The problem with writing a long story is that by the time you reach the end, you look back at the start to find that a year's improvement has made the start appear terrible. If you haven't read the original I'd greatly appreciate your criticism, and if you have read the original I assure you that this one is different, and it would be nice to discover that I haven't killed what little spark the previous one may have had.

So here is my first novel again, longer and better (hopefully) than before.

Deoman

Chapter 1 - Destiny

A catlin crawled along the sand, and began to give an ominous looking beetle the testing edibility sniff.

There is a saying. A saying which we must learn at a very young age, albeit grudgingly. A saying which crops up at almost every jagged corner of our journey from birth to death.

Life isn't fair.

This saying can be applied to virtually any experience in life; even the positive ones, as one man's pleasure is another's misfortune. Upon being told by your parents as a child that it's time for bed, even though they themselves are most certainly going to stay up until far later hours, one will whine "It's not fair." This, of course, only sparks off the reflex response of "Life isn't fair."

But it's more than that. It's more than just a convenient parental escape route, even if they may milk it for all it's worth. Because although we don't like to admit it to ourselves, Life isn't fair, and there's nothing we can do about it. Good men try to change it, try to make it that integrity triumphs and evil perishes, but no matter how far their efforts may stretch, they will still step in some dog shit on their way home from making the world a better place.

Life is unfair. Try to change this, and life will cheat.

And it is because of this fundamental law of the universe that upon deciding 'Yes, the beetle would suffice as a breakfast snack,' that the catlin happened to be squashed flat under the wheel of a passing coach. A coach that happened to be the single vehicle passing across the Mar desert at that time.

Sure, it wasn't fair that it should die so easily after it had done nothing more sinful than prepare to eat, but of course, who could you complain to about that? There is no law in the universe that makes things work properly, finish out in a quaint manner or work out they way you expected them to. The universe was designed to have a design fault.

The coach churned away across the landscape, pushing on determinedly through the sand. To an innocent onlooker with no idea of future events to come ( as most innocent onlookers tend not to) there would have been nothing else of interest to note of it or the surrounding area. The surrounding area simply consisted of sand, which speaks for itself.

There were signs that there may have been more than this at some point, signs of civilisation that for some reason or another had been lost. A wheel of a cart, the base of a building, the head of a statue depicting someone who most certainly wasn't receiving the reverence he had hoped for upon falling in battle… All gradually disappearing in the ever going wash of sand. It hadn't always been like this. At one point there had been life and people had prospered, but times change.

It was the picture of a dying world. Little did the coach inhabitants know, however, that one of them would soon be doing their part in revitalising it, whether they particularly wanted to or not.

There were six people sat in the coach, and taking the most comfortable of seats were a wealthy couple. Often people who could afford to would travel from the city of Hiscart to Hercart or vice versa, hoping that somehow their destination would be coping better with the famine than their home. They would, of course, be disappointed. Unaware of this they sat, clinging to their precious wealth which despite their greatest desires would not buy food that simply wasn't there. It wasn't them who were going to make a difference to the world's well-being, as there was no money to be made in something like that.

The driver was no one special to look at, and to be frank saving the world was a little above him when putting food on the table seemed a far worthier cause. He was just your average person who had chosen and become set into a profession minutes before it had become one of the most dangerous available. He stuck with it, as the pay was good, but this didn't stop him glancing back over his shoulder every five seconds, maybe just to make sure that the upsurge of hell wasn't sprinting towards him yet.

And there were three mercenaries. A magic wielder and two swordsmen. Mercenaries were crucial, if only for slight peace of mind. These days the quality of a warrior was decided wholly on appearance; scars were the fashion this year. Scars sold sword-wielders, as an ignorant buyer would tend to believe that each scar on a face equalled each battle fought and survived. In all honesty whether they had any true skill or not was quite irrelevant and only an added bonus, as it was only the warrior's appearance which may have had any use at all, with brittle hopes that it may scare away anything that should happen to approach. This was because should anything more formidable than an extremely rapacious catlin come by with intent to kill, it would be able to strip the coach of its belongings and the passengers of their flesh before any mercenary would even be able to get their sword of its sheath. There was no point in trying too hard.

But despite an aristocrat's wanting for a bodyguard on a voyage, no matter how small it may be, they would never allow the warriors to get too close. This was for two reasons; the first, and perhaps the most notable being fleas, which were becoming an increasingly greater problem amongst the common now. And secondly, What Would The Neighbours Think? To be seen in the company of such brutes? The ruffians could sit on the roof.

The two sword warriors were doing just that, and were sprawled out taking up as much of the space as they could. One would be able to know from the briefest of glances at them that they were not the ones soon to take the world's brittle destiny into their hands, as they would probably drop it. They had a top heavy feel to them in which their arms and torso were far larger than their lower half, like gorillas, but unfortunately none of this bulk seemed to have been contributed to their brains. This became apparent by the way they were playing rock-paper-scissors with acute single mindedness and attention.

It was the magic wielder who was to take the task. Of course it was, as it is the mage who I came to last, and that is how narration works.

But by no means did this mean that the others were unimportant. Naturally from their own points of view they were all important, and their lives would experience great times and hardships even if they weren't about to do anything later to appear in a history book. They were all the main characters of their own stories; just not this one.

The cloaked figure sat by the edge of the coach, knees hunched up and attempting to move with the rhythm of the vehicle in order to not fall off, yet not getting too close to the other two. This was easier said than done due to the little amount of space available and the vast amount already taken.

A sight caught the coach riders' attentions, even the gorillas', which was surprising as it didn't contain pretty flashing colours and beacons. At a distance many people stood, at a good guess in what was hoped by someone to be a neat and clever formation, but were failing miserably due to great lack of wanting to be there.

"Well, 'mage'?" said one of the warriors, spitting the syllable. It was completely understandable that he did this, due to the simple fact that he had a sword. It was only expected of all blade-wielders to hate those warriors who didn't, and vice versa. It didn't help that this mage, unlike others, wasn't rich enough to do anything about it. "What's goin' on over there?"

"I'm not sure. I can't see from here."

"Huh? But I thought you lot were perfect, eh? You'd think you were by the way you go on about yourselves, and your amazing magic," said his partner.

"Yeah, yeah, so why don't you just magic your eyeballs, then, yeah, so that you can see and tell us what's goin' on?" said the one who had spoken originally, grinning and nodding just to make sure everyone knew that what he had said was witty and funny. For him it was nothing short of a stroke of genius.

The mage already had him pretty much summed up. The man had obviously noticed that it was the scars that were being looked for in mercenaries nowadays, but had risen to the occasion quite excessively. It also seemed that he thought battle scars were not only good for business, but that they had the amazing ability to immediately make someone appear roguishly handsome. Half of his looked like fake ones which had been stuck on, and inexpertently. Unfortunately, he hadn't managed to catch the knowledge that too many would merely make one look like an idiot who was trying too hard. No one was about to tell him.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that. You see-" This was soon cut short by hoggish snorts and guffaws, causing the explanation to be abandoned.

Men, she thought, placing her chin in her hand. Stick a sword in their filthy hands, and they immediately think they have the world's neck against their knife point.

It was very fortunate for the mage that neither of the other mercenaries knew that he was in fact a she. People (mostly of the male persuasion) tended to resent women earning money through strenuous means such as fighting, just as they resented poor mages earning money through fighting. The two together could easily shunt her into an even lower class than the Mooners.

And she knew this. But for a long time she had tried to ignore it, live an ordinary life, but… It just didn't hold with her. As far as she knew, apart from herself female mages were unknown to Heaven, and from the many storybooks she had resided in as a child she had learnt that ordinary people with unique gifts were supposed to amount to something. Even if they did have breasts.

She had begun her plans the day after her Purification Ceremony, and had put them into practice the day her parents left her. The answer to her sexism troubles was simple: A well thought out cloak. Everyone wore big cloaks nowadays; it was not an unusual thing to see, and so she had taken advantage of this. Hers was plain brown with some made-up runes she had scrawled over it one day for effect, and had a great hood which successfully shadowed her face in a mysterious manner. It was also very important that it was not made of any ordinary material, because it would not do if the hood should happen to accidentally fall back, revealing her smooth freckled face. She was simply relying on the two swordsmen's combined stupidity (there were not many safer things to rely on) to not realize that no matter how fast they were travelling, her cloak refused point blank to billow in the wind.

As an added precaution she had taken to allowing her eyebrows to grow really big, so that they now resembled two monstrous caterpillars about to make an escape off either side of her head. She figured it was the little things like that which could swing people and confuse the genders.

"…And then, after making a fortune for slaying all the Deomans surrounding Hercart," she heard one of the men saying to the other over her thoughts, "I'll marry a beautiful woman (a foreign princess from a place like Delizia, no doubt) and then go back to Hiscart for a celebration of my success with the lads."

"Heh, what a coincidence! That sounds just like me plan!"

"Cool! Race you!"

"You're on!"

They clunked their shaved heads together in a method of agreement which they deemed more suitable than the outdated handshake. The sound of their craniums meeting made a sound reminiscent of two coconuts.

She shook her head. She had told herself that she must not speak to either of them unless there was no other way around it, as a reasonably convincing gruff voice was not the easiest of things to pull off. But there were just some things which were too stupid to let lie. "Defeat the Deomans? All of them?"

"Yeah, well…" said one, slightly wounded that she should dare question his plan. "As soon as I think of the way in which I'm gonna do it, it should be as easy as pie."

"Marvellous," she muttered.

"Hey, at least we're thinking 'bout the future," said one defensively.

"Yeah, what're your plans?" said the other, giving her an accusing jab on the arm. "I bet you're expecting some kind of overnight thing to happen for you, just coz you're a mage."

She rearranged the material on her arm which he had jabbed, and cast her eyes out towards the horizon again.

Normally, as negative as it may be, there was no future past the present job for her. It had been that way ever since her sixth job hadn't resulted in her plundering a pirate ship or finding an ancient civilisation. She wasn't a child anymore, and had to face that nothing miraculous was going to happen for her. She had to start thinking towards the future in a realistic manner, that is, unless she was planning on earning two Suntz a day like this forever.

But a husband and kids, what most women would strive for, were way out of the question. After all, what ordinary guy would want a woman who could burn them into a crisp by merely looking at them in the wrong way? No human man under the sun, she decided.

She chose not to answer the swordsman's question for the moment. He didn't look to be missing her response, as he had resulted to discovering which of his arms was the strongest by having an arm-wrestling match with himself.

They were closer to the city of Hercart now. On the coach it may have been rickety, but it seemed that the driver was much less concerned about the wheels getting mashed against jagged rocks and passenger discomfort, than he was about something leaping onto the back and peeling the roof off if given the chance. She could see the crowd far more clearly now, and noticed a number of things about them. The first was that they were… sloppy. Whoever had chosen to put them there, they certainly weren't too tight on standards. By the looks of the crude metal implements they were holding, they were getting ready to battle something, but they didn't appear to be all too keen.

What were they going to battle? Surely not…

"So mage?" said the warrior, finally deeming that it was his right arm that had the most strength. "What're ya gonna do?"

It was an idea… But whoever had recruited those people would have to be extremely unconcerned about the type of people they were having with them. Nevertheless…

Maybe she could continue with the hope of destiny, and give it one last push.

"I actually think I'll attempt to defeat the Deomans, too…" she said eventually.