Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  “I have a special job for you two,” Don said. “My brother expects to defeat the raiders as soon as he engages. I want both of you to follow in stealth and report to me anything of note. Don’t let yourselves be seen or he’ll nail my hide to the gate when he gets back. Any questions?”

  “Yes m’lord,” Sergeant Ferris said. “If we sight the enemy before your brother’s scouts, do we have permission to inform him?”

  “Good thinking. Yes, but only one of you go. The other is to watch and report to me. All clear?”

  Both guardsmen braced and saluted, then mounted up and rode out the gate.

  I pray to the God you report good news my friends, but if not, I swear that if anyone even looks at my brother crosswise, he’ll have me to answer to!

  * * *

  Corlath was uneasy. Standing again in his stirrups, he looked around at the silent hills. Not a thing stirred. He tried not to dwell on Donalt’s dire warnings, but he was having trouble. Back at home, this course had not only seemed reasonable, but vital. Now his unease was growing. Don was right; there was something strange about all this. On the way to the pass he had stopped at the only village close to his route to investigate. There hadn’t been much left of it. There were dead bodies lying in scattered heaps, but that was to be expected. What wasn’t expected, were the bodies of woman and children mixed with those of the men. Raiders never killed girls or young women. They were too valuable as slaves in Japura or even across the sea in dark Tindebrai.

  I should turn back… this feels all wrong.

  Corlath was just turning to give the order when he heard a commotion at the rear of his column. He looked back in alarm but saw only one man galloping toward him. He drew his sword, but lowered it when he recognised Ferris. The sergeant was shouting as he raced by the column, and as he did, it seemed to ripple as the men drew their weapons.

  “M’lord, ambush!”

  “Report!”

  “Two thousand or more—all sides of your position, Tanjung Regulars. Not raiders, Regulars!”

  Before Corlath could shout orders to break away, they were attacked and his force disintegrated into swirling chaos.

  “Rally! Rally to the banner!” Corlath shouted.

  He managed to rally about half his men and attacked the enemy where they blocked the route back. He cut down Tanjuners left and right and lost count of how many he killed. The roar of battle faded as he killed and killed some more. He seemed to be in a place where all thought was beyond him except the next man. His thigh was cut then his left arm, he grunted as he took a blow on his ribs but it didn’t seem to hurt. His armour must have stopped it. Groups of his men were fighting their way toward freedom only to disappear as if drowning in a sea of the enemy. To his right he saw his father’s banner fall, then rise, only to fall again. He roared in anger at the sight and a red haze seemed to fill his vision. It was the berserker madness that Corlath’s line was famous for… or rather infamous. It had never taken him before, but he gave himself over to the madness willingly hoping desperately that it might save him when nothing else could. How long he fought like that he didn’t know, but finally the enemy pulled away from him in dismay stumbling in their haste to get away from him. None were willing to come close.

  Corlath was alone.

  He was the last. Every man he had led here was dead. He was gasping for breath and so weary he was in danger of toppling from the saddle. His armour was split and blood was pouring out of his side. Corlath managed to stay upright with some effort, but pain flared again in his side. Looking down numbly he found an arrow standing out of his ribs. He angrily pulled it out and tossed it away. Looking back up he found a man on a beautiful horse with a bow in hand.

  Bastard! He must lead them. I’ll take you with me.

  Corlath, first born son of Purcell Lord of Elvissa, spurred his horse into a full charge.

  “Elvissa!”

  * * *

  Rogan rode grim-faced and fast for Elvissa. Lord Donalt needed to know of his brother’s death immediately. More, he needed to know that Tanjung was invading Deva.

  Ferris had been Rogan’s sergeant for as long as he had been in the guard. He had seemed eternal, but nothing was that. It was strange to think that he would never hear Ferris’ roar of anger when he made a mistake with the pike, never hear him bellow orders to stand to attention. No more orders would Ferris give, but Rogan had one last order to follow. Ferris had ordered him to watch the outcome of the battle. He had said that as Rogan was the younger, he could take the news faster. Rogan wasn’t fooled. Ferris had known he would die.

  “May the God watch over and comfort you at journey’s end my friend,” he said into the wind as he raced for home.

  * * *

  Donalt closed the door shutting out the sound of his mother and sister weeping and leaned against it with sagging shoulders. He was weary, and the worry made it worse. Telling his mother of Cor’s death had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

  Rogan had galloped in the gate with his disastrous report less than a candlemark ago. All dead. All eight hundred dead. Donalt had been in shock since then, and in a way he was grateful for it. Telling his mother would have been infinitely worse if he had broken down as well. Corlath was gone, and Donalt had to plan the defence. Everyone was relying upon him. Striding down the corridors, Donalt didn’t see the worry on the faces of the guardsmen as they snapped to attention when he passed. He saw nothing except Cor riding out the gate at the head of his men and waving goodbye.

  Entering his father’s study, Donalt took the key from its hiding place and unlocked the cabinet. Among important papers such as deeds to lands and other property, was a long case with all of Elvissa’s precious maps. His father had paid an incredible amount in gold for them years ago, and had proudly shown them to him many times. He hadn’t understood the significance of them at first, but as his training broadened his mind, he realised what a treasure they were. The map he was looking for was of Deva. It showed the kingdom in its entirety as if seen by a bird flying overhead. It was complete in every detail—only a mage could have crafted something like this. It was accurate down to the very last stream and pond. There were seven large maps in the set. Six of them when laid together showed the continent of Waipara, the seventh was larger than the others but much less detailed. It was a map of Tindebrai and detailed the land only. There was nothing of borders and cities. Donalt returned six of the maps to the case and locked it away. After replacing the key, he strode out of the study and made his way down the tower steps.

  Donalt found his captains and sergeants waiting for him in the guardroom talking amongst themselves. When he entered, they fell silent awaiting his orders—orders he did not have. He spread the map out on the table, and weighted it down with daggers offered by his men.

  “Show me,” he ordered.

  Rogan pointed at two hills close together in the foothills of the Elvissan Mountain range. As Rogan reiterated his report to the captains, Donalt studied the map. He could easily imagine the brutal fight, as Corlath, surrounded and outnumbered, fought to the death.

  “How many would you say there were?” Donalt said when Rogan finished.

  “They had two thousand or more, m’lord. They ain’t any raiders neither. They were Tanjung Regulars.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They didn’t stop for booty. They killed women and children and didn’t take any for slaves.”

  Donalt shook his head, what a waste. “How many did my brother and his men kill?”

  “There must have been eighteen hundred left by the end m’lord,” Rogan said almost ashamed to report that Corlath and his men had killed so few. “I’m guessing on that, but it ain’t far out.”

  Donalt’s men murmured among themselves as he tried to think what to do. Cor had left him in command. He was younger than his captains were and less experienced than they, but he was his father’s son and ruled in his stead now that Corlath was gone. Breaking from his reverie
, Donalt looked up to see his captains silently studying him. Blanking his face, he started issuing firm orders. Whether they were right or wrong, they at least sounded as if he knew what he was doing. To his surprise, a glimmer of an idea began to form.

  Donalt turned to his father’s seneschal. “Send word to evacuate the town. I want everyone inside the walls by sunset.”

  “At once my lord!” Kennard said and rushed off.

  “Rogan, I want you to pick a likely man and head for Athione with some dispatches for my father. Take three mounts each—make haste.”

  Rogan saluted. “The letters m’lord?”

  “Get your gear ready then come back to me. My mother will want to send one as well.”

  “Yes lord,” Rogan said and hurried away.

  Turning to his captains, Donalt gave his orders. “Choose out five hundred men. Make them the best we have with the bow. Issue three dozen arrows each and the fastest horses we have left… food and water for two days but no more. We need to be fast.”

  His captains were starting to understand. They growled their assent, and for the first time they looked less bleak. They rushed out leaving Donalt to study his map. He traced the road toward the pass and tapped a finger on the old bridge frowning in thought. He followed the road further into Anselm Forest and smiled grimly pleased at the idea forming in his head. They would pay, oh how they would pay.

  Just candlemarks later, Donalt rode to meet the enemy, at the head of a column five hundred strong. This time it would be the Tanjuners who would die. There were numerous places he could use as a strong point, but none that could be held against two thousand regulars for long. Fortunately he didn’t plan to hold anything—he just wanted to kill his brother’s murderers. Almost a day out from the fortress they came to the edge of Anselm forest. He stopped and disbursed his men. The trees were large and provided excellent cover. The drawback was that cavalry couldn’t operate well here. That was to his advantage. The Tanjuners wouldn’t be able to charge his position, but it was also to his disadvantage in that his men had to fight on foot. He had weighed this decision carefully before choosing this place for the ambush. Normally a man on foot had little chance against a mounted opponent, but among the trees things were more evenly matched. It was their best chance of killing a lot of men quickly.

  Donalt ordered his men to wait until the enemy was close before firing. They were to use half their arrows at most before fading back to retrieve their mounts. He was hoping to make at least two more hit and run raids on the enemy before retiring to the fortress and hunkering down behind her sturdy walls. He would have given much for a mage to scry the enemy’s position. He made do with a lookout in a tall tree. It was moving on to mid-afternoon when Donalt heard the whistle. He looked up and saw his watcher pointing toward the road urgently. He nodded, but was puzzled at first when his lookout signalled that he saw only a small group of two hundred men.

  The Tanjuners had sent a vanguard ahead!

  Donalt cursed his foolishness. Why hadn’t he thought about a van? This could prove cursed tricky. Should he attack and fade back thereby warning the larger column he was here? Or should he let them pass and risk being caught between two forces?

  “Let them pass,” Donalt ordered Captain Trine who nodded and spread the word to the others.

  It was a risky decision. They might have to fight the vanguard to get back to Elvissa, but it was a calculated risk Donalt was willing to take. He watched as the enemy rode by and wished he could kill them all. He stayed down until they past. Perhaps a quarter candlemark later, a larger group appeared.

  This is it!

  Donalt fired his first arrow and saw his man fall then another. Firing smoothly and unhurriedly, he watched as arrows struck the enemy from all sides. Horses as well as men were hit. They reared screaming their pain. Riders fell all along the column either thrown or hit by arrows. Some regained their feet and drew their swords looking around wildly, but many lay still. They were trampled by panicked and rearing horses. Donalt used his quota of arrows all too soon, and was tempted to continue firing, but if he didn’t follow his own orders, how could he expect his men to follow them? He fired once more at a man on a beautiful roan horse, but another rider got in the way and died in his stead. He watched his target escape with regret then faded fast into the trees.

  Donalt’s men were ready to ride when he reached the clearing. He hadn’t lost a single man! He gave the order to ride and they galloped out of the trees and away. He wanted to get to their next position before sunset. This time there wouldn’t be as much cover—Anselm was the only deep forest close by, but he felt he could make good use of the river and its bridge.

  Days later Donalt’s euphoria had evaporated to be replace by weariness and worry. He paced the barricade that had replaced the shattered east gate of Elvissa trying to think of a clever trick that might hold off his defeat for another day. Half his men were asleep at their posts on his orders. In two candlemarks the other half would wake them so that they could take the watch for the second half of the night.

  Although he had thinned the enemy forces with his ambushes, his attacks hadn’t gone entirely to plan. In his haste to reach the bridge, he had forgotten about the two hundred vanguards. He and his men had literally galloped straight into them. The resulting battle had been brutal but ultimately victorious—if you called the loss of over thirty men a victory, and he did. He hadn’t been able to kill them all though, and the surviving third had galloped away to rejoin the bulk of their army. With so many wounded men he had aborted the planned ambush at the bridge. They had carried the wounded back to the fortress and locked themselves in.

  That was days ago… was it five? He was so tired that he couldn’t remember.

  Elvissa’s walls were high and her gates were strong, but nothing could have withstood that first attack for long. Fireballs had hit the gate and set it on fire. He and his men had to scramble to put out the flames. Apparently not satisfied with this, the invaders had sent one fireball after another to strike the gate and blast it off its hinges. Donalt didn’t know much about mages, but the lack of magical attacks since then said to him that the mage had exhausted himself. The Tanjuners didn’t really need him though. Now the gate was down they could enter at will—or so they must have thought. Donalt had stationed two hundred of his best bowmen on the walls each side of the sundered gate. The rest of his men were behind the barricades armed with long pikes. They still had their blades with them, but so far they had managed to repel the invaders without needing to resort to swordplay. Donalt yawned widely. He needed to get some rest before the next attack. He sat next to an alert guardsman and went to sleep.

  The sun had already risen when he was jogged awake again.

  “They look ready to have another go, m’lord.”

  Blinking sleep out of his eyes, Donalt squinted into the sun as it rose over the mountain peaks. That was the problem with having east and west facing gates—the enemy could take advantage of the sun. He shielded his eyes and saw the man was correct. The enemy had formed up and looked ready to have another go. It looked as if their War Leader had decided to equip his men a little better this time. There were long spears standing up into the air in neat rows as the men awaited the order to attack.

  “Look lively! Wake that man there!” Donalt shouted.

  The tired guardsman was jostled awake and took his place in the defences. Looking up toward his walls, Donalt shouted for the bowmen to fire as soon as they were confident of hitting their mark. Donalt strode along behind his men giving encouragement as he had before and no doubt would again. He had no idea if it helped his men, but it made him feel better anyway. When he saw the Tanjuners start forward he grabbed up his pike, and shoved himself in between two guardsmen who glared at him, until they realised who he was.

  “Sorry lads. I can’t let you do all the work,” he said as he readied himself for the fight ahead.

  Donalt was uncomfortable calling men his father’s age lad,
but they expected it of him, just as they expected him to shout orders that were common sense. He played his part, so they could play theirs confident in their belief that he knew what he was doing. The first few arrows went out. When they hit their targets more followed. Only one or two men fell, and they were not likely dead. The range was too long for bows yet, but any that dropped out of the charge would be one less for the pikes to contend with.

  At least it’s not raining.

  The thought skittered through Donalt’s mind just as the Tanjuners hit his line. There was no time then for thought, only action.

  “Elvissa!” Donalt screamed into the roar of battle, and batted his first man’s spear expertly to the side.

  Donalt thrust, twisted, and pulled his wide bladed pike clear ready for the next man. All along his line, men were thrusting and killing, but for the first time, he saw some of his own men falling to spear thrusts.

  Suddenly two men next to each other fell and a gap in the line opened. One then two Tanjuners jumped through and attacked from the rear. Donalt jumped up leaving his pike where it lay, and ran toward them with sword in the air. He had to stop them before more came through. Both men fall dead before he reached them, but it was already too late.

  The enemy poured through.

  “Out swords!” Donalt roared as he attacked.

  He killed his first opponent, but the second man was damn good. Going high, he expected the man to defend, but instead the Tanjuner ducked under his blade and thrust. Donalt sucked in air trying to sink into his backbone as the man’s blade poked him in the gut. It was close, but he felt only the faintest touch on his armour as he swung his blade down to connect with the man’s arm. There was a sickening crunch, and the man screamed as his hand fell to the cobbles. Before the Tanjuner could step back, Donalt stabbed him in the throat with his dagger. All around him was chaos. He was close to losing the courtyard. He killed and killed again. Ducking under one man’s hasty slash, he cut him down only to slip on the man’s blood just as he engaged another. Rolling away from a stabbing sword, he tried to avoid the stamping feet of his men as the fight degenerated into roiling chaos.