Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  The brigand charged.

  Keverin braced himself and turned his shoulder into the man as they clashed. The brigand grunted from the impact and attempted to thrust a dagger into Keverin’s armpit, but he managed to evade and draw his own dagger. The brigand backed off slightly then attacked all out. Keverin parried and slashed the man’s face with his dagger. The brigand had courage enough for two men. He ignored his cheek hanging down and flapping in the breeze. All the wound seemed to do was rile him up. Keverin feinted for the other cheek with his dagger, and as the brigand ducked away. Keverin took the opportunity the God gave him and thrust his sword into the man’s thigh; the leg buckled and he took instant advantage. He leapt forward and drove his dagger under the brigand’s chin and into his brain.

  Keverin turned just in time to see Jihan finish the last one, and an eerie silence fell. Nothing stirred in the houses along the street. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what they would find behind those doors and windows. He had no wish to investigate now, especially not after spewing his guts earlier. He’d never envied Julia her ability until that moment. If he’d had a shield like hers, he might have been able to enter the house without throwing up, but he wasn’t certain. Julia seemed so fragile sometimes, like a child quite often, but today she had handled the experience with a calm beyond her years. She had seen many more and worse things since her arrival at Athione, it was no wonder a few corpses didn’t affect her any longer. It was sad that a gentle woman like his Julia could see something so grisly and not cry.

  Jihan was finishing off the fallen brigands with a dagger thrust and a whispered prayer to ease them on to the God. Keverin looked around for one that needed attending to. The man had dragged himself quite some distance, but had left most of his gizzard behind him in long ropes of intestine. He was still alive but in shock. Keverin gave him the grace with a dagger thrust to the heart.

  “May the God watch over and comfort you at journey’s end,” Keverin whispered. He cleaned his sword and dagger on the body before sheathing them both. Cleaning a scabbard was an impossible job. “Burke, any injuries?”

  “None m’lord,” Burke said cleaning his own sword likewise.

  Keverin was pleased that his men had taken no hurt, but they shouldn’t have needed to fight in the first place. “That is good. Mount up, we’re heading for the palace as before.”

  They mounted and rode on leaving the bodies for Brian and his men to find. They hadn’t left the swords of course, not that there seemed to be anyone around who would steal them, but you never know when a dropped weapon might come back to haunt you. The last thing he wanted was Brian’s men attacked with a blade he had let lie.

  They rode into the palace grounds unhindered. Keverin dismounted and entered the stable. Nothing. Not one horse was in evidence and there were no stable hands to be seen. He didn’t know why this should bring home the situation more forcefully than the fright they had received upon entering the city, but it did. No guardsmen on the palace walls, and none on the gate. He doubted he would find the Chancellor still here. Morfran had probably robbed the place blind and then run for Japura. At least the man had the decency to send word of the King’s death before leaving; it was about the only decent thing he’d ever done.

  Keverin signalled Burke, and the sergeant trotted over to him. “Send pairs of men through the palace. Check every room for the Chancellor. Leave no place unchecked. I’ll do the same with Jihan.”

  “Yes m’lord,” Burke said then turned to his men. “Right you lot, you heard the lord.”

  They stabled their horses and began searching the palace. Keverin could tell straight away the place had been looted by the mob. Beautiful and ancient tapestries were strewn over the floors. Many were soiled with what looked like human excrement and others were torn and ripped. Tables and chairs in some rooms were little more than kindling, where other rooms hadn’t been touched.

  The dragon throne was unharmed, but every single banner hanging from the walls, including Athione’s, was shredded. He shook his head at the vandalism, and dropped what was left of his banner.

  “Let us head for the King’s apartments and the women’s quarter. If anyone is still here that’s where they’ll be,” Jihan said eyeing the remains of Malcor’s banner.

  Keverin kicked the rubbish aside. “Good idea. This means nothing in the long run.”

  The women’s quarter was deserted just like the rest of the palace, but they finally found Chancellor Morfran in the King’s own study still sitting at his desk. He was very dead. Jihan quickly opened the windows behind the mummified remains.

  “He killed himself, see the wrists?” Jihan said.

  “Hmmm, I didn’t think he had it in him. Why did he do it? He could have taken the treasury and run.”

  Jihan didn’t answer. He was carefully trying to retrieve a piece of parchment from the desk without moving the corpse. He managed it finally and whistled when he read it. “Listen to this,” Jihan said and began reading aloud.

  “I Morfran, chancellor of Deva and regent for Pergann King of Deva, hereby set pen to parchment in the hope that whoever may find my body will not look too unkindly upon me.

  “Pergann has been getting worse the last few days. He was raging this morning about traitors amongst his lords and going to war with Tanjung, which is utter folly. I tried to reason with him, but he was determined to carry out his threat. I fear me he is mad. If you are reading this, then you already know that I have killed him. I have my dagger here while I write this and will use it tonight.”

  “Is that it?”

  “What else were you expecting?” Jihan asked dropping the parchment back to the desk.

  Keverin shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seems… well, so unlike the man. He was a coward through and through, yet this makes him seem a hero.”

  “Who can know a man’s mind when he’s faced with this kind of decision?”

  “I suppose.” He moved to look out of the window into the overgrown gardens below. “Where is everyone? They should have been here waiting for us.”

  Jihan chuckled. “You have a positive knack for asking unanswerable questions. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yes really. As for the lords, Meagan and his friends will be here soon enough.”

  “Maybe they knew the situation better than we did and wanted us to fix the mess.”

  Jihan shrugged. “It’s more likely they expected the pestilence to take care of us.”

  “You might be right at that.”

  * * *

  “Your Grace!” a voice hailed Dugan.

  He turned to find Father Mignon hurrying toward him. “What is it?”

  “A boat has come, your grace.”

  Dugan sighed sadly. They could barely feed those already here. The gardens had been turned over for growing food, but there wasn’t enough. Never enough. They couldn’t take any more people in… but how could he turn them away?

  “Tell them to come ahead. I’ll find somewhere to put them.”

  “I’m sorry, your Grace, but you misunderstand. There are guardsmen in the boat. They ask that we start running the ferry again.”

  “Guardsmen? Which lord?”

  “Malcor and Athione, your grace. Will you come?” Mignon said hopefully.

  “Yes, yes indeed I shall!” Dugan said excitedly. “Lead on.”

  Mignon hurried away and Dugan followed him outside to the landing stage. A crowd of gawking people were standing nearby but were being held back by a Red Guard squad. The centre of attention was a group of three men in armour, and indeed, they were from the fortresses Mignon mentioned.

  One man stepped forward and bowed. “Lady Jessica said we should come, your Grace.”

  “Jessica is here?”

  “In the city, your Grace. The Lady said that Jessica should come with us, but Jessica wanted to help with the city folk.”

  The Lady?

  Could he mean Jul
ia? The man sounded respectful in the extreme. The other two guardsmen were Malcorans and had yet to speak. Dugan addressed himself to the Athione Captain.

  “Your name?”

  “Captain Brian, your grace.”

  “I am Patriarch Dugan. Your lord has come?”

  “Yes, your grace. Lord Keverin and his friend, Lord Jihan, have taken up residence at the palace. They have come to await the other lords so that a new king might be chosen.”

  “At last!” Dugan breathed. The nightmare was ending. “This is excellent news! Your lord wishes the ferry to resume the run to the city?”

  “Yes, your Grace, but not only that. The people need help. The Lady has ordered a warehouse used to house them all, but there are too many for her alone. She asks for priests to help feed them, and others to help care for the young ones.”

  “We have little food here, but what we can spare will be provided,” Dugan said. “I will inform his Holiness of your arrival and the ferry will be re-opened immediately. I will send my priests to help.”

  “Thank you, your Grace,” Brian said with a bow.

  * * *

  7 ~ Conquest

  The wind howled through the rigging as the ship plunged from the crest of a huge wave. The storm had come up out of nowhere. It had taken even Master Sacherval, an old hand at the northern trade route, completely by surprise.

  “Get those rags down, damn you!” Sacherval roared over the keening wind. They had to relieve the stress on the masts or lose them. He hated to do it, but the storm was beyond anything he had weathered before. Canvas could be replaced, the ship and those she carried could not. “Cut them down!”

  Old Warrin gaped at his Captain, and then spun to his mates. “You heard the Cap’n! Pass out them axes!”

  Sacherval watched Warrin and the others frantically chopping at lines and prayed they would be in time. Eleven ships had left port at Banswara with him as Master of the flagship. The weather had been fine with a good north easterly to speed them on their way. They had made excellent time. He had been certain that Lord Mortain—may he live forever—would reward him handsomely. But now his fleet was scattered. He had no idea how many of his ships had survived.

  How could his luck turn so fast?

  The ropes hummed and sang like harp strings. The masts groaned with the strain. Down below, his crew was frantically pumping and bailing as fast as abused muscles would allow, but they were losing the battle. He could feel it in every roll and shudder of the deck beneath his feet. He clung to the wheel desperately trying to keep his feet.

  The ship hit bottom and water sheeted over the bow.

  Sacherval shook his head gasping and trying to breath air that was two thirds sea water. Lightning forked down briefly illuminating the deck and the few struggling sailors trying to save the ship—his ship. His beautiful ship heaved herself gamely up and out of the trough, but as she did, she staggered and rolled as another mountain of water thundered down and buried her. Sacherval lost his feet and skated over the deck kicking and scrabbling for any hold he could find. The deck canted further and further… she was going to roll! His fist clamped upon a stray line, and he found himself dangling with feet kicking over the side with nothing but a watery death below him and a near vertical wall of decking above.

  Not me—you’re not having me, you bitch!

  Sacherval pulled himself up the line and back aboard ship as she reluctantly rolled upright. She was losing her trim. There was just too much water below and no way to pump it out fast enough. Another mountain of water hammered over her bow, and sheeted across the deck. The broken and buckled railings were no hindrance. He could only wonder how much longer she could take such a pounding as she began yet another climb.

  Sacherval staggered back to his place next to Fenton.

  CraAAAAacK!

  Sacherval flinched as lightning stabbed down and struck the foremast. The howl of the wind might have hidden it. The whip-crack sound of sundered canvas might have, but nothing could hide the results. Old Warrin was haloed briefly in an eerie blue light. Sacherval blinked water out of his eyes—he would swear later that it had been no longer than that, but it was long enough. One moment Warrin was frantically chopping at lines, the next he was gone. Sacherval couldn’t grieve. Even if Warrin hadn’t been a royal pain, which he had been, even if he’d been a friend, which he was not, he didn’t have time. Warrin was part of his crew. That was the whole of the matter and a tie Sacherval considered closer than blood, but he was gone. There were others that still lived.

  “We’re going to lose the foremast!” he shouted to Fenton.

  “Aye sir! We are that!”

  “Best lose her now as later!” Sacherval screamed over the howling wind. He staggered forward and took up an axe. “You there!” he shouted to Garrett. “With me!”

  Sacherval swung the axe and severed the stays one after another. Garrett did the same on the portside. The foremast screamed with the suddenly increased load and snapped. Sacherval gasped in pain as the severed end of a rope flailed at him and stung his cheek like a whip. Mast, canvas, and ropes disappeared over the side and were whirled away. He staggered back to Fenton with his cheek bleeding and stinging from the salt water. The ship buried herself into another mountainous wave and icy water cascaded over the bows.

  Sacherval swept a hand over his face and cleared his eyes. “She can’t take much more of this! Where are the cursed sorcerers?!”

  “The Victory’s gone, Cap’n!” Fenton yelled back. “We’re on our own!”

  The Pride was almost standing on her stern as she climbed toward the sky.

  “Hold on!” Sacherval cried as his ship heaved herself over the top and plunged down the other side. “May the God save us!”

  The sky was replaced with roiling heaving water.

  * * *

  Thump!

  With a startled oath, Navarien sat up and struck his head on the deck above his bunk. “The God curse you, come in!”

  “Sorry to wake you, Sir, but the storm is over and we’re within sight of land.”

  Why was the man always so jolly? Cragson hadn’t been sick even one day during the passage. It was cursed un-natural! Navarien swung his legs over the side of his bunk and dropped down. He swayed uncertainly in place and waited trying to decide if his belly was under control or not. He decided it was—barely.

  “Excuse the bad temper, Cragson. I feel like I died and haven’t been buried yet.”

  Cragson’s lips twitched, but he managed to stop himself from laughing at his General’s discomfort. He was a good man, but more to the point, he was an excellent Captain. Cragson had been with Navarien during the war with Bandar, and the debacle at Athione where he was badly wounded. Luckily he had survived what passed for healing in the legions and was now the Fifth Legion’s most senior Captain. Navarien busied himself with washing and putting on a clean uniform tunic. He didn’t bother with his armour, and wouldn’t until he debarked at Cantibria.

  “So we didn’t sink after all. If that’s the good news what’s the bad?” Navarien said trimming his beard in a tiny mirror that went everywhere with him.

  Cragson kept his expression neutral, but he couldn’t hide the glee in his voice. “No ships in sight sir. Victory went down at the height of the storm.”

  “Oh dear, that’s terrible!” Navarien said trying to cover his own glee at the thought of all those sorcerers sinking to the bottom of the North Sea.

  Victory had been assigned to transport the mages. Navarien had tried to tell them that putting all their apples in one basket was a bad idea, but the lead mage had used his hard won orders against him. Navarien had campaigned hard to get written orders stating that he alone was in command of Fifth Legion and that he wasn’t to be hindered by—or even made accountable to—the lead mage. It all stemmed from the mess at Athione last year. He would never again put his men through what that bastard Belgard had put them through last year. The mages had their own separate orders giving them autono
my in their own area. They had refused to heed him and had paid the price when their ship went to the bottom.

  “What is the world coming to?”

  Navarien chuckled. “Now, now—they’re on our side after all.”

  Cragson snorted.

  After a moment’s thought, Navarien decided that the loss of the sorcerers wouldn’t hamper his campaign over much. Well, not at all really. He would be out of contact with Mortain—may he live forever—but that was no bad thing as far as he was concerned. One thing he didn’t need was interference from his superiors. He was confidant that he could fulfil the mission if he was left alone long enough.

  With those thoughts in mind Navarien made his way on deck with Cragson following. The sun was shining and a pleasant breeze was blowing. The day smelled fresh and clean. Even the ever-present briny smell of damp wood and sailcloth didn’t spoil his enjoyment. Looking up he saw bare masts and yardarms as expected, and at the dizzying height of the main mast, he could see a lookout scanning the horizon. Some of the crew were preparing the stub of the foremast for splicing. Navarien had no idea how long it would take to raise a new mast, but it didn’t concern him. They were within sight of land and could get there with two if they had to. Master Sacherval was standing near the port rail staring out to sea. Apparently, left was port and starboard was right. Why sailors insisted on changing perfectly good words for incomprehensible ones was beyond him, but that was sailors for you. He couldn’t even walk on the floor. He had to do it on the deck instead. Stepping beside Sacherval, he scanned the empty horizon.

  “Any sign of the others?”

  Sacherval spat over the side. “None. Your man told you about the Victory?”

  Navarien nodded.

  “A sad loss. I knew her master for many years. A grand ship and a fine crew.”