Of North Blood Drawn Read online

  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, al
most 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.