Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  Navarien didn’t quite snort. The Victory couldn’t have been that grand or it wouldn’t have sunk, but he held his tongue. There was no point in upsetting a potential friend.

  “How long to Cantibria?”

  “Well, as to that, we could be there tomorrow morning—even with the foremast gone, but I propose to stay here and wait for the fleet to rally to us.”

  Navarien was pleased. “I concur. No point going in with First Battalion alone. Any idea how long it will take?”

  “If they’re seaworthy, all that are coming will be here in a few days.”

  “Hmmm… I propose we wait until we can assemble half the legion, and then move on to Cantibria. The rest can follow later and dock after we’ve pacified the city.”

  Sacherval shrugged. “Fine by me, General.”

  In the end Navarien didn’t have to proceed with only half of his legion. Three ships were sighted later that day, and then another as night fell—this time alone. The next day saw the rest of the fleet arrive in one’s and two’s. All except the ill-fated Victory.

  They set sail and sighted the city at noon the following day.

  Navarien was unsurprised by the disinterest shown him by the city-folk. Third Legion had docked here just last year on the way to destruction at the Devan’s hands. The inhabitants were familiar with the legions. They weren’t surprised to see another one. Their acceptance would change when they realised what was happening, but he would have the city firmly within his grasp before then.

  He quickly deployed two battalions fully weaponed and armoured on shore. At his orders, they took control of the waterfront district. The other battalions swelled their ranks and helped to evict the current tenants. There were scuffles and outraged faces aplenty, but no coordinated resistance. Everything was going according to plan.

  Navarien looked on as a delegation from the city council arrived and demanded converse with him. “Escort them through our lines, Tikva,” he said watching the red-faced councillors arguing with Captain Corbin.

  “Yes sir!” Tikva said snapping off a salute. “Might I suggest the tavern?”

  Navarien glanced aside. It was a ramshackle dump but adequate for a simple meeting. “You may.”

  Tikva nodded and trotted off. Navarien entered the common room of the tavern. The interior was shadowed and stank of stale vomit and cheap ale. He took off his helmet and kicked a chair out of his way. Sweeping the mugs and plates off a nearby table, he placed his helmet in the centre and sat to await the council’s delegation. Four men and one woman were escorted into the common room by Tikva and a squad of his men. Navarien remained sitting as Tikva introduced his visitors.

  “General Navarien, this is First Councillor Keiji. Councillor, this is—”

  “I heard you!” Keiji said before Tikva could complete the introductions. “I demand that you and your men leave our city! You’re not welcome here!”

  Navarien’s lips quirked in amusement. “You wound me deeply,” he said theatrically slapping a hand to his armoured chest and Tikva’s men chuckled.

  “We didn’t come here to be mocked!”

  Navarien’s face hardened. “You’re here because I want you here, no other reason. The waterfront district will house my men. You will speak with your people and tell them to cooperate. Tell them to stay off the streets after dark. My men will be patrolling the city. Anyone found wandering around at night will be arrested.”

  “You have no right!” another of his guests gasped.

  “And you are?”

  “Third Councillor Jamila.”

  Navarien looked the woman up and down and liked what he found. He stood abruptly but she held her ground when he advanced upon her. She stared at him defiantly and was unafraid.

  “I have every right, Councillor Jamila. Cantibria is under the protection of my Lord Mortain—may he live forever. As his representative, it falls to me to enforce his laws and protect this city. In a few tendays, I will hand over control to civilian authority, but until then the curfew will remain in effect.”

  “I won’t help you!” Keiji spat and lunged forward, but Tikva’s quick intervention brought the councillor’s attack to an abrupt halt.

  Navarien shook his head at the struggling men at his feet. Tikva twisted the councillor’s arms up behind him and raised him back onto his feet. Tikva gave Keiji into the custody of his men.

  “Have him locked up somewhere,” Navarien said.

  Navarien ignored Keiji’s impotent threats as he was escorted out. Jamila was whispering urgently to a rotund and balding man but he was having none of it. He abruptly raised his hand to silence Jamila.

  “General, I am second Councillor Devril. You have heard our demands. I will now add another. You must release Keiji at once.”

  “I will not.”

  Devril inclined his head. “Then I have nothing further to say to you.” He turned to leave gathering up the others of his party. “Jamila, are you coming?”

  Jamila opened her mouth to say something to Navarien, but she shook her head leaving it unsaid. “I’m coming.”

  Navarien watched her leave.

  “That didn’t go too well,” Tikva said.

  Navarien snorted. “Did you expect it would?”

  “Well, no, but I had hoped.”

  Navarien smiled and slapped the Captain on the shoulder. He swept his helmet up and replaced it on his head before stepping back outside. He shielded his dazzled eyes and watched the supplies being unloaded from the ships for a moment before turning away and marching up the quay with Tikva in step by his side.

  The first real fighting erupted when five legionnaires tried to evict a merchant family from their home. The merchant wouldn’t leave, and Corbin’s men had no choice but to lay hands on the fellow to throw him out. Two women—one assumed were mother and daughter—attacked and killed four of his men in as many minutes, and seriously wounded the other before escaping with the merchant into the countryside. Navarien had been informed that some of the women were supposedly warriors, but he had dismissed the information as hearsay. Upon hearing the report he had re-thought his position and ordered that any resistance was to be met with deadly force.

  The legion succeeded in taking the district on the first day, but not without losses. Twenty-three dead and ten wounded made Navarien grit his teeth in anger. Those numbers were totally unacceptable for any legion, let alone for the Fifth. His men needed more training, so much was obvious. First, Sixth, and Eighth Battalions were all veteran units of the Bandar War as well as the Athione debacle, but the rest were comprised of green recruits. Cragson and he had trained the recruits hard with the veterans breezing through with practised ease, but there hadn’t been time to do a proper job. A year was barely long enough to make them look like legionnaires. To make them as good with their weapons as the legions considered essential took much longer. Navarien tried to console himself with the thought that no campaign was accomplished without loss, and that the recruits would soon learn or they wouldn’t survive, but it still made his jaw ache.

  His men were all ashore in temporary barracks by the end of the first day. Tomorrow they would begin the hard work of building a fort. The plan called for suppressing all resistance in Cantibria and using it as a staging point for taking the coastal cities of Camorin one by one. If the weather held fine, he should be relieved before the season was out by a garrison of militia raised especially for the purpose. Responsibility of governing Cantibria would then fall to civilian authority. Although not part of the legions, militia were good at keeping the peace and holding what the legions conquered. They would do well in Cantibria, he was sure.

  The city was quiet that night, but the next day things started happening. The dawn found Navarien fully armoured and sitting in the common room eating breakfast. The Ship and Dragon was an inn he had seized for his headquarters. The badly painted sign above its door was a prominent feature along the dock and easily found by his men wanting to report to him.

 
“No trouble last night at all, Sir,” Cragson reported. “The fighting yesterday seems to be an isolated incident but we aren’t taking chances. I’ve doubled the usual patrols. So far there’s been complete silence. That bothers me, if you don’t mind my saying so. I can’t believe it’s going to be this easy.”

  “I’m not really surprised by the lack of a decent defence, Cragson. You have to realise these people are a long way from what they were. The real clans are on the plain.”

  Just then a messenger called Cragson away. The Captain listened then hurried back to Navarien. “There’s trouble in the southern quarter of the city, Sir. There’s a riot in progress near Market Square. Fifth Battalion has been trying to restore order but they’re meeting stiff resistance.”

  “Damn!” Navarien shoved away from the table. “It looks as if I spoke too soon. What have we on hand?” he said striding outside and loosening his sword in its scabbard.

  Cragson loosened his own sword. “Just the Eighth, Sir.”

  That was good. Eighth Battalion was a veteran unit.

  “Call them out, but swords and shields only. Javelins are no good in these narrow streets. I’ll lead, you’re my second.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Cragson saluted and trotted off roaring orders to Under-Captain Tikva, who roared at his sergeants in turn.

  After a lot of shouting by their sergeants, the men fell in and Navarien led them toward the disturbance. They trotted through empty streets and turned down lanes normally flooded with people. The city almost seemed to be holding its breath as the legionnaires marched to battle. Navarien heard shouts and screams long before he reached the square. He ordered double time and the men broke into a trot.

  It was both worse and better than he had feared. Dead legionnaires littered the ground, but there were still plenty of them fighting. They seemed to be holding easily three times their numbers. He estimated he was facing perhaps as many as three thousand Camorins. His heart sank when he realised that many of them were women, but he hardened it against pity when he saw his men falling to their expertly wielded blades.

  “Cragson!”

  “Sir!”

  “You lead maniples one through five to the right,” he said sweeping a hand around the square. “I’ll take the other five to the left. Wait until I’m in position then we’ll slam together at the same time.” He clamped his hands together in emphasis. Then in a quiet and angry voice he said, “Cut every one of them down.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Cragson said.

  Whether Cragson was surprised by the brutal order or not, he made no protest or gave any sign of it. He turned and shouted his orders, and the first five maniples of Eighth Battalion peeled off to the right of Market Square. Navarien led his five hundred men to the left and had them form line. He didn’t want to kill these people; the Protectorate would need them, and besides, they were Protectorate citizens now whether they knew it or not. He didn’t want this fight, but he couldn’t afford to be merciful at the beginning of a campaign. They would only take his mercy as weakness. He tried to think of another choice, but they had left him none.

  Navarien drew his sword, and stood in front of his men holding it high. “Out swords!” he cried over the bedlam of ringing swords and shrieks of pain.

  All along the line, his men drew their weapons and firmed their grip on their shields. He stepped into place in the line and turned to his signaller.

  “Sound advance at the walk.”

  Rah-taaa, Rah-taaa, Rah-ta-taaa!

  The sweet sound of the boy’s cornet sounded incongruous in such a setting, but the sound focused Navarien’s attention on the enemy ahead as it was meant to do. He couldn’t see Cragson’s men, but he didn’t need to. Cragson was his best man. He trusted him to do the job.

  Some of the Camorin warriors were quicker to react to the new threat than others, but they soon reformed and were fighting on three sides. With a chill, Navarien realised what a fool he had been to believe these people were weak. They might be a long way from their nomad origins, but it was obvious by the way they fought that they hadn’t forgotten their heritage entirely. They had reformed their lines as if used to fighting this kind of battle, which he knew they weren’t. That meant they had been trained to do it, and well by the look of them.

  He was soon too occupied with defending himself for theorising. He easily dispatched his first opponent, and ran his next man through as well. He nearly died the third time he was attacked and cursed himself for hesitating to kill the woman. She was only a girl, but she had slashed his sword arm with her blade like a veteran. Pain and shock slammed through him. He was nearly run through as he clutched at the wound.

  “Beg pardon, Sir!”

  Navarien was unceremoniously yanked backward by a grizzled sergeant to his right. He almost fell as he staggered out of the line. He just had time to see the girl’s shocked face as the sergeant thrust his sword into her guts before she disappeared under the trampling feet of his men. He would never forget the hurt and accusing look in her eyes as she fell.

  Shaking off the stupor he seemed to be in, Navarien quickly staunched the flow of blood and rejoined the fight. His half of Eighth Battalion accounted for perhaps a third of the enemy before linking up with Cragson’s men. Together they pressed the fight and linked with the much beleaguered Fifth Battalion to encircle the enemy. The Camorin warriors didn’t hesitate in continuing the fight. Navarien hadn’t seen one man or woman try to surrender, and he doubted any would at this late juncture.

  The fight lasted perhaps another half candlemark until the last Camorin fell at mid-morning. It was another girl. She fell silently from a sword thrust through her middle and lay as if falling asleep among the stinking corpses. She stared at the sun unblinking.

  Navarien dragged his eyes from hers. “Cragson!”

  “Sir!” Came Cragson’s voice from somewhere behind him.

  Navarien waved a hand at the mess. “Collect all the weapons and put them under guard. Enemy dead to be burned outside the city, bury ours there also.”

  “Yes sir.” Cragson looked around then said, “We were lucky.”

  Lucky? He supposed Cragson was right, but by the number of Legion shields lying discarded, he would estimate his losses at least two hundred men.

  That night an uneasy silence settled over the city. What with one thing and another, Navarien didn’t sleep much. The morning dawned with him still looking out his window at the placid North Sea. His arm was paining him. All he wanted to do was yank out the cursed stitches to get at the flaming itch that plagued him. So he was in a particularly foul mood that morning when Cragson reported to him.

  “How many?” Navarien said crossing to his desk and sitting down.

  Cragson stood at attention before him. “We lost close to two hundred from Fifth Battalion and the original patrol—a maniple from Second. Eighth Battalion lost only a hundred and thirty two. We have about three hundred walking wounded—roughly half are from each of the two battalions, and all will recover.”

  Navarien tapped a finger on his desk in time with his words. “You realise that if I include the men we lost the first day we have almost half a battalion dead?”

  Cragson fidgeted uneasily. “I… Sir, I have been interog… I mean questioning the locals who witnessed the beginning of the fight and—” he broke off.

  “Sit down Cragson,” he said and watched the man try to sit at attention. “Relax man, I’m not going to explode!”

  Cragson leaned back in his chair, but then he leaned forward again and sat at attention once more. Navarien sighed. “Spit it out.”

  “I had the opportunity to talk to the locals who live near Market Square. They are quiet—older folk mostly. I’m convinced they weren’t involved in the actual fight, but they did see how it started.”

  “And you believe what they told you?”

  “Yes sir, you see—”

  Navarien raised a hand. “It’s all right, Cragson. I trust you and your judgement. If you say they spoke th
e truth, then that’s good enough for me. What did they see?”

  “Ninth maniple of Second battalion was ordered to patrol the market and surrounding streets. Sergeant Alerion led them. His men were all from Bandar—”

  That sounded like an ominous beginning. Why did Cragson sight the men’s origins as part of the story?

  “—no problems at all. They came into the square the second time around, and of course the market wasn’t empty any longer. It was beginning to receive a few patrons. One of the men—I don’t know his name but he was dark haired and clean shaven—pawed a woman in passing.”

  “What!” Navarien roared.

  Cragson flinched a little. “He patted a woman on the rump, Sir. She was apparently unused to such games. She objected, and he took it the wrong way. He pushed her down and—”

  “Are you telling me that not only did I authorise the deaths of more than three thousand Camorins, but that it was my own men that started the fight?”

  Cragson gulped audibly.

  A red haze was beginning to overcome his sight at the thought of a woman thrown down and brutally raped by this scum of a Bandarian. He heard the rest of the story distantly, but snapped back when Cragson reached the next shock.

  “—took turns.”

  “Oh my God!” Navarien felt sick. “Surely you didn’t just say what I heard you say.”

  Cragson nodded.

  “By the God! What was the cursed sergeant doing while his men were raping this woman?”

  Cragson’s face hardened to granite. “According to the witnesses, Sergeant Alerion killed three of his own men trying to save her before they slew him. I knew him. He was a veteran from Athione. He carried me back through the pass. He would never have allowed anything even remotely like this to happen if he could do something about it. He has… had, two daughters at home in Al’Haden.”

  This was a flaming nightmare! He wanted to puke, he wanted to kill them all, but he couldn’t. They were the first of many to die when the city folk attacked. He wished he had a sorcerer here to re-animate them so he could kill them all over again.

  “The woman?”