A Better Future

By Charles Furneaux

In the future we're more advanced, but we're still the same. The year is 3636. Genetically improved races populate the world, except for a wandering people - the Cutters. Underlying all is the long forgotten work of the ancients: us. A shortage of hephaestium has arisen -wondrous crystals that have 'the power to 'work machines, to give light, to see the future’- and one group of people, the Gennans, need continued supply. At first they decide on a war to secure it, but cooler heads prevail and instead they send an embassy to the hephaestium-rich Mermanic Kingdoms seeking a trade deal to get it. Gildan, the hero of the story, is part of that mission. However when the Gennan embassy is disastrously ambushed, war is immediately declared. Initially the Gennans enjoy success, but eventually their seemingly invincible army is routed, and Gildan is chosen to lead the survivors home.
To succeed Gildan must escape a mad despot, King Kraton, as well as the wrath of the Mermanic Kingdoms. Most dangerous of all though is the threat from within, namely the brutal knights of the Guild of Hephaestium, and the enmity of his once closest friend, Malsham. With his friends Murtho, Macmay, Sark, Garon and the Cutter, Gildan almost succeeds in returning home. But at the last moment he is stopped, and ultimately captured. This leads him into a doomed love affair with an enemy queen. Only then does he become aware of the true nature of his world and the real causes of the war. When his relationship is cruelly ended he promises his lost love to stop another disastrous conflict from occurring, and finally returns home. To fulfil his promise though, first he must settle with those back home who are responsible for the war occurring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Furneaux
• Release date: Sep 8, 2012

Book preview

Chapter 1

(Prelude to War)

Gildan knew it was wise to tread cautiously in such a holy place. He paused, worried now. On one side of the hallway a tableau of the gods was carved in stone, and he wondered if they disapproved of what he proposed. He already knew Holy Advisor Chableam would. He looked up. They looked down silently, all seeing, all knowing. Guron, god of war and bravery, mightiest of all; by his side his consort Netha, law giver, truth seeker and peace maker. Beside both, Artefus, crafty and cunning, messenger of the gods and mischief maker, turner of luck when victory presented. Next to Artefus was Ebody, whom Artefus was trying to bewitch with a love potion; Olansk at his forge, maker of swords, blesser of crafts. Further in the background mingling in shadowy form among them waited red Tarsus and Telfur, part-human, part-beast, ready to come forward with chaos and destruction if left unguarded. Finally over all flew Ekin, winged god of final victory, supreme embodiment of Guron’s wishes in battle.

Gildan breathed out. The air remained still, heavy with their presence. Knights’* god Guron, give me a sign that I am right, he prayed silently.

Ed. Note. (*The literal translation of the word ‘knight’ as used throughout the manuscript means one imbued with the god Guron’s holy light in handling weapons of war. The word is gender neutral as indicated by the suffix ‘ew’ in the original text. The panel have adopted usage of the word ‘knight’ throughout this edition, as while there is no direct equivalent, this appears to be the closest approximation to the word in English.)

A flash of wings high above disturbed the quiet. A bird flew down through the light well. For a second it circled in alarm, the drumbeat of its wings sounding, until it passed back out through the high-vaulted roof. Away. Free, Gildan thought, even as he wished to be. Then he knew: that was the sign. Sent by Guron himself. Artefus taking form as a bird to bring Guron’s message. Like the bird Gildan should fly free from this place at once. That was the sign he’d prayed for. The gods were with him.

He began walking forward again, confident now. At the end of the wide hallway he knocked at the broad metal door.

‘Come in,’ he heard her say.

Gildan entered. In a corner bent over a desk sat Holy Advisor Chalbeam, studying a holy text. She looked up, carefully marking her place.

‘Gildan, it is always good to see you,’ she said. ‘Why haven’t you changed?’

Gildan looked at the chain mail doublet he wore. Unlike Chalbeam who wore flowing blue robes, his clothes were those of a soldier.

‘I have been thinking, Holy Advisor, in fact I’ve given it much thought, and have decided despite your kind offer to study under you as a Holy Advisor, to leave such study and return to my estate.’

‘And do what?’

‘I intend to best those I am able to at the Harvest Tournament, and to enlist in service with my father’s old Lord* if successful.’

Ed. Note. (* The literal translation of the word ‘lord’ as used throughout the manuscript means a knight of the highest order, one exhibiting the holiest qualities of Guron in leading those in war. The word in is also gender neutral, again as indicated by the suffix ‘ew’. While there is no direct English equivalent the panel have adopted use of the word ‘Lord’ in this edition as this appears to be the closest approximation.)

The cowl of her blue hood covered Chalbeam’s face in shadow. From deep within her eyes searched his. Her eyes were the colour of deep green pools in a dark forest. Gildan knew the story well: that over time a holy advisor’s eyes became so coloured by Guron in honour of the advisors’ sacred duty as diviners of hephaestium, but Chalbeam’s were old eyes, too. They had seen much. And the lines and folds which creased their green shores marked cares and worries not yet troubling the clear brow of Gildan.

‘A knight such as your father Guilgashan?’

Gildan shrugged. ‘If I can.’

‘But I promised your mother I would look after you. It was her wish before she passed away. I can only do so properly if you follow my wishes and study to be a holy advisor.’

‘I thank you for your efforts, but it is not the path for me.’

Chalbeam shook her head slowly, her face draining of colour. ‘This is not what I hoped for. If you were to devote your life to sacred study, you, too, could understand the favours or setbacks the gods bestow upon us, but it can only be understood if one has knowledge of the seals. Such knowledge is highly prized, far more valuable than prowess in arms.’

‘Unfortunately I am not like you or Beltabulum. You only have to look to see I am different from you two. I think only of combat and the world.’

‘Sit down with me, Gildan.’

She moved to a couch. He shook his head.

‘My mind is made up,’ he said.

‘I’m sure it is, but let’s sit awhile anyway.’

Reluctantly Gildan moved over and sat next to her. She placed her gloved hand on one of his shoulders. A faceted purple amethyst ring shone on her gloved finger.

‘Your father Guilgashan was a fierce Gennan knight, but you are not like him, Gildan. Your mother, who I knew well, was as gentle as Netha.’

‘I am my father’s son.’

‘And your mother’s. But truly, Gildan, you may have your father’s fierce gaze and no doubt in time to come his strength as well, surely you will also have his skills in combat, but you should stay with me as a Holy Advisor.’

‘I am not like you and Beltabulum. My mind is made up.’

‘I see,’ Chalbeam said slowly, bitterness creeping into her voice. ‘It is not for you to know at this time of your life what your path is. In our youth we make mistakes….Mistakes that cling to us more firmly than the grip of Artefus, that mischief making god who trades on human folly. You should stay here.’

‘I can’t.’ He gently released her hand from his shoulder and shook his head. ‘If what they say is true, even in my far corner of the Eastern March, and we are to have war because the Mermanic capitals will not supply us with hephaestium, I wish a better future for myself than study of the sacred seals. My path is that of a fighting knight.’

Chalbeam slowly pulled back the hood of her gown. Her long hair was tied in an elaborate bun. She reached onto the table and held up a crystal of hephaestium. It’s six-sided face refracted the light from the lamp above, inside its opaque surfaces, green light softly played.

‘As you know for the privilege of being soley allowed to trade in the crystals, the Guild of Hephaestium must supply us Holy Advisors with such amount as we require for light, power and divination.’

Gildan nodded.

‘But its uses are fraught with danger. Two crystals with facets opposed may give light, or cause power, and if you chose to stay you may come to know how it might help us divine the future. It is said that even the ancients with their fantastic knowledge of most things were not aware of its wondrous properties, until the end of their reign. So if we are to be denied supply by the Mermanic Kingdoms, then it is right that us Gennans should take all steps to obtain it. For of all the races, we Gennans are those most favoured by the gods and destined to rule over all others: Cyngians, Merpeople, Elumnis, Gept, and most of all over Cutters, whose imperfect features are proof of their lowly born status.’ She stared at him. Her high cheek bones and blemish-free skin as smooth as the polished stone gods in the tableau outside. ‘But it is not right for you to be part of such a force, Gildan. Your destiny is to become an Holy Advisor like myself.’

Gildan shook his head again. ‘That has always been your wish, not mine. I am not of the priestly class such as yourself, you know that.’

Chalbeam’s assistant, Holy Advisor Beltabulum entered. The same age as Gildan, and like him a little over two metres in height, with a noble face and leonine head. His manner, though, was more certain than Gildan’s as he advanced. Chalbeam nodded to him, but held up her hand for him not to interrupt.

‘Anyway my mind is made up,’ Gildan said, nodding to Beltabulum as he continued.

‘So the Lord you fight with will be the same as your father: Lord Dalfrey?’

Gildan nodded. ‘Yes, that great lord.’

‘It is said in age she has lost the will to fight.’

‘I will soon know then.’

‘Very well, I see you’re determined to proceed, though I will adjudge the will of the gods and see to their preferment in the matter. You are old enough to know of their destiny for you, or so much of it as they may choose to reveal.’

Chalbeam reached down to an ornate, metallic box with her gloved hands and stood up holding it. She moved several steps to a raised stone dais that was positioned beneath a shaft of sunlight coming in through a vault in the roof high above. Beltabulum bowed and moved over, standing with her. Gildan remained where he was. Chalbeam raised the worked top of the container and withdrew a seven-spoke wheel. She carefully placed it on the dais. At the end of each spoke hung a seal of one of the gods, the face unable to be seen.

‘Come closer,’ Chalbeam said.

Gildan stood up and moved to the other side of the dais.

‘Pass you hands over the holy seals.’

Gildan spread his hands above the wheel.

‘Now we begin,’ she said.

Chalbeam reached back into the box and withdrew raised metal plates. Carefully she turned them over, until she found the one she wanted and placed it beside the wheel. The pressed metal showed the outline of an armed soldier with weapons on horse.

‘The knight in armour,’ Chalbeam said. ‘Yourself as you hope.’

Beltabulum retrieved a smaller container from the interior of the open metallic box. Ornate pictures of the gods such as those on the bas-relief outside were engraved upon the lid. Inside the box a green glow infused the air. Chalbeam used her gloved hand to withdraw a shining crystal. Unlike the one she had shown Gildan before this was cut horizontally against its face. Where the fracture occurred tiny sparks of green fire glowed and dulled in the air.

‘As guardian of the holy fire of hephaestium we now employ its use for divination of the eternal mysteries,’ Chalbeam intoned, and pressed the crystal upon the metal plate. She put it back then spun the seven-spoke wheel. Gildan’s heart beat faster. The wheel slowed. Chalbeam reached for a seal when it stopped, pressing it down hard upon the metal plate and keeping her gloved hand there. Sweat formed a dew on Gildan’s neck; his mouth dried and he forced himself to swallow, waiting. She pulled the seal back with a flourish. Overlain on the metal template of the knight on horse was the outline of a helmed head, swathed in golden light, and holding a long sword.

‘Guron, god of war, mightiest of the seven Gennan gods,’ Beltabulum said, approvingly.

‘So Guron does guide you,’ Chalbeam said, ‘It’s true then, a most propitious beginning, but what of the rest of your destiny?’ She put the seal back.

Gildan thought. So the bird was indeed Artefus sent by Guron as a sign. He was right. Chalbeam spun once more. Gildan’s heart set off again. Chalbeam selected another seal and pressed down hard as before. She took her hand away. The form of a prone knight on horse in red appeared, at the mercy of a strange half-beast and was overlain on the earlier image.

‘Red Tarsus, bringer of treachery,’ Chalbeam said, breathing out. ‘This is what I feared.’ Her voice had become brittle.

Beltabulum pursed his lips and shook his head.

Gildan stared. ‘What are the gods telling me?’

‘You will be deceived. You are warned of your end,’ Chalbeam answered.

‘Guron is mightier than Tarsus, my mind is unchanged,’ Gildan replied stubbornly.

‘The final time then.’

The seals spun and Chalbeam pressed down. A robed woman appeared. In one hand she held a dove, in the other a sword.

‘Netha, Guron’s consort, truth seeker, law giver, bringer of peace or war,’ Beltabulum said.

‘Strange,’ Chalbeam thought aloud. ‘Like your mother.’

‘Perhaps to guide me, for my mind is firm upon the matter,’ Gildan decided.

‘What truth though?’ Chalbeam asked.

‘Soon enough I will know.’

‘Perhaps. Though the will of the gods is seldom what we expect.’ Chalbeam closed the lid of the container, then looked back at Gildan. ‘You should go then. If you fare well, we may even see you on the last day of the tournament.’

Chapter 2

Gildan set off at once for his estate, riding quickly through the misting rain. During his journey he thought often on the nature of the gods’ message. The stone houses and barns, the tilled fields and the dull smell of silage set aside for winter passed by, barely noticed. Finally, with his horse almost spent, he returned to his small holding.

For the next few days he put his affairs in order. Cyton his overseer helped. Cyton was shorter than Gildan, hands big and calloused from the plough, shoulders wide. His normally cheerful mood was downcast though when Gildan told him he intended to leave.

‘You will see to the running of the estate while I’m away,’ Gildan said.

Cyton nodded. ‘Will it be for long, Gildan?’

‘If I go as well as I hope at the Harvest Tournament it may not be for some time.’

Cyton thought on Gildan’s answer. At first not speaking. ‘Will we be made to leave from this place?’ he suddenly asked, his tone anxious.

Gildan shook his head. ‘Of course not. Your place is here. If I was not to return someone new would simply come. You would remain.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Cyton grasped his arm. ‘Why don’t you stay here with us? We don’t want you to go.’

‘Gennans are not the same as Cyngians. It’s not in my nature, just as it’s not in yours to seek glory through war. Your hand restrains me.’

‘Sorry,’ Cyton let go of Gildan’s hand. ‘Yes, yes, of course, you Gennans are different from us. We know nothing of the outside world and nor do we wish to. It is a wicked place, much can go wrong there.’

‘Anyway, whatever the outside world is like, you need not find out. Your position and that of the other Cyngians is safe?’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well then. Please be careful, if not for yourself, then for our sake. We don’t want anything to happen to you.’

‘It won’t. Now stop worrying. I have shown you to how to position the crystals of hephaestium, opposing each other, so their spinning will turn the grindstone on the mill.’

‘Yes, I know how to.’

‘Good, and though there is sufficient for now, soon enough we will need more. Remember to ration it carefully. Supplies are not so easily come by these days.’

‘Yes, but I wonder, if supply of hephaestium stopped, as some say may happen, our mills and engines could always use other power: water or wind. Indeed, that is how they turned in the past.’

Gildan laughed. ‘There are too many of us now to go back to such old ways. It was hephaestium that allowed us to produce so much. Without it our property could not support so many.’

Cyton shrugged, unconvinced. ‘You wish to find out what happened to your father?’

Gildan nodded. ‘That is one thing I also hope for.’

‘I thought so. It was said he loved war.’

*

Several days later Gildan rode away from his estate. Cyton looked on anxiously, torn by doubt. Gildan smiled at him.

‘Cheer up, Cyton, that’s an order,’ Gildan said.

Cyton gave a painful smile. His children played and waved. Gildan rode on without glancing back. Apart from his own horse, a large mount, he led another. Both newly bought and his spare horse carrying weapons for war: shield, lance, armour and chamfrain. Gildan’s two-handed sword, a cold memory of his father, was always at his side.

He rode on. His path through the forest was narrow. Branches bent low under dappled light. Several times he stepped the horses around the age-swollen trunks of trees. Finally he came to a suitable resting place and made ready for the night. His horses he kept hobbled and close. His armour and baggage he carefully placed to one side. At last he lay down before a small fire, feeling very tired after all the activity of the last few days. As his head grew heavy, high overhead, small mounds of cold stars glittered down through the trees.

At dawn he woke to birdsong. My first day as a truly free man, he thought. Suddenly he sat up. Something was wrong. The horses were gone, his baggage as well. Gildan jumped to his feet, rushing to the edges of the clearing. Only a cast-off hobble chain lay partly concealed in the underbrush. He checked for tracks, finding some. Quickly he slung his sword and followed, calling out.

Gildan soon tired of running. Instead he switched to walking quickly and moved steadfastly on in search of the robbers. After a few hours the tracks struck out from the path into thick forest. The dense cover slowed him down. Finally the trail led to another path and headed back in the direction he’d already come from. Gildan stopped, slowly understanding. The thief was heading back to his estate. It would take all day and night for Gildan to return there. He sat down, thinking on it. The delay would be long enough for him to miss the tournament. No doubt that was the thief's purpose all along. Cyton and his worries, Gildan thought ruefully, shaking his head. In the distance he heard faint sounds of conversation.

He stood up and trudged towards the noise. Soon he came to a clearing. Several small houses stood at the intersection of two paths and an unmade road that was no more than a cart track. There was an inn as well. People sat outside drinking in the afternoon sun. A waitress brought food to a table. Tethered to a hitching rail were plough ponies, and beside them two mounts suitable for war. Gildan saw that neither were his and sighed. On one horse the accoutrements of battle were safely stowed. The sound of laughter and talk from the inn beckoned him. He took out his purse, pouring a small sum of money into his hand, resigned now, and made his way forward. The inn was small and homely and he entered. A low fire burnt in a corner and Gildan’s boots rang off worn flagstones. At the counter he ordered ale and food, then took his drink and sat at a table. The other customers paid him little attention. Mostly they were Cyngians like Cyton, not as tall as Gildan, but shorter and stouter. Sitting alone at a table in a corner though was a Gennan such as himself. Like Gildan the stranger was a little over two metres high, had a square jaw, thin lips and an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a thick head of hair. The stranger nodded. Gildan returned his salute.

‘I’m, Malsham,’ the stranger called over. ‘Why not join me?’

Gildan shifted to his table.

‘Gildan,’ he replied and they exchanged grips.

‘To your health,’ Malsham said.

‘Thank you and to yours.’

They touched mugs and drank. ‘What brings you to this quiet part of the Eastern March?’ Malsham inquired.

‘I was going to try my hand at the Harvest Tournament.’

‘As am I. You said you were, have you changed your mind?’

‘My mounts and weapons were taken while I slept. All day I have been following the thief's tracks.’

‘And?’

‘I believe the person or persons involved led them away, and me too, for the purpose of bringing me back to my small estate so I might miss the tournament.’

‘But why?’

‘My overseer has been worried about my health and his future, and decided I would best be home instead of engaging in combat is my guess.’

Malsham laughed. He looked around to the farm workers sitting in a far corner and lowered his voice.

‘Cyngians are devoted servants, but can act strangely if threatened. They become most anxious.’

Gildan nodded. ‘So now I must take a two-day walk back to my estate. Perhaps with what little money I have left I should buy a pony here if possible and return. Even if I did, though, I will still be too late for the tournament when I come back anyway.’

‘Your food is getting cold. While you finish I’ll get us another drink.’

Malsham picked up their empty mugs and stood up. He walked over to the bar. While he stood there guild knights strutted into the room. Five men and three women in all, clad in their black armour and black robes, suddenly filling up the little inn. People stopped talking. The faces of the guild knights remained hidden behind metal visors. The green-crystal emblem of the Guild of Hephaestium was embossed on their breasts and robes. One of them brushed past Gildan, knocking his plate to the ground.

‘Have a care, oaf,’ the guild knight warned, as he passed.

Gildan stared after him, hot anger rising.

‘Why should I have a care over some one uglier than their foul manners?’ Gildan called back.

The guild knights stopped. As one they turned. Gildan stood up from the table, facing them. The room became silent.

‘I can tell by your accent you are not much travelled, rustic, so I will not act on your slight, but learn better manners if you wish to see the morning,’ the guild knight warned.

The table of Cyngian workers in the corner looked on. Their faces fearful.

‘The work of the Guild of Hephaestium in extorting debt under blood notes from hapless Gennans who are unable to make payment for the wondrous crystals is well known, even to a rustic like myself,’ Gildan replied. ‘Their craven actions are long endured. You should go off now to make war on widows and orphans, before I set to you.’

The guild knights drew their swords. Gildan raised his own blade.

‘For the honour and glory of Guron!’ Gildan suddenly cried and charged.

The guild knights instinctively fell back. Three recovered first and made to attack. Malsham had been served at the bar and stood with his two full pannikins of ale. He stuck his foot out and tripped one guild knight. The other he pushed from behind so he fell into the back of the first. That knight was catapulted forward into the flat of Gildan’s sword. The heavy blade knocked him backwards, sending his helm askew. Malsham carefully stepped over the guild knight sprawled on the floor, holding the two mugs. He passed one to Gildan and drank deeply, looking down at the prostrate knight, while the others stood around in disarray.

‘We are required to fight in pairs at the tournament. If you wish we could fight together. My arms and equipment are sufficient for the both of us.’

He passed Gildan the other mug.

‘I accept your kind offer,’ Gildan replied, upending a table into the path of the rest of the guild knights who now rushed forward.

‘It is decided then. Though I think we should leave quickly so we don’t miss the start of the tournament, and I believe we may well have worn out our welcome here. What say you?’

‘Good idea,’ Gildan said, finishing his ale in one gulp.

They turned and ran from the small inn, guild knights chasing after them and spilling out through the front door. Malsham threw the rein of his spare horse to Gildan, and they both sprang into the saddle. Gildan shooed the guild knights’ horses away. The first guild knight who’d crossed words and swords with Gildan, now recovered, was at the head of the others, his eyes burning rage.

‘I demand to know your name,’ he called.

‘Gildan, and yours, if you aren't afraid to tell me?’ Gildan answered, slewing his horse around.

‘I am Bedlan, Knight of the Guild of Hephaestium,’ he said, shaking his mailed fist.

‘Nice to meet you, Bedlan, and consider the lesson on good manners to be free,’ Gildan laughed.

Malsham joined in and they galloped away. Bedlan remained there, staring after them. A Cyngian looked slyly at him. Bedlan crashed his sword into the workman’s fare, sending bones and gravy and crockery into the air, then stalked back inside the inn with the others.

Chapter 3

After they had galloped for a while, Gildan looked behind.

‘They're not following us,’ he said.

Malsham nodded. ‘No, despite their numbers they may not have felt safe, though the guild seldom forget an insult. Maybe some later time they will choose to remember.’

‘Then they will meet the same response,’ Gildan chuckled.

They slowed their horses to a walk.

‘So like myself you seek profit and advancement at the coming tournament?’ Malsham asked.

‘I do. And I want you to know that I will repay both your kindness and the use of your battle armour, mounts and weaponry.’

‘I’m sure you will. We shall be fighting those like us from the Western March for a position in serving a lord.’

‘Let us hope we are successful.’

‘We shall be, I’m sure of it. We must shake on our common destiny.’

Malsham stopped his horse. Gildan tightened his own rein and both exchanged grips once more.

‘To fortune, lead us to wherever the gods take us,’ Gildan proposed.

‘Well said. If indeed war is coming, then may we enjoy the fruits of victory together.’

‘Agreed.’

They resumed walking their horses.

‘Before, with your sword drawn in anger, I could not help but admire the blade. Might I see it?’ Malsham asked.

‘Of course. It is all I have from my father, together with this signet ring which I also treasure.’ Gildan let the the ring on his bare finger shine in the light.

‘What’s that carved on the stone?’

‘Two double-handed Gennan swords crossed.’

Gildan proudly drew his sword next and passed it over.

‘It has a carving on the blade,’ Malsham commented, studying the intricate work.

‘A dedication to Guron, my mentor, as revealed in my recent divination.’

Malsham passed the sword back. Gildan returned it to its scabbard.

‘What is your own story, Malsham?’

‘I am a sole son and heir to a small estate, the support of my mother, my father having fallen.’

‘The same for I, save my mother is gone also.’

Malsham slowed his horse and stared. ‘Over there in the meadow, is that not a Cutter?’ he asked, pointing.

Gildan looked. Further out, close to a copse of wood, a brightly coloured cart was bogged. Two small people stood beside it, urging their horse to greater effort.

‘The custom of the road says I should help them,’ Gildan said.

‘The custom of the road says to help them if they are Gennans, but not Cutters,’ Malsham replied. ‘That race are ill-omened and not to be trusted.’

Gildan remembered his mother telling him all peoples were the same inside, and wondered if she meant Cutters, deciding in her gentle way she would have. ‘I have only heard of Cutters, not having seen one in my quiet corner. But I am keen to see new peoples at any time.’

‘Best to stay on our path and leave them.’

I go alone then,’ Gildan said and spurred his horse forward

As Gildan galloped toward them, the two people by the cart looked alarmed. Gildan waved to allay their fears. The younger one, a woman, gestured back. She wore an orange linen top, and ballooning shorts, cinched tightly at her waist. Her feet were clad in half boots of soft skin. The older one, a man, remained tense. He wore a flowing dark cape over a loose smock. His skin was leathery and brown from the sun. His dark eyes carefully took in Gildan as he rode to where they stood. Gildan saw at once that both were much smaller than Gennans. The old man bowed. Gildan stared. He was balding and the last vestiges of his hair were bound up in a pigtail that fell down from underneath a ragged cap. Baldness and pigtails were unknown to Gildan. Even stranger was the colour of the old man’s hair. It was greying at the sides, as if the natural colour was dusted by snow. Small wonder, Gildan thought, his hair is all but fallen out on top and coloured like an animal’s hide on the sides. Up as close as he was Gildan also saw the old man’s face. It was pockmarked, unlike smooth-skinned Gennans, and Cyngians, as Holy Advisor Chalbeam had said. Gildan wanted to touch his skin to see if it felt roughened. Instead he restrained himself and looked down at the other Cutter. Her long black hair was tied up by a simple band. Her eyes were blue and fearless. Plus her stature was much smaller than the other women Gildan had seen before. Gildan turned back to the older man, taken aback by another strange sight. For the old man had placed clear armour over his eyes, but none on his body.

He was puzzled by Gildan's staring. A second later he laughed, taking off his glasses.

‘Of course, you Gennans have no need of spectacles with your perfect vision,’ he said, speaking Gennan with a foreign accent.

‘What are they?’ Gildan asked.

‘It is said in ancient times that many peoples were long or short-sighted. Some of us still are. My spectacles mean I can see as well as you when I wear them. They are lenses just as you Gennans use in a glass to see long distances.’

‘May I try?’ Gildan asked, leaning down from the saddle.

The old man passed them up. Gildan put his thumb on the lenses.

‘Not so roughly,’ the younger Cutter said, watching him closely. Gildan reddened and made to hand them back.

‘Try them on first,’ the old man offered, in gentler fashion.

Gildan put the spectacles on back-to-front.

The younger Cutter laughed.

Gildan turned red with embarrassment.

‘Other way,’ the old man instructed softly.

Gildan turned them around so they fitted. Everything blurred. He took them off, shaking his head, perplexed. Both Cutters laughed. Gildan chuckled as well, handing them back.

‘These spectacles, as you call them, may be something best left for Cutters. Now that I can see again, I observe your cart is bogged,’ Gildan said.

‘I am afraid it is, though we have nothing of any weight that should cause us to sink in the soft ground,’ the old man explained. ‘My daughter and I travel a less worn path, and it may have been our undoing; this past rain has mired us.’

‘I shall soon attend to your troubles then,’ Gildan answered.

Gildan walked his horse through the mud, hitching a rope to the wagon and encouraged his mount forward. The younger Cutter did the same with the cart horse. Soon the small wagon drew free from the bog.

‘Your way would be better served over on the road with us,’ Gildan said.

‘Cutters go our own ways, but we thank you for your efforts. Did you want something from us?’ the old man asked politely.

Gildan laughed. ‘Of course not, it is the way of the road.’

‘So it is, so it is, but we Cutters find the way of the road is not always the practice of it, but thank you. Are you going to the tournament?’

‘Indeed that is where I am bound.’

‘Well we may see you there for we intend to trade. As you may have heard we Cutters barter in hephaestium, and perhaps we shall be able to strike a suitable arrangement with you at some point.’

Gildan shrugged. ‘Had I seen you some time ago I may have, for I was forced to purchase from the guild on usurious terms.’

‘For that very reason they detest our commerce in the wondrous crystals, seeing any competition as a threat.’

‘Anyway I must away.’

‘And what is your name, noble sir?’ the younger cutter asked.

‘Gildan. And yours?’

‘Garblancanew.’

‘Well it is a pleasure to meet you, Garblancanew,’ he said, bowing to her, then spurring his horse forward.

She looked after him. Her father watched her closely.

‘Don’t set too much store on Gennans and their warlike ways,’ he said shrewdly. ‘They’re not like us.’

Chapter 4

Gildan returned to where Malsham was waiting for him.

‘You shouldn’t waste your time on Cutters,’ Malsham warned, as they resumed their ride.

‘I don’t wonder if underneath the surface they are no different from us.’

‘I mean no offence, but if they were like us, they wouldn’t lookso different. Like so many barnyard animals instead of a regular appearance such as Gennans, or Cyngians or Holy Advisors. So many differences in one type of people. It’s unnatural.’

Gildan laughed. ‘Perhaps Guron intended that some of us should be different.’

‘Why would Guron want such discord in the natural order? But I can see my talk only steels your resolve.’

‘True. Instead what about I race you to the tournament. I see flags far ahead.’

Gildan galloped away. Malsham gave chase.

They drew level as they rode into the tournament grounds. Around them pennants flew gaily at the edges of the mown green. They dismounted, trying to take everything in at once. In the middle of the field they saw an official, and hastened to announce themselves.

While they did so other would-be knights continued martial displays. Some used two-handed swords to hack at shields attached to wooden supports. Others fenced with smaller blades, holding one in each hand. Such weapons were favoured by women mostly. Like the often larger swords wielded by the men, their sharp points were plugged and keen edges heavily padded so no injury could occur. A loud report sounded to one side. Gildan turned to see, knights were riding at speed, reaching out of their saddles with swords to sever melons set at rider height. A woman rider skewered one next. Further away other knights galloped at a whirling target of a mounted Elumnis warrior. If the blow from their lance was not delivered dead centre, the wooden sabre of the Elumnis warrior swung around and struck the rider on their back as they rode past. A clean blow met with much clapping and cheering from the watching crowd, a miss brought hooting and jeering. Gildan smiled to himself. This is where I belong, he thought. Some of the destriers ridden by the knights were caparisoned in bright heraldic colours. All manner of elegant designs were employed: crossed swords, striking arms, thunder bolts, and arrows in flight seemed most popular.

Malsham and Gildan listened intently as plans were announced for the staging of the tournament. Lots were drawn to decide who fought who over the following days. The two-handed sword, the short sword and rondell dagger, the lance, the longbow, all were employed, while their users were tested and graded. Older knights marked each tournament and gradually the number of those participating reduced. Any would-be knight knocked out of the competition early either left for home or took solace in drinking beer or strong liquors at the stalls set up around the grounds. At night under flaming torches people feasted, gambled on jousts to come, or engaged in general merriment.

Gildan found himself walking along a crowded race of people after one such day of contests. A pig on a spit was cut up and portions were served on black bread. He purchased some of the meat and an ale. Around him men and women crowded stalls and tents where games of chance were played, their futures read, or men or women showed their skills by throwing battle axes or knives into targets of soft wood or cork for money.

‘Gildan,’ a voice whispered.

Gildan turned. Garblancanew beckoned him.

‘Are you bogged again?’ Gildan asked.

‘No, but come to our stall, it is but two more down this alley. I would talk with you.’

She pulled Gildan by the arm and led him to their gaily coloured wagon. There was a crowd of children and parents gathered there. Cyngians for the most part. Sitting down at