Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  Jihan rode hard for the first few candlemarks, and then stopped to change mounts. He knew the traitor would send guardsmen after him, but what he didn’t know was how many and what their orders would be. If their orders were not to harm him, he could easily escape just by waving his sword and threatening them. It was far more likely that they were ordered to stop him. That was trickier. A good bowman could drop a man at a hundred and fifty yards, sometimes more if the wind was right. He had to maintain a good lead and stay out of direct line of sight—hence the woods. The trees here were not numerous, but they did provide enough cover to prevent a bowman from hitting him in the back. Jihan decided against trying to ambush his pursuers. It could so easily go wrong. He would only stop and fight if he had no other option. As he rode through the woods, he felt optimistic about his chances of avoiding that.

  Candlemarks later, Jihan stopped briefly at the edge of the forest and scanned for tracks on the highroad. It hadn’t been used recently and that worried Jihan more than a little. He would much prefer his enemies to be in front rather than behind. Making a decision, Jihan crossed the road and started riding cross-country. Athione was a long ride from Malcor by road. It would take him even longer cross-country, but he couldn’t take the chance of being caught in the open. The area he travelling through was unpopulated and it was obvious why. It comprised of rocky hills interspersed with scrub. Water would be scarce, and he had just the one water bag. As the day eased into evening, Jihan began looking for a place to stop. It was a risk to be sure, but he couldn’t afford to lame the horses. He chose a rocky hill in the distance and reached it just as true night fell.

  Jihan unsaddled Jezy and his remount. Both horses were happy enough for now munching on the scrub. They would need water tomorrow at the latest, but they could manage for now on the little he gave them. He shook the water bag. It was three quarters full. He didn’t drink.

  Settling down to watch his back trail, Jihan tried not to dwell on the men he had killed, but it was hard. He had ridden against brigands twice before. The first time, the fight was over before he could even draw his sword. The second time, he had fought and wounded a man, but he couldn’t kill him. Jihan had disarmed him easily and he was little more than a boy. Athlone had made him watch the hanging. He could still see the look of horror on the boy’s face as they brought out the rope. Hanging was a bad way to die.

  Jihan didn’t regret Luther’s death. The sergeant had more than deserved it for his treatment of Jihan and others in the fortress. Jihan’s first real run in with Luther had been over his treatment of one of the serving girls. Lorena was a quiet girl. Some said she was a little soft in the head, but Jihan didn’t know if that was true. She rarely spoke to anyone. She did her work and kept out of the way—a good idea Jihan had always thought and one he tried to emulate. Capturing his father’s notice had always been something to avoid in Jihan’s experience. Lorena had somehow caught Luther’s fancy, but Lorena either didn’t notice or didn’t want to. Either way, Jihan had caught Luther trying to lift the terrified girl’s skirts in an out of the way corridor of the fortress one night. It had been a pleasure to beat Luther within an inch of his life for that. Luther of course had transferred his obsession from Lorena to Jihan and had made it his duty to hound him through the fortress and elsewhere whenever he could get away with it. He had never allowed himself to be caught alone with Jihan again and always brought some friends along. Jihan knew that he should have killed Luther all those years ago. It would have saved him a lot of grief. It was a mistake that he would never make again. Mercy and honour went hand in hand, but so did justice. Luther’s death was justice. Jihan was certain Lorena would agree.

  It was the cowardly guardsman in the clearing that troubled Jihan. If he hadn’t killed the man the hunters would have found him immediately. He simply had to kill him, or ride back to Malcor to receive his punishment. It was cold comfort that he’d given the man a chance to fight. Jihan shifted and glanced upward. There was only a sliver of moon tonight, but his eyes were well accustomed to the dark. The night was still. If the hunters were out there he could not see them. Jihan found himself nodding off. He tried to force himself awake by continually changing his focus.

  It didn’t work.

  Jihan awoke when Jezy lipped his face. “Fugghh! Your breath stinks!”

  Then he remembered and cursed himself for a fool. It was after dawn! He guessed the sun had been up at least a candlemark. Jihan quickly saddled the horses and remounted. It was pure idiocy to sleep when being hunted, but he’d been lucky. Constantly looking back as he rode, he saw no sign of pursuit. He rode for two or three candlemarks before stopping and giving both horses water. They were clearly not happy with the amount. The closest well was at a small village called Brai. It would take him the rest of the day to get there. Taking a sip to tide him over until midday, Jihan mounted his spare horse and continued on.

  The day progressed with Jihan continually scanning the horizon all round. He was completely alone, but he didn’t trust that. He kept looking—especially behind. The rocky hills became less frequent as he progressed. They started petering out as midday arrived. Open land was good and bad for Jihan’s nerves. Good, in that he could see for a league or more. Bad, in that his pursuers would see him just as easily. He kept his eyes moving constantly searching for pursuit but there was nothing in sight. Where were they? They might have ridden by in the night, or even be on the wrong track, but he couldn’t take the chance.

  As the light faded toward evening, Jihan slowed his progress even more so as to enter the village at night. He dismounted and approached the first houses on foot. He walked quietly, ready to fight if need be, but everything was quiet—too quiet. He paused and tried to penetrate the night, but the darkness was complete. Most of the houses had their shutters closed and the little light leaking through the cracks didn’t help. He listened, but couldn’t... no wait. He could hear something. There was singing and laughter coming from ahead.

  Jihan relaxed a little. It didn’t mean he was out of danger, but it was a good sign. It was unlikely that the villagers would be singing so gaily if the traitor’s cronies were here. Jihan listened and grinned at what he heard. It was an old drinking song. The lyrics were being badly mangled by someone deep in his cups.

  Jihan moved forward and stopped again at the edge of the square. The horses had scented the water and were eager to drink. He held them back to scan the open space. To reach the well and the horse trough, he had to walk a hundred yards in the open. The well was in the exact centre of the village and the square. The light was a little better here away from the shadows of the narrow streets. Why did he hesitate? Everything looked peaceful, yet Jihan felt... uneasy. He retrieved his bow and hung his quiver over his shoulder. Better to feel a fool than be unarmed when he needed his bow.

  Jihan walked the horses the last few hundred yards to the well with an itch between his shoulder blades. Something was wrong—he could feel it. Both horses eagerly dipped their heads to drink from the water trough while he drew fresh water from the well. He kept his bow close to hand.

  Jihan glanced around at the lighted windows trying to imagine the families sitting down to dinner. He shook the thought away. He was hungry enough without tormenting himself. The inn was to his left—the villagers were still enjoying the drunken sot’s bawdy song. After drinking, Jihan filled his water bag all the while wishing he had two of them. If he survived this journey, he would never ride anywhere with only one again. He drank deeply and topped the water bag off.

  Thock!

  Jihan fell flat behind the trough. An arrow was quivering from the well handle. He stared at it trying not to imagine what could have happened had he still been standing there.

  “That was just a warning boy!” A voice called out of the darkness. “Your pa wants ye back. I don’t want to kill ye lad, but I will if ye don’t drop that bow!”

  Jihan searched the darkness. The voice was coming from a small house across the way. I
t seemed the same as the other houses except the shutters were dark. Not one beam of light came from there.

  “Are you going to kill me in the middle of the village? I don’t think the folk here will approve!” Jihan shouted, and scooted along to a better position behind the trough.

  The singer and his audience within the inn fell silent.

  “You should know better than that lad! They won’t get involved for the likes of you!”

  The voice was unfamiliar but Jihan rarely talked to Athlone’s cronies. He rarely spoke to anyone but his father, and only to him when he absolutely had to. Crawling to the other end of the trough, Jihan peered around the corner.

  Thock!

  Jihan ducked back. The arrow hadn’t been intended to hit him. He would be dead if it had been. He frowned at the shaft where it stood up from the trough. The angle of the shaft was different. Sighting along the arrow, Jihan found an alley beside the darkened house. He wished he had a clan bow here. He grimaced. While he was wishing, he should wish for a clansman to use it for him! His longbow could not be used from a kneeling position, but the clans used a different design—one not used anywhere else as far as he knew.

  Jihan bit his lip. Should he take the chance or not? He made his decision and knocked an arrow to the string. He rose and fired in one movement.

  Thunk!

  “Ughh!”

  Diving down to avoid any return, Jihan was grimly satisfied to hear the cry of pain. That was one less at least. He knew there were at least two, but how many more than that he couldn’t know until they loosed at him. It would be too late then.

  “Pssst!”

  Jihan glanced around for the source of the noise. Next to the inn on the ground near the wall he could see an indistinct face—a boy of perhaps fifteen years if he was any judge.

  “Look to your left... no your other left dim wit! See him, on the roof?”

  Yes, dim wit your other left.

  Jihan shook his head. He turned from the left and looked up and to the right. He could just see a man in silhouette crouched behind a chimney. It would be a long shot for his bow, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He knocked another arrow, and waited for the man to get bored enough to move.

  Time passed. When the opportunity arrived, Jihan rose and fired.

  “AEiii!”

  “Oomph!” Jihan grunted with the impact and fell sprawling onto his back.

  Panting in time with the throbbing pain in his side, Jihan snapped the arrow off short. By the God it hurt! It had hit him in the side, about a hand-span above his sash. His armour had saved him from a killing blow, but the arrow had still penetrated. It hurt like a hot poker in his side. It wasn’t bleeding too badly, but he would need to get it out quickly. Drawing his bow would be agony.

  “I saw you hit boy, give it up! Your da only wants you home! He loves you Jihan!”

  “You bastard!” Jihan screamed in anger. “My father is a traitor, and that makes you one as far as I’m concerned!”

  The pain diminished as Jihan’s anger built. He was trying to see every direction at once. He looked back to where he’d seen the boy, but he was gone. Very wise. Jihan shifted toward the end of the trough thinking to grab Jezy.

  Thock! Thock! Thock!

  He jumped up and went for the horses, hoping to get between them before the bowmen could fire again.

  Thunk!

  “Oomph!” Jihan grunted and spun around. He was hit in the thigh, but he managed to get between the horses. There were four bowmen not three! That made six in all. How many did the traitor send?

  Jihan snapped the arrow in his thigh, and grabbed the reins of both animals. He limped toward the inn shielded by the horses. When he reached it he half ran half fell through the doors landing on his belly on the floor. His bow skittered away from his hand as pain flared in his side. He had landed on the broken arrow stub and driven it further in. Panting in time with the pain, Jihan willed away the darkness at the edges of his vision. If he passed out now he was a dead man. Slowly the pain began to subside, and the darkness receded. The first face he saw belonged to his young helper.

  Girl!

  She was about fifteen or sixteen. She was staring intently at him as if trying to tell him something, but she uttered not a sound. Something was wrong. No one spoke, but the girl’s eyes skittered away toward the corner behind him and then back. Jihan quickly drew his dagger while shielding the movement by getting to his feet.

  Jihan spun on his good leg and let the blade fly.

  “Ughh!” The guardsman grunted and fell face down.

  Jihan let out a sigh of relief when he realised he hadn’t killed a villager by mistake. He didn’t recognise the man, but he was wearing the cheap rubbish Athlone called armour and always supplied to his men. His dagger had plunged into the man at the base of his throat. He should be disgusted with so lucky a hit. He had thought the man would be taller. The villagers started babbling their story as he bent to retrieve the dagger, but Jihan was more interested in keeping his blood off the floor where much of it already stained the wood. He clamped a hand to his side, and the blood slowed to a trickle.

  “Later my friends,” Jihan said holding up a hand. “There are at least three more by my count. Does anyone know where they’re hiding?”

  “There’s one in my ma’s house across the street,” his helper said.

  “She weren’t ye ma girl. Ye be a foundling.”

  “Leave over, Ricol,” another villager said. “The girl has enough to do with her ma being dead without hearing that.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement, and the girl looked gratefully at her protector.

  “Point it out girl,” Jihan said gruffly. She moved close and pointed. Jihan sighted along her arm. It was the darkened house he had first heard the voice coming from. “What about the other two?” He said retrieving his bow from where it lay under a table. It looked undamaged to his expert eye. He readied an arrow, but left the string slack.

  “Not sure,” the girl said frowning at the blood dripping onto the floor. Her hands twitched forward of their own accord but stopped before touching him.

  “Girl? What of the others?” Jihan reminded her sharply.

  “One of them kept to the stables the whole time. He might be still there. The other one could be any place.”

  Jihan shifted the weight off his right leg. The arrow had struck him on top of Luther’s cut and it was paining him. He grimaced as the muscle flexed, but the pain eased with less weight on the leg. He stared out into the night trying to think what to do for the best. He might take the one in the stables by sneaking out the back—if the missing one wasn’t waiting for him that is. The one in the girl’s house though was tricky. Apart from the alley next to it, there was no cover.

  Rubbing his injured thigh while trying to make a decision, Jihan ran out of time. The sound of galloping horses announced his foolishness to all.

  Jihan hobbled outside as fast as he could and saw his enemies escaping. He grunted in pain as he drew his bow. The man to the right was marginally closer. He slowed his breathing and loosed his arrow. The shot was long, but the man slumped forward and fell. The constant pain in Jihan’s side said he had no chance of drawing again. He looked impotently on as the man’s friends rode on without slowing. He knew that he would be seeing them again. In a strange way his father’s intolerance of failure would work in his favour for once. The assassins wouldn’t dare return to Malcor without proof of his death. He had only to kill those two and he would be free.

  Only! You’ve killed seven men in the last two days!

  Jihan stared into the night. It was strange how you could justify anything, in the name of freedom.

  Jihan awoke in Ahnao’s bed and wondered how long it had been. He had to tell Keverin of Athlone’s treachery. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his side was incredible. He collapsed back to the bed groaning.

  Oh yes, the arrow.

  He pulled the covers down noting his cl
othes were gone, but the sight of clean white bandaging made him frown. He didn’t recall Ahnao bandaging him, but then he didn’t remember her removing the arrows either. He rolled over weakly and managed to get his feet over the side of the bed. His clothes and armour lay neatly piled on a small rickety looking chair in the corner. The bandage on his thigh suddenly blossomed with a red flower as his blood soaked through. His exertions had reopened the wound. When he checked his side he found nothing but pristine white bandage. He ignored the blood and pulled his trousers on. When he tried to bend forward for his boots, he couldn’t do it. Steadying himself with a hand against the wall, he went in search of help.

  Ahnao’s house was small—only two rooms, but it was well kept. A table with two chairs sat in the centre of the room, and various things sat on shelves around the walls. On the stove in the corner was a pan with something bubbling within it. A delicious aroma rose from there, and set Jihan’s belly to grumbling.

  “Why are you up?” Ahnao said from where she stood in the doorway. She was carrying a bucket of water.

  “I needed help to dress. I have to leave.” Jihan hobbled forward unsteadily and tried to relieve her of the burden she carried, but she wouldn’t let him.

  Ahnao scowled and banged the bucket down. Water sloshed onto the floor, but she took no notice. “Don’t be more of a fool than you already are, Jihan! You nearly died. Five days ain’t long enough!”

  “What?” Jihan roared, but Ahnao’s flinch made him guiltily lower his voice. “What do you mean five days?”

  Ahnao hefted the bucket and closed the door. Jihan waited impatiently as she poured the water into a jug and placed it on the table. He moved to sit in one of the chairs. His leg was paining him again.

  Ahnao bustled about the room laying the table with her only two plates and cups. All were plain fired clay. Nothing matched. She was obviously reluctant to talk until she finished her work, so Jihan watched her in silence. He had never met anyone like her. She was a peasant and one with little except this house and the things it contained, but there was something about her. Her skirt was made of brown wool, and the hem was rough. It didn’t reach the ground as it should. Occasional flashes of pale leg made Jihan shift his eyes quickly away. Ahnao had grown taller since it was made and was unable to let the hem down further. The wool was much too hot for this weather, but she probably didn’t have another dress. Her blouse was made of white cotton. There were wooden toggles running down the centre between small breasts that pressed against the fabric.