him. They were outcasts as Magen was, but they had been cast out for a very different reason. They were criminals... highwaymen.

What is it you want? Magen slurred, too exhausted to speak coherently. The effort of forming the unnatural Seaton words was almost insurmountable.

Oh – not much... The first man said; he was the leader of the band, Our price is not prohibitive... Only everything you have, he let a sly grin split across his face. With a slight wrist motion, the men began to close in on Magen, brandishing a variety of short blades.

I have nothing to give – all I have is my life, and the clothes I wear, Magen responded. It seemed the sluggishness was abating slightly.

That will do nicely, The Gang’s leader smirked.

For a moment, Magen was glad that his journey was finally over, that soon it would end. He caught a glimpse of the tree tops in the distance. Suddenly his ambition to defeat the Ice Bridge was reawakened – he had done it! And now his goal of reaching the city of Gahon, the most northern of the Seaton cities was almost within reach. And yet, here was already another stumbling block beset him. It seemed that he was doomed to failure. Perhaps, maybe, he could...

Magen gathered all that he had left of his strength. He drew his sword with painful slowness. Gradually the tip dragged through the air, and settled, pointing at the leader.

You might find it costs dear – I have not come all this way to be stopped by you... Magen said grimly.

Yes, the world could take him; he could not defeat the climate. But these men, who barely deserved that name, that would kill simply for fun – he would not let them take him; at least not easily. Magen felt a rage build up again, and the despair, muted by hope. He felt a strange new strength coming to him.

Now, now... the leader said in a mocking tone, holding his hands out in front of him as if in submission, No need for violence. This brought on another chorus of laughter. They knew he was weak, he couldn’t even stand and that he was easy pickings. They knew that he was one and they were... well actually, most of them couldn’t count past five, but they knew they were more.

The robber chief walked casually up to Magen and his knife flicked out, he tapped the sword away nonchalantly and held his dagger under Magen’s chin. Magen stood up wordlessly, the chief’s dagger rose with him. As did Magen’s sword, hanging limp in his hand. Fury burned in his eyes, and doubt entered the robber chief. Magen swayed.

They stood like this for a few moments. The bandit leader relaxed. Suddenly, with startling speed for one so worn, Magen’s hand caught hold of the thief’s arm, twisting it deftly, incapacitating him. Then in routine-like motion, he ran his sword into the chief, it slid in smoothly without sound. He died, and fell as Magen released him.

Magen glared at the faces of the men surrounding him. They stood petrified with shock; it had been so fast – and so unforgiving. The shock gave way to revenge lust. Magen smiled grimly, his weapon was much superior to their puny knives. The smile contorted into a frown as he realised his error. He was outnumbered; he could not fight off all the bandits at once. He was just one man.

A dagger came hurtling through the air, expertly propelled. Magen’s second error was realised. Some daggers, it appeared, had quite good range, not limited by the length of the blade.

It buried itself in Magen’s stomach with brutal force. He crumpled up and fell to his knees for the second time that day. He gripped the hilt of the offending dagger with his free hand, his knuckles whitened. The gang drew closer; seemingly satisfied they had defeated him. They would watch their prey die...

Magen fought with death, he struggled against the clouds of darkness stealing over him. His breath was short and rapid now. He could not let it end here; he had suffered too much already to give in now. He looked to the sky, it was clear now, a deep aquamarine, the storm had past. He was so close, so close to a new life.

He wrenched the dagger out and he stared at it for a moment, his breath stabilising. Then he flung it with all his might at the man who had thrown it. It found its mark and bit vengefully into the man’s left shoulder. He howled in agony.

I – Will – Not – Submit! Magen roared to the world in general in North Ice Islandish – a language alien, and now terrifying to the unsettled bandits.

He rose again, and did not flinch. The bandits now fearing the blade – paused. Such people are not generally brave – it doesn’t pay. They rely more on the element of surprise, and their victim being weak and intimidated.

One of them, pushing up the bar for bandit bravery, rushed Magen, thrusting his dagger. Magen stepped neatly to the side. The sword flicked out its remorseless tongue, amputating the attacker’s dagger hand. Then his blade curved back, slicing through the bandit’s midriff. The bandit fell.

Magen’s head throbbed from his rushing blood; he could not keep up this performance. His only hope was that the bandits would give up.

Everything seemed to be growing darker again, his eyes glazed. A second dagger struck him in the back. He arched in pain, staggered a few steps and fell forward; dimly aware the remaining men were fleeing. But Magen continued to fall; he plunged out of the cold and into the darkness.

* * * * *

A Seaton Guard scout patrol lay flat on the crest of a nearby snow drift, watching the scene as it unfolded. They numbered ten.

The Seatons were, in general, a militaristic race, obsessed with security and defence. Not that they were paranoid, they just liked to be prepared for the worst. The Seaton Guard were a body that acted as police, peace-keepers and defenders in time of war.

The idea was to create a soldier that acted more like police than police that acted like soldiers. In theory, force was used only when absolutely necessary. In battle, the necessity was greater, but the judgement exercised the same. More importantly, the Seaton Guard would not constantly warmonger, as the peace times would be more attractive, with considerably less chance of premature death.

A large proportion of the adult Seaton population passed through the Seaton Guard at one time or another in their long lives. For a being that lived up to three hundred years, a term in the Seaton Guard was nothing, and a welcome break from the office job. The majority of Seatons preferred the stricter, more structured lifestyle it offered. Also, there was, the War...

The man in white had just initiated the fight, which the scouts could all see was unavoidable.

Hey Sarge! Should we go down there and help him? He’s kind of outnumbered and that’s not fair... a huge ox-like man nicknamed ‘Meat’ asked.

He was called ‘Meat’, simply because that’s what his enemies usually became. Not that he ate them or anything; meat in the sense that they were dead – as meat is usually expected to be. He was ever looking for a fight. The Es’stons, whom they were at war with, had been keeping quiet for months now, so he was eager to stay in practise.

No. The man in white started it, so I don’t think we can take his side. We might round up those bandits later – you’ll get your chance, Sarge answered in his calm commanding voice. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to handle the paperwork for this one. Bandits could be shot on sight, but if he had to bring this fellow in white back, well that would be – awkward.

But Sarge... the huge man pleaded. He dwarfed Sarge with his sheer bulk, he could easily have crushed him, probably with one hand, but he respected the man’s leadership. It was not the ‘done’ thing to waste effective leaders. Fortunately for Sarge – he had worked hard on his leadership skills.

No, Sarge said bluntly. He often found it odd that Meat should prefer to take the side of the under-dog. Several of the squad gasped as the man in white took a dagger to the stomach.

We have to help him now, it’s my duty as a doctor if not as a soldier, the doctor of the squad said authoritatively. She was nicknamed ‘Dots’. The reasons for this were obscure, even to the squad. It may have been because she was freckled, or her name was Dorothy, or alternatively, simply because Doc and Dots have two letters in common.

What? Sarge uttered; aghast that his authority was being undermined.

I could take a few off from here, cut down their numbers, y’ know, the squad sniper told Dots. He was called Snips like as in scissors, hedge trimmers and such. He was a tall, lean greasy haired man, almost criminal looking – of the cunning and calculating kind.

The squad appeared to be ignoring Sarge; they were all creeping forward slowly, camouflaged by their chameleonic armour. Dots rebuked Snips for offering to give her more work. Sarge gave up.

All right, let’s go help. We’ll sneak up on them so they don’t get a chance to run away, in being a leader, it was almost as important to look like you were in control – as actually being in control.

The man in white took a second dagger, in the back. Snips took it upon himself to reap immediate revenge. He shot one in the head with his plasma rifle. The rest of the bandits broke and ran. The man in white flopped to the ground.

Instantly the squad took up firing positions at Sarge’s orders. The whine of accelerating plasma echoed across the empty landscape. Their plasma blasters made the air simmer and blister as bolts of dense plasma found homes, mostly in the bodies of the bandits, incinerating them or punching right through. Still a few managed to escape the hail of fire, running out of range.

Doc Dots was already kneeling beside the man in white, she looked confused. The rest of the squad joined her.

What’s wrong?! Get to work! Sarge demanded.

I’m sorry, it’s just... I’m sure he should be dead or dying right now; but he appears quite stable, Dots said with an air of puzzlement. She commenced to treat Magen, removing the dagger and sealing the wounds with her laser scalpel. Wordlessly the squad fashioned a stretcher from the man’s cloak.

He’s not Terranchi, Sarge declared, "Nor is he Jahiran, Solaran or Kellsati. He could be from Temini, I’ve never been there, but I doubt a cloak would be suitable for the tropical climate. It’s entirely possible he isn’t even Seaton." Sarge had visions of the tower of paper this would create, maybe even official enquiries, he shuddered.

How can you tell? Snips asked as they headed in the direction of Gahon.

From his garb man! When’s the last time you’ve seen a man wearing a cloak and tunic?!

Oh, right, after a moment’s thought Snips added, Maybe he was on his way to a fancy dress party.

Yeah, there’s a great deal of social events held on the Ice Bridge... It’s the weather that attracts the party goers, Sarge replied sarcastically.

Maybe he’s an Es’ston? Meat said in his usual ponderous manner. This thought seemed to excite Meat; where there was one Es’ston, there were bound to be more.

I don’t think so... Dots puzzled, He doesn’t match up – physiologically, I mean.

What's... fizy... fizylogcly mean? Meat asked.

He couldn’t be... Sarge almost suggested.

Nah – they don’t exist. Just a bunch of old wives tales. Ain’t it? Snips said. Looks passed...

He came from the direction of the Ice Bridge – why would someone be out there, unless they were hiding... Sarge attempted to engage his meagre detective skills.

Let’s get him back to base. Probably the best thing to do, it won’t matter who he is, if he’s dead. Dots decided sensibly.

The squad lifted the makeshift stretcher as Snips began to embark on the arduous task of explaining the new word to Meat. The wind began to pick up again and the crystal palaces began to fall thicker. Sarge ordered his squad to shield the wounded man from the weather with their bodies. And so clustered around the stranger from the north, they worked their way toward Gahon.

Chapter 2: Then the Fortress

Life’s but a walking shadow

-Macbeth, By William Shakespeare

Magen woke. He was confused and disorientated, possibly because it had been so long since he had felt any degree of warmth. It was more likely, however, from loss of blood, several near mortal wounds, and being in an unfamiliar room.

It was small and cramped. A sickly pink band ran round halfway up the white, clinical walls. He deduced he was in a hospital. The pink was suggestive – a colour choice that would only ever be made for a hospital. It had to be military too. There were no windows, only artificial light and the thickly reinforced doorframe could surely take a beating. The pragmatic Seatons probably preferred artificial lighting. Windows were breakable and easy to see a target through – not very defensible at all.

His bed was soft and comfortable – or would have been, but for the many sensors attached to his body. He thought of removing them but it would probably sound an alarm when his heartbeat disappeared. He wasn’t looking for attention quite yet; he needed time to think.

The door opened smoothly. A weathered, aged looking man walked in. He wore an officer’s uniform and bore himself with an air of importance. He appeared squat, broad across the chest and only an average height – a typical Terranchian. His pale north skin glistened with a minor sweat, suggesting he was not an ‘active’ officer. Wispy grey hair haloed an open and friendly face; his bushy side burns added a slightly comical air.

Good-day, my mysterious friend, he greeted cheerfully, You received quite a nasty injury or so I understand. Would you mind if I asked your name? The man pulled up a chair and sat facing him.

You already have – friend. My name is Magen Agasan, I come from Satah in Jahiro, Magen was uncertain as to the military man’s intentions, so he was wary of what he said. If you call someone ‘friend’, they usually try to maintain that perception. The man burst out in laughter, it was quite a while before he stopped.

"I’m afraid, friend Magen, he gasped catching his breath, That your Seaton is quite archaic and thoroughly unconvincing. And if you’re Jahiran, I’m from North Ice-Isle," he ended with a probing statement; he was quite obviously testing some theories.

Magen had to admit that Seatons might be more intelligent than he had previously imagined. He kept a straight face, but not too straight – No, that would have been more obvious than a flicker of guilt.

The man continued after a brief pause, You’re not Seaton, nor are you Es’ston, the doctors are sure of that at least. Just who – and what are you?

Magen decided his best response to this was to ask a question himself.

I’m sorry, but I seem to have missed your name... Magen replied.

Centurion Damoclus, at your service, he declared, standing up and taking a mocking but friendly bow, "My scouts are the ones who found you. They saved your life... or so they say. I’m told you fought off twenty men – an exaggeration certainly!

That, however, is why I’m here... apart from to settle my own curiosities.

Magen understood the Centurion’s furtive diggings now, I don’t understand. For what, exactly, are you here? Thus far you have just been amusing yourself, He said sourly in his ‘archaic’ Seaton, which he had spent five years learning. It was really a bit of a let-down. He had spent many hours practising an accent that was probably several centuries out of date.

Why of course. I’m here to deliver your sentence for the manslaughter of three men.

Do I get a voice at the hearing?

What! My goodness no! Why if we had to listen to a defence it would take twice as long! the Centurion laughed, With the war we need to be a little more efficient about these things.

Was he serious? I’ve never been in trouble with the law before… Magen confessed, I really not sure how this works.

Well the Guards might have read you your rights – only you were unconscious at the time, the Centurion smirked, "It works somewhat like this; evidence of your guilt is presented to a panel of officers. They try to knock holes in it, and then they pass judgement.

"The defendant can make an appeal, he admitted, In that case an entirely new panel is selected, and the process repeated. In the mean time you would be placed in a holding cell, he stated, I wouldn’t try an appeal. Most likely you’d just annoy them and they might decide a re-constructive institution more apt, or the least expensive option."

Magen shuddered to think what ‘reconstructive’ might mean, So what, pray tell, is my sentence? he asked. He wasn’t in the mood for playing around with words.

Ah, yes. You’ve been drafted into the Seaton Guard... for defence of the planet in the current crisis. It’s not a bad sentence; the war might even be over before you complete training, if you’re lucky. Though considering it’s been going on for the past couple of centuries, I’d say it’s unlikely to stop any time soon.

Magen reflected on this, he didn’t hold anything against Es’stons – he’d never met any. He was aware the Seatons had a long-standing war against them. His father had told him there wasn’t really anything in it – a minor tiff.

The Guard though, probably was the best way to meld into Seaton society. There didn’t seem to be a choice anyway. With a sudden pang of anxiety, he realised he was missing his sword and cloak, the few things he had to remind him of his home.

Where’s my sword? Magen demanded in a panicky voice. For some reason, despite deciding to hate the sword, deep down he still clung to the hope, the romantic ideal that it actually meant something. He didn’t expect Damoclus to know. Doubtless, his rescuers had stolen it, soldiers being what they are; thieves, murderers, swindlers and so forth.

You’ll get it back when you report to me in a week’s time. You should be healed by then, and you’ll be joining my training division, the humorous Damoclus replied.

Thanks, he replied simply.

Whatever for? Oh, by the way, I recommend being a Teminite, nobody around here knows much about them. They could have four arms for all they’d know. Magen’s new commander smiled and left the room.

Magen realised then he had forgotten to ask where he was, he cursed himself. He tried to sit up. His stomach muscles burned deeply for a few minutes; he fell back to his bed. The pain left Magen panting for breath. He decided his best option was to sleep and build up his strength.

When Magen woke again, there was an addition to the room. A fold up table sat beside his bed with a plate of food on it. Magen investigated the food from his current position. He wasn’t sure if he could sit up. On the plate, there were a couple of slices of beef, a pile of mashed potato, some peas and a few stalks of broccoli.

Magen was starving, this regular dinner seemed a feast; there was even a jug of gravy! He was certain the doctors had fed him in some way before, but he still felt as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

There were but two problems. Firstly, the meal had gone cold – you’d think they could have woken him for it. Secondly, he couldn’t sit up and reach it. He did, however, have a means at his disposal to get attention. He began to remove the sensors, the monitor started to whine. He grinned at the simplicity of it and waited.

Within seconds, the corridor echoed with the sound of running feet. The first to enter was a doctor; she was stocky and dark haired. When she saw Magen was not suffering a cardiac arrest a distinct look of annoyance passed over her face. A nurse trotted in after her. She was slightly shorter, and her build was delicate in comparison with the Terranchi doctor.

She had snow-white hair, curiously, because she was obviously quite young. At first Magen thought she was albino, but her deep blue eyes told otherwise. Her bronze tanned skin also scuppered that idea. With such exotic features, she certainly wasn’t Terranchi either.

I told you he was okay! the nurse reprimanded the doctor, I think his heart would probably keep going even if you chopped off his head.

Thanks Janessa, I really appreciate your advice, the dark haired doctor replied dryly. Now, Magen what was it you wanted – now that you’ve got my attention. Damoclus evidently had distributed his name.

I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t sit up to eat my meal and I’m absolutely starving, Magen said apologetically.

The doctor gave Janessa an accusing look, I hope you realise this is your fault. You should have woken him for his meal, she said.

Janessa was at a loss for words, clearly wishing she wasn’t there.

No, don’t go away, the doctor said as Janessa turned to leave, You can help this poor lad eat his meal; then you can see to fixing up his wounds a bit better. The experience will do you good. Actually you can go and get him some hot food, this stuff has gone cold.

Experience? Magen wasn’t too pleased about the idea of being ‘practise’.

Do you want me to chew it for him as well, Janessa replied sharply. The doctor glared at her and left the room. Janessa turned to watch her go. For a moment, it looked like she would stick out her tongue...

Don’t bother, Magen said to the nurse.

Don’t bother what? she replied hotly.

Getting me a fresh meal, I’m starving and I don’t want to wait half an hour just to get it hot. You can help me sit up though.

"Oh, okay, anything else, my lord?"

Magen groaned inwardly, Janessa was still suffering from her embarrassment.

She walked over to him and gently helped him into sitting position. He waited for the pain to abate before tucking in. A thought struck him as he was on his second mouthful.

Is it okay to eat? I mean I did get a stomach wound, Magen asked nervously, his knowledge of medicine was not very deep, especially in relation to Seaton medical practises.

Oh yes, it’s alright, Doc Dots fixed that when she found you. She messed up repairing to tissues though. She’s always a bit sloppy once she’s joined the critical edges. I guess she doesn’t see that the patient needs to be able to walk afterwards! Janessa laughed.

I don’t see what’s so funny – you’ll have to cut me open again to fix it, won’t you? Magen said glumly. He imagined the Seaton treatments to be quite crude.

Oh no, you see I’ve got this clever little tool. It can cut and join through the skin without breaking it. Most operations don’t require an open wound – though if something has to be physically removed, that’s a different matter.

Right… where are we by the way? I didn’t quite pick up on that, Magen decided to change the subject; he was trying to eat.

A little backwater, called Gahon, she said.

I take it you aren’t impressed, something wrong with it? Magen was quite pleased that he had made it to the very city he had been aiming for. Not that there were many other possibilities.

It’s boring. Everybody stays inside and it’s too cold to go out. Where are you from and why are you talking in that funny accent? She asked suddenly.

Eh... I grew up in an isolated village in Temini, Magen replied a little unsure of himself, he simply had to improve that accent.

Janessa laughed, Come on, you don’t expect me to believe that, you don’t have the right skin complexion.

Magen cursed under his breath, in North Ice-Islandish. He suspected Damoclus had deliberately misled him. It wasn’t funny.

Sorry, what was that? It sounded very rude to me. The girl seemed to have quite sharp hearing.

Nothing – what is this place anyway? he said, quickly changing the subject.

This is the Seaton Defence base for city of Gahon and its surrounding villages, she recited in a very bored voice.

You know what – you don’t sound very much like the Centurion.

No, I wouldn’t, I’m a girl, Janessa said.

Magen sighed, I meant as in your accent, it sounds different. Where are you from?

The city of Solara, centre of the universe, the place where the destiny of all men lies – or so they say, she said it in a mocking manner. It accounted for her attitude towards Gahon and probably Terranch. When you weren’t impressed with Solara, it was likely nothing at all would impress you.

Magen finished his meal. He left the cold broccoli and peas. Broccoli was nice enough, but it was thoroughly inedible when cold – like little rubber strips.

You should eat your vegetables, you need some extra vitamins just now, Janessa chided him.

Uh... no thanks, cold broccoli makes my stomach churn.

Okay, I’ll get to work now, Janessa drew a pencil shaped object from her pocket. She pushed Magen back into a horizontal position. Magen was horrified.

Aren’t you going to give me a sedative first?!

Oh no! You’ve just eaten, besides you won’t feel a thing if you stay relaxed. You don’t have to look – but there’ll be nothing to see anyway, she grinned wickedly. Then she pulled a screen out over his stomach. A detailed picture of his innards flickered up – Magen quickly averted his eyes. Janessa attached a small pad to Magen’s temple.

What’s that?

You’ll see, she gave a brief smirk.

She moved the ‘pencil’ over his skin, immediately he was paralysed, which came as quite a shock. His eyes started, but then he relaxed. Indeed, it was painless. All he felt was a slight tickling sensation, almost as if lukewarm water was being dribbled on his stomach. It was over in a few minutes and he was released from his paralysis. Janessa removed the pad and he opened his eyes, she was laughing at him.

Baby, she accused, That wasn’t so bad now was it. Try to sit up now.

Magen found that he could sit up without much effort. The muscles were still stiff and aching though.

I’ll be joining up at the same time as you, so we can go to the Centurion’s office together, at the end of the week, she smiled, Damoclus asked me to show you the way.

She had a dangerous smile, it was very disarming – and Magen didn’t feel terribly well-armed in the first place.

Why would you want to join the army?

It’s the easiest way to get my doctor’s qualifications and besides those filthy Es’stons killed my brother, she gritted her teeth as she said the last bit.

Revenge then – oh well, nobody’s perfect. I’m joining as punishment for killing two men, it hardly makes sense that my punishment should be to kill more, Magen said bitterly.

The fight troubled him. In a moment before it, he had seen the bandits as something lesser, something worthless; but how could he say his life was worth more than three? How could he presume that he was better fit to live? Arrogance, the curse of his race.

Damoclus mentioned three; this presumably meant the man who had a dagger to the shoulder had also died. It was three, however much he preferred to think of it as two. He knew he had even intended to kill the third – and that was murder.

It was in self-defence though, Janessa said consolingly, sensing Magen’s guilt. I have to go now; I do have other patients to treat. I’ll pop round tomorrow to see how you are, she left.

Magen felt suddenly very much alone, and he was still hungry. He had yet to get a hot meal. There was nothing else to do so he went back to sleep. Sleep, where he could escape the guilt, or so he thought, but dreams often dwell closer to reality.

Janessa came and went over the next few days, mostly at mealtimes. She talked mainly of Seaton society and how it worked, perhaps guessing that Magen knew very little about it. This gave her the upper hand in their conversations, if they could be called that, as she did most of the talking.

She described to him current dress styles, the various cultures of Seatus, greetings, government; she even tried to improve his accent and archaic vocabulary. He found her description of the different dress styles common to the different Seaton cultures amusing.

The Terranchi largely wore sheepskin; sheepskin trousers, sheepskin boots, sheepskin jackets – woollen jumpers were also popular, as were large coats that reached down past the knees. Whoever was rearing the sheep was minting it.

Teminites wore mostly nothing, sandals and a few scraps of clothing to cover certain parts, which were not for public display. It had to do with the climate.

The Kellsati wore grandiose luridly coloured robes, of pomp and self-importance. They apparently felt that they were the heart of the Seaton race, having the largest army and most liquid economy. Solarans wore mostly white linen – even on the beaches! He noticed that Janessa still wore her nation’s white linen, despite the freezing climate of North Terranch.

Jahirans wore anything that they felt was currently in fashion, they were merchant people and therefore most susceptible to influence from other cultures. They barely had any of their own left, what they had was more of a patchwork. Or perhaps they had the richest culture, because of that.

The Angtari wore anything that could keep the rain out; they had a very wet and cold climate. Angtar was different, the only continent that wasn’t also a state. It came under the power of the Terranchi government. It was apparent that Angtar was really a country of its own. Sometime in the past, the Terranchi had apparently engaged in a spot of conquest. It sounded like interesting history to Magen; unfortunately, Janessa knew little of the details.

Janessa also described how the Seaton-Es’ston War had begun. Es’stus was stuffed full of people, she began. They needed to expand and there was no space on Es’stus. They were amazed to find a perfectly habitable planet (Seatus) just round on the other side of the sun.

They sent some probes and were delighted to discover that there were vast tracts of wilderness (a little too much sea perhaps). The probes also reported no signs of developed civilisation. They were probably looking at Terranch and Es’stons think civilisation means lots of big cities.

Really though, the Es’ston government were perfectly happy to be myopic. Soon several unarmed civilian Es’ston colony ships arrived at Seatus. The communication between the Es’stons and Seatons went something like this:

Hello, we are the Es’stons, we come in peace. All we want to do is use up all that land you aren’t using.

What, are you mad, this is our planet. Try to land and we’ll blast you to smithereens.

The Es’stons believing (or having been led to believe) that the Seatons weren’t much more than savages ignored this threat. There were no to second warnings, so they proceeded to blast Es’stons out of the skies with their planetary guns.

The surviving Es’ston ships went home, told their government of the Seaton atrocities and then came back enforce, to force the issue. They soon met the Seaton Battlecruisers – cities in space, armed with massive plasma cannons and numerous other nasty weapons.

These ships were not originally designed for war, but for deep space exploration and colonisation – perfectly peaceful. However as the Seatons usually did, these ships were armed with weapons for defence. The Seatons rarely built anything that wasn’t defensive – it wasn’t paranoia, they just liked to be prepared for the worst. They never actually expected it to happen.

The war progressed in this way; the Seatons had superiority in space and Es’stons on the ground, due to overwhelming numbers. So far, the Es’stons hadn’t succeeded in landing a large force, kept at bay by the Seaton Battlecruisers.

As far as Magen could see, the Es’stons had temporarily solved their problem. They simply threw the excess population at the immovable