Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  Contents

  Full chapter by chapter Index

  Join Mark's email list for new releases

  A word on language and pronunciation

  The God Decrees

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  The Power That Binds

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  Part V

  The Warrior Within

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  Part V

  Part VI

  Extras ~ Dragon Dawn Teaser

  1 ~ Dream World

  Other titles by this author

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  Devan Chronicles: Books 1-3

  By

  Mark E. Cooper

  v2.001

  A word on language and pronunciation

  This book was written and produced in the United Kingdom and uses British English language conventions. For example the use of ‘ou’ in the words colour and honour instead of the American spellings: color, honor. Another example would be the interchangeable use of ize and ise in words such as realise or realize.

  The God Decrees

  (Devan Chronicles 1)

  1 ~ Scorched Earth

  Shadowy figures dashed from house to house and from shop to shop. Where they passed, fire sprang up throughout the town. In silence and haste, the men burned all they owned. Although many eyes watched the destruction, no one protested. No one drew sword to stop them. It was night and the new moon had yet to appear, but they could see well enough—too well. The burning houses and shops provided more than enough light to show them what their lord’s orders had wrought.

  From the saddle Lord Keverin watched the destruction and brooded upon the waste of it all. Was there another way? If there was, he couldn’t see it. The firing was necessary, crucial even, but by the God how it rankled. Years of work gone in a single night all because he could not see another way to save his people. While he watched in impotent silence, hundreds of woman and children streamed up the road away from their burning homes carrying a few meagre possessions. It was all they owned now. They were good people. None accused him, none blamed him for what he knew was his failure. When he came down to tell them what he wished them to do, they had nodded and asked when. No outcry, no protest of any kind, just: When Lord? He didn’t deserve such loyalty. That he was justified in destroying all they owned mattered not—not to him. He should have found a way to avoid this, curse it!

  Keverin turned his horse and stared up at the brooding shadow of mighty Athione where the huge walls of the fortress loomed waiting to defend her people once again. Although too dark to see, he knew the cross-fisted banner of Athione flew proudly beside the crescent moon of Deva above her towers. Athione had never been taken, never even been in serious danger in her entire history. His family and people had been secure here, never fearing defeat. He feared now. How much longer would those proud banners fly over his home before the lightning bolt of the Protectorate took their place?

  Cavell stamped a hoof as if to tell him it was time to leave. “Easy girl, easy,” Keverin said patting her muscled neck. “I’ll have you in a nice warm stable soon enough. I promise.”

  Keverin waited stony faced for his order to be carried out, but at the last, the menfolk from the town stood before him with torches held aloft in silence. Shadows cavorted upon their upturned faces causing each man to appear a stranger. One figure stepped forward to reveal his features.

  “It is done Lord.”

  Keverin nodded. “It’s done Dergan.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “Go now, go swiftly all of you. Join your families and see to their welfare.”

  “But what of you Lord?”

  “I’ll stay awhile Dergan.”

  Dergan bowed and moved to lead the others up the steep slope of the road to find their families.

  Keverin waited for them to enter the gates of Athione before turning back to watch the town burn. It was the least he could do. The fires roared as the roofs collapsed. The flames leapt skyward as the cool night air fed them. Windows exploded succumbing to the intense heat. Nothing would remain of the town but ashes come the morrow. That was as it should be—as he’d ordered it to be. Not one loaf of bread to feed the enemy, not one wall to hide him, and not one roof to shelter him. A mere gesture of defiance. What more was there at this late date?

  He watched the flames consuming his town waiting for inspiration to strike, but the voice of the God was silent within him. The roar of the fire was his only answer. So be it. There had been no answer because there wasn’t one. He had done all he could do here. It was time to be inside the walls.

  Lord Athione, Lord Protector of the West, turned his horse and rode for home.

  The dawn found Keverin standing upon the battlement with Darius watching the invaders moving along the pass below. The distance was too great to make an accurate estimate of their strength, but he guessed there would not be less than a legion. Numbers meant little. Darius, and mages like him, would be the deciding factor in determining who was to rule Deva.

  Keverin couldn’t help thinking that he was to blame for what was about to happen. Though for the life of him he couldn’t see how he could have done otherwise. Surely there must have been something—a point where he could have avoided all this, but looking back, he just couldn’t see it. Everything he had done in his time as Lord Athione had been done with the good of his people in mind, yet still his path had led them all to war. The Protectorate’s invasion of Bandar five years ago had led him to believe that Deva was next on Mortain’s list, and so it had proved. But was it his reaction to the fall of Bandar that spurred Mortain to this attack? It might be egotistical of him to believe so, but he did. His wish to protect his home and people had led directly to their current peril. He was a fool to have ever believed he could give Mortain pause by strengthening his defences with magic. Athione was now a threat that Mortain could no longer ignore. Why hadn’t he seen the inevitability of that? Keverin shook his head. Inevitable or not, standing by and doing nothing had been, and still was, out of the question. Mortain would have turned his attention to Deva eventually. Of that Keverin had no doubt. He only had to look to Hasa to know that.

  Al’Hasa, once the proud capital of the nation called Hasa, fell to the sorcerers centuries ago. The mages from the Black Isle had long since intermarried with the Hasian population, making Hasa an intrinsic part of the Protectorate. Ruled from Castle Black by a long succession of lords styling themselves after the first Mortain, the Protectorate and its legions had become aggressively expansionist in recent years. When Bandar fell, Keverin had thought the sorcerers would wait to digest their latest meal as they had waited after taking Hasa, but he was only partly right. Five years had gone by since the closure of the pass into the Protectorate, but already the Hasians were on the move. This time they were trying to cross the Athinian Mountains into Deva, and Athione protected the only route.

  From his position above the west gate, Keverin watched the Hasians approach. His face was calm, but the clenching and unclenching of his fists could not help but betray his tension to those who knew him. The Hasian legions were the envy of Waipara. The men were the best fighters, the best disciplined, and the best equipped soldiers any country had ever fielded. They had fought in many battles, though not in the last five years, and were always victorious. The men were hardened professionals and worse—they were veterans. Keverin knew his guardsmen would fight well, but they had
no experience of being under siege. Nor did he have any. He was out numbered and outclassed. If he led his men in an attack, they would die. It was a simple as that. Sally and die. If he did anything more than he was doing they would all die. He kept trying to see something he’d missed, but there was nothing. They must defend, not attack. Darius agreed with him, but it was cold comfort. Keverin had fought brigands and raiders successfully in the past, but this fight was way beyond a small raid. The Hasians were invading. He hoped his inexperience wouldn’t doom them all.

  Keverin glanced at his friend. “How many do you think?”

  “Too many for us by far, my lord. We have five mages of varying strengths, but they have ten times that number.” Darius clenched a fist and banged it down on the crenel in front of him in frustration. “Mortain would not send weaklings. You must know that.”

  Keverin nodded. Indeed he did know.

  Keverin pushed his hair out of his eyes from where the wind insisted on blowing it. He reminded himself to tie it back for the battle ahead. “Do you still intend to cast the spell?”

  “I see no other option. We could hold them off for a few days... with luck more than just a few. Renard has some ideas, and you know how good he is at warding. So then, we hold them off for a few days, but what then? Even together with my brothers in the craft I am not strong enough to defeat them. We will tire long before the enemy does. When that time comes, the sorcerers will smash the gate and we all die.”

  Keverin shivered at Darius’ matter of fact way of discussing his own death. He was only thirty yet he looked fifty at least. Why anyone believed magic was worth such a price, he couldn’t fathom. Keverin had puzzled through some of the texts in his library, but by no means all. Even with all he had read about magic and the Founders, he still didn’t understand why they risked so much. To throw away years of life, to burn ones youth in the pursuit of magic was incomprehensible to anyone but the gifted. Keverin reminded himself that he didn’t have to understand their motives to thank the God for them. And he did, every day. Of all those in his service, his mages alone might yet have a chance to save Athione from going down into defeat.

  “If only Pergann would send help!” Keverin hissed in frustration. “The Chancellor writes that the King is too ill to make such a decision. No help is coming. We have to defeat the sorcerers alone.”

  “Ummm.” Darius said frowning in thought. “I should tell you that I scried the palace at Devarr last night.”

  Keverin gasped. “You fool! You know that’s a death sentence!”

  Darius laughed but his heart wasn’t really in it, “I hardly need worry about being executed for scrying, do I?” He said with a weary smile.

  “I won’t argue with you my friend. Not this day of all days. What did you find out?”

  “I’m not quite certain to be honest,” Darius said in puzzlement. “The palace seemed almost deserted. There weren’t many servants walking the halls. The stables were empty and the walls didn’t even have sentries. I know the King is old, but the realm is surely in someone’s hands.”

  That didn’t sound good at all. Pergann was a weak fool, but he was still the King. The Chancellor however wasn’t even a noble, yet he effectively ruled the kingdom by Pergann’s order. Morfran even commanded Athione’s loyalty. It was enough to turn Keverin’s stomach, but he was loyal to the king and there was an end to it.

  “Chancellor Morfran is handling things in Devarr, but my messengers have had no luck convincing him of the danger we face. What about the King’s mage?”

  Darius was shaking his head. “I did try to find someone I could talk to at the palace, but I couldn’t find anyone with the gift there—no one at all. I fear the kingdom is leaderless my lord. What of the nobles?”

  Keverin grimaced. He wouldn’t trust most of the lords to polish his boots, let alone aid him in battle. The four great fortresses protected Deva from outside aggression. They and they alone might help. Athione in the west, Malcor in the north, Elvissa in the East, and Meilan in the Southeast. The south was open to the sea, but still had protection in the form of reefs. Many a fleet had tested them to their destruction. The lords that Keverin considered trustworthy, and more to the point, had enough guardsmen to make a difference, were leagues away. Gylaren Lord of Meilan was one, and Purcell Lord of Elvissa was another, but both had their own approaches to guard. Malcor was the closest fortress with guardsmen enough to help, but it was problematical in that Lord Malcor hated him with a passion, and with good reason. Keverin killed his father.

  “I’ve sent messages to all of them,” Keverin explained. “Athlone didn’t answer. Most of the others don’t have enough men to patrol their estates let alone aid me. Those that do made excuses not to send them. Gylaren is on his way with two thousand men, but only half are cavalry. Anything else would leave us open to the south. Purcell is bringing five hundred, but all of his are infantry. We’re lucky to get that many.”

  “Tanjung and Japura are quiet, have been years now. Purcell and Gylaren don’t fear an attack... do they?”

  Keverin snorted. “Our beloved neighbours to the east would just love for us to reduce our defences. While we’re worrying about the Protectorate, they could take us in the rear.” He shrugged then smiled. “You are right about them being quiet my friend, but we can’t take the chance.”

  Darius nodded. He took one last lingering look at the sorcerers in the pass below before visibly making an effort to look confident and cheerful. “So then, we are agreed. With your permission my lord, I must prepare for the summoning. Luck to you, and... farewell.”

  Finding no words to express his fears, Keverin embraced his friend. After a moment they parted and Darius walked away toward the gate tower.

  “May the God watch over you my friend,” Keverin called.

  Darius stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. “I expect he will,” he said then entered the tower.

  Keverin watched Darius disappear from view. “May the God watch over, and comfort you at journey’s end.”

  It was the prayer for the dead.

  * * *

  2 ~ Summoning

  Darius refused all help from his fellows in the fortress. Keverin would need everyone to stand a chance at repelling the Hasian invasion. If indeed it could be repelled.

  He knew Keverin didn’t understand why he and mages like him willingly paid the price of the craft. Only someone with the gift could understand the ecstasy he felt when using his magic. It was one reason why mages regardless of their rank tended to overuse it. He had felt the point when the sweet ecstasy of the magic turned to agony many times. Without discipline a mage could age himself a hundred years in moments.

  Darius wore the red robe that declared his rank as wizard. Only the black robe of a sorcerer was higher. He was the strongest mage in the fortress, yet even his discipline had failed him on a number of occasions. He was only thirty years old, but outwardly he looked fifty or more. That didn’t deter him from using his power—nothing could. When he released his magic after a major conjuration, he would often swear never to let it seduce him into that last grasp for more, but as always the next time would come and he would abruptly forget the oath, ageing perhaps another month. Then again, and he would age a year, then another month, on and on. Now he was a young man with an old man’s body about to perform his last and greatest work. To be ready for this day he had studied for years piecing bits and pieces of the stories together from the histories. He had not known that then of course. He had studied not for any high minded ideal such as saving the kingdom from the Hasians, but rather for the shear love of it. Coming to Athione was the culmination of his life’s pursuit of knowledge. Fitting then, that it was here he discovered the answers to so many of his questions about the Founders and the loss of the Great Spells they brought with them.

  In the beginning, the world had been devoid of magic wielders. Sorcerers had arrived on Fisher Isle, through a gate where some stayed to build a home that would later be called Cast
le Black. A smaller group wished to explore the mainland and flew to shore there to separate and mingle with the inhabitants they found. To Darius’ mind, Athione’s construction with sorcery attested to the validity of the story. No one could construct anything on such a grand scale today, but he was determined to attempt something just as ambitious—a gate spell-.

  The key to the spell had come into his hands quite by accident when he swore his oath to Keverin. At Keverin’s request, he had warded all the books against removal from the library soon after his arrival, but the lord hadn’t entrusted one particular volume to the library. No indeed. That book was in the vault, guarded night and day. Keverin had asked him to place wards on the vault to ensure that a lord of Athione must always accompany anyone who wished to enter. It was his strongest ward, and he had aged himself an entire year on purpose to make it. The ward would outlive anyone currently living and would endure forever if it remained untouched by a greater mage. To break it, a mage would need to be not only extremely powerful, but also ready to sacrifice more than a year of life to do it. He wasn’t sure the ward was enough, but he could do nothing more to ensure the vault’s security. The spell would hold long after his death—it must.

  Darius surveyed his room one last time. He was as ready as he was ever going to be he decided. He straightened his robe and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. Before closing the door, he glanced back at the table where a sealed scroll lay.

  Perhaps it will ease your mind in some small manner my friend.

  Darius locked the door and made his way through the fortress. He didn’t want to be late for his own demise. The thought started an absurd chuckle building in his chest.

  “Darius!” Gideon called. “Please wait a moment would you?”

  Darius’ heart sank when he heard the priest call out to him. He had hoped to avoid this. “I wanted to say good bye Gideon, but I’m late and Keverin is waiting for me.”